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Of all the peculiarities of Sherlock Holmes, one wouldn’t have thought that the acquiring of things would be one of them.Oh, there was stuff littered around their flat, that was true, but that hardly constituted the same thing. To be honest, John had a semi-serious thought that a lot of it just…appeared. He certainly couldn’t remember buying some of the things they owned, and they were not things that Sherlock would’ve ever considered buying, either, and yet…there they were, indisputable in their place around the flat.One or two of them he knew the origin of, but that was mainly because he recognised them from one case or another. Telling his friend that he couldn’t steal said items and would have to put them back was met with a complete lack of care, the kind that cats were so good at that, the I-know-it-bothers-you one.He only tried to return an item once; when he came back from the rather embarrassing trip, it was to find the item sitting on the mantelpiece, as though it had never been gone.Looking at Sherlock had yielded a completely calm, unaffected response…when he’d finally bothered to look up from what he was doing.Come to think of it, none of the things Sherlock stole were ever put anywhere that might damage them. They were rarely sitting in pride of place, but they were all carefully placed all around the flat. They obviously meant something to the consulting detective, even if he wouldn’t admit it.So…things accumulated in 221B and John got used to it, as he got used to the rest of this topsy-turvy, helter-skelter life he led with his flatmate, none of which he’d really trade for anything. He even started to add the odd bits and bobs every now and then, too, things he found interesting or pleasing. Though it might be fun to annoy Sherlock, he’d have to cope with it, too, and so he tried to find something good.What he found rather curious was that not long after he’d purchased something, Sherlock would find it. That wasn’t the curious part, though, nor was it that it wasn’t chucked. No, what struck him as peculiar was that the few times he’d seen his flatmate spot the thing in question, he’d seemed…well, pleased, was the only way he could describe it, really. Almost gleefully so, actually, which really didn’t add up.He thought of asking but then decided against it. It didn’t matter and it was surprisingly nice to see the genius twat be happy about something that wasn’t laid out under a microscope or involved two dead bodies with one head between them.  “Sherlock?”No answer.“Oi, you great git, I’ve been calling your name several times now.”“Have you? Perhaps you need speaking lessons, then, to get through to people.”John drew in a breath, then pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the breath back out slowly. “Just tell me what you’ve done with my watch.”“Why would I have done anything with your watch?” The twat didn’t even bother looking up from whatever he was pulling apart or liquifying or whichever.“Because even though I know I put it where I normally do when I shower, it had mysteriously disappeared by the time I got out.”“Perhaps it’s been taken by sewer rats coming up through the pipes.”John stared, a stare which turned into a glare before he directed it skywards, counting backwards. “Right. Okay. Dunno why I bother questioning you in the first place, really. Just…if you need to steal something of mine, the least you can bloody well do is ask first!”With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen, into the living room, where he grabbed his coat and shoes, put them on and stomped down the stairs, loudly to hopefully annoy.The utter cockwaffle arsehat! It wasn’t the first thing of his to go missing where he suspected there was a certain curly-haired culprit to condemn but this was his watch. It had survived his tours in Afghanistan and the subsequent adventures with Sherlock, the berk couldn’t take it just because he felt like it.
It’s only a watch, though, why get so worked up about it?
Because even if it didn’t have much significance, it was still something of his, not Sherlock’s. Not even theirs, in the sense of things that were part of the flat and therefore sort of belonged to them both. It was purely John’s and the twerp had no bleeding right.He didn’t question that it was Sherlock that had taken it, quite apart from his not even very creative bullshittery with the sewer rats – it couldn’t even fit down the pipes, if it had managed to fall down there.It had been placed on the side of the toilet sink as always and when he got out of the shower, it wasn’t there. Nobody else had been in the flat and watches didn’t go walkabout on their own, now did they?If only he’d admit it. No, wait, that wouldn’t actually make it better, but it’d certainly be more like Sherlock, bold as brass and uncaring in his admittance of his trespass. Not that he’d see it as a trespass, like as not, come to think of it.So why the deflection? What the hell sort of purpose did that serve?He’d gotten out of the building and quite a long way down the street by this point but not so far that he couldn’t still see the windows of 221. Glancing back at them only briefly, he decided to keep walking, lack of destination and still damp hair be damned.Bloody hoarding magpie, nabbing anything that took his fancy.  It was getting dark by the time John returned to 221B. He’d decided to spend the day out; it was a day off for him, anyway, there wasn’t a case on, and he’d rather get a bit of fresh air and some distance than blow up at his flatmate.After some internal debate, he’d decided against getting a new watch. Not that he thought Sherlock would see him buying a new one as him getting off the hook, as the man wouldn’t have felt he was on the hook in the first place. He’d just…wait for some funds.A car was parked in front of the building, a suspiciously inconspicuous one, and when he made it up the stairs, he had confirmation of his suspicion; they had a visitor. A visitor Sherlock would always rather see the back of.Today was no exception. In fact, it was more pronounced than usual, because he could hear them all the way up the stairs, or at least their voices. Usually it was one or the other – though mostly it was Sherlock, unless he was sulking – but it was almost never them both.That, he had to admit, peaked his interest. As much as he didn’t feel like dealing with a stroppy, childish Sherlock, well, more childish than normally, he could’ve expected that from Mycroft visiting at all, and at least this promised to be unusual and interesting.When he reached the landing, he grew both more curious and concerned; the door was closed and the conversation, the words therein now audible, was very peculiar.“Just how long do you think this can go on for?” That was Mycroft. “It’s unsustainable!”That in itself wasn’t surprising, the elder brother admonishing the younger. Par for the course, really.The birdie was in Sherlock’s reply.“I’ve got it perfectly under control,” he snapped, “and I don’t see the problem, in any case. You’ve been doing it for years.”What? Got what under control? The drugs? But Sherlock hadn’t been using in…and at any rate, that didn’t fit at all with the last sentence. Mycroft wasn’t on drugs. Addicted to sugar, maybe, and that was mainly if you trusted Sherlock’s accusations. Power, too, in that eminence grís sense that he preferred.Neither of those were of any interest to the consulting detective, however, so again, it didn’t work. What on earth would they both be doing that could be dangerous enough for Mycroft to, presumably, demand that his brother should stop?Why would Sherlock even be listening? He usually just ignored his brother and especially his admonishments.“Not to this extent, and never merely with one. There’s a reason the done thing is the done thing.”That made even less sense.John realised that lurking outside the front door was not only in the category of ‘a bit not good’, they would’ve heard him coming up the stairs – both of them had surprisingly good hearing, which had proved useful once or twice and been a lesson in silence when he’d wanked – and would consequently know that he was there, recognising his tread, and that he had stopped without entering the flat.And yet, they hadn’t said anything, or even stopped arguing, which was both odd and slightly worrying, too.Making up his mind and squaring his shoulders for whatever might happen once he went through, he pushed the door open, keeping his head down and generally going about the usual undressing ritual of coming home, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.“Ten thousand dead people can’t be wrong, can they?” Sherlock sneered. “If only you weren’t so keen on stagnation, you might manage to soar once in a while.”Mycroft’s mouth twisted and his fingers drummed on the carved handle of the ever-present umbrella, displaying a quite uncharacteristic amount of annoyance and impatience. Not that he wasn’t necessarily feeling either or both of those at other times, but it wasn’t normally this…easily visible, as it were. Which probably showed just how fed up he was at this point.Why he hadn’t already buggered off was a bit puzzling, too.“When you soar, the risk of falling out of the sky to your death is very real.”“Yes. That would be the soaring part. Or has your gut finally gotten too vast for you to do so?”Another mouth twist which was accompanied by a sigh. “Must you always stoop to such petty insults? Unimaginative ones, too. Good evening, Doctor Watson, and welcome home.”This unexpected address stopped John in his tracks on his way to the kitchen, going quietly past them where they stood in the living room. Or rather, where Mycroft stood, and Sherlock sat in his chair.It wasn’t as though he was afraid to confront or disturb them. Of course, he wasn’t. He just wasn’t stupid and really didn’t want to become part of their argument, either as a buffer or a pawn. That and he felt slightly stupid for the previous spying through keyholes, as it were.“Evening,” he said, keeping his voice even as he turned around.“Rich of you to call me petty when you drag John into the argument, even though it’s abundantly evident he’s embarrassed at having listened in and is trying to escape the situation.”“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” John snapped, not particularly in the mood for being called out like that – and he hadn’t entirely stopped being angry at his flatmate for his earlier stunt. “Just…carry on with whatever you were arguing about. You obviously don’t mind me being present.”He lowered his voice as he turned around, muttering it aloud for his own benefit. “Then again, you do whatever you want regardless of my presence, consent, or objections, so why do I bother?”As he had turned away from the living room, he failed to see the expression that flitted across the brunet’s face at that, brief but intense. Nor did he notice Mycroft’s answering expression or that he moved forward to place a meaningful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. One which wasn’t immediately shrugged off and the subsequent whispered comment wasn’t sneered at.“As much as I’d love to stay and enjoy your company, Doctor,” Mycroft said a little after that, loud enough for John to hear, “I was just about to leave.”With that, he walked out, the tap of the umbrella against the floorboards making an almost pointed audial reassurance that he was leaving.John stayed in the kitchen, though, even after the door had closed, making himself, and only himself, a cuppa. He contemplated making himself something to eat, too, as he’d only bought himself a toastie while out but decided against it, on the grounds that there likely wouldn’t be much to make anything from, and he wanted to be out of the room soon.He wasn’t quite quick enough, though; the kettle was only just coming to a boil when he heard the padding of bare feet against the floor. They were oddly quiet, however, which didn’t tally.“John…”The doctor stopped, his hands clenching slightly against his sides. He didn’t look up from the countertop.“I’m not finished being angry with you, Sherlock,” he said.“I know – ““Do you? Do you really?” John said, turning his head just enough to glare at the other. “And what are you going to do with that knowledge? Apologise? Better your behaviour? No, you won’t. You’ll just carry on as normal and expect me to get over it eventually.”“John…”“Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?” the doctor continued, either not hearing or otherwise completely ignoring his name being said. “No matter what you throw at me, you expect to have me standing beside you for your jabs and taunts and disregard of me, until you need me for something.”More words pressed against his teeth, eager to get out, true words, harsh words. He clamped his teeth firmly shut, refusing to let them past, refusing to add more fuel to the fire. A fire that he hadn’t intended to start.It wasn’t as though this was news. He’d known that this was how it worked between in all the time they’d lived together, so why he was suddenly getting worked up about it? It surely couldn’t be just because of the watch, and nothing else had occurred to offset it.Maybe it was just the lateness of the hour, the particular mixture of circumstances and Sherlock, and a pot that had boiled over inside of him.Apropos of pot…He hadn’t touched the kettle since it’d finished boiling but his desire for a cuppa had suddenly disappeared. Closing his eyes briefly, he inhaled deeply to calm down a little. He wanted to extricate himself from the situation before he did or said something it would be too hard to take back or move past. The way he felt right now, he might believe that could happen.Then he took a step back from the counter and, without looking at him or saying anything, pushed past his flatmate. Sherlock tried to stop him, called out his name and tried to grab his arm. John dodged the attempt and didn’t acknowledge the calling of his name.It ought to have been enough of a clue that he wanted to be left alone, even if his demeanour and his words before that hadn’t been enough of a two-by-four for the man, especially one as observant as Sherlock.Then again, as brilliant as the man was when it came to logic and deductive reasoning, he was often as equally inept and ignorant when it came to social clues, at least when it came to his own life and the people therein.So, John really shouldn’t have been surprised when he heard footsteps on the stairs up to his room shortly after he’d gotten up there himself and closed the door, hard.“Go away, Sherlock!” he shouted. The footsteps paused but only for a moment. They didn’t get fainter when they resumed, either, so he wasn’t moving away.That bloody berk never knew when to leave well enough alone, did he?He wrenched open the door to come face to face with his flatmate, who had his hand out to, judging by the height and angle of it, grab the door handle.“What part of this do you fail to understand? Or do you just care that little about what I say?”Sherlock looked a little confused, his brow wrinkling. “You know I value your input – ““Oh, yeah? You could’ve fooled me.” Despite his words, his felt the anger drain and become a bone-deep weariness with just a smidgeon of loathing, though that wasn’t directed entirely at his flatmate. “Just…go away. Please? You’ve done enough today, and if you say you don’t know what or even anything at all, possibly, I’m not sure what my reaction’s going to be, but it won’t be pleasant. So…just go away.”With that, he closed the door, emphatically but not hard. He stayed where he was, listening for footsteps going back down the stairs.It took a few moments, but they did come, slowly but surely.He released a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.Right. That was it. He needed some sort of outlet, to help him deal with when his anger boiled over for no apparent reason.Feeling pissed off with Sherlock and himself, he headed to bed, where he spent almost an hour tossing and turning, before he finally fell into a sleep that was far from good.  Back down in the living room, Sherlock sat and scowled, at nothing in particular. That was, until his phone chimed with an incoming text.Hoping it was a case to take his mind off John, he picked it up, only to snarl when he saw the sender. Nevertheless, he opened it.It read,‘You need to take better care of what you claim, or you’ll break things beyond repair. MH’.What you claim. How very…Mycroft a way of phrasing it. As if he could ever…and it wasn’t as though he actually claimed…okay, so he’d taken something from John, but that was different. That was just a thing, a little trinket that John would soon forget he missed. His flatmate wasn’t that hung up on material things, not really.But that was something special to him, something with history and significance otherwise there wouldn’t be any point in taking it, would there?He pulled out the watch from where he’d stashed it to look at it.It wasn’t anything special, to look at. Just another men’s watch, with wear and tear and a little crack in the glass but still of some sturdiness, which it would have to have been to survive two tours in a warzone owned by a doctor, a surgeon, who’d like as not have his arms deep in something, in someone.But there was no denying that even if John wasn’t sentimental about his belongings, he took good care of them, made sure they worked for the longest possible time.
Well, it’s his kit, isn’t it? A soldier takes care of his kit, because if he does, it takes care of him. No wonder he doesn’t appreciate you claiming it.
He hadn’t claimed it! He’d just…Couldn’t he just buy John a new one? A better one, perhaps, that could withstand being submerged and other such useful things, given what and who they regularly had to deal with on cases. To be honest, what and who John had to deal with. That would certainly be –No, that wouldn’t work. Not only would that like as not be seen by the doctor as admitting guilt, however he swung it to convince him otherwise – and when did John become that well-versed in his little trick? Or was Sherlock ascribing more astuteness to him than warranted? – he wouldn’t accept it, and especially not from Sherlock.What could he do, then?Put it back where he’d found it or where he knew it likely that John would’ve placed it himself in a moment of cognitive failure, and then make it out to be just that but not to worry, that happened to everyone, except him, of course?He found that his fingers were smoothing over the glass of the dial and the leather of the strap. That was, until he thought of giving it back, by which time they tightened on the accessory, quite instinctively.No. Just…no. He wouldn’t give it back. Even though he didn’t want John to be mad at him, he wouldn’t.He couldn’t.But John might not forgive him. Which wasn’t an option, either.What to do?He didn’t know. At all.  This hadn’t been a good idea to begin with. Yes, so he’d been angry at Sherlock for his comment, for his whole demeanour regarding the case and other people in particular. He still was, in the back of his mind as other emotions had taken the driver’s seat, but the anger hadn’t been born purely there, had it? Nor was it the first time he’d reacted with anger at it or had stormed out.It wasn’t as though it was the first time Sherlock had regarded people as things, either, was it?That was certainly the case for the man in front of him right now. The man who’d had people kidnap him off the street after he’d stormed out, had had him bound so well he couldn’t move, let alone escape and had then seated him in the most comfortable chair John could remember sitting in.Those contradictory actions had been odd but then, when he’d seen the man, sauntering quietly towards him, they paled in comparison.Not that there was anything that obviously wrong. There couldn’t have been, or he couldn’t have pulled off ‘Jim from IT’, could he? And he most certainly had pulled that off, to the point that no one, not even Sherlock, had registered anything was amiss.That took skill. Then again, would he have expected anything else from who could only be Moriarty?Now, though, there was no denying that even though it wasn’t visible or audible, there was a definite though insidious feeling that something was off about him.It wasn’t helped by the way he now began to smile, slow like someone was gradually pulling at the strings that controlled the relevant muscles. It wasn’t a happy smile, a dangerous one, or even a bonkers one. That was to say, it was somewhere in between, managing to combine the strongest components of the three.John would dearly have loved to slog him one. Or, barring that with his hands being very thoroughly and immovable tied, he tried to manoeuvre his foot and lower leg out and around…The dark-haired man moved his leg up and away as soon as John started to shift, as though he’d not just read his movement but his intention, too. Which, given who it was, probably wasn’t far off.“Now, now,” he chided, almost slightly sing-song as he continued to stare at the blond, “that’s no way to say hello, is it? And here I made all this effort.”He held his foot aloft – John could tell from the slight bending of his knee, accentuated by the folds of expensive fabric – for a little longer, just keeping eye contact, that same smile playing around his lips like a baby shark in a school of fish.Then suddenly, without warning, the foot slammed down, the hard heel of the leather brogues making impact with John’s forefoot with strength and precision. The effect was excruciating.Despite that, John somehow managed not to react other than a twitch of the eyes and a long, sharp inhalation. He kept eye contact, almost demonstratively, while his body did its best to process the pain quietly.Kidnapped or not, bound tight or not, criminal genius in front of him and calling the shots or not, he was not going to back down or roll over like some good little puppy.A few emotions flickered across the other man’s face at that, fast as the frames of a movie, too fast to catch. What he settled on wasn’t what John would expect, though possibly, he should learn not to expect anything.He looked amused and yet…disappointed? No, not quite that. But there was the sense that he’d expected differently from John.Well, good.“Ever the steadfast little soldier, eh, Johnny-boy?” Moriarty said, voice seemingly pleasant in its tone.Something lurked in its depths, however, and it seemed, at least to John, that it wasn’t merely the underlying danger of a man with an intellect apparently matching Sherlock, who’d funnelled his energy and staving off boredom into something decidedly more sinister than what his friend and flatmate got up to.
That’s not to say he’s completely in the clear, though, is it? You know how flexible Sherlock’s compass is, regardless of what you say or try to do. It’s not really that farfetched a thought that given other circumstances, and not that different at that, Sherlock could’ve found something equally malevolent, if not completely the same, to do with his time.
But even Sherlock didn’t have that depth in both his eyes and voice, however much of a baritone it might be, something on the edge of awareness that spoke of things in dark recesses, caves and the bottoms of wells. Waiting to pull you in or down with it and never release you.Which was a completely ludicrous, fanciful thought. Madman though he may be, Moriarty wasn’t exactly a fairy tale monster. They didn’t exist, after all.But for a real-life equivalent for storybook monsters, madman consulting criminal was an eerily good candidate, wasn’t it? About the best you could hope for, really.The erroneous but still relieving thought of, ‘For what it’s worth, it’s probably better for Molly to think her ex-boyfriend was gay and not admitting it rather than know he’s a psychopath’, flitted through his head.Then he had to grit his teeth and swallow more pain as the heel still pinning his foot down applied a little more pressure and twisted just so.“Your manners leave something to be desired, though,” the Irishman chided in that same tone that only served to burrow deeper under the doctor’s skin with each passing word.“One would’ve thought Sherlock had put more effort into the training of his little pet but then again,” he continued, then his voice suddenly dropped to a hissing growl, “he never did take very good care of his possessions, did he?”Possessions? John wasn’t a possession, least of all Sherlock’s, the git.He opened his mouth to refute the point. To spit anything in the other’s face, really.Before he could voice anything, however, he was thoroughly halted by something unexpected; Moriarty leaned forward further, right up so his face was inches from John’s, and then he inhaled. A deep, slow pull, as though he was sampling the scents on the air like one would the bouquet of a wine.And that pushed it firmly beyond odd and well into weird, not to mention just a little unsettlingly creepy.Then the man leaned back, though in John’s opinion nowhere near far enough.As he did so, his lips spread in a more fully-grown version of the grin from before. It almost seemed to stretch beyond the boundaries of his face, fanciful and bloody ludicrous as that sounded. His dark brown eyes seemed almost black.He didn’t say anything, however, just regarded John with that same expression that took in everything and was amused by what it saw.All in all, it would be uncomfortable at most distances. Up close like this, it sent a chill into John’s bones, one that was very close to the thrill he felt when they were on a case and about to do something dangerous. Uncomfortably close, perhaps, with a tilt that turned something exciting into something eerie while remaining exactly the same.What the hell did the man want? John wasn’t boring or uninteresting, he wasn’t that down about himself, but he was no genius, either, nothing to catch the attention of the Irishman. His appeal to Moriarty could only be through his connection with Sherlock, and even then, he’d miscalculated greatly if he thought that Sherlock would be hurt by this turn of events.The words ‘then I’ll continue not to make that mistake’ flittered painfully through his mind at that, along with the expression on Sherlock’s face as he said them, and he briefly closed his eyes against them. As though that would help.A hand grabbed his jaw, thumb somehow managing to dig into one of his temporomandibular joints, which snapped his eyes open immediately.“There you go again with the bad manners.”“Excuse me for being…so uncouth,” he managed to hiss, trying to keep his jaw from moving too much, as the thumb hadn’t moved. “I wasn’t taught the right etiquette…for meeting murderous psychopaths in…ridiculously expensive suits. Please…enlighten me, so I will know…in the future.”Moriarty blinked at that, a shadow passing briefly over his features before disappearing as though it’d never been.Then he chuckled and moved his thumb over John’s cheek in what with others might be called a caress. John couldn’t help a shudder, despite his best efforts to suppress it.“Oh, Johnny-boy. I’m beginning to think I might not give Sherlock his little possession back.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It took a while before Sherlock noticed something was wrong, though not quite so long as John would’ve predicted it’d take, if anyone had asked him.Whatever his doctor thought, however, Sherlock almost always had a good, and accurate, estimation of where he was. Not that he let on that that was the case, of course, or John would’ve gotten quite mad at him. Probably would’ve accused him of using Mycroft to help spy on him where he went.He wouldn’t stoop to his brother’s methods – he didn’t need to.All he needed was something to home in on, and even in the melting-pot that was London, seemingly, deceptively ordinary John stood out like a beacon. It had come as quite the surprise when he’d first discovered it, but now he was very grateful for it.Not knowing sent a chill down his spine.If he needed to, he could use something that belonged to John as a form of dowsing wand to locate him. It was rare that he did need to, however, and it had dwindled in occurrences steadily in the time they’d lived together. He’d much rather not need it, for several reasons, but he’d learned to his cost that relying on his skills alone without the object as a backup was a foolhardy idea.For such a purpose, the watch was quite simply perfect; not only did it hold significance to John and was therefore very firmly tied to him, it was, due to the amount of wear it had seen, embedded with his scent, in the leater strap, like few other of his belongings were.That wasn’t the reason he’d failed to return it in the time since he’d stolen it over a week earlier, though it was the reason he told himself the times he’d felt a stab of…of something at the thought.John hadn’t forgiven him for it, either. Oh, on the surface he’d returned to his normal demeanour, current case and subsequent blow-up earlier in the day excluded, well enough that to outsiders, it would appear as though nothing was the matter.Scratch just slightly at that surface, however, and it was abundantly evident that the incident was neither forgotten nor forgiven.That said…in the last two days, there had also been the growing feeling of resignation that John most often ended up feeling when it came to Sherlock’s behaviour. No, not forgiven but also aware that almost nothing he could say or do would alter it.However, that wasn’t entirely true. In fact, Sherlock had noticed that he’d altered and changed his behaviour to please John more often than he would’ve thought he would for somebody else.That ought to bother him but to be honest, it hadn’t for a little while. About the same amount of time the thought of being alone at 221B again had begun to bother him, quite significantly more so. A thought which he’d been more than a little thrown by, enough so that he’d tried to counter steer, at least on the outside, to make sure that he betrayed none of it.In that vein, he had gone and purchased another watch for his flatmate, in a style that didn’t smack of unnecessary expenditure but would fit and appeal to John. He had yet to give it to him, though.But because John had stormed out, angrier than Sherlock had seen him in ages, he’d made the mistake of relying on assumptions, and therefore hadn’t actually made an honest effort to check on where he went.John would return home when his anger had quietened, if not to the same embers that always smouldered at the core of his being, then to a slightly higher intensity than that. That could take hours or the rest of the night.When he did notice something was off, it jolted him out of his Mind Palace, where he’d been examining some piece of information relevant to the case, hard, the realisation coming through from his body rather than his mind but no less strong or insistent for that.It told him that John wasn’t detectable.He scoffed at the notion but nevertheless, he didn’t return to what he’d been doing. Instead, when he closed his eyes it was to check, certain in the knowledge that it was just a stray bit of instinct that didn’t like knowing, at all times, acting up.He wasn’t there.Frowning a little, in annoyance and certainly not in alarm, Sherlock intensified his search, sifting through the throng of unimportant scents and presences faster and faster to locate the one that he’d grown so accustomed to.So attached to.Still, he got no better result. His frown deepened and, unacknowledged, his chest tightened.No problem. All he needed was a bit of a focal point to help him fixate on the correct datapoint, and he had just the thing for that.The implications of the fact that he didn’t have to move far to dig out the watch he didn’t examine.Feeling it between his fingers, sensing John’s presence in the object, he closed his eyes again and, with the red thread of his presence, he searched for the counterpoint, its parent, as it were.Nothing. Not so much as a thread. It was as though John had vanished off the –No. That wasn’t right. Not quite. There was a thread, too thin and frail to be used as a point of location, but there…and it was gone.Or rather, it’d been deliberately shielded. By someone who was capable of achieving it completely, the number of which ran to a surprisingly small number within the city.It didn’t take much to make the connections after that.He had to admit, he was more than a little impressed. Not only with the case as a whole, though that was unquestionably a large part, but with the fact that he had managed to remain undetected while building his net, that particular metaphor quite wrong in the circumstances.Oh, not when it came to him being a criminal mastermind. Granted, that was something, too, and the sheer class of case, or cases, he’d been given to solve was unquestionably something to admire. But it wasn’t what pushed it over the edge.That admiration, however, faded somewhat in the face of the knowledge that he’d employed those skills to kidnap his flatmate and shield him, too. Shield him so well, in fact, he was impossible to detect, even for Sherlock.No one should touch John – except for Sherlock.That thought came unbidden, surprising him, and not in a pleasant way.Mycroft’s words echoed through his mind, much as he’d rather they not.He hadn’t claimed John. Not…like that, anyway. He wouldn’t do that to…he had no interest in doing that, to John or anyone else. Things were fine as they were.He could function just fine. He could.But now, with Moriarty not only in the picture, but having kidnapped and shielded John, things were different, and not for the better.He only realised he had one arm through his coat sleeve when the silk of his dressing gown pooled up around his elbow, which made it difficult to move it further up.Where was he going?To find John, of course, and get him out of the hands of that grubby, little –Yes, alright, but was he really that keen, that mind-haltingly intent on getting to him that he was willing to run pell-mell through the streets in the vagueish hope that he could locate John just through that.No, of course not. He’d just been…acting before he…thought.It wasn’t as clear-cut as he’d always thought, then, was it?He cursed under his breath. But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Time was of the clichéd essence, and he needed to be dressed for it. Apart from his dressing gown, he was in proper attire, except for jacket, socks and shoes.As quickly as possible, he changed, slipping John’s watch into his pocket on the off-chance it’d help him. All things considered, it was highly improbably, to say the least, but it wouldn’t hurt.Then he stopped, hand on the door handle.He was panicking. Genuinely starting to panic. Why was he panicking? John was capable and skilled, he could take care of himself, even against someone like…But that was the point, wasn’t it? Moriarty was no longer just a genius criminal, he was one of them, and he’d taken the time to –He pulled his phone out of the other pocket.‘How long have you known? – SH’ he wrote, fingers moving quickly.‘How lovely to hear from you, dear brother. Known what? – MH’‘Don’t play dumber than you already are. You know perfectly well. – SH’‘I’m afraid that I don’t. – MH’‘He’s taken John. He’s shielding him. – SH’There was silence for a few minutes after that, which Sherlock spent running down the stairs as he pulled on his coat, and a good way down the street. He wasn’t going to hail a cab before he had an idea of –
Oh, you idiot.
He threw up a hand and got a cab almost immediately, rattling off the address before he’d sat down.
I’m coming, John. Just hold on.
  John stared at the Irishman, not quite believing what he’d heard. Give him back? What the hell did he mean ‘give him back’? And there was that word again, ‘possession’. He wasn’t anybody’s possession, let alone Sherlock’s.Yes, okay, so he might have taken a few extra moments to appreciate the way fabric pulled and strained over the body that should’ve been lanky but was more athletically wiry and the way his face softened when a genuine smile graced it. He wasn’t blind, after all, and okay, he might also have found his fingers itching to touch from time to time, but he’d kept it contained within himself, knowing that it wouldn’t be appreciated.Sherlock was married to his work and that was that.But even if he hadn’t been, even if they were in a relationship, John would still bridle at the idea that he was the brunet’s possession. That suggested a very unhealthy relationship dynamic that he had no wish to be part of.He turned the stare into a glare and tried to pull his head free. The hand tightened, fingers digging painfully into flesh – wait, hang on. That didn’t feel like the blunt edges of fingers or even nails. It felt more like the claws of a dog digging in, only sharper. Much sharper.He could feel his skin being punctured.Moriarty grinned at him, presumably seeing the expression in his eyes.“Sherlock didn’t tell you, did he?” he asked. “No, obviously he didn’t.”“Tell me what?”The dark brown eyes seemed to glint an amber gold for a moment and the grin seemed more like the baring of teeth before a predator struck.Then Moriarty let go of John’s jaw, trailing a little blood from the puncture wounds, and took a few but long steps backwards, spreading out his arms as he did so.John blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes only to open them wide, all in a determined effort to make some sort of sense of what he was seeing, and even so, it didn’t compute.Moriarty wasn’t a big man, at least physically, but somehow, without changing in stature or girth, he seemed to slowly but surely grow and take up more and more of the room until he practically filled it all.One might argue that it was a trick of the light, but while there was a definite shadow, it couldn’t be explained away by that.For one thing, a trick of the light couldn’t explain that the part that had grown had transformed in more than size. That while there stood a medium-height, relatively normal-looking Irish madman in an overly expensive suit in front of him, in front and above and around him lay a…A dragon.There could be no doubt about it, utterly ludicrous though it sounded – and it did sound beyond ludicrous. There was no such thing as a dragon in the world nor any other mythical creatures. They were a physical impossibility through and through, only feasible within the imagination.And yet…that stand became a great deal harder to take, never mind maintain, when amber-coloured reptilian eyes stared down at him over a scaled snout, its nostrils smaller than he would’ve imagined. Horns stood straight up rather than curl and a row of spikes ran the length of its spine, the blackness of them complimenting the burnished dark bronzes and coppers of the scales.Its spread wings mirrored the spread arms of the human, the membranes a milky colour.There was one more place where the two mirrored each other, and that was the grin. John couldn’t decide on which face it looked more unsettling. At least on the dragon’s, one would expect it to look reptilian.He couldn’t help it, he stared. It wasn’t entirely with disbelief or shock, either. Some of it was fascination, some was childlike joy, and just a smidgeon of it was admiration, despite his best efforts.The enormous head, which had been held up and back a little, moved closer to him. Again, it was difficult to judge whether the human or the dragon face was the most unsettling.What was only slightly easier to judge was the corporeality of the dragon. It wasn’t true to say that it wasn’t there or a vivid optical illusion. That would be hard to claim when you could feel the heat coming off the scaly snout right in front of you, and yet…he wasn’t entirely sure that if he could reach a hand out, it would connect with anything.“Oh, I’m real, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty’s voice, sounding slightly deeper and reverberating, said. It was one voice that seemed to come from two mouths. “Very much so. Every. Last. Inch.”With each word, he moved closer still. By the time he almost touched John’s face, the maw opened, and a tongue snaked out. The doctor tried to pull away but was prevented by the bonds and the chair which, while comfortable, was unfortunately also unmovable. So, instead, to do something, he turned his head.Not that it helped; the moist slickness of a tongue pressed lightly against his cheek.Somewhat surprisingly, though, it stopped at that and withdrew almost immediately. Then again, he supposed the point had been made by then – the dragon shape was real enough that it could touch him and with something as inimitable as a tongue, as well.As the appendage disappeared behind the sharp teeth again, the expression in the dragon’s eyes turned a little thoughtful, if not outright puzzled, which was odd.John decided then and there that he’d had about enough weirdness for one day, and if Moriarty wanted a pawn or a bargaining tool or even just something of Sherlock’s for a toy, then he could pick something else – the skull, for example!No, not the skull, come to think of it. He’d grown to like the skull.But the point remained. He had no intention of being a thing, a possession, for either or both of them to use and misuse as they saw fit. Yes, okay, he would never have guessed in a million years that this would happen, because who would? But regardless, it was still the same person behind the eyes, whatever colour or shape they had, and whoever was looking out through them wasn’t…all there, as it were.“Is there a point to this other than to show off and possibly scare the life out of me?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the human version. “Don’t you have some explosives to wrap me up in like you did with the other victims?”Not that he wanted that to happen, of course he didn’t. He wanted very much to survive this – he hadn’t made it through two tours of Afghanistan, the agonising hell of being shot and his recovery and all the rest of it just to die as a plaything of an impossibility because his berk of a flatmate couldn’t leave well enough alone.But just because he was afraid didn’t mean that he was going to let that control his actions.The sight of the dragon head tilting slightly to the side in an inquisitive manner ought to have looked endearing or at the very least silly. It didn’t.“You think I only stole you because you’re worth something to dear little Sherlock,” Moriarty said. “That the only interest you could possibly generate would be through your connection with him, at least aside from when it comes to the sexual conquests. That you’re safely boring on your own.”John tilted his head up at that and lifted both eyebrows, mostly in defiance. That wasn’t true. Though, he had thought that about the interest being based around his friendship with Sherlock, hadn’t he? Bloody hell, what if he could read minds? Could dragons do that? He wouldn’t have thought so but then again, if you’d asked him half an hour previously, he wouldn’t have thought dragons were real, either.
Calm down, idiot. So what if he can? What does that actually change? Sherlock can’t read minds, but he might as well be able to with his skills.
Yes, but Sherlock, for all his faults, wasn’t a criminal madman.Nor a dragon.The maw opened but before anything could come out – John had the distinct feeling that it was roughly a fifty-fifty chance at any given moment whether it would be words or something altogether more lethal, if not more dangerous, coming out of that mouth – the sound of an incoming text could be heard, and it didn’t come from John’s phone.The dragon shape shifted and faded a little but didn’t disappear as the dark-haired man checked his phone, with one finger held up to ask for time. As though John could gallivant out of there with a very heavy chair still tied to him.When Moriarty looked up again, the only difference between the eyes of the dragon and that of the human was the shape of the pupils and even that might be called debatable.It made John wonder how much the two shapes were interconnected; whether one was merely a projection of the other, more corporeal one or whether they were mirrors of each other, each as real and substantial as the other at any given moment. Somehow, the latter seemed by far the more likely one, though a person being in two bodies at once seemed farfetched to say the least. But then again, the limits of farfetched were almost non-existent in the context of a dragon.“Look lively, pet, your knight in shining armour is about to arrive,” Moriarty said, the dragon shape fading further until it was almost entirely a shadow lurking on the wall behind the Irishman.He walked back up close to John and placed a finger, which still felt tipped with an absurdly sharp claw, gently on the underside of the blond’s chin.He didn’t say anything, just looked at John as though he was contemplating what to do, his eyes still the same amber colouring of the dragon shape.Then the pupils narrowed to thin slits and the claw turned swiftly to drag down the column of his throat, hard enough to for the skin to break and blood to seep out. Not deep enough to cause damage to the trachea or the oesophagus, thankfully, though, as you really wouldn’t be uncertain of that if it occurred. Still, it was quite the shock for him.The claw-nail, now slightly shiny with blood, was brought up in front of both their faces.“It’s too bad for you, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty said, and this time, his voice was a hiss, “that in the real world, knights get slaughtered by dragons, not the other way around, and dragons have no intention of sharing their treasure.”For a fleeting moment, John had the horrible thought that he was about to be gutted right there and then. Then the idea that the man, dragon, man was going to lick his blood off the claw flitted through his mind and while not as horrible or life-terminating as the other thought, it still filled his mouth with bile.The former idea seemed terrifyingly close to becoming reality when the hand turned again and made a quick movement downwards.All it cut, however, were the bonds that had held him, swiftly and without trouble, like the proverbial knife.The fact that he was now technically free wasn’t much of a point; before he had a chance to jump up, lash out or even just move, he was grabbed by the arm by Moriarty, the grip incongruously strong for a body like that, until you remembered that it was a dragon in disguise.It shook him more to realise that the thought didn’t shock or horrify him anymore, and even then, it probably didn’t shake him as much as it ought to do.“Showtime,” the Irishman sneered and shoved at the blond, who was caught by two men, who were presumably the ones who’d kidnapped him in the first place, and manhandled into the same kind of Semtex vest that the other bombing victims had had on.He closed his eyes. This was not how he had imagined the case to turn out, and that was apart from Moriarty actually being a sodding dragon.But then, you had to roll with the punches, didn’t you?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was dark and quiet by the time Sherlock made it to the building where he knew them to be, especially for the area. Which was good for his purpose, as he had a bit of trouble keeping himself in check while he paid the cabbie and tore out of the car towards where John was.Mycroft hadn’t answered him about how long he’d known but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that, despite the continued shielding, the closer he’d gotten, the clearer he could see that thin but growingly tangible thread of John beneath it.Still, it was ominous that Moriarty had actually chosen to shield John rather than just kidnap him.Shielding was only something dragons did to things they cared…no, not even that. It had nothing to do with whether they cared about the object they were shielding or not. It had to do with claiming of the object in question, nothing more.Normally, you claimed a thing first so that other dragons would know it had been claimed. Then you shielded it, to protect it from detection by said other dragons, who might be tempted to steal it simply because it had caught the attention of a rival, and you added it to your already shielded hoard.But that place wasn’t where Moriarty had his hoard. There wouldn’t be enough room for one.
That rather depends on what his hoard consists of, doesn’t it? It could be china dolls, for all you know, or skulls of his victims. Or both, for that matter.
More to the point, why hadn’t he shielded John? Why had he let –No, no. Calm down. He didn’t know whether Moriarty had laid any claim on him, had added him to his hoard –But why else would he shield him? There were only a set number of reasons why you’d do that.
Because he doesn’t need a reason, you idiot. You’re smarter than that. He does it because he can, because he knows it’ll mess with you. John might not think you care about him, but Moriarty isn’t as oblivious or easy to fob off. He knows that John means a lot to you, and that’s why.
Sherlock felt his lip pull into a snarl of its own accord. He would see the little snake impaled on his fangs before he allowed him to take what was –That thought stopped him cold for a moment.No. John wasn’t his. John wasn’t anyone’s. He wasn’t a possession, a part of a hoard and nothing more. John was and always should be his own brave, stubborn, kind, temperamental, loyal man who could think for himself. Sherlock valued those things in his friend greatly, even if he never said it, and never wanted them taken away.That was part of the reason why he hadn’t claimed John for himself. Mycroft was of the opinion that he had in all but the formal steps and had more than once tried to make Sherlock take their connection the rest of the way for both their sakes, as he called it, but Sherlock had adamantly refused to.To his brother, he’d maintained that he had no interest in it and no need for it. John stayed as it was, went on cases with him and even cared for him, as much as he was allowed.Mycroft thought that he was tempting fate by letting it remain such a halfway state. That it was unsustainable to have just the one human so close, both physically and mentally, for such a long time, without formally claiming him, and that it would lead to either John crumbling under the push-and-pull of belonging and being pushed away or Sherlock’s instincts snapping and taking over, claiming him as hoard treasure and nothing more.Sherlock had dismissed both of those, because he’d known neither would happen. He had the situation under control, he knew.Another part of the reason was that he knew John wouldn’t take kindly to being told. Not so much what Sherlock and Mycroft was – the man had a truly remarkable skill of rolling with the punches when he needed to, even if he also chewed Sherlock out for his behaviour at the same time – but what that revelation combined with their living arrangement entailed for them both in the situation.John getting angry wasn’t necessarily a problem on its own. His temper was a known quantity, even if that didn’t mean it was something you could toy with or wouldn’t burn you if you weren’t careful. The point was that the precedent gave some avenues of tried and true responses to said anger.But then again, one of the things about John was that he was predictable and easy…right until he wasn’t anymore. That moment hadn’t become any easier to predict for Sherlock in the time they’d lived together, nor had the specific reaction it would cause.Just take the watch as an example. He’d reacted far more strongly to that than predicted, and he had kept the anger up afterwards, too.Telling him he’d been inadvertently pulled in as and was now regarded by Sherlock’s instincts as his, even if he’d not become a possession yet…that was a recipe for disaster, to say the least, and would more likely than not result in John moving out, never to return.Sherlock never wanted that to happen, and not merely because he would have to struggle with the pain of being separated from part of his hoard. He valued John. John was irreplaceable.Now, though, with Moriarty having made a move by kidnapping and shielding him, it was quite the different picture, and he could no longer afford to sit on the fence. If he didn’t do something, Moriarty would claim John and he’d become part of the spider’s web, whether he wanted to or not.To add a horrible thought to it, it wasn’t even certain that John would be alive when he became incorporated into the hoard. So long as there was no definitive clue as to what the Irish dragon’s hoard consisted of, it might as well be the skulls of the people he messed with.The thought of finding John dead when he arrived sped up his stride even further, the watch grabbed hard where it was still nestled in his pocket.And here you kept asserting that you were above sentiment, an inner voice grinned, not entirely pleasantly.It didn’t matter. He could be as soppily sentimental as Molly and right now, he couldn’t have cared less. Not when it came to John.He could feel his wings press against his back, itching and fighting to break free of his hold on them but he pushed them down ruthlessly. The last thing they needed was some nosy little twat thinking they’d seen something interesting and coming to investigate, possibly bringing other twats to it, which would only exacerbate the matter.That and when he did let go, he wanted to unleash it all on Moriarty.As he advanced, he could feel John’s essence, for lack of a less clichéd term, still trapped beneath the shielding but fighting it instinctively with all his might and the icy tendrils that had wormed their way around his heart melted a little. If he was still fighting, then he was still alive, and if that was the case, then everything would be fine.
He could still have become part of the other’s hoard, and then you’d still be buggered and not allowed to touch.
Bugger what he was allowed – if John was alive, then he was taking him home, regardless of what the slimy eel had or hadn’t done to the doctor. John wasn’t Moriarty’s!
He’s not yours, either. You refused to lay a claim; you can hardly complain about it only after someone tries to take your toy.
But John wasn’t a toy, or a possession. It wasn’t about laying a claim. It wasn’t. It was about…them. Solving crimes together. Running across rooftops, chasing criminals, punching them and outwitting them. About John making him tea, getting him to eat ‘just this bloody once, Sherlock, you stick-figure’, grumbling over something or other, buying takeaway, yelling at him for putting body parts in the fridge. Laughing with him. Being with him. Staying with him. Being his friend. Being…more.That was why he’d been so reluctant. Once he laid a claim, yes, John would belong to him, would stay with him, but he wouldn’t…it wouldn’t be his choice to do so. Not any longer, and if there was one thing Sherlock didn’t want to take, it was John’s autonomy.It boiled down to John’s friendship. You couldn’t have a friendship where the other part couldn’t leave. Even Sherlock knew that.
But would you rather then not have him at all? Because that seems to be the only two options you have right now, seeing as you left it this late, didn’t protect him.
No! There had to be some other way around this, some way he could get John out of Moriarty’s grip without having to take his autonomy from him.  When Sherlock entered the building, John saw him long before he saw John. Which was odd; normally it was the younger Holmes who spotted things and people before the doctor did, at least when it wasn’t people who presented a threat to them.Then again, it was possible that it wasn’t John Sherlock was looking for, that his focus was on the possible dangers and on a lookout for Moriarty. That had to be why he was here, after all, the case and the confrontation with the one who had him so fascinated. Probably hadn’t even clocked that the blond had been kidnapped rather than having merely stormed off, so really, there’d be no reason for him to look for John, here or anywhere else.The fact that he saw him first didn’t entail that he could call out to him or otherwise warn him, however.If he’d thought about it, he would’ve expected, especially after being draped in explosives, that Moriarty would play it out not unlike, at the very least, the previous bombing victims. Of course, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d revealed his dragon side, as it were, to the other victims, but even so, why else would he do this?He ought to have known that predictability wasn’t one of the Irishman’s watchwords.Once he’d been trussed up, Moriarty had looked at him, head tilted in seeming contemplation for just a moment before he’d snapped his fingers. A gag, one made for the purpose rather than a makeshift one, had been forced between his lips despite his best efforts to avoid it.“Ah-ah, don’t be boring now, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty had hissed. “I’m sure little Sherlock wouldn’t like to find his possession in pieces. At least,” he’d grinned, “not before he’s arrived. What happens afterwards…”He’d trailed off at that, but the implications had been more than enough.So, now instead he stood, bound in Semtex and rope, like some sort of explosion expert’s sexual Houdini fantasy, waiting for Sherlock to notice him. Which he didn’t know whether he wanted to happen or not, because on the one hand, he had no idea what’d happen after that and on the other, he didn’t want Sherlock to walk into something he wasn’t prepared for.Granted, he was probably more prepared than John ever would’ve been, but even so, this wasn’t within anyone’s frame of reference. Or maybe it was, and it was just John who wasn’t used to dealing with a kidnap situation that involved an actual sodding dragon. Maybe that was what they got up to every other Wednesday in Whitehall.Maybe Mycroft was a dragon, too.An unbidden but unstoppable, slightly hysterical giggle bubbled its way up through his throat at the mental image that produced, complete with cake crumbs stuck in the scales.The sound seemed to do the trick, in terms of getting the attention of his flatmate. To be fair, it shouldn’t have taken him long, what with the light from the pool, but he had been placed in the limited amount of shadows there were and again, it was more likely that he hadn’t been who Sherlock was looking for in the first place.That thought was somewhat blown apart when he saw the pale eyes land on him and, even at the distance, he saw how wild they looked. Almost desperate as they darted around his face, which didn’t make any sense. Confused he’d understand, thrown by him not being where he thought. The desperation, however, which there could no doubt about now, that didn’t make sense. Why would he be desperate in relation to John?Perhaps he’s thinking that you’ve actually been working for Moriarty this whole time? an inner voice asked. Perhaps he is trying to find a clue, a kind of signifier that you aren’t, desperate because your friendship has actually meant a lot more to him than you’ve given him credit for, and he really doesn’t want to believe that?The fact that I’m gagged and bound ought to be a rather big signifier that I’m not, though, John argued, feeling it was a reasonable comment.He can’t necessarily see that, the voice argued back, and even if he can, maybe he’s just thrown by the fact that you’re here when you’re not supposed to be. Or that you’re in danger. Or maybe it’s something that you can think about at a later date, hm?Whatever the reason behind it, there was no questioning that expression, or the fact that though he was moving carefully, there was a tension in his muscles that indicated he wanted to move at a much faster pace but was restraining himself.A stray thought in John’s mind piped up to wonder at the idiot, coming there unarmed, when he knew what kind of person Moriarty was, and that was even ignoring the part about being a dragon. Then he thought he saw the outline of his gun in a trouser pocket as Sherlock moved and the coat slid aside but he wasn’t sure.When Sherlock reached him – and part of the doctor couldn’t help but be surprised that he managed to get there without either of them being assaulted or blown to smithereens – the first thing he did wasn’t to ask whether John was okay. It wasn’t even to untie him or remove the gag from his mouth, both of which he’d have deemed acceptable actions.No, what he did was something altogether more puzzling. He grabbed John’s face with both hands, broad palms and long fingers almost enveloping it, still searching with that look in his eyes. Pulling them even closer together, he inhaled deeply.Almost…almost like Moriarty had earlier.But why would Sherlock do that?Could it be – no. No, he wouldn’t be. That was…John would know. He’d know.
You didn’t know Moriarty was one, did you?
Well, no, that was true, but Moriarty wasn’t his best friend. Sherlock was. It was someone you ought to know, wasn’t it? If you called someone your best friend, you’d know…perhaps not everything about them, but certainly the important things, and whether you were a ruddy dragon or not ought to bloody well be among the important things!But that doesn’t take into consideration whether he counts you as his best friend in turn, does it? Just because the friendship means more than you thought doesn’t entail that he considers you a best friend.No, he supposed it didn’t, even though that thought hurt more than a little.Still, though, something like that…if that was even the case. He didn’t know that Sherlock was a dragon, he extrapolated from something that was farfetched to begin with, and Sherlock would probably have something to say about that.His head was, to put it mildly, spinning. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Sherlock was actually touching him, but the touch didn’t leave the same warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that it normally did. Not exclusively so, at least.“Sherlock?” he asked, trying to get some sort of confirmation or clue or, well, anything. As he was still gagged, it came out a muffled nonsense but perhaps the tone got through.The eyes seemed to finally…well, properly focus on him, as though what he’d been looking at up until this point wasn’t exactly John, not quite.“You’re…alright?” was what he asked as the first thing, which was odd on its own, given that clearly John wasn’t, and strange when you added the tentative relief in the baritone voice.John glared at him. Did it look like he was remotely alright? And if he had time to stand there and bloody well not just sniff him but ask inane questions, he could get him unbound and out of the bloody explosives before the Irish madman dragon got the idea that he could kill two birds with one stone.“You are, John,” Sherlock reiterated, with more confidence and no doubt about the relief this time. He still didn’t look quite put-together and alright, as one might expect from him.“John…” he whispered.“Oh, as if I’d lay a claim on your little pet,” came a voice from behind the doctor. “Not without an audience, at least.”John knew he was there, had known it since he’d been pushed out there, even where exactly he was, which puzzled him. Sherlock, however, seemed to stiffen, his hands, still on the blond’s face, twitching and digging in for just a moment as his eyes regained a bit of that desperate and wild look.Not only was that jarring, to see him have that much of a reaction to what had to be the words rather than Moriarty’s presence, which he knew about, but it confirmed something that he really could have done without ever knowing for certain.The fingers digging in suddenly had some very sharp nails on them, and John knew that well-maintained nails was part of the ‘professional’ look his friend strived to achieve. Which didn’t include anything approaching claw-like conditions.But that didn’t…why would those come out now? Was it some sort of indicator of emotion that they had trouble controlling? No, why would that be? It wasn’t as though you could’ve pinned any particular mood on Moriarty, as he passed through them like someone skimming a menu without picking anything, and Sherlock wasn’t one to have that much excess of emotion.No, that was hardly fair. He did, and not just when he behaved like a five-year-old. Just look at how he’d behaved ever since he’d entered the building, that was hardly calm and collected, to say the least, was it?The exact reason why he was shaken might be John or it might Moriarty, the doctor had no idea, but the important point was that it was enough that he’d…slipped up, if you could call it that.Given that he, to the best of John’s knowledge, hadn’t in all the time they’d lived together, it must be quite the severe shock.Further confirmation of that he got when pale eyes shifted from looking at the Irishman to looking at him again, and the look in them rather clearly said that he hadn’t meant to slip and certainly hadn’t meant for John to see it. The wild look was joined by a slowly dawning horror as the implications seemed to sink in.John tried to communicate, through his eyes as he was still gagged, that it was okay.Was it? Really?Not only was he in the clutches of a madman, whose clutches turned out to be uncomfortably more literal than he would’ve ever thought, covered in actual explosives that might go off at the whim of said madman, his best friend turned out to be a dragon as well.Once he thought about it, though, he was surprised and even then, probably not as much as he ought to be, to learn that yes, actually, it was alright.Possibly it would’ve been different if Sherlock had been the first one revealed as a fire-breathing impossibility, possibly it wouldn’t, but given everything else the bloody git had thrown at him, him being a dragon, too, was somehow not that earth-shattering.Whatever else he was, Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was his friend. His best friend, even if it was a one-sided thing.It didn’t seem as though the consulting detective saw it. Either that or it just didn’t register.He wanted to nudge at the other. To be honest, he wanted to grab him and tell him it was alright, that it was going to be okay, because that mixtu’re of emotions on his face was making his heart hurt terribly.As it was, he had to settle for trying to get it across with his eyes.All the while, he could hear Moriarty come slowly closer, the gait nonchalantly, deliberately sauntering, like someone stalking their prey while they had all the time in the world to do so.“Jim Moriarty. Hiii!”The tone of voice and the introduction itself was jarring but it was the sort of jarring you might expect from the man, if such a thing could be said.What was not quite as expected, though perhaps it ought to have been, was that he kept walking until he was about a foot or so behind John. He shouldn’t have been able to tell but he could. Why could he do that?“I think I liked you better in the other clothes. Not that that’s saying much,” Sherlock said, and his voice was disdainful and calm. One might say slightly suspiciously so, as though he was keeping a very tight rein on it.“Oh, Sherlock. I’m hurt,” Moriarty replied, sounding theatrically so. “And here I thought we had something special together. I mean, besides little Johnny-boy here.”The last sentence was hissed and was delivered straight into John’s ear. He instinctively tried to pull away, which was helped by the hands still enveloping his face assisting him but halted when he remembered that he was still very much covered in explosives.“He’s not yours,” Sherlock answered, and this time, he hissed as well.The thought of being a toy fought over by children unused to sharing anything flitted through John’s head and, while the mental image was likely inappropriate in the circumstances, it was probably mostly true.
Great. You really are a possession, aren’t you?
The thought made him angry.“I’m not anyone’s,” he said through the gag, voice somehow sharp as he glared at both of them in turn. Dragons or not, explosives or not, he wasn’t that toy to be fought over until it broke, purely because the other shouldn’t have it, and he wouldn’t be treated as such. He didn’t have control over much right now, and he’d take what little he could. “I belong to myself and I’m no one’s possession.”“Oh, but you will be, pet,” Moriarty hissed, seeming to understand him despite the gag’s muffling, and there was nothing endearing about the nickname. It felt more like a value judgement, and the judging wasn’t favourable. “Whether you want to or not, you will.”The brown eyes flashed amber again, the pupils contracting into slits as a hand slid around the lower part of his throat, squeezing lightly but slowly increasing.John instinctively recoiled, though his movements were still limited, given the circumstances; he could feel three sets of claws against the soft tissue of his throat and cheeks.That was only for a brief though painful moment, however. Then one hand detached from his face to wrap around the hand pressing on his throat, pulling at it such that it automatically pressed into John’s throat as it skidded across it, clutching for purchase. It was only the force and speed with which it was done that prevented any serious damage. As it was, it did manage to cause thick welts and outright cuts, though thankfully none where it might prove dangerous.The blood spilling forth was hard to miss, though.Sherlock’s own eyes flashed at that, not amber but an equally disconcerting yet fascinating green-tinted white, like that of an iceberg. More immediately important, however, was the rumbling snarl that issued from his lips and the way that the grip on the other’s hand tightened until John would estimate there ought to be bones audibly crushing.There wasn’t, probably owing to their wyvern status, but the amusement had fled from Irishman’s face. Not that John got a lot of time to see it before his view was blocked by Sherlock moving forward, still with the evidently painful grip on the other’s hand, which pushed him backwards towards the stalls.“Don’t. Touch. Him.” Each word was articulated through the continuing snarl. “He. Is. Not. Yours.”“Bit late to claim ownership now, isn’t it?” Though the voice was still dripping amusement, John could see as he turned that it was confined to the voice, the amber of the eyes not having returned to brown.“All those opportunities to do so and you only make a stab at it,” the clawed fingers which had blood on them moved for emphasis, “when someone else decides to play with your toy. Really, Johnny, how can you stand to be treated such?”Sherlock stiffened at that, hard to spot but enough that John could see it, helped by his familiarity with the lanky body and the rare occurrences of someone hitting home.The momentary lapse was used by Moriarty to wrest his hand free. Then he brought the bloody fingers towards his mouth, his lips parting slightly in anticipation. All the while, he kept his eyes on John, amusement creeping back into his features.It really did seem as though something about John was genuinely interesting to Moriarty, even though the doctor couldn’t for the life of him, which was probably a bad phrase in the circumstances, think of what that something could possibly be. Not that he wished to consider it, nor what would happen to him when he ceased to be interesting. Given what he was wearing at that moment, it wasn’t hard to guess, even if he didn’t want to.What was so significant about the blood, though? It could of course merely be that he was attempting to unsettle him, but that not only seemed a little pat for Moriarty, somehow, it would hardly be something to creep out a medical doctor. Licking blood off your fingers, clawed or not, rated rather low when you’d dealt with entrails only halfway inside bodies and trying to locate the pieces of comrade the roadside bomb had sent sky-high.It was made more obvious that it held significance when Sherlock positively roared and grabbed the hand again, this time so that the claws were squeezed between his palm. Not surprisingly, that caused the claws to slice at flesh that, despite everything else, was still humanly soft.Sherlock didn’t so much as wince, however, even as blood seeped out and mixed with what was already there. In fact, he seemed oddly triumphant when it happened, as though he’d managed to prevent something extremely important by doing so, and the pain of the subsequent cuts were more than worth it. It likely added a little to the triumph that this time, there was a bone cracking, the snap of it clearly audible.John, who could feel the droplets of blood trickle down his throat but could do very little except try to assess how deep the cuts were from the sting and the amount of blood that escaped, took a step backwards.That was driven by instinct of self-preservation, though. He saw Moriarty’s eyes flash with anger and something else, as though he was keeping a lid on it but struggling somewhat to do so, and, almost more importantly, he saw tell-tale little red dots of light start to appear on Sherlock’s face and around his chest.Another instinct overrode the first, brutally so, and propelled him, after the briefest of glares at his flatmate that was hopefully understood, forward towards the Irishman before he had a chance to think too much about it.What was important was getting the danger away from Sherlock.He was still bound and therefore, he couldn’t grab hold of Moriarty. That didn’t stop him, as he instead chose to barrel into the man, hoping to knock him over. He managed to do so, Sherlock letting go of the hand he held in the process, but by momentum, he went over as well.As some part of him, though hardly a very conscious part, had calculated, the dots did indeed move from Sherlock to him, though frustratingly not all of them, and of the ones that had moved, not one of them hit the consulting criminal.John wasn’t quite prepared for the reaction that he got from either Moriarty or Sherlock. The anger was still there in Moriarty’s expression, the smile spreading across the Irishman’s face that of an alligator about to swallow you whole, but there was just that hint of the amusement from before mixed with a smidgeon of triumph and…lust?He would’ve denied that possibility but as he was practically lying on top of the other, that was made significantly more difficult, to say the least. Though he couldn’t, he felt even more desperate to move.The mouth opened further, the teeth shifting to resemble those of aforementioned alligator as they moved closer, the body underneath him shifting as well, in what was, presumably, judging by the changes he could see, the same way as before.One difference was how close Moriarty was compared to earlier, particularly his eyes, and for all that he tried, the blond couldn’t wrest his gaze away from them, the amber drawing him in as he went gradually but quickly limp and pliable on top of the other man, despite his very best efforts.He was sure he’d been thinking about something, something important about the man beneath him, but thoughts started to become frayed and frizzled at the same rate as his body relaxed until they were as good as impossible to assemble into more than a fleeting spark before they fizzled back out into the mushy fog the rest of his brain was sinking into, frighteningly fast.That wasn’t to say the fog was unpleasant. Quite the opposite, which contributed to lack of care he was able to muster about his current situation. A lack of care that extended to the teeth, pointed and predatory, moving towards his throat, the eye contact not breaking until it was impossible for it to be retained.However, even though one might think that that would cause him to snap out of it, as it were, it was only when the tip of pointed teeth started to press against the soft skin of his throat that he started to resurface from the depths of pleasant mental mush. Pulling away, or attempting to, would be a very stupid decision, however, and not just because bound as he was and lying down, he had little to no leverage with which to haul himself away.One thought did manage to penetrate the fog, shrill in its panicked clarity; he was going to die by having his throat torn out by a dragon. After everything, that was how he was going to die, by the hand, or teeth, of a consulting criminal mythical being.He screamed through the gag, primal fear and pure fury given voice.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

All of this happened in a very short amount of time.Time in which Sherlock went through a myriad of emotions, the amount and strength of them immobilising him while the two others tumbled down together in a heap, John starting to crumble beneath the power of the dragon’s stare – which only worked as fast as it did, he knew, because of the time he’d already spent under the active execution of a dragon’s influence – and the jaws opened, moving closer.When they made contact, deceptively but deliberately gently, marking rather than with any real intention of piercing, just yet, the emotions coalesced into one, of possessive, instinctive anger at someone touching what was precious to him. Something attempting to claim what he treasured.At John’s scream, his body took over much as before; one arm shot out and down to wrap around the doctor’s waist while the other, together with one rapidly emerging wing, forced their way into the gap between Moriarty’s upper and lower jaw. Then they pushed upward and backwards with as much force as possible, in the calculated hope rather than meticulous calculation that it would allow him to pull John free without any injuries, any fresh blood spilled as the previous trickles had semi-dried. Thankfully.He didn’t quite catch what happened then, his mind a roaring sea of emotions that had been kept barely in check since he’d entered the building and had finally found John, bound and gagged and with the stench of Moriarty wafting from him.That he hadn’t smelled claimed had been a relief but had only managed to marginally tamp down on them but the attempts by Moriarty to claim him via blood, that had sent them flaring back up, and it was a wonder he hadn’t reacted more strongly than he had.Though it settled slightly again as he managed to spoil the attempt when he mixed his own blood with that of John’s on the other dragon’s claw, the boiling point had come with John’s scream and the resulting sea of emotions flooded him.All he knew was that when he accomplished resurfacing, he was holding John as tight as he possibly could, arms, tail and wings having wrapped around him almost entirely, his nose buried in blond hair as his body tried to reassure his mind that no harm had been done, that he was safe and still unclaimed.Even though he’d surfaced, it was not enough to consider the risk he ran by angering the Irishman further, with both the explosives and the significant red dots still moving about on their persons. He couldn’t seem to think further right then, not aided by the fact that he actually had John close like this, with intention and for more than a second or two, for the first time.Not even the fact that he’d unquestionably outed himself, with no room for backtracking or easy explanations, to his flatmate, by partially transforming seemed to register. It wouldn’t have mattered, he’d know if he’d be in a state of mind to think properly about it, because John had seen the interplay between the dragons, the similarities and whatever claims Sherlock might make to the contrary, he wasn’t stupid or always unobservant.Somehow, possibly driven by his instinct and the urgency of the situation, his mind managed to push through enough to register not only that John’s heartbeat was swift and erratic, showing no signs of slowing down as he still perceived danger, but that Moriarty was rising from the ground, his wings rising along with him as he did so. The rest of him remained mostly human but the wings themselves were unquestionably real as they rose upwards, resembling the closed wings of a butterfly, even if the wings themselves brought more bats and pterodactyls to mind.“It’s purely a matter of time, Sherlock,” he said, his voice low and calm. “As long as you don’t claim him, he will be vulnerable to others.”“There aren’t any others.” They didn’t see John’s worth.Eyes that were still amber glinted. “Oh, you don’t think so? You think he couldn’t possibly have any interest to anyone aside from you? I’m ever so sorry to disappoint you but you’re WRONG!”With the roar on the last word, the wings unfurled – incredibly large, Sherlock vaguely noted, for the size of the man – and he stood up the rest of the way.Sherlock wanted to escape, and he wanted to kill, so of course what he ended up doing was to release John briefly as he spun him around to put himself between the two, his own wings unfurling. They weren’t quite as large as they would be if he changed completely, but they were large enough and flexible, along with his body, to hopefully, block John from both the danger that Moriarty himself posed and the red dots of the weapons.If it all hit him, even if he was hurt, he wasn’t human and fragile. John was.He wouldn’t allow them to harm John. Ever.It then occurred to him that he had forgotten something very important; the explosives that his blogger was decked out in was still a factor and could still cause serious damage, to him, and, of course, death to John.What to do? What to do? Think, Sherlock, think! You’re supposed to be a genius, it ought to be a doddle!The pool would be the best option for getting rid of the vest, but he didn’t have the time nor the freedom of movement to accomplish it. Every other option his mind was able to conjure met the same problem.Strangely, he thought he felt John…not exactly relax but change in tension, from what he’d term pure fear to something more military.A noise cut through the tense silence, slightly menacing in its unexpectedness and shrill clarity. Then it registered what it was; the ringtone from Moriarty’s phone, garish in its choice.The demeanour changed again, as abruptly and completely as the cut of a scene.“Hang on a sec, got to take this,” he said, flashing an, of all things, apologetic smile, as though he was merely being slightly rude to a customer.He answered the call and started to walk away, the wings shrinking but not disappearing.Once the man was out of sight, Sherlock took a quick but small step backwards, just enough that he could reach out and remove the gag.“The gag isn’t a ruddy priority right now!” was the first thing out of John’s mouth once the gag fell away.It was a fair point, but Sherlock needed to ask him something and it was too important to rely on muffled, halfway unintelligible words and glares. At least, that was what he told himself.To try and somehow make up for it, and to move while Moriarty was absent, he immediately went to work untying the ropes and opening the vest to remove it as swiftly and as safely as he possibly could.“John, I need you to tell me.”“Tell you what?”“What exactly did he do? While he was shielding you, what did he do to you?”He continued in his mind. Did he try any other way to claim you that I’m not aware of? Was I too late after all and he was purely playing with me, trying to imply that I had a chance to prevent it?“He didn’t do anything – “John started to say.“Do not lie to me.” The words came out a commanding snarl, which wasn’t intentional. With great effort, he tried to rein some of the anger in. “Please, John. It’s crucial.”“Forgive me for correcting your priorities, Sherlock,” John ground out between his teeth, his eyes darting around the room as he spoke, “but right now, crucial is getting the explosives off me and figuring out a way to get out of here without snipers blowing me to smithereens. You’ll probably be fine whatever happens.”The last sentence had more than a smidgeon of bitterness to it, which was understandable in the circumstances.“I’ll protect you from those.” As he spoke, he looked back down at what he was doing, his fingers worked frantically at the rope bindings and the fastenings of the vest, haste and panic making them clumsy. They were coming off, though, but not for the first time, he dearly wished that his wings and tail had digits or at least were more prehensile.“Like you’re doing right now?” The words were tight and still ground out.Sherlock glanced back up, to see the dots focused right back at John, mainly on his chest and his forehead.“They won’t shoot before they get the order.” The confidence in the answer was one he didn’t feel.“Oh, and you know that, do you? Like you know that he won’t give the order while he’s away or pop right back in to do so?”“No, I do not know that,” he snapped back, the calm slipping from his grasp again, his attempts to keep the reins only partially successful. It wasn’t helping the removal any. “Of course, I don’t know that. I’m not a mind reader or a physic. My deductions tell me they and he wouldn’t but there’s no guarantees with someone like Moriarty. But if that should come to pass, I can move with sufficient speed, so long as you aren’t too far away from me, to be able to reach you before any bullets can reach you.”Even so, he tried to will his fingers to move faster. They were almost there; the bonds, which had gone over and across the vest at certain places, were gone and he was working on the vest itself.“The wings would be a help in that, obviously.” Still that tightness. Was it merely because of the situation or was there something Moriarty had – no, of course not, what would he do? Of course not.“Yes, they would,” he snapped again, “and I don’t see why I shouldn’t employ whatever means I have at my disposal, regardless of your disdain for them, if it means keeping something treasured safe.”He felt John tense immediately and cursed himself for the slip of the tongue. He meant them but in the context of being a dragon, it could come off the wrong way, and it would just figure that Moriarty would’ve used the word in front of John previously, just because.There wasn’t time to dwell on that, though, or spend a lot of time explaining. If it meant keeping him safe, making sure he was alive and well and outside the influence of…things such as Moriarty, then Sherlock could handle John being angry and possibly disgusted with him.He could even…even live with it if it resulted in him moving out, refusing to work with or even see Sherlock again. If that was what his safety took, then that would be worth it. It would. He’d live. Of course, he would. He was a bleeding dragon, what else would he do?Pushing those thoughts aside, along with the rest of what swirled inside his brain, fractured thoughts and spikes of emotions continuously creating a tempest in his mind, as best he was able to, he ignored everything but the vest and the act of keeping his wings around as much of John as they could cover.There was something that wasn’t quite right about the smell of the vest, in comparison with the ones they’d dealt with before, something…Not now! Later! John! Safe! Most important! Focus!The last of the vest open at last, after what felt like hours but was no more than minutes at most, he began to push it off, ignoring the tiny part of his mind that as always delighted in touching John. Not wasn’t the time, regardless of whether he would ever get the opportunity again.He kept his ears metaphorically turning throughout, to listen for and find any possible indication that the triggers were being pulled or the other dragon was sauntering his way back into the pool area.It was not something that he usually employed, that wyvern gift of unusually good hearing. In fact, he made a point of ignoring any points that he might pick up on through it when he was on a case, preferring to rely on his mental faculties rather than a coincidence of birth. Right now, however, he would employ any possible trick he knew.John assisted as best he could, lowering his shoulders to help it slide off easier, his body otherwise completely still. That was apart from his eyes, which kept darting around as they tried to assess the danger, tried to work out how best to counter it.Ever the soldier. The thought was filled with pride rather than mockery or condescension.The moment that the vest slid off, Sherlock shifted his grip to make sure he didn’t let go of it prematurely, then took a long step to the side, though no longer than he could still protect John with his wing, to then hurl it towards the water, aiming for the middle as best he could, listening all the while for revealing noises.As soon as he let go of it, he stepped back to wrap John up completely, without even bothering to see where it landed; as long as it landed in the water, or indeed, so long as it was off and away from John, he didn’t care.He noticed that John not only allowed him to pull him back in but wrapped his own arms around Sherlock’s waist. Why would he do that? The protection he could understand he’d want, but…His thoughts were derailed when John spoke, what he said getting his attention.“They’re not going to shoot.” There was a flat but somehow still wary tone to the doctor’s voice, as though he was certain of his statement but at the same time wasn’t going to take any chances.“Of course, they are,” Sherlock snapped back. “It’s only a matter of – ““They’re not going to shoot,” John repeated. “They’ve had plenty of opportunity already, both to shoot independently or to have been given the orders, yet neither has happened. It makes it highly improbable that it’s going to happen, especially given who we’re dealing with.”Sherlock made sure he had eye contact before he pointed out, “Moriarty is a madman and he wants you dead.”John didn’t back down. “He’s also a dragon, a dragon who doesn’t have any interest in me dead, not before he’s claimed me, anyway, as evidenced by the fact that he had plenty of opportunity to do so while he’d kidnapped me and yet, I’m still alive. And he doesn’t want to claim me without an audience. You in particular, again evidenced by his behaviour.”“He’s a halfway clever little sod, isn’t he?” came a voice from behind them. “Then again, what would be the fun in a pet for you without at least a modicum of brain, eh, Sherlock?”Looking over, Sherlock saw the shorter dragon stroll back towards them, no trace that he’d ever been remotely dragon-like there. Well, almost; the fingers he kept snapping was rather sharp and claw-like.“I’m deeply offended, though – madman?” he continued. “At least be zoologically exact, Mr. Holmes, for goodness’ sake, if you do insist on clinging to science.”His gaze flickered over to John. “Your little knight has come to save you, it seems, Johnny-boy. Or was that exchanging one cage for another?”“Piss off or get on with it already. What do you want?” John snarled.He made to lunge for the Irishman again, only Sherlock’s grip on him preventing him from moving, and even then, it was with considerable effort.Moriarty merely grinned, like a kid watching a new toy, as he came to a stop a few steps from them.“You,” he said, simply, keeping his dark brown eyes fixed on the blond. As if that was all there was to it.Anger flared up like flames in Sherlock’s throat, just as hot and burning, some of it aided by the acid of possessiveness.Before he could open his mouth, though, either to spit vitriol or flame, he wasn’t sure, Moriarty spoke again.“Shall I tell you a little secret?” he asked, conspiratorially.“That the explosives aren’t real?”“Oh, get with the program, Sherly, OF COURSE they aren’t!” The rise in volume in the voice was as sudden and, at least to John but also just slightly to Sherlock, unexpected as before.John had a much stronger reaction than the consulting detective, though perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, given the circumstances and the doctor’s nature.“You what?” he said, the words sounding ripped from his throat. “You fucking little shit –!”He struggled against Sherlock’s grip on him again, this time managing to pull himself free. The moment the red dots moved to dance across his de-vested body, however, he stopped dead, looking down at them as they moved about.The expression on his face when he looked back up, though…It ought to have been twisted into raw rage, or some other intense expression of anger. Something that would correspond to the expression in his eyes.It didn’t. It was calm, unmoved apart from a smile, one that promised all that the rest of his face didn’t.“I’ll kill you,” he stated, his voice as suddenly deceptively calm as his face as he looked Moriarty in the eye, then shifted his gaze just slightly so that he wouldn’t fall back under the same spell, should the Irishman attempt it.“I don’t care what it takes but I will kill you. You piss about, playing these elaborate games with Sherlock just because he’s not merely intelligent enough to match and outsmart you but he’s bloody daft enough to be interested in playing your sick games.”“John…” Sherlock said, slightly pleading, as he took a step towards him.The voice didn’t rise or change, nor did the head turn towards him, as the former soldier cut him off. “Shut up, Sherlock. Just, for once in your life, shut up. People have died, so shut up!”“That’s what people DO!” Moriarty snarled.John snarled in turn. “All of this, this absolutely horse hockey of a case, you build all of this up, kill those people for no good goddamned reason – and then you don’t even have the bleeding stones to carry it through! I’m nothing special, I’m not interesting, just go ahead already and blow my brains out!”He took a step forward, ignoring the way he could, by the brunet’s estimation, see the amber eyes gleam out of the corner of his eye and the cry of his name from Sherlock himself.“But you won’t, will you?” he continued. “Because that’s not fun, that’s not part of the game you two are playing, to stave off boredom. What’s another dead body to the pile? Especially if you don’t get to collect me first. It’s not that I’m intrinsically interesting, I just happened to run a different route than expected in the maze, and so I’m worth adding.”He gave a small huff of unamused laughter with another step. ”Then again, Sherlock’s taken an ashtray before now, and a tiepin, too, to add to his collection. That’s what all the kleptomania’s really been about, isn’t it? Appeasing the inner dragon.”The question was directed at Sherlock, who found himself answering it. “Yes.”This really wasn’t the time for all of this! He would be fine with answering – he’d answer any question John might have, about any and all aspect of dragons, carefully and thoroughly if that was what he wanted – but right now, all he cared about was getting his flatmate, his friend, back into safety.John wouldn’t appreciate it, not one bit, but Sherlock, shaking himself from his temporary immobility and indecision, didn’t care one iota.It was just as well; as he did so, his hearing picked up on triggers starting to be pulled. His heart suddenly thumping, he moved swiftly, propelling himself forwards, thankfully, also due to the short distance between them, reaching John just as he heard the bullets go off.  Ignoring John’s shout, Moriarty’s expression and his inner Mycroft, he wrapped himself back around his flatmate, wings and all, in time to feel the bullets hit his scales, most offering glancing blows while a few of them bit into slightly more fragile parts and caused wounds. One bullet in particular he could feel rip through the membrane of a wing.That didn’t matter, though, nor did the pain of it.What mattered was whether any of them had gone through and had hit John. They shouldn’t have, by his calculation, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, not as it stood, and he couldn’t spare the movement to check thoroughly.He tried not to think about a bullet accidentally getting underneath or ricocheting off his scales and somehow managing to hit John that way, in a way that he might not notice and therefore wouldn’t react to.His nostrils kicked into gear and calmed him down somewhat by informing him that they couldn’t smell any fresh blood from John, so even if he had been hit, somewhere he wouldn’t immediately notice, it wasn’t anything severe enough to be a risk factor.There was one other important question that pushed itself to the forefront of his mind – why had they only decided to fire then? They could easily have done so at any point while John was outside Sherlock’s grip and his protection.They were, of course, not prepared to shoot without express permission from Moriarty, and not purely because Sherlock would bet that at least half of them had been claimed by the Irishman at some point. But that just pushed the question to why he hadn’t given the permission at that point. It wasn’t as though he needed to voice it out loud.Same reason he hadn’t put actual explosives in the vest he’d shoved the doctor into, the detective suddenly realised. The same reason John had just enumerated and expanded upon. He wasn’t interested in killing John. The blond had gotten that wrong. Not all Moriarty’s possessions were dead or soon to become so. Some had other uses.These were not the only ones, though, that was evident, and if that was the case…then he was spreading himself quite thin. Almost dangerously so.Then again, there was a reason the term ‘hoard sickness’ existed, even if he’d claimed ignorance about it in front of Mycroft. That was just common practice, though, surely, to feign ignorance or, better yet, indifference to anything his brother worried about or mentioned?Such dragons were unstable, to put it mildly, and while he highly doubted that was the reason for Moriarty’s behaviour – for one thing, it would be incredibly pat and dull, two words that didn’t stick with Moriarty at all – it made his interest in John even more undesirable.
Be honest. He could be the most wholesome figment in all creation and you’d still term his interest in John undesirable, simply because you consider John yours.
Annoyed, he crushed the thought as useless and redundant.He only got pulled out of his head and became aware that John was attacking him when he realised that he was also trying to speak to him. To get his attention, and it wasn’t with anger in his voice. Well, not purely anger. More the one he had when he was masking shock and hurt.“Sherlock? Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, let go of me already. Let me…fuck, your wing, it’s…let me see. I need to see.” The command of a military doctor in the voice was audible but on the next words, some personal vulnerability crept. “Please. You’re hurt. I can’t…I need to see.”“It’s…fine, John,” he answered softly, aiming for as reassuring as he could get. Moriarty momentarily forgotten in the surge of affection he experienced for his doctor at the vulnerable caring he exhibited, it took him a moment to register that his voice was somewhat hoarser than he would’ve expected or intended. Why?“Bugger off, I have eyes.”“Priorities, John,” he hissed. His injuries could wait.“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just going. I look forward to our next play date, Johnny-boy. Do bring Sherlock, if you like. Got to run, things to do. It’s been fun, though – ciao!”Though his back was turned, Sherlock could feel Moriarty’s departure in a way he hadn’t before, which was…oh!How many dragons were still capable of genuinely vanishing? There was little doubt that he’d done it, the surge of it tangible in the air. Or was this because he was drawing on the treasure he had, letting the slightly symbiotic relationship that didn’t make it into stories feed into him, making it possible?That required further research. Perhaps he could –He received a hard jab in the ribs. “Oi! Don’t go into your Mind Palace now. Let me go so I can get a look at you.”“No.”“No? What do you mean, ‘no’? Look, I don’t – ““Priorities, John.”“And now you’re repeating yourself, so you’ve probably got concussion or something. Shit.”“I don’t. But someone will have heard the shots being fired and we need to be an adequate distance from here when the cavalry arrives, preferably at home.”He hoped that the reference to home might show John that he still wanted him there and persuade him that he ought to think of 221B as home, still, regardless of what had happened here. It wasn’t a guarantee, far from it, but he was afraid if not downright terrified, that the doctor would want to be out of his sight, for good, as soon as he’d assuaged his professional concerns about Sherlock’s status.“Right,” John said, immediately, in a tight but no-nonsense voice, settling himself back into a more practical mode. “Come on, then.”He shifted, still wrapped in Sherlock, so that he, presumably, would end up somewhat underneath long appendages, supporting the taller man as they made their way out. It would certainly fit with John behaviour.Another surge of affection flowed through Sherlock at that and gave him a small hope that maybe he wouldn’t lose his friend after all. The subsequent thought that he might still, if Moriarty managed to lay his claim on John, he pushed aside, at least for the moment.That said, he had no intention of letting John carry that burden. Even with just the added weight of the few extra dragon-related appendages, John, strong though the smaller body was, wouldn’t be able to carry him all the way back to Baker Street and getting a cab wasn’t an alternative, and not just because of the time issue.If he could shift back, it might work, though…“John, could you hold on a moment? Please.”The blond thankfully did, watching him carefully, perhaps warily. So, Sherlock tried to shift back into fully human, or human-shaped, concentrating hard to speed up the process, but to no avail, which puzzled him. Another go might do it, he didn’t know, but they were running out of time for him to attempt it.He wasn’t exactly keen on having his identity exposed, and certainly not by bumbling bobbies stumbling across them, either inside the pool or on their way back, either, come to think of it.What to do?Thinking of it as a possibility, he started to stretch his wings a little, more to test their flexibility and strength for possible carrying capacity than to allow John to examine his injuries. They would have time for that later.Once he was certain, or as certain as he could be given the circumstances, that they would be able to carry his and John’s weight, at least the distance between here and Baker Street, he stretched them out further, all the while keeping his ears open for any indicators that people were arriving rather than leaving.“Sherlock? Come on, while we have the time. If you won’t let me look at it now, at least let me help you out of here.”“Thank you for the offer but we don’t have time.”“There aren’t any other options!”“There is one.” As he spoke, he unwrapped himself from the shorter man enough that he could drag him outside. Not that he couldn’t push his way through the roof if he shifted fully into dragon form, but when he couldn’t shift back into a human guise, the likelihood that he could become full dragon was minute, to say the least. In any case, there was still the same issue of time.Once outside, he stopped. John, who had protested loudly through the trip of being dragged along, looked at him, eyes narrowed as the penny dropped all the way and was about as well-received as the proverbial bad one.“No,” he said, voice flat. Final.“Yes,” Sherlock countered, unfazed. “It’s the only option available right now. I cannot shift back, for whatever reason, and I cannot walk the entire way, not without being spotted.”John’s lips pursed, more in anger than in thought. “Then fly on your own. If you think you can fly with those injuries, then go on. Go. Or fly or whatever. I’ll meet you back home.”“No.”“Sherlock, we don’t have much time!”“I’m aware of that. You’re not going on your own.”Just the thought that Moriarty was still nearby – the snipers certainly were but the risk that they’d fire on their own initiative was minimal – waiting for John to be on his own so he could try again had a shiver run through him. The fact that he had wanted an audience, an audience of Sherlock, to watch the claiming didn’t entail that he wouldn’t do it without one now, knowing that Sherlock would be able to work it out.“You’ll have trouble enough carrying your own weight. I won’t have you crashing because they suddenly give out due to too much cargo weight.”
Cargo? Cargo?
He thought about pointing out that if he was going to fall, then they’d give out whether John was there, or he was on his own but decided against it. It would hardly go down well.Instead, he said, “And I will not have you open and vulnerable to anything that Moriarty might attempt on the way.”“He wanted you to see it – ““He changes on what he wants more often than you change girlfriends!”That stopped John cold, his eyes widening before they narrowed, and his nostrils flared minutely as he inhaled.It was more than likely unfair, as he hadn’t had that many – and so what if Sherlock had been counting while feigning uninterest? – and it wasn’t something he probably should bring up. Right now, however, it got him to shut up and freeze for a moment.A moment which was just about what the consulting detective needed.He moved swiftly to grab hold of John in the way he remembered Mycroft grabbing hold of him when he was little and about the same size as the doctor when he’d been in dragon form. Of course, there were differences, but he adjusted for those.Stretching his wings out fully and moving them back and forth once, noting how much it hurt and the whistle of the small hole, he looked up the sky to determine the cover the darkness could reasonably provide as well as estimate the shortest route to Baker Street that would leave them least at risk of being exposed by various light sources. Not that he didn’t have experience avoiding them, of course, but with his burden in tow, it’d pay to be that extra bit careful.“Would you let go of me, you bloody stubborn winged worm!”A small part of the brunet noted John’s customized insult and tucked it in with the hope that John might still stay, fuelling it.Taking a deep breath and flexing his wings one last time, he took off. To his mild surprise, he rose through the air much faster and easier than he would’ve anticipated.Granted, he hadn’t been flying partially shifted like this for a very long time, as far as he still retained memories thereof, but given his relative inexperience flying in this form, his injuries and the added aspect of his passenger, he had, if he’d thought about it, expected something a little more erratic and certainly more cumbersome.But it wasn’t cumbersome, and if he wasn’t focused most on getting them home as quickly and safely as he could, he might take some enjoyment in the exhilaration that was a constant partner of flying, no matter how often one did it.He did, however, take some definite enjoyment in the small gasps that was very evidently both ones of wonder and quite involuntary and unable to be stifled.If he could show John some more joyous things such as this, it might also help.Anything that could possibly help him secure that his flatmate stayed with him, and not because of Moriarty’s machinations and designs, he would be willing to do. Anything.
Anything.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

John would have to admit that though he’d seen places from above before, both in planes and helicopters, land, town and city, and as such ought to be relatively used to it and mostly unaffected by seeing London sweeping past underneath him.The reality, however, was that there was a world of difference between the tiny portholes of an aeroplane or even the roaring fish-tank view of a helicopter to the relatively silent glide through the air, the wind ambling rather than rushing past his face and only the beating of powerful wings making the occasional boom in the airspace around them, allowing him to fully enjoy the jewellery that was the city at night, even though the dragon was keeping them away, both in distance and height, from the most brightly lit areas, for obvious reasons.Neither of them spoke, even though they’d be able to.Sherlock’s grip on him was firm and immovable, which was just as well. What had on the ground felt secure but slightly suffocating in its all-encompassing grip now felt reassuring and comforting, even with the claws still present, the certainty of the knowledge that he wasn’t going to slip out of the grasp and plummet to his death.Even so, he felt certain that if the unthinkable should happen, Sherlock would dive after him and would pick him up before he came near the ground.That thought, and the implicit trust that lay in it, surprised him mostly in that it didn’t surprise him. Sherlock was still Sherlock; the words exchanged between them and his general behaviour hadn’t changed at all.Then again, why would they? It wasn’t as though he’d just been turned into a dragon – was that even possible? It sounded absurd but then, so did the concept of dragons in the physical world to begin with – and his outlook had changed according to his new body and subsequent mindset. This wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf movie.No, but somehow, the thought of Sherlock being a vampire seemed more logical than him being a bloody dragon. It would fit with the general aesthetic of his appearance, that was for sure, what with the lean body and the pale skin and the alluring eyes and –He resolutely turned his thoughts away from that path. Not only were they completely fruitless, he was well aware of that, this wasn’t the time, and not only because the tight grip also meant that they were rather close body-wise, and he wouldn’t trust Sherlock not to pick up on indicators other than a tell-tale bulge in his jeans.As he turned his head enough that he could glance up at the other…his friend, he couldn’t help the feeling of whiplash and shifting ground underneath him. Of course, that was partially what he enjoyed about being in Sherlock’s company, the need to be on your toes and ready for a lot of weird things.Even so, there was a gap so wide it was a gulf between their normal helter-skelter experiences and the associated fun, and the complete upside-down experience of discovering not just that dragons were real or that Moriarty was one – the realisation that Molly’s boyfriend was the criminal mastermind seemed almost incidental in comparison – but that he seemed genuinely interested in collecting John and that Sherlock, who was another dragon rather than just a lanky git with a penchant for nicking stuff, had an interest in laying a claim, as well.Or at least, so Moriarty alleged. John didn’t believe him.It was true that his earlier assertion that evening, and the fact that it was less than 24 hours ago that he’d called Sherlock a machine and had left the flat only to be kidnapped was still mindboggling, was evidently wrong. Nobody who truly didn’t care, whatever the reasons behind not caring was, would go to such trouble, put themselves in danger for someone else.Yes, but that was when it came to a human being. Human shape or even the state he was in now, Sherlock wasn’t human, he was a mythic creature. To assume that the same rules applied, just because he wanted them to, was foolish, to say the least.Still, it was quite elaborate set-up if there was nothing, manipulation or not.But that wasn’t what it entailed, necessarily. It could just as easily be that he did care about John but not in the way he would expect or want. Rather, it would be the care and affection, if such a word could be used, that one bestows on a cherished possession, caring about it for what the object provided them rather than any intrinsic value of its own.He certainly couldn’t deny that there had been something of a possessive flavour to the interactions between Moriarty and Sherlock, and he was starting to suspect that there was more to it than the aspect of children squabbling over a toy.A sudden wind rustled through his hair. Given that he had yet to feel that strength of wind up here, even though they were soaring through the air – a small, youthful part of him was still not over the thrill, the wonder of flying, carried by an actual dragon – he could only put it down to the one culprit.He glanced back up at the brunet, though it might be more accurate to say that he glared slightly.“You were thinking,” Sherlock said, as though that explained it all. His voice carried relatively well in the silence up this high.“Yes, of course I was,” John shouted, just to be sure that he was heard, too. “That’s what hu – what people do.”He thought he felt Sherlock stiffen at his slip-up.“As always, you give them far too much credit. People go through a large part of their lives without employing much of their brains, if at all.”“And you give them too little.”“Not because I’m a dragon.” It was John’s turn to stiffen. “I’m not stupid, John. I know you’ve been thinking about it ever since you saw, and especially since we took off.”“Of course, I’m thinking about you being a bleeding dragon!” John burst out. “That’s like saying ‘Don’t think about the elephant’!”“But you don’t necessarily – one might even say automatically – ascribe the elephant motives without much proof purely because it’s entered your mind or, indeed, your living room.”“…you’re mixing up your metaphors.”“And you’re avoiding the point.”“Well spotted, Poirot.” If his response was just a little tight, a teeny bit terse, what of it?There was a pause that went on for one beat of the wings. Two. Then, “I’ll explain when we get home. I promise. Any and all questions you have about this, John, I promise I’ll answer them. Fully and truthfully.”It was mostly the last sentence, the last point, that clinched it for the doctor. Well, insofar as the promise to tell the truth could be itself a lie.‘One of us always tells the truth. One of us always lies’, wasn’t it? Except Sherlock somehow managed to be both at once.He would have to ask then weigh the answers carefully. Which, truth to tell, wasn’t all that different from how he sometimes had to go about dealing with his flatmate. Not often, mind, but sometimes.Unless, of course…“And then you’ll make me forget?” he asked.“What?” Sherlock sounded downright nonplussed. “Why would I do that? How would I do that?”“I don’t know, do I? But you’re currently carrying me through the air by means of a great big pair of batwings growing out of your back, through your coat with no signs of tearing, I might add, you’ve got horns visible through your curls. You made a big deal out of Moriarty not coming into oral contact with my blood, you’ve been shot several times without collapsing in a pool of your own blood, and oh yeah, you’re a blooming dragon! Excuse me for thinking some hypnosis-induced amnesia was among your arsenal of skills!”“Calm down, John.”“Calm? I’m perfectly calm. Why wouldn’t I be calm? Why would you say I’m not calm?”“Apart from the fact that your voice rose on each word there, you’re shaking with it, and if you keep doing that, I’m not certain I can keep my grip on you. I don’t want you to fall.”“Oh, you don’t, do you?”“Of course, I don’t, you imbe – of course, I don’t. You…I’d never want that.”What Sherlock had been about to say only to change his mind wasn’t difficult to at least hazard a guess at. Not the insult, though, the other part. John swallowed.Like it or not, you’re a possession. The inner voice sounded uncomfortably like Moriarty, and though he wanted to, he couldn’t quite manage to dismiss it.Silence ruled between them for a bit, consciously so on John’s part.Then they were sinking, slowly but surely in a way that indicated intention rather than a fortuitous and elegant fall. As they did so, buildings became a little more distinguishable and though it was hardly the street with the most easily identifiable marks, especially not from an aerial vantage point at night, the doctor could tell they were closing in on Baker Street.They would be dealing with this, one way or another, soon enough. He would just have to hope that the reality wouldn’t turn out to be that all he was to his friend was a possession, treasured or not.Treasured. Should he find that funny? He honestly didn’t know. If anybody had asked, Sherlock would’ve said he’d expected John to either launch into a tirade as soon as they’d made their way into their flat or give him the silent treatment. The first would be the most likely, given John’s nature and the gambit of emotions he was capable of, as well as the delayed reaction that had started to unravel while they’d been airborne.The second was a little less likely but not outside the realms of possibility.Either way, he’d be beyond angry, and he was. He was practically vibrating with it, even if the vibrations were small.What he hadn’t counted on was that, upon the door closing behind them, John gave him what might be described as a withering stare for a moment or two, which was still within the realms of what he’d have expected.Except, then he practically barked at Sherlock to take his coat off and go sit on the coffee table, growled something more under his breath and marched into the kitchen, without so much as glancing back at the halfway dragon standing in their living room.A little stunned at the reaction, Sherlock found himself walking over to the coffee table and sitting down before his brain had a chance to catch up. To remove the coat, though…Though he’d done research on it – dragons were hardly going to conduct full-scale, aha, research with documentation into themselves, in case someone slipped up and said documentation leaked – he still didn’t quite know how his dragon appendages could push through any clothes he happened to be wearing without there needing to be specially designed cuts in the clothing.All his parents would say about the subject when he’d asked was that the shift was magical in nature and thus physical barriers wasn’t such an issue.Magic. As though that was any kind of proper explanation.They hadn’t said what would happen if he couldn’t shift, however. His wings felt solid and physical, with no hint that he could slip his coat over them or similar. That wasn’t even counting the other places on his body the bullets had touched, superficially or not so much.He tried to shift again, on the chance that being home, being safely back in his territory, with his treasures around him, would convince his body to let him go all the way back to human. Or human-shaped, in any case.It didn’t work. He was still stuck. Why?When John marched back into the living room, their first-aid plus kit box under one arm and a bottle in the other, Sherlock was still in his coat but had tried to accommodate the doctor, or show willing, by pushing it off the shoulders as much as he could for the wings and the pain.Pale eyes homed in on the bottle the blond clutched. No. Alcohol really wasn’t a good idea for John right now, not with everything else.“John, I really wouldn’t advise that,” he said, his tone insisting if not outright commanding, “you’re still in a state of – ““Shut up about what I am and am not,” John snapped, the command in his voice matching if not outdoing that of the dragon. “I’m the doctor. You’re the patient.”It took only a moment for it to click for the brunet. Captain. Obviously.He tried to ignore the warmth that sent through him. Now really wasn’t the time.“You didn’t turn it off.” It wasn’t phrased as question but nevertheless, John made an expansive gesture, presumably to include all the dragon appendages.“I can’t.”He got a thoroughly unimpressed look for his trouble.“I honestly can’t. I would if I could. I tried before we…left and again here, more than once, but for a reason I do not know and can’t reason out, I cannot shift either one way or the other.”John looked at him for a moment, contemplating, eyebrows knitted.“Well, then, I suppose it’s a mercy you didn’t discover you could only shift into full dragon form,” he muttered, sounding more as though he was thinking out loud than anything.“Right,” he continued, “let’s see what the damage is then.”“John, you really don’t need to – “Another withering glare was sent his way.“I am not in the mood for having my patience tried right now, Sherlock. This may not be my world anymore, if it ever was, but this is my domain, my expertise and you’ll not try to tell me my own job. Understood?”The last word was a bark, one that belonged to a German shepherd rather than a pug.John Watson might not be a dragon but that didn’t mean he had no bite.Sherlock nodded wordlessly.“Good.”The doctor dug into the box, taking out whatever he thought would be necessary to administer aid. Once he was done, he left it there for the moment as he walked around the coffee table to get to the brunet’s back.Not all the bullets that had more than grazed him had hit him there but as a good portion had, it was as good a place to start as any.That said, Sherlock was still a little startled, stupid as that was, when he felt warm, calloused hands grab hold of one wing, on the flesh and scales covering the humerus rather than the membrane. It wasn’t rough at all and though it was professional, it couldn’t be called clinical.It might even be termed gentle and caring but that was as likely wishful thinking.Fingers smoothed over the scales as they searched for injuries. Sherlock couldn’t help a minute shiver.Was he always this sensitive there? He wouldn’t have thought so, with the hardness of the scales and the utilitarian nature of the appendage, thus rendering the number of nerve endings needed in the area small. Tails or throats, or to some even horns, were usually deemed the more sensitive parts, with corresponding number of nerve endings, apart from the obvious, and yet…there was no denying that it felt sensitive now, and he couldn’t help another, slightly stronger shiver.It transformed into a small shudder of pain, unable to be completely suppressed, as the doctor found something. He quickly moved on, however, and thankfully only found one more proper wound, at least on the wing in question, but that was quite a lot deeper hole.Apropos of holes, he also found the hole the bullet had made in the membrane, running his finger gently around it rather than pushing it through, which Sherlock was grateful for. That said, it elicited another small shiver.Once satisfied he’d located all injuries and assessed them in turn, he passed on to the next wing, giving it an equal amount of attention and care. However, he didn’t speak out loud during the examination, keeping whatever observations he made to himself, and Sherlock didn’t quite trust his voice right then, either.It was a small mercy that John was behind him, at least for the moment.By the time he’d gone over each and every wound, big, small or tiny, Sherlock was in the peculiarly situation of polar opposite feelings running through him simultaneously; he was aroused by the touches but more by the fact that it was John doing the touching, and he was nervous and apprehensive, bordering on scared, of just what would be in store when the examination was over and John laid aside his doctor persona.He still hadn’t said anything out loud, though.One might wonder at John’s shift from shouting and nervousness to steely calm command covering a well of anger. They seemed incongruous. But they weren’t. They were merely two facets of the large prism that was John H. Watson, even more so as they were born out of the same source; anger.What he exhibited now was the aftermath of his earlier anger, banked but smouldering and ready to flame when needed.Of course, the fact that they were now back at 221B, home and safe, was more than likely also a significant factor. Though he didn’t know it, John was almost certain to have picked up on the nature of the flat as a dragon’s lair and, having been invited in by said dragon, felt some of the same connection and security, even if he didn’t have any investment in the collected treasures.
That’s not quite true, though, is it? He’s added to the treasures on more than one occasion, and he’s accepted the things you’ve brought home.
He didn’t accept the watch.
No, because you didn’t find that or take it from someone else, you stole that from him.
Speaking of the watch, however –He dug into his pocket, feeling slightly oddly relieved when his fingers closed around the recognisable shape. Though once he had his fingers around it, he hesitated.John knew that he’d taken it. That was why he’d been angry with him that day, why he hadn’t been easily mollified. But that he knew, or at the very least strongly suspected, didn’t automatically entail that he’d be alright or calm when Sherlock pulled the offending article out of his pocket. In fact, given how he’d reacted when it had been taken, it was entirely possible that it’d stoke the banked fire.But perhaps it could be used as a peace-offering and a start-off on the explanations. It was worth a try. So he convinced himself.As John came around to the front to grab hold of the things he’d taken out of the box, possibly adding and subtracting a few things, Sherlock made a quick decision and swiftly pulled the watch from his pocket so that when John was in front of him, he’d be confronted with the watch, lying in the palm of the brunet.He froze, blue eyes staring at the timepiece in front of him before flickering up to meet pale eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything or try to take it. He just continued to stare at the other.So, it seemed that it was up to Sherlock to break the ice, as it were.“I’m sorry,” he began. He didn’t get further than that, however.“No, you’re not,” John interrupted, his voice deceptively calm. He still didn’t move. “You’re never sorry. Not really. Not for things like that, for trampling all over me.”Sherlock’s minute flinch at that wasn’t feigned, whether the doctor believed it or not. There wasn’t much doubt that he saw it.“I know I’ve not been…” the brunet tried again.“Human?”Another flinch, a little more visible.John snorted. “Guess I got that wrong,” he said, just the tiniest glimmer of dark amusement in his voice. “Half-wrong, anyway. You’re not a machine but you aren’t human, either.”“I try to be.”Another snort, this one more clearly at Sherlock’s expense rather than John’s own. “Oh, so compared to other dragons, you’re the human one? That’s bloody rich.”“John, I know you’re angry – and you have every right to be. I’ve lied, yes, and kept things from you – “he saw John open his mouth, presumably to continue the list of libels – “and many more things, too. I’m not trying to get you to forgive me for all of those things at once. Or even ever.”With his free hand, he took the doctor’s hand, which wasn’t pulled away, and placed the watch in the palm, closing the fingers around it gently, relishing the contact just a little. Again, John let him.“I took this,” he continued, keeping the eye contact that hadn’t faltered, “not, as you’re assuming, because I’m a dragon and I cannot help myself. If that was the case, you wouldn’t be able to move for things in the building, quite apart from the flat. Whatever a dragon ends up collecting, most tend to be somewhat selective, but few are really that discriminatory over time.”It wasn’t even purely when the hoard sickness set in, either. The idiom of ‘the more you get, the more you want’ came, though humans of course wasn’t aware of it, from dragons for a reason, after all.“Ends up collecting? You mean it’s not a choice?” Did he hear wrong or had a bit of the anger dissipated? It certainly seemed as though John was at least willing to listen now. He needed to make the most of it.“Not…entirely, no. Mummy collects porcelain and chinaware, for instance.”“And Mycroft? Don’t tell me he collects cakes and other bakeware.”“No. Groceries and other consumable products do not count as suitable hoard items.”Mycroft had not been best pleased when he’d realised the enormous stash of biscuits that he’d managed to secret away at the age of thirteen did nothing to appease the growing emptiness and hunger. An emptiness and a hunger that started gnawing by the time a dragon went into puberty, sinking its claws in deeper and deeper until it was fed, and it never pulled its claws out entirely.Puberty for dragons happened at much the same time as it did for humans, for all that dragons subsequently were so long-lived they were fairly well immortal.“Suppose not. Can’t have the cake and eat it, too, as it were, and if you don’t eat it, it’ll just rot. What does he collect, then?”Sherlock didn’t answer. John wasn’t going to like it, and with the precarious balance he had right now, he didn’t want to rock the boat.It turned out not to matter because John worked it out for himself. Of course, he would. For all that Sherlock scoffed at him, he was anything but stupid.“He collects people, doesn’t he?” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “That’s part of the reason why he’s settled himself in the position of a ‘minor government official’ instead of being Prime Minister or whatever. Collecting people is a lot easier in the apparently lower echelons where everybody expects everything and nothing of you as they try to climb the greasy pole and you don’t necessarily recognise an eminence grise.”Sherlock would have to admit it, he was impressed.“A good observation,” he said, taking a lot of care not to frame it in a way that might be construed as demeaning or patronising. Not just because he didn’t want to tip the balance but because he genuinely thought it good. “And yes, he does.”He watched John’s jaw tense a little at that and his lips thin. However, it didn’t go further than that, which surprised him.The doctor looked away, turning his head, too. “I wish I could say that I was surprised by that, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things, collecting people as part of your hoard to play politics is a whole lot less unsettling than collecting corpses for the same purposes.” It didn’t take a genius to work out who he was referring to.Something seemed to click for him at that because his head whipped back around. “That’s what you collect, too, though, isn’t it?”It would almost be better if it sounded like an accusation, if he’d been angry about it. Instead, it came out almost flat, as though it was a certainty, another fact.The shake of the head Sherlock gave was quick and vigorous.“No!” he said to emphasise, tone vehement. Pleading. “No, it’s not. That’s not how it works, and even if it was, I wouldn’t.”He must’ve succeeded in conveying…something of what he was genuinely feeling because John’s face softened a little at that. The wariness and the anger were still present but there was also, now, some warmth there.However, he didn’t say anything.Sherlock tried to deduce the expression further, but John’s face could be strangely opaque in its expressiveness when he wanted it to. Either that or he was merely too nervous of what he’d find to give it the proper examination it required.“I wouldn’t,” he repeated instead.  Involuntarily, he grabbed tighter onto the hand he was still holding. Willing him to believe him. “They’re not interesting to me because they’re dead people or because I can add them to my pile. They’re interesting because they allow me to use my brain instead of letting it rot. You know that, John.”There was unquestionably pleading in the last sentence. John had to know that, at least. It wasn’t even that he could collect cases. That was too insubstantial, too much of a concept rather than a physical thing for him to grab onto, and so the closest he could get was through the more meaning-packed mementos he snatched from points in the most interesting cases.Of course, it could be argued that people were also something of an insubstantial thing to collect as well, unless you were physically holding them down or otherwise restraining them within your lair. You could do that, once you’d successfully claimed them, as evidenced by Moriarty’s control over the snipers, but to have that as your primary hoard, living, breathing things that needed care and attention to continue to function…it took a special kind of mind to not go absolutely round the bend doing that.Mycroft seemed to have gotten around the problem to some extent, by acquiring people slowly and gradually, both in terms of the entire group and each individual, and even then, he’d found a secondary outlet for his craving by collecting umbrellas, swordsticks and other novelty canes.One could actually chart, if anyone would bother, the moment when a brolly was broken – he never lost or had one stolen, not for long – with the corresponding tightening of some law, a crackdown on government practices or, in case of a particular favourite, the death of a foreign country’s dignitary or leader.Corpses were a different thing altogether, as what was once a person became another object, which was part of the reason Moriarty’s system worked for him, for a given value of the term. It wasn’t the same solution as Mycroft’s because a body would continue to decay and rot, from a body to a rotting corpse to a skeleton to fragments.It would, in a sense, be much like the aforementioned cake.He looked at John, waiting for a reaction, an answer. Any kind of answer would do, even if it was angry shouting.An answer he got, eventually, and it wasn’t shouting.“I do,” John said, and his voice was quiet but tight, as though it had taken effort to get it out but was a relief once it was. “I do.”It sounded as though the second time was somewhat easier. Even so…“…John?”“This…is difficult, Sherlock, don’t make it harder. Please.” He looked towards the ceiling, taking a deep, audible breath through his nose. “I want to understand. I want to because I still trust you. God help me, I do, but…fuck, it’s just such a bleeding mess and I…”Sherlock wanted to pull him in, wrap himself back around him and tell him that it was okay, that he’d make it okay, whatever it’d take, if he’d just continue to believe in him.In a way, it was almost funny. Especially in hindsight, seeing how John had called him a machine earlier because of his lack of care about another human being, and here he was, desperately trying to care for one human being, to protect him at all costs and to not lose him and his companionship.He didn’t feel much like laughing, however, except perhaps in a slightly bitter way.Even though he wanted to hold him tight again, the muscle memory of it still singing faintly in him, he didn’t dare to.So, he was left in limbo, waiting for the coin to come down.Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, John tilted his head back down. It took another smell infinity, or so it felt, before he spoke. “Who do you collect, then?”The question was very careful.“Not who. Never who.” With his free hand, he waved a little to indicate the room around them. “What. Only and ever what. Bric-a-brac, mainly. You live with them. You’ve even contributed to them once or twice.”“I haven’t.”What? Oh. “No, not the watch. That’s…I’ll get to that. The things you’ve taken home from cases and such.”He hesitated, then continued when it seemed that John was still listening, the flame of hope in his chest strengthening a little.“They’re…the things a dragon collects have got to have value but that doesn’t entail monetary value, which is uncertain, dependent on human evaluation and, quite frankly, incredibly dull, and so is currency. Gold can assuage the hunger to a fairly large extent, though not as much as folklore would have you believe, but there isn’t enough gold in the world to satisfy the dragon population, and in any case, there are other things that can satisfy.”“But it’s not the same, then, apart from the gold? You said your mother collects porcelain, but Mycroft collects people, and that it’s not really a choice. What then determines it?”“The same sort of mechanism that governs taste for humans. You don’t know why you favour one style over another, one view instead of another of equal measure, beside that you know you find it pleasing. Neither do we choose what assuages the craving.”“It is a craving, then?”John asking questions like that was good. Please let him go on asking questions like that.“Yes. Ignore it and you’ll go mad.”“Is that what Moriarty’s done, ignored it?”“No.”“Other side of the coin?”“Much closer but still, no. It’s…complicated.” And given the situation, not relevant at this point, even if it would be possible to attribute such a simple explanation to Moriarty’s behaviour.“What part of all this mythological horse shite isn’t complicated?” John snapped. “And you love when you get a chance to monologue on something you know and I don’t, so don’t give me that.”“Does it really matter, when the bullet hits, why the gunman fired?”He realised what he’d said a moment too late and cursed his brain for not acting fast enough as he watched John tense up.“John, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”“You always think, Sherlock, don’t even start. That’s what you do, that’s all that matters to you.”“That is not true.” He dared to pull at the hand he still held in his up, so its knuckles pressed against his chest. The left side of his chest, where his heart, large even in human body, resided and could easily be felt.John looked down and then up, brow knitted, wary question in his expression.“You matter to me, John.” He said it with as much sincerity and feeling as he could possibly put into it. Not more than he felt, of course not, but he needed to make sure that it got across.“Yes,” John agreed, and Sherlock’s hope flamed brighter for a moment. That, however, only lasted until he added, “As a possession, I do.”A large part of Sherlock flared in anger at that. How dare he say such a thing when he’d done everything that he could to prevent John becoming a possession of either Sherlock or Moriarty earlier at the pool? When he’d never as much as tried to make John part of his treasure, to make sure that he couldn’t leave him, because he wanted him to stay of his own free will?Another part was hurt for much the same reasons. He was laying his world and himself bare like this and John refused to see past his…No, that wasn’t right, was it? John was working on what he knew of Sherlock, wasn’t he? That he’d determine that since Sherlock was a dragon, the value he’d see in John was as part of his collection, and to add insult to injury, he was well aware of the brunet’s skills at manipulation. He didn’t know he was being genuine; he was no mind reader.But he’d said he still trusted him!Dammit, why was his brain such a mess?
Wouldn’t it be better to actually ask him, then?
“I don’t want you as a possession,” he said. It came out as a snap, which wasn’t intended.John’s face flickered with an odd array of emotions at that.“Right.”The doctor took a step back at that. Sherlock didn’t try to hold onto the hand, much as he wanted to. To be honest, it was proving hard for him to hold still at all and not press his hands against his head or pull at his horns. They suddenly hurt. Why did they hurt? His head hurt, too. Why?He didn’t want John as a possession. But he didn’t want him to be a possession of Moriarty’s. He’d never want John merely as a part of his hoard, though. He did want him close, however, as much as he possibly could. But he didn’t…but he did…Why was it going in circles likes that?“No, not like – John, I really am sorry. I only…meant that…I…” Why couldn’t he formulate what he was trying to say? He concentrated, determined to regain his focus. “I would never…you would be…and I’d…I promise…this is…why does this…aargh!”He gave a sudden roar of frustration as his thoughts scattered, skittering away from his every attempt to grasp at them, leaving only pea-soup fog and dull pain behind. His wings fluttered and flexed behind him, trying to pull in with no success. Points on his body seemed to burn cold and ache at the same time.Were they the same places where…where what?“Sherlock?” John’s voice, shifted from anger to worry, sounded oddly faint given how close he was. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”“Can’t…I can’t…!” he somehow managed to say. “John. I, please…help…!”“Of course, but how? Can you tell me? No, obviously not, otherwise you wouldn’t…but is it dragon related?”He managed to nod, unconsciously pulling in on himself as much as he could in his position. Neither was he aware that he’d begun to let out a small, constant keening noise.“Right. Of course, it would be. Sherlock? No, Sherlock, stay with me. Stay with me. That’s it. Come on, just listen to my voice, okay? Stay with me now, keep those eyes open for me.”It was nice, listening to John’s voice, commanding and soothing all at once, even if it was filtered through a wad of cotton, and he wanted to obey what it said. He genuinely did but it was difficult, as the fog rose and thickened, and the pain throbbed in waves.He’d do it, though, for John.He’d…

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

John growled under his breath in frustration but mainly in worry and fear.He was sore, he was tired, he’d had enough information and action, of the unpleasant and horrifying kind rather than the exhilarating one he usually saw when he was around Sherlock, to make anybody’s head spin.His world had been turned upside down and spun for good measure, and now he had a best friend who was stuck somewhere between dragon and human and was suffering, without him having any clue of how exactly he was suffering or what he could do to help, if anything.He’d pulled Sherlock’s phone from his pocket to hit the number that could only be Mycroft’s, given the interesting moniker the owner had been given, as soon as Sherlock’s eyes had slipped shut and refused to open again.The elder Holmes had thankfully picked up almost immediately. He was anything but pleased, however.“Sherlock! What on earth do you think you’re – ““It’s John, not Sherlock, and whatever you think you’re going to reprimand him for, save it. I need your help and I need it urgently, without any Holmesian horse-hockey bullshit taking up time.”“Contrary to what my brother might have led you to believe – ““He’s stuck, Mycroft,” John had interrupted with a snap. “He cannot shift completely to one or the other no matter what he’s tried, he’s in pain, and now he’s slipped into unconsciousness.”That had shut the ‘minor government official’ up, at least for the moment, and when he’d spoken again, it had been to ascertain some important information, such as Sherlock’s vitals and, of all things, John’s vitals as well.After that, he’d told him he’d be with him shortly and had hung up.So, now all that was left for John was wait as he tried to keep Sherlock as well as possible, given the circumstances.He’d somehow – the weight of the man, for lack of a better descriptor, had increased significantly with the addition of the dragon appendages, thank god he was light to begin with – managed to manoeuvre him from the coffee table over to lie on his side on the sofa, much like he normally did when he was sulking. It was the only way to get him horizontal, with the wings as an obstacle, without having to worry about his breathing.The fact that it had been relatively easy apart from the weight, the unresponsiveness of his limbs, not counting the shivers, shudders and jolts it had, aiding the effort, was an unwelcome and worrying fact.Once he’d gotten him onto the sofa, he’d tried to do what he should’ve done earlier; treat the wounds that he’d found scattered over the back and appendages of his friend. It’d be difficult to do, with his position on his side and the fact that he hadn’t gotten the coat off, but it had needed doing and to be honest, it ought to have been done straight away.However, the coat had presented a problem in that while he could get to at least most of the ones that needed treating, there hadn’t been any way for him to put plasters or other types of dressing on them. The most he’d been able to do was clean them as much as possible with the saline solution he always kept a stash of both in the kitchen and in the bathroom.Applying the solution to the wounds on the back that he could get to had made Sherlock keen again rather than hiss as he sometimes did when John’s medical services had been required on living flesh. John had paused when it had first happened, trying to gauge whether the issue was just pain or something else.There hadn’t been any other reaction that he could see, at least, but that wasn’t necessarily enough of an indicator, not on its own.If only he knew what to look for, what things might be important for dragons that wasn’t for humans, he might be able to get somewhere on his own, alleviate at least some of his friend’s distress and pain.Friend? Did that still apply? He’d said that he still trusted Sherlock, and he did, but did it still stretch to that? It wasn’t a question of what Sherlock’s feelings were on the matter, as John had always known it was an imbalanced street between them in that regard, aside from this whole dragon business.He looked down at the odd shape on the sofa, the top wing curled around the body beneath it as the oddest makeshift blanket in the world, while the other, hampered by its owner position, was forced to trail along the floor, looking limp and broken.Now that thought, Sherlock broken and beyond any sort of repair, squeezed his heart and did so hard.
Well, I suppose that answers that question, doesn’t it?
Before he had more time to consider it, their front door opened to reveal the elder Holmes, with seemingly no one behind him.He didn’t offer any greeting. In fact, he didn’t even so much as spare John a glance. The moment the door was open, his eyes focused on the shape of his brother lying prostrate on the sofa. Eyes flickered across the entirety of the body, undoubtedly taking in every detail there that he was not already aware of.In three long steps he was beside him, dropping down on his knees in front of the piece of furniture, still somehow careful to avoid the wing, nudging it aside with his hand even as he sank down.One hand rose, then hovered for a moment of uncertainty before it dropped to card through thick curls in what could only be described as a soothing, comforting gesture. It ought to look at odds with their normal relationship, or at least what John knew of it, but somehow, here, now, it felt as right as anything, an older brother caring for his suffering younger sibling.It was further emphasised by the words Mycroft whispered; John only able to hear them due to the quietness of the flat.“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here. It’ll be okay. I promise.”Again, the doctor felt as though he was listening through keyholes, spying on something he shouldn’t be privy to, though for completely different reasons than the first time it had happened.He debated with himself whether he ought to just leave and let Mycroft handle things. He’d know what to do, in a way that John couldn’t.Something inside him baulked strongly at the thought, however. Sherlock had gotten injured and was now suffering because of John. Granted, John had ended up kidnapped because of Sherlock but that was a different matter entirely.Contrary to John’s initial beliefs, Sherlock had come to his rescue, had done everything possible to protect him, in fact, against both the snipers and Moriarty himself. It had been his primary if not only concern, to keep John safe and unharmed and he’d gotten hurt in the process, willingly.Of course, there was the entire issue of why exactly he’d become as protective as he’d been but putting that aside, as it really wasn’t that important in the situation, it had been quite the gesture for Sherlock, to put himself in danger, one which had been fulfilled, like that for another person.The least John could do was to help him in whatever way he possibly could. He owed that to…to his friend. Yes, his friend. His best friend, still, regardless of what had transpired today or what this whole complicated business with dragons were.So, from his position sitting on the coffee table, he reached out carefully, then stopped just before he made contact, not with Sherlock’s prone form but that of his brother’s.“What’s happened?” Mycroft asked, without turning his head. “Tell me.”John bit down on the comment on ‘you tell me’, because it was neither relevant nor useful in the situation, much as it would be momentarily satisfying to utter.Instead, he told the general gist of what had happened at the pool. Then Mycroft, having finally turned around enough to look properly at him, commanded him to fill in the details and he did, as best he could. There was still a lot of things he didn’t understand but the elder Holmes listened to everything he said.“What’s wrong, Mycroft? Why can’t he shift back?” the doctor asked once he was done. “Is it the wounds?”“I don’t know, John,” Mycroft replied and the weariness in the voice was as unsettling as the admission. Mycroft was supposed to know what to do, even more so than Sherlock. “It could be, though regular bullets should leave superficial wounds, at best, when he’s shifted like this.”“They didn’t bother him when they happened. He flew with them.”“Yes. I saw.”“Did…could Moriarty have done something to the bullets, then? Coated them with silver, drenched them in garlic, that sort of thing?”“We’re neither werewolves nor vampires, Doctor Watson. We are not vulnerable to such things.”“Well, then, bloody well tell me! Tell me because all I know is that my friend is in pain, I don’t know why, and I cannot do anything about it!”His voice had risen to a shout by then. Mycroft opened his mouth, presumably to shout back, but at that point, Sherlock’s constant keen rose in volume. One arm swung out, wobbly and without direction, its hand blindly seeking something. When it managed to locate John’s wrist, more by accident than design, it seemed, it gripped it in a vice-like grip and refused to let go, despite the angle and the obvious unconsciousness of its owner.Puzzled and even more worried, John stood to ease the strain on Sherlock’s limb. He looked to the other dragon, who was regarding them with an even more pronounced frown than before.“Has he claimed you?”“Has he – no. I just told you that he prevented Moriarty from doing so.”“That doesn’t answer the question. Has he claimed you?”“I just said no!”“John, this is important.”“He hasn’t! The last bloody thing he said, at least the last coherent one, was that he didn’t want me as a possession!”The grip on his wrist somehow managed to tighten further, which was erring on a little painful now but mostly, it was the claws that was the issue. When had they come out? Had they been present since he’d shifted, and John just hadn’t noticed? He felt sure he’d noticed that they had been but at the same time, it felt fuzzy.Why did he suddenly feel mentally fuzzy? That didn’t make any – it wasn’t him who’d been wounded and was now suffering, not just from that but possibly something else that Mycroft wasn’t telling him about.The idea that the elder Holmes honestly didn’t know somehow didn’t sit entirely right with John. Not that he disbelieved him, he just…didn’t quite believe him, that was all.“That doesn’t – claiming doesn’t necessarily mean possessing!”It was almost as much the edge of vehemence in the tone as the words themselves that shocked John. He blinked, and some of the fuzziness faded away again. Not entirely but he could think again.But that wasn’t going to make him back down, though, as it, when he thought about it, didn’t explain a whole lot, if anything. Implied, yes, explained, not really.“You are dragons!” he snapped. “If there is one thing that defines dragon personality, it’s the lust for and craving of possessions. That’s something every child knows, so don’t you even start with me!”“And where in the fairy tales does it state anything about dragons apart from that?” Mycroft snapped back. “Not what they do, but who they are? We are either villains or obstacles, the monsters of the tale that need no characterisation apart from what’s needed for the moral to ring true. Is ‘bad’ all there is to the wolf?”John had to agree the point and felt a little ashamed as well, because he hadn’t thought beyond that. “The hell else does it mean, then, and how was I to know? It’s not as though either of you have exactly been brimming over with titbits on dragon lore, is it?”The ginger man sighed. “It means, Doctor Watson, that if it is the case that he has claimed you, but not as a possession, and you are genuinely unaware of it, it might explain at least part of his reaction.”“Part of? Why only part of?” John asked. Then he answered his own question. “Because there are several other factors playing a part, such as the bullets, and they are all tangled up.”“Quite so,” Mycroft replied. I need to have him examined and healed before I can think of any other course of action.”“You’ve thought of at least fifteen other courses, I know you have, and that’s probably lowballing it. But I’m telling you right now, he’s not leaving this room.”Despite his position, Mycroft managed to draw himself up, his chin lifting slightly as he somehow looked down at the other. The blond found himself just a teensy bit surprised – and that was a strange thing to be surprised at, given the circumstances – that wings didn’t spread out behind him to further drive the intimidation.Then again, the dragons he’d come across in the last twelve hours had somewhat more of a flair for the dramatic, not to mention a love for it, didn’t they? Not that the older Holmes entirely lacked dramatics – if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to introduce himself to John like he had, would he? – he was usually just somewhat more…reserved.“John, as a doctor, you must realise that the health and wellbeing of your patient comes before any personal considerations.”“Yes, of course! Do you think I would have called you if I didn’t put Sherlock’s wellbeing first?”“I do not know how to treat his wounds!” It probably ought to worry the blond just how much reaction he was getting from the other man but in the current situation, he didn’t spare it a thought.“And that is why we’ll do this together! You have your genetic knowledge, as it were, and I have my medical expertise.”John glared at the other but then he sighed heavily and dragged his free hand over his mouth in a weary gesture. “Look, Mycroft. I understand you’re worried. I get it.”“I am not – ““You are, don’t even try it, and so am I. But the important point right now is that he needs us to be there for him. Call help, if you need it, but as it is, he’s mostly human and he is in no fit state to be moved.”“He flew you here.”“Yes, because if he hadn’t, we’d have either been liable to get shot at again or found out by whoever arrived first, the nosy neighbourhood residents or the police. Do you fancy either of them finding your brother like this? Furthermore, it keeps getting lighter outside, which means the chance of getting him out of here without somebody noticing is getting progressively slimmer.”He took a breath and continued, “But aside from all that, he wouldn’t let me examine him, and the flight might’ve exacerbated the matter, I don’t know. Just…help me? Please?”Mycroft looked at him then looked over at his brother, the shivers and the breathing that was just about visible the only indicators of life. Well, that and the continued grip on John’s wrist. His demeanour softened a little.“He must have,” he muttered under his breath, eyes on the wrist.“Must have what?” John asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.“Claimed you. Or attempted to. But recently, as otherwise there’d…” He trailed off, his focus on the wounds as he bent over to examine them more closely. Interestingly, he was very careful that he didn’t touch the wounds, though to the doctor, it didn’t seem born out of a fear of infecting“There’d be what?” John prompted.The elder Holmes glanced back at the former soldier. “I’ll explain it later. Right now, the wounds need to be treated.”“I’ve done what I can but without getting his coat off, there’s only a limited amount I can do.”“Even if you could’ve gotten it off, you might not have been able to get much further. Though your idea of garlic or silver is preposterous, I suspect that there may indeed have been something to agitate the wound in the bullets, effective regardless of their ability to penetrate, or lack thereof.”“What would that be?”“I don’t know for certain,” Mycroft sighed. He was getting to his feet, frustratingly elegantly. “It could be a few different things, I’m afraid. The fact that Moriarty is apparently another dragon could be a help in narrowing it down, as he knows what is harmful to us. At the same time, he is not exactly the most stable of people, so – ““He was clearheaded and sane enough to know exactly how to blow his victims to smithereens. Even if he had someone to actually rig it, he would have to know about it, because they’d be in his thrall or possession or whatever. He’d use what would be harmful to both of us.”
I don’t need there to be anything specifically harmful on the bullet. The bullet itself does that just fine.
He felt a shiver run through him that the snipers might not have shot at all if Sherlock hadn’t acted as a shield. Or they might still have. Neither the thought of being shot nor the one that saw him claimed by Moriarty was anything but horror-inducing.Mycroft considered him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, without a word, he inclined his head very slightly, which, for the man, was probably as good as he’d get it.John got to his feet, too, a little more awkwardly than the ginger-haired man, mostly due to the continued grip on his arm. They were standing quite close but even if he could move, he wasn’t about to. He’d refused be intimidated by a madman dragon with a handful of snipers, he bloody well wasn’t about to allow a pompous arse to do so, in his own home.“What now?” he asked, with a motion towards the mostly motionless body on the sofa. “Do we move him?”“Yes. Bedroom.”It wasn’t an easy task, despite the general limpness of Sherlock’s lanky frame, but they managed it, somehow.What struck John as odd was that carried between them, John taking the torso due to the grip on his hand, which complicated matters but with some painful twists was manageable, Sherlock’s head immediately, almost automatically slumped against John, nose close to his throat, clearly inhaling deeply, as though that would somehow help.The blond looked to the ginger for answers, but only got a small but pertinent grimace in response, which he took to mean that Mycroft didn’t know but would explain what he suspected later.With a sigh, the blond shifted for a firmer grip, grateful that at least the wings were limp now, too, and didn’t hit him in the head or similar. However, they did make steps more difficult.Even so, it didn’t matter. The important point right now was helping Sherlock. They laid him on his back when they made it into Sherlock’s bedroom. John wasn’t entirely happy with that at first, but he checked to make sure that he could breathe and wasn’t putting pressure on any wounds. There didn’t seem to be.Of course, he had been curled around John when they’d been shot at, his front hidden by the blond, as it were, and so he was free of wounds on his front. His wings and tail were also on his back, which meant less to accommodate for on his front.A final point was that they could get the coat of this way. Hopefully.“Okay, then,” John said, once they’d settled him down onto the mattress. He didn’t look at the elder Holmes “Make him shift back.”“I can’t.”The doctor looked up to fix Mycroft with a steely glare. “I am not in the mood for being mocked or messed around with, Mycroft. I haven’t stopped being angry, at Moriarty, at you, at Sherlock and at myself.”Mycroft seemed to have had time to gather himself, or at least retreat to safety behind a mask. “Ah. The famous Watson anger. Has it ever proven even remotely beneficial to anyone in your family? I seem to recall your sister faring quite – ““You bloody well leave her out of it,” John growled. “As though sniping at each other and generally verbally squabbling like a pair of seven-year-olds is any better. Or looking down your long nose at everyone who wasn’t gifted with your massive brains. Now, if you want to feel so fucking superior, bloody well use that brain for something helpful. Can he shift back?”Mycroft blinked rapidly a few times but recovered quickly. The blink was a definite indicator that the mask wasn’t solid, however.He took a moment to give the prone body, whose shivers had gotten quite pronounced by now, an assessing look. Then he shook his head.“He’s trying. It’s subconscious at best but the wings aren’t entirely limb. Look.” He pointed to the area where they stuck out of the coat, the mass of them seeming sleek and bulky at the same time there, enhanced by the colour contrast between the dark blue of the coat and the copper-red tones of the scales.John looked closer. Though it was from overt, lying on his back, it was possible to see muscles twitch and bunch at the ‘root’ of the wings, as it were, the movements making it look like aborted attempts at getting comfortable or shaking out of an ache.He then realised that he’d felt the movement as they’d carried the younger Holmes, but it had been so faint in comparison with the slight jostling that was unavoidable that he hadn’t taken conscious notice until now.So…if he was trying but unable, something was blocking him from it. That something might be something else, of course, but it might be the effect of whatever had been on the bullets, which had consequently been let in the wounds that John hadn’t been able to get at properly yet.If he was to get at them…if he was, when there wasn’t any way for the wings to disappear, because they couldn’t before the wounds were treated which they couldn’t be until the coat came off, which it couldn’t because of the wings…the whole thing felt slightly disturbingly like the lyrics to ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’. A small part of John’s brain, possibly in a concerted effort to cope with a sudden burst of absurdity, latched onto that and hummed the melody in his brain.If he was to get at it, circumnavigating the deadlock, then…Then he would have to cut the coat open.Even the thought of that felt monumental and horrifying at the same time, as though to consider it was something sacrilegious.It was just a fucking coat, though, the survival of a garment ought to bloody well pale in comparison to his friend’s life and wellbeing. No, not just pale. Evaporate.And yet, it felt…immensely wrong. Perhaps…“Is the coat part of his…his hoard?” he asked. “Can other dragons tell whether something is part of a hoard?”“Oh, yes. Like with any territorial animal, a dragon will make sure to let others know that a certain item,” which included ‘person’, John thought, the notion still unpleasant, “has been claimed, through behaviour, obviously, but also through various other markers, usually scent.”“So, you’d be able to tell whether the coat is – ““It is,” Mycroft interrupted to confirm. Judging by his voice, it sounded as though there was something more to it than that but right now, John wasn’t too focused on the minutia of dragon behaviour, at least not what wasn’t immediately relevant to the current situation.“What effect does it have on the dragon to have a possession destroyed?”“In his given state, whatever hurt the destruction of his coat might cause wouldn’t be felt and in the given circumstances, it is not significant in comparison. I will find whatever you tell me you’ll need.”He cast a meaningful glance at John’s arm. As though he needed reminding; he was going to need tending himself when he could finally pry his wrist from Sherlock’s grip. But it was something he could and would live with.“Good. The large pair of scissors should be…no, we used them after that. They’re probably in the living room, on the windowsill. I’ll need the first aid kit and everything I put out on the sofa table plus anything else you think essential for dealing with this.” He waved his free hand for emphasis.Mycroft nodded curtly at that and left the room.Alone, John could hear the continued keening again, which seemed to have quietened. He didn’t know whether that was a positive sign or an ominous one, but he seemed to detect a slight change of its tone, too. Was that slightly more desperate? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure.Hesitating for only a moment, he pushed his fingers through the thick mass of curls, much like Mycroft had done earlier and for much the same reasons. Unlike when the elder Holmes had done it, though, Sherlock moved at the contact, pushing into the hand. Not much, not like he might have done in…in different circumstances. If those would ever have arisen, of course, which he’d always doubted and now…well, those doubts hadn’t exactly diminished. Rather the opposite, really.After all, to believe in something like that, whatever else had happened, was anything but easy when you knew that the object of your affection was predisposed to view people close to them as possessions, claimed or not, rather than as genuine people with autonomy and feelings.But in this brief, solitary moment, even though he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help indulging in it. He was still angry, still shocked, still worried and all the other emotions that swirled inside. Those hadn’t stopped, at all, but it wasn’t only Sherlock who seemed to gain something from the contact.He broke out of it soon enough, though, berating himself for it. There were other things of greater importance to do.Shifting his hand to the forehead, he felt for a fever. Nothing. Then he checked the pulse as he’d done before. It was faster than it ought to be for his state, but it was steady. Except…there. A few extra beats that shouldn’t be there.Was that significant? In a human he’d say so but in a dragon? How would he know? Was it even different depending on what appearance they had?Something he’d read in a book long ago swam back into his mind, something about werewolves; that they were neither humans nor were they wolves. They were werewolves, whatever shape they currently occupied. Neither one nor the other and yet, at the same time, both.Perhaps that applied to dragons, too. Even if, unlike the compound nature of ‘werewolf’, the name ‘dragon’ only applied to the shape traditionally associated with it, that didn’t entail that they were only dragons in nature when they shared the shape.Hell, the mere fact that they could evidently shift partially between them seemed proof enough of that…and that was a mental image he really could do without, human body parts attached an otherwise mostly draconian body.Mycroft returned from his quest for items, somewhat loaded down with them, the large pair of scissors clear among them. He passed those onto John without a word after having deposited the rest on the bed that wasn’t occupied by the lanky body.He then went to grab the bottom edge of the coat, bringing it up into the doctor’s at present limited reach while at the same time stretching it out so that it might be easier to cut.For once silently thankful for the number of seemingly useless things that had accumulated in the flat even while he’d been there, a pair of tailor’s scissors chief among them, John moved so the opened cutters were kissing the expensive woollen fabric as well as some of the lining.There he paused, aware of time ticking but also of the significance of what he was about to do.
Bloody well get on with it. His coat won’t be no use to him six feet under, now will it?
No, it wouldn’t. He took a deep breath. Then he pressed down.The shears went in surprisingly easy, but perhaps that was merely because he’d expected something to stop him, whether it be the heaviness of the fabric itself or some sort of barrier that tried to protect possessions from harm. It sounded ludicrous but then again, this whole bloody thing was ludicrous.Up and up and up it went, Mycroft keeping the fabric taut as he moved with it, crabbing along the side of the bed, which eased the process. John had to pause at the small of the back to make sure he went underneath the strap or whatever it was. Then he continued, intent only on making sure it cut straight and true, until he reached the collar of it.At some point, without his conscious knowledge, he’d put his knee up on the bed for better support, since his range of movement was limited. This wasn’t a problem, except that it had shifted the weight on the bed slightly and, so he believed, had also caused the tail to slide until a good deal of it was draped across his gastrocnemius and soleus muscles. Entirely accidentally, nothing more than mere gravity.Even so, he couldn’t help noticing. Nor could he ignore that it looked as though, together with the hand around his wrist, that Sherlock, even unconscious, didn’t want him to leave.He felt a stab of guilt for the thought that he might be in part to blame for this, for causing him mental distress that, in combination with – no!No, he didn’t know that, for certain or even anything near it. The time for beating oneself up over stuff like that was after the fact, when you knew that that was the definite reason, not when it was almost purely speculation and extrapolation.That didn’t negate the knowledge that at some point, sooner or later, he would be beating himself up over it.Once the coat was cut all the way except for the collar, he laid the tool away and took one side of the now bifurcated piece of clothing. Mycroft took the other and together, they gently pulled away and up. Even so, the fabric stuck where the wounds were, and they had to tug harder to lift it off properly.Oddly enough, it didn’t seem to have been caked blood – which was something of a relief, as it would’ve been worrying to have enough blood there to cake after John had already clean the seemingly shallow wounds – that had stuck the coat, as well as the jacket and shirt underneath, to the skin. At least, not exclusively. Most of it seemed to be a strange off-white colour with strands of red streaked through it.What was that? Pus? But the wounds hadn’t healed yet. Infection, then? But when he’d cleaned them, there didn’t seem to have been any indication of infection.He looked to Mycroft for answers.The expression he saw there only heightened his worry; it seemed as though Mycroft knew what he was seeing, and it was anything but good.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What is it? Some sort of infection?” The addendum of ‘that affects dragons in particular’ was unsaid but audible.Fingers as long and bony as his brother’s reached out to touch but halted just before they made contact. Then they closed the distance, pressing into the pus in a gentle manner as they scooped some of it up. The fingers were then held up for closer visual inspection before they were sniffed at and pressed between the pads of the fingers, presumably to check for texture.“Well?” John asked. “What is it?”“Your cleaning of the wound has tampered with it – “John told himself it was not the time to bristle over that because he’d done the right thing – “but from its appearance and texture, I would say that this is bone dust.”John’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Okay, so this is point where you tell me there’s something special about this bone dust in particular. Because otherwise, it sounds just a tiny bit too random for Moriarty, not to mention it should not cause a meltdown for him. Pain, yes, possible infection, yes – though there was no indication of infection when I cleaned them.”“Obviously, there is a significance to the bone dust. It’s the bones of a dragon that’s been ground down and then used to coat the bullet.”“How can you tell that it’s from a dragon rather than a human or a cow? Why do that have an effect on him when other types, presumably, don’t? Why did it only start to affect him that long after the bullets hit? Come to that, why didn’t I see it when I cleaned them? Something ought to have been visible, even with the coat on – and why did the cleaning only tamper with it and not remove it?”There was a veritable maelstrom of other questions swirling through his mind, new ones mixing with the unanswered ones already whirling around. It was something of a wonder he kept a clear head. He thanked his training and his concern for his friend for the focus.“The bones of a dragon are much denser than that of almost any other being on the planet. Why is irrelevant in the circumstances but once you know the texture, it’s easy to distinguish.”He paused the explanation to look over what he had brought back with him from his little quest. Eyes narrowed in perusal, he ended up picking a pair of tweezers and what looked to be a small makeup brush that John had no idea where they got from. Mycroft then, after a momentary pause, handed both items to John, who took them. It was hardly difficult to guess what he wanted him to do.While the doctor got to work brushing as much out of the wounds he could reach as possible – he tried to think of Sherlock’s continued nigh-immobile state as an aid to his work rather than a signifier that something was deeply, deeply wrong and he wasn’t working fast enough to make it right – Mycroft continued his explanation, while at the same time typing on his phone.Of all the things for them to be similar on, why is the way they type on a phone keyboard the same? John couldn’t help wondering, even knowing it was completely irrelevant. So was the small amount of admiration for being able to apparently coherently type something on a phone keyboard while simultaneously delivering a lengthy explanation. Then again, he was Sherlock’s brother, wasn’t he?“As for your other questions…to have the bones of another dragon, in whatever form they are, get past your scales and into your blood will act, well…yes, quite like an infection does to humans. Except the root cause is much more…fundamental.”He paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully.“To hoard isn’t a quirk or a hobby. It isn’t something we do to be selfish or evil. It’s simply a part of us, as essential as food is to you. Yes, it’s possible to go without for some time, even possible to live on very little, but you cannot go without forever.”“Yeah, alright, I get that. But what does that have to do with…this?” He gestured with his head, seeing as both hands were occupied.“It goes into our bones. Whatever we collect is stamped into our bones in the sense that it leaves a small trace behind for every item, in much the same sense as vitamins are stored in the liver for a human being or, perhaps more accurately, minerals are stored in the bones for them. How it works exactly is…somewhat mystical,” he made a small grimace at that, as though the fact that it had to be explained so imprecisely was painful, “owing to the inherent and frustratingly uncatalogued magic at work. But the fact of the matter is that does work.”“So…this is like a mineral overdose? Like iron toxicity?” It was not his area of expertise by a long chalk but there were a few things he did remember from books and had encountered in his work as a GP.That explanation sort of helped. He was still livid at Moriarty for lacing the bullets with something that so clearly was deeply harmful to Sherlock that even just the bullets grazing and making the most shallow of wounds was enough to send him into this state – yes, there might very well be other factors, too, but right now, he wasn’t focusing on those because he couldn’t bear to – but this…that here there was something he could at least start to understand, that helped, as did the fact that he was doing something.That he might, just possibly, be helping.After all, that was his job, wasn’t it? Looking after Sherlock Holmes and making sure he was alright, whatever that might take? That hadn’t really changed just because he happened to have discovered the bugger was more impossible than he could have ever guessed, had it?Improbable, John, not impossible, the baritone voice chimed in his head.
If you’re going to blabber in my head, could you at least not blabber something useful for a change?
“In a sense,” Mycroft replied, bringing him back to the here and now. “Except that it isn’t treatable, and it isn’t lethal to us. Not unless we amass far too much over too short a period. But we can feel its effects even if it’s not lethal. However, that takes an extraordinary amount of time to accomplish.”“Would figure, otherwise you wouldn’t be that long-lived.”There was a small bit, more of a lump that had soaked up some blood which was proving difficult to extract. When he tried, the piece stuck and, though he hadn’t heard it before while he worked, John distinctly heard the keen go up a half-notch, even if the body underneath hadn’t tensed or otherwise reacted.He immediately stopped and, not quite consciously, began to mutter soothing nothings. When the keen after a little while subsided back into its previous level, which was thankfully lower and weaker than when he’d started the brushing, he carefully started to work again, the mutterings continuing to issue from his lips.Mycroft watched this without comment but with more than his usual keen eye.The little piece still proved obstinate, however, so to not bring his friend more distress than at all possible, he put the tweezers down and wet his fingers. He would’ve gone for a small pad and some water, but it didn’t seem as though Mycroft had brought it, for whatever reason, and he rather wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, for Sherlock’s sake. The keening, weaker or no, was heart-breaking.Ignoring the inner voice shouting at him, he brought his fingers to wound and applied just a small bit of pressure to the lump. Oddly, the keening didn’t change at that and he managed to soften it into a malleable and then a half-way liquid state, which he could then gently brush away.He’d managed to get a bit of blood on his fingers as he worked, though, and so he lifted his hand to find a suitable place to wipe it off.Before he could, though, his wrist was caught by Mycroft’s hand, hard.“Don’t!” he warned and there was steel in there that the doctor couldn’t remember hearing in it before.“Don’t what?”“Put it in your mouth.”“I wasn’t going to. I was – hang on, is it…it’s because of the blood, isn’t it?” Something came back to him from earlier at the pool. God, had that really not been longer than that? It felt like ages. “Sherlock was adamant that Moriarty didn’t get access to my blood. Why is blood so important?”He would’ve thought, honestly, that if either of theirs was going to be important, it would be that of the mythological being, not a former army medic with psychological issues – maybe the PTSD was misdiagnosed but there was definitely something wrong with you if you missed being in a warzone. But maybe it had more to do with the blood itself than the bearer.Maybe the vampire comment wasn’t that far off.Mycroft waved his hand slightly to indicate that this wasn’t important right now. With his other hand, he pulled at the pocket square of his suit jacket and, with a deft movement, wiped the blood off John’s fingers. Only then was his hand released.“I really wasn’t going to plop it in my mouth. I’m not that daft.”He got a raised eyebrow for his trouble and another hand gesture to indicate to get on with it.“You could help, too, you know.”“You are the one with the medical expertise, not to mention the surprisingly steady hand.”“My right hand, I think you’ll find.” In a lefthanded person.“Then again, they also diagnosed you with a limp, which has miraculously disappeared,” Mycroft continued as though John hadn’t spoken. Ironically, that bit of familiar behaviour felt just a little comforting. “And I am helping, Doctor Watson. I have contacted quite a few medical professionals with enough knowledge and skill in regard to our…species to be capable of helping.”“They’re not coming here.” Though he knew it was stupid, because they would be far better qualified to help Sherlock than John could hope to, there was something inside of him that rebelled at the thought of having strangers poking and prodding at Sherlock in this state.
He’s been in danger before, in hospitals before, what makes this any different?
Because I don’t know what they’d be doing. I can’t assess whether they’re genuinely helping him or they’re hurting him merely for the chance to learn something.
So, you would rather he suffer, just because this is an area in which you have no expertise?
No, of course not!
Then why?
He had no answer. At least, he had no good one.Mycroft looked at him, glanced briefly at his brother and John’s hand still gripped hard by Sherlock’s. Something passed across his features though John couldn’t say for certain what it was, only that it wasn’t entirely comfortable.Then he looked back up at the doctor.“No, they’re not,” he confirmed.That surprised John enough to almost ask ‘are you serious?’ but he managed to bite down on it and keep it from passing his lips.Even so, it seemed as though the elder Holmes managed to read it in his face, which really oughtn’t surprise him, because he continued, “They were never meant to come here. If my estimates are right, in conjunction with what they have provided me, we will only exacerbate the matter by bringing other people here at this point. No, you and I will have to do what is required to see this through to a satisfactory conclusion.”“Satisfactory conclusion? What do you think this is, some sort of secret meeting in Whitehall that needs to have the most beneficial solution for the country?”He knew his voice was a snap, but he didn’t care. Mycroft had shown genuine tender care for his brother when he’d arrived, had prioritised him over every other thing, and now he had the audacity to utter something like that?Mycroft, his expression somewhat drawn, leaned forward from his seat on the other side of the bed. His eyes flashed. Before all of this, John would’ve written that image off as nothing more than fanciful language, just something people used when they wanted to dramatize things.Now, though…flashing eyes had not only moved considerable steps into the realm of the real but was, in comparison to people shifting into dragons partway or fully, rather tame by comparison.“No, Doctor Watson, I do not. If it was, I would already have that satisfactory conclusion within my grasp and be ready to tackle the next three that had landed on my desk in the interim. That would be easy. This is decidedly anything but. This is my baby brother in pain and anguish because he decided protecting you mattered more than anything else.”John swallowed a sudden and large lump in his throat. He had, hadn’t he? “He...I don’t think he knew it would actually hurt him. Not like that, at least.” That wasn’t a good excuse, and they both knew it. “It was his decision, though, Mycroft. Completely. I wouldn’t put him in harm’s way. Yes, he’s a wanker and yes, I was beyond angry with him, but regardless of all of this, I wouldn’t ever – ““I know,” Mycroft interrupted, and his voice was suddenly surprisingly soft. “You have always had his best interests in mind, haven’t you?”That sentence, that question, felt a whole lot more loaded than it ought to have. Even so, John wasn’t about to let himself be subdued like that. Not here, not now.“Not always but I try,” he replied.The elder Holmes held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable then leaned back.“Quite so.”John shot him a glance that was closer to a glare before he returned to his work. Even if there was more to it than this, more needed to get Sherlock out of the woods, he could tell that it was doing something because the keening was gradually fading.That said, the fact that the body beneath him was still limp and unresponsive, in a way that went way past what would be normal for somebody sleeping and into the realm of the drugged or comatose.Apart from the hand still gripping his in a vice-grip. Well, in a sense it was almost as unresponsive as the rest of the body, it had just become hard instead of limp.
Except that he’s apparently still enough ‘here’ that it can tighten at specific moments, which goes rather beyond plausibility for mere muscle reactions.

If you’re still there, Sherlock, mentally, I hope you know we’re doing everything we can. Please, hang in there. You don’t need to do it for me, just hang on.
He tried to speed up, grateful that though there’d been many snipers dotted around, not all their bullets had managed to penetrate even that little bit, and he was almost at the end.“Why use the bones of some other dragon, though, to – oh, wait. Of course. Stupid of me. Like giving a patient blood with the wrong antigen, isn’t it? The host body will react to it negatively, to put it mildly. If it’s already causing this much pain now, however, what difference does it make to remove the bone dust? It must have gone into the bloodstream already, but his keening has subsided quite a lot.”“You are making sure that no more can get in there than already is. What has already been absorbed, we will deal with afterwards.”“You said it isn’t treatable, though.”“When it happens in the dragon’s own bones, no, it is not. That is not always but often a sign of overindulgence for too long or simply old age. But when it is an invasive body, much like the wrong antigens, yes, well done, there is something that can be done. However, for that to work, the source of the infection needs to be removed entirely. Hence, why you have been removing the dust from the wounds.”John didn’t answer beyond a hum of acknowledgement. He’d found another little but persistent lump that he was, by wetting the brush with his saliva rather than his fingers, able to dissolve and brush away.There. Then only the ones on the wings remained.He waved a hand and Mycroft seemed to get the point; he helped to spread one wing enough that John, with some precarious balancing over the prone body, could just about reach and, with more saliva just to be sure when he couldn’t quite see, brushed it out.He had wanted to bridle at the comment that he’d tampered with it by cleaning it when it had been mentioned, possibly just to rile him up, which he wouldn’t put past the elder Holmes brother. That said, he could see now that though tampering was the wrong word entirely, as he had tried to assess it before he cleaned it and had never gotten to the cleaning, his prodding and poking, however careful it had been, couldn’t have helped, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at that.But that left the question of why he hadn’t spotted the dust earlier when he’d examined it. Of course, the light in the living room wasn’t exactly ideal for examinations in the dark of late night, but on the other hand, he’d done a lot of examinations in less than ideal circumstances over the years, a lack of proper light oughtn’t make that much of a difference.It was something that he could ask about later, though. If he needed to ask questions right now, it was better to concentrate on the practical rather than the self-deprecating.While he thought, he’d managed to get at the last bits of dust, to the best of his estimation. The keening had certainly faded considerably since he’d started, even if it hadn’t entirely vanished, as he would have to admit he’d hoped for.He ought to have known it wouldn’t be that easy.Hang in there, Sherlock. We’re working on it, he thought, trying not to think about any possible long-term damage something like this might inflict. One thing at a time. Why was that so hard suddenly? He was a trained doctor who’d been to war. It ought to be easy to remain professional, even when it came to his friend.“So…now what?” he asked as he settled back on the bed beside Sherlock, so as not to risk that he fell on top of him. “With all the dust removed, will his own blood be able to neutralise the threat? I’m guessing not, since for one, it wouldn’t then pose that great a threat to you as dragons as you implied it does, and two, you…well, I would say you’d have mentioned it but who knows? You would look somewhat more relieved, though, the similarities in your expression aren’t always that dissimilar.”Mycroft ignored the comment. He stood up, the same frown he’d worn throughout creasing his forehead.“Now, according to the experts,” he said once he was upright, “we first of all wait, to see whether the removal on its own will prove enough to allow his body to at least shift back into either full dragon or full human, whichever it will feel the safest in. To be stuck in a halfway state like this while invaded, as it were, has left him far more vulnerable than if he’d been fully in either.”He paused as he looked down at the still prone figure that was as unresponsive as before. When he spoke again, it was with an odd edge to it. “I’m afraid it seems it will not be a cure in itself, as I might have hoped, but if it will make it possible for him to shift, it will have made a significant difference.”“But…if it was a cure on its own, it can hardly be expected that it will work within such a short widow of time,” John argued back. “Things take time to recover – as you just said yourself, too.”He unconsciously rolled his shoulder, as the scar tissue itched in remembrance, that frustrating itch underneath the skin that no amount of scratching would alleviate.“Ordinarily, you would be right, but the partial shift is…well, not quite always a conscious decision, as it seems you have witnessed. But unconscious like this, unless something is actively blocking it, the preservation instinct would, fuelled by magic, return the dragon in question to the fully changed state that is in the perceived circumstances, the safest.”“What you’re saying is that once again, I shouldn’t apply puny human conditions to the might of dragons, is that it?”The corners of Mycroft’s lips lifted as if someone was pulling and stretching them against his will and best efforts. “Quite so.”John growled under his breath at that as he glared at the other before he turned his attention back to Sherlock.Why did this have to become more bleeding complicated while it was being explained? It wasn’t as though he was asking for the entire history and biology of dragons, was it? Just the parts pertaining to what was going on in front of him right then and there.“Whatever you need, then, go and find it,” he said, without moving his gaze off his unresponsive friend. “I’ll keep watch over him until you return, alone. You have my number.”He reached out again, hesitated, then closed the gap to touch, not the wings or even the hair but the tips of the horns, caressing them gently, noting their texture, before trailing down slowly into the hair then the side of his face that wasn’t pushed into the pillow, over the dawning stubble. There he kept it, resting gently against it.There was no response. No twitch of muscle, no sound – the keening was gone but had left an odd sort of vacuum in its wake, as a persistent and invasive noise can when it’s killed suddenly. No flutter of eyelids. Even the breathing was soft enough that he could only just about feel the warmth of it on his hand. He erroneously wondered if the unexpected heat of it would be in any way related to his dragon heritage.On a positive note, the keening wasn’t the only thing that had quietened; the shudders were now small and much more minute than they’d been since they started. He took that as a good sign. It was one of the few he had, wasn’t it?“Come on, now,” he said, and he wasn’t aware that his voice was a whisper. “We’ve got it out. You’re safe, love, it’s okay.” Nor did he notice his term of endearment.Mycroft did but while an eyebrow rose, he didn’t comment. The next noise he made was the door to the bedroom closing behind him.John didn’t know what he was hoping for. For Sherlock to shift? Or just give him some sort of indication that he was still there? Anything more than breathing, really, that would be nice.He waited and he watched. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Though he’d seen Moriarty shift and technically Sherlock as well, one had happened fast in circumstances where he hadn’t exactly had the best kind of overview and the other…there he’d had enough on his plate just believing that he hadn’t been slipped something and was hallucinating, quite frankly.Whatever Mycroft had said, he just hoped that he’d calculated wrong, and some more time really would be enough for Sherlock to at least shift back. That wasn’t to say he was in the clear, of course, he knew that. But it would be something. Some indication that he was getting better.The hand around his wrist was still as tight as ever, despite the limp and unresponsive body, which only added to the confusion. Why could he do that? Why was he doing it? Why grab John’s and not Mycroft, who’d been equally close at the time and was, after all, his brother? Surely, in such a case, even for dragons, familial connections ought to matter more.Then again, they did have a somewhat antagonistic relationship, to say the least, and John had been living with him for a bit now. Perhaps he was just more familiar with Sherlock’s senses and instincts at this point.He made another attempt at tugging his hand back, to no avail. Thankfully, though, this time the movement didn’t prompt the hand to tighten further or the claws to dig in.More time passed. He didn’t speak as he sat there, just waited. Once or twice he thought he saw a quivering of a wing or felt the twitch of the tail, which hadn’t otherwise moved since it had first draped itself across his lower leg, lending credence to the thought that it had been mere accident. When that happened, he leaned closer for a better examination but each time, nothing came of it.Come on, Sherlock, he thought after another while, mostly in frustration. At least give me a clue here, would you? I won’t even mind you going off on a rant on how stupid we all are, just give me something!Still nothing. What else could it be? There had to be something, something he could do, and fast. Though he didn’t know what time scale they were working on, being frustratingly, completely in the dark about the anatomy and dangers to dragons, he’d had the distinct impression that even if time weren’t of the essence, as such, it wasn’t something they could afford to just leave it be.But they weren’t, were they? He’d removed all the dust that he could, which had eased the suffering if nothing else, and Mycroft had headed out for a cure, which he would bring back soon, and they’d apply it.What if that wasn’t enough? What if Moriarty’s blasted meddling, whatever his reasoning for it, wasn’t the end of it? Mycroft had suggested as much earlier, even if he had claimed not to know enough about it to be definitive. But regardless, it seemed a growing likelihood that there is, that even if they fix this, Sherlock won’t wake.Logically, if he stopped to think about it – and right now, without something concrete to do, it was getting considerably harder not to think about it, because he wasn’t a doctor here, not really, he was just a friend –  John knew that there’d been nothing he could’ve done about it one way or the other. It had never been in his power to prevent this unfolding.He wasn’t the one who’d been giddy with delight over the bombing cases and the puzzles within them, he hadn’t goaded Moriarty into playing, if the man had even – no, that wasn’t the point right now. It hadn’t been his choice to become another pawn in their game, somewhat more literally than he could ever have suspected he would. He hadn’t hidden behind Sherlock, expecting him to protect him from danger. That had been all Sherlock’s doing, from start to finish. Hell, hadn’t he even thought the suggestion that the consulting detective would come to his aid ludicrous?A small flame of shame burned in his chest at that, with the evidence of just what Sherlock had been willing to do to protect him right in front of him. On the other hand, it could be argued that until this point, it wasn’t as though the man, or dragon or whatever, had exactly displayed that he was willing to show, let alone capable of feeling such things. Quite the opposite, in fact.Deliberately so? He couldn’t help but wonder, now. Nor could he shake the gnawing worry at the pit of his stomach that, as had been a previous point of worry and contention, the care Sherlock had shown for him now, so out of the blue and so intense, along with the protective behaviour, had nothing to do with John as a human being, as a person, but as the possession he had almost lost to another dragon.But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Sherlock had been adamant, when he’d been confronted with it, that he didn’t see John as a possession nor would he ever want him to be, and while it could very well be argued that of course he would say that, to keep John here, manipulate him into staying, when he replayed it back in his head now, he couldn’t make that fit.He’d been manipulated by Sherlock before, had fallen for his machinations more than once, and though he would be an arrogant fool to say that he was no longer that easily malleable, because he knew he was, and there were more than one technique employed, he had learned something of how Sherlock did it. Whatever he did, whatever role he shifted into to get what he wanted, it was with an ease and flair that would make a conman jealous.This…this hadn’t been that. At all. It had been…well, he might have said that it had been raw, something which he’d never experienced with the manipulations before – and he’d spent some time brooding over them when he’d worked out that he had been had. This, however, this had been…unpolished. The pleading and the words on their own didn’t count for a lot in the setting but the fact that he’d been so…disorganised and, well, off in comparison with his normal modus operandi.‘I don’t want you as a possession’. It was the second to last thing Sherlock had ever – that Sherlock had said to him before he’d collapsed. The last thing that had made any sort of sense. Even now, it managed to be both a relief and yet, somehow, which made absolutely no sense, also slightly a sting.Something else clicked into place in his mind at that. Something that Mycroft had said. Or rather, had demanded an answer to, one which John was unable to give, and then clarified on what he’d meant.‘Claiming doesn’t necessarily mean possessing’ was what he’d said. But what did it mean, then? At the time, John had dismissed it outright, but now, as he sat there, he couldn’t help wondering.Why else would you claim someone? No, that was the wrong way to go about it, wasn’t it? The question to that and similar ones would all boil down to roughly the same answer, which was the one he was told it wasn’t.Or perhaps he ought to look at it a bit less literally, in the sense that saying, for instance, ‘you’re mine’, didn’t have to mean that the speaker thought of the other as a possession. The context and tone mattered, after all, as did intentions.But what were Sherlock’s intentions? Not to claim him, according to his own statement, but that could mean, if he followed the line of thought, not that he didn’t want to claim him at all but merely not as a dragon traditionally would. Instead, it could be…John blinked, thrown by his own thought. He looked down at their ‘joined’ hands. Was that it? Could that be the reason Sherlock had chosen John’s wrist rather than Mycroft’s to clamp onto like this?Another comment from Mycroft floated into his mind. ‘He must have…claimed you. Or attempted to’. How did that fit in with Sherlock’s statement of not wanting him as a possession? Either of them could be lying, of course, they were the Holmes brothers, after all, but leaving that possibility aside, why else would he make such a comment, if not for the reason that had just occurred to him?That…well, that didn’t necessarily entail what his heart adamantly told him it did. Even if he read the implications right on what other ways a dragon might lay a claim on someone, as a person who cared deeply might rather than a possessive and dominating monster, there was another hurdle to consider. One which was, in the circumstances, just as if not more important a point.It was no guarantee that what might be considered a…well, a romantic gesture for anybody else, and by that he meant any other dragon, would be interpreted that way or be done for that reason by Sherlock. Of course, it could be argued that this was an unconscious and therefore a subconscious action, but that still hinged on Sherlock being interested in John…like that.Not that he would object, quite the opposite. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had time to consider it in the time they’d lived together, and not just because everyone kept assuming that they were already shagging, and he couldn’t deny that the thoughts he’d had about his flatmate previously hadn’t all been very platonic, or platonic at all.The issue, of course, was that it took two to tango, as it were, and Sherlock hadn’t shown interest in anyone, including John, and that…well, that was fine, too.Though he’d been furious with his friend for his apparent apathy and callousness towards other beings – which he still was and yet, this whole protection of him if it wasn’t out of dragon instincts threw it all into a jumble and it made his head spin quite frankly – he wasn’t about to demand that he ought to feel something for John beyond what he did, merely because John felt something, okay, quite a lot, for him.That was the crux of the matter, though, wasn’t it? Friend. Sherlock didn’t have any other friends. Didn’t seem to understand that John considered him his friend or why. It seemed to be something of a novel concept for him, to experience rather than to be a mere observer of.It could therefore be that what Mycroft had seen as a claim that wasn’t a possession marker had to do with friendship rather than romance. That Sherlock’s brain, massive though it was, had somehow conflated the seemingly confusing feelings associated with being someone’s friend, being liked for who they were rather than what they could do, with romantic feelings and the instinctual behaviour associated with courtship had kicked in on their own.That seemed far more likely, even if it made John’s heart ache. To be honest, it ached in simultaneously both a good and an unpleasant way. Unpleasant because, well, though he’d known it to be unrequited, his feelings hadn’t gone away, and good because it put an intrinsic and significant value on their friendship, even if a subconscious one on Sherlock’s part.This new line of thought as to what might be an at least not insignificant part of what was afflicting Sherlock brought another thought along with it; why had the attempt at claiming not worked?It had been suggested that he had attempted to claim him in that sense, and Mycroft wouldn’t have used that phrasing if he believed, or could sense, that it had been successful. He always weighed his words rather carefully, didn’t he? So why hadn’t it? Was that failure instrumental or more incidental?He didn’t question why he might have thought to try it at this time rather than at any other time. After all, he could still feel the points where the Irishman’s claws had penetrated his throat earlier, the small wounds stretching with every swallow and stretch, and could vividly recall the reaction from Sherlock, which had not exactly been downplayed.But he’d thought that a reaction to somebody else trying to play with your possession, hadn’t he? Then again, it had, and to some extent still did, sounded like the most logical, in-character explanation.That was also why Sherlock getting his wires mixed on what was friendship and what was courtship seemed the only possible explanation if there was more, or something else, to it than pure possessive behaviour.Sherlock Holmes was attracted to no one, sexually or romantically, and that was an end to it.
Yeah, but you also called him a machine earlier. You didn’t believe that he’d come to rescue you, and when he did, you were still surprised by his actions to protect you.
Yes, he knew all that, but –
So, the point is that he proved you wrong on all those counts, in one night. Maybe you haven’t got quite the measure of the man that you think you have?
I see but I don’t observe, is that it? he asked his own mind.
Pretty much, yeah, and yes, you are arguing with yourself. But at least you’re only doing it inside of your own head.
He sighed, heavily.One thing he did know, though, for absolutely certain, was that it was an entirely moot point one way or the other if Sherlock never regained consciousness.John felt his heart clench at the thought, so hard that he for a moment was certain that he was about to have a heart attack or similar. That it was purely a reaction to effectively losing Sherlock rather than his body failing wasn’t as much of a comfort as one might’ve thought it would be.Whatever else he’d done, and however else he’d made John feel in the last 24 hours, there was no denying that he’d brought a man struggling to find a reason to survive back to life and had continued from then on to give his life excitement and even, dare he say it, meaning.After all, there wasn’t much excitement in a quiet Tuesday afternoon of Sherlock examining whatever body part he’d managed to sweettalk Molly into letting him swan off with while John read the paper or a book or wrote up their latest case. But there was an attraction to those things in themselves that had nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with contentment, and he would have to admit he looked back on them very fondly.Losing Sherlock would mean losing a central part of himself, as selfish as that undoubtedly sounded.“Please wake up, Sherlock,” he said to the unconscious form of his friend, his voice quiet and almost small. “I…I can’t do this without you. No matter what you are and what either of us do, you’re still my friend.”He trailed his fingers over the stubble like he had before, the gesture tender.Then, before he quite knew what he was doing, he leaned forward a little further and kissed his friend. Not on the lips, and not just because with the position his head was it would be difficult to kiss them properly. He didn’t quite dare go that far, even when acting without his brain being involved, and so he instead kissed him on the cheek, right where his fingers had been.It was a lingering kiss, though, and when he realised what he was doing, he found an urge to slide his lips a little to the side and down.With a jerk backwards as he then realised what he was thinking, he admonished himself harshly. He had no right to do that. Sherlock couldn’t give consent like this and kissing him on the lips went beyond anything he could conceivably categorise as caring for him as his doctor. That was…that was just not on.Gods…as though this wasn’t complicated enough as it was.Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, he didn’t notice the small flutter of Sherlock’s closed eyelids.What he did hear was the small noise, a sort of slightly pained, sleepy hum. Puzzled, he listened closer. It didn’t repeat.“Sherlock?” he said, voice still low but infused with a smidgeon of hope.There was no repeat of the sound, but the eyelids fluttered minutely again and this time, he did catch it. It wasn’t enough that they looked like they were about to open but the type of flutter that happens when people dream. Nevertheless, it was enough to make his heart thump just a smidgeon faster.There was something there. Even if it wasn’t much, it was more than nothing. Yes, he’d been more than happy to have the keen and the shudder subside but at the same time, this eerie quiet was just as worrying.But something still worked. Someone was still in there to react.He firmly ignored the thought that it could be nothing more than reactions, that there wasn’t much if any actual activity in there.Watching and listening intently for any other sign from his friend’s face, he whispered his name again, more insistently.Nothing. Or…the hand shifted its grip. Did it? He wasn’t entirely sure, but it might have, judging from the change in warmth on his wrist, which was admittedly small and hard to keep the focus on, as when he did, it quickly warmed as though it had always stayed there.He fervently wished that Mycroft would hurry the buggering hell up and get back there, with whatever cure he had managed to scrounge up somewhere.No matter what had happened and what would happen in the future, no matter what he was or wasn’t, the world needed Sherlock Holmes.No, far more importantly, though he’d never allow anyone to make him a possession, whether figuratively or literally, John needed Sherlock Holmes. In whatever shape he came.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It felt as though an age passed before Mycroft returned to the flat, made worse by Sherlock’s stillness, interspersed with moments of possible-but-not-at-all-sure movements and other frustratingly close not-quite-indicators that fizzled out into nothingness if they were ever really there at all. When he looked at the light filtering through the gap where the curtains didn’t quite shut, he’d estimate that he’d been gone an hour, two on the outside.Which was a little on the long side, granted, but if he was going out to locate something as esoteric as a cure for an ailment that only mythical winged lizards could suffer from, it wasn’t unreasonable to expect it to take some time. Mostly because, judging by the light, rush hour traffic had set in long before.Though Sherlock had given him back his watch earlier, he hadn’t thought to put it on at the time and so it had been placed on the coffee table at some point between then and moving the brunet into his bedroom. He wasn’t about to leave his friend to go out and grab it.To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he could ever put it on again. It’d be a reminder that he really didn’t need of this whole event instead of the bittersweet but fortifying one it had been when it only had connections to his time as a soldier.That didn’t mean he would give it back to Sherlock. It was still his watch, which the wanker had taken without permission and…well, not quite without remorse, was it? He had sounded and looked genuinely contrite when he’d handed it back, hadn’t he? And there was something else at play with taking it, too.But he’d handed it back to him, eventually. Could dragons even do that? Give things from their hoard not just away but back to their original owners? Didn’t that go against the whole concept of dragons or at least their hoarding? Especially when, as he’d been told, the hoarding was not voluntary on their part but essentially an innate craving.Evidently, they could. Physically, anyway. That wasn’t to say that said dragon would be able to handle it mentally, either immediately or for an extended time.Was that part of why he’d broken down like that, too? Another stab of guilt pierced him, joining the ones already there. Even the knowledge that it wasn’t necessarily the case and he was basically spinning worries out of cobwebs didn’t do much to help it go away. In fact, the addition only served to exacerbate the others.Another thought crossed his mind as he waited; would Mycroft bring somebody back with him, after all? He’d said he wouldn’t but that was hardly a guarantee, was it? Why had he so readily agreed to John’s, admittedly stupid and ungrounded, demand? What was he aware of that the doctor wasn’t? An extensive list, unquestionably, and not just in relation to dragons, but in this specific case, he meant.His mind circled back to the earlier thoughts on other meanings of claiming. Was that why? Could it be that…Mycroft had used the term ‘exacerbate the matter’, which would seem to strongly suggest that there would be a negative reaction to having someone unfamiliar, which neither John nor Mycroft was, enter his domain without his conscious say-so.Even if he’d been told not to put much stock in dragon stories, the unhealthy aspect of going into a dragon’s lair unwanted was near universal. He might not react then and there, being unconscious, and even then, that wasn’t a given, but when they managed to get him awake, he might lash out immediately.All these speculations without explanation was starting to do his head in a little. Not because he couldn’t handle them, it wasn’t that. He was adept at rolling with the punches when he needed to, his anger being a completely separate matter.It was a case of them all taking their toll on him, quite apart from the fact that they hadn’t exactly had the quietest day before Moriarty had kidnapped John or even a quiet time before then, either. Each thing that had happened since the case had begun had layered on top of one another like the ingredients in a rather unpleasant trifle, one which weighed heavier and heavier on him.Realising his eyelids had started to droop, he jerked upright. He needed to stay up, to stay vigilant and take care of his friend. Protect him from any possible dangers that might still assault them.But right now, you’re the immediate danger to Sherlock, aren’t you? If Moriarty genuinely wants to add you to his hoard rather than it being merely a case of fucking with Sherlock through you, and honestly, the latter part seems highly unlikely, then you’re the risk factor. Then he would be safer if you found somewhere else to go.And how would he do that, exactly? He was still effectively chained to the other by way of the hand around his wrist. Even if he could carry Sherlock, it wouldn’t solve the core issue of his continued presence.He blinked rapidly and stifled a yawn. There wasn’t time for him to be tired now, he needed to pull himself together and stay alert.That he was effectively one-handed and without a weapon wouldn’t ordinarily matter to him, except for the fact that he’d been overpowered earlier and could be so again, more easily than before, and with perhaps far more serious an outcome than the first time.More speculation without any answers. More worry.However much a body wants to stay alert, either through instincts telling it that it needs to or a brain demanding that it does, there will always come a point when it has reached its limit, with no more to give and though John could push his body rather far, both physically and mentally, he didn’t quite have Sherlock’s skill for ignoring his body. Though even Sherlock, for all his skills and sheer force of will, couldn’t keep it going indefinitely, as the crash he experienced after a particularly long and challenging, and in some cases gruelling, case attested to. There had been once or twice in the time they’d lived together where the brunet’s head had rebelled and shut down before he’d reached his bed or the sofa.With all this in mind, it was rather a wonder that he hadn’t collapsed before now. As it was, he just about managed to stay awake long enough that he could settle himself on his side beside the lanky body instead of collapsing on top of it when he succumbed to sleep. When Mycroft did step through the door, not long after that, on his own, it was to find both residents of 221B lying in the same bed. That was one thing, what made him raise an eyebrow. What made his heart beat a little faster in hope was that, although Sherlock was still apparently as motionless as before he’d left, he was no longer lying entirely as he had when his brother had left.He hadn’t moved completely onto his side, but his upper body had sort of twisted more than a little towards the body of the doctor, who was on his side facing Sherlock. John’s arm had gravitated to lie across the bare stretch of skin of the side of the torso, relatively lightly but still with a curve that spoke of inherent protectiveness. What was evident was that although John had been the one to lie down, he hadn’t moved Sherlock to fit with his own position. If he had, he would’ve chosen a position far more comfortable than the one it was currently in.Further argument in favour of that was that one wing had slid its way over and was effectively doing the same as John’s arm.“Sherlock?” he asked, quiet, in the hope that his little brother would, with his better hearing, pick up on it if he was indeed awake or something approaching it.No answer.He sighed, his heart sinking just a little again. Of course, there was the small chance that Sherlock was refusing to react purely out of spite, but the continued laxness of the body told a different story. Still, he took comfort in the fact that there had been movement in the time he’d been gone, signifying one major thing, as far as he could tell.It showed that although he had yet to shift back and seemed unable to do so on his own, there was still someone in there, something that connected; though slight, the fact that he’d tried to curl himself around John in a protective manner rather than just lie limply across him showed that rather definitively.It also answered the question Mycroft had asked John earlier. In a roundabout way, at least. He hadn’t claimed him and if he’d tried to, he’d been unsuccessful. But it was evident that he wanted to. Subconsciously, without question, and, when he woke up, he would likely also finally be able to admit to himself and John what had been almost painfully obvious to the older brother for months.For crying out loud, Sherlock had specifically taken things for his hoard that had far more appeal for John than it would for the consulting detective, and the doctor had, after a while, begun to source things to add to the hoard, even if he wasn’t aware that that was what he was effectively doing.If Mycroft, who made a point of ignoring such things unless they were detrimental to his job, was aware of it, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that Sherlock’s instinct was to protect John at all costs. He was precious to him, after all.That wasn’t to say that they could move easily forward from there once Sherlock regained consciousness, though. If neither of them was aware, either one or the other had no desire to act on it or it was genuinely born out of platonic feelings of friendship which had crossed Sherlock’s wires somehow, then it wasn’t a straightforward case.To find out whether the courtship was intentional, he would need to ask at least John. He shook the blond’s shoulder.Only to end up with his hand grabbed and pulled forward, the grip on it not only hard but so that the joints where the carpals met the metacarpals were squeezed together.He looked down to see John glaring at him as he tried, through the fog of fatigue, to assess whether he counted as an enemy or not, as quickly as he possibly could, his training coming into play.When recognition seemed to dawn, however, his hand still wasn’t let go.John didn’t say anything, his blue eyes equalling that of a dragon in their fire for a moment as he continued to glare before he closed them, his brow furrowing as he did so. After a long moment, he released his grip on the ginger’s hand.“Sorry about that,” he muttered.“No apology needed,” Mycroft replied smoothly. In that smoothness, though, John thought he detected a strong undertone of warmth. Did he imagine that?He tried to sit up, surprised at the change in position, but stopped when the wing placed over him curled further around him in an apparent attempt to prevent him from doing so.That – that unquestionably happened. Even groggy as he was, there was no doubt that the wing moved and not as a mere result of it being shifted by something or someone else.He looked at Mycroft, who nodded in acknowledgement. So, he’d seen it, too. An unexpected small surge of relief shot through John at that, to know that even if it was a trick, it was convincing them both.“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice soft but encouraging, moving close enough that there would be no question of the other ‘man’ being able to hear him if he could. “Sherlock, can you…can you hear me?”He didn’t get a verbal response. That didn’t matter so much this time, however, as he did get a physical one; the wing wrapped as much around his body as it could and the tail stirred, too. Not a lot but still some, which was far more than he would’ve expected, even if honestly, he had expected nothing or next to nothing.He looked back up at the older brother, joy in his expression. It would be easy to also express a smidgeon of triumph at having been proved right that it would help to wait and see, that it had paid off. He didn’t feel any sense of triumph, however, just a deep and tremendous relief that Sherlock was no longer so comatose as to be completely unresponsive. Which in turn bred a stronger hope that he might just make it all the way back to the surface, as it were, and wake up.What happened after that was a different matter but whatever it’d turn out to be, they would deal with it. Together. With some effort and wiggling and a bit of help from Mycroft, John managed to get up into a sitting position. He would’ve tried to get out from under Sherlock, to give him more space in case he needed to roll over or something, but the wing did a surprisingly good job at almost-immobilising him and when he looked to the ginger, he got a gesture he took to mean to stay put.“What now? Will he recover the rest of the way on his own, now?” He paused as something else occurred to him. “Did you get it?”“I managed to get something, yes.”The doctor’s eyes narrowed at that. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”“That what I got isn’t…isn’t the cure for this ailment in particular.”“You what?” John spluttered, his heart sinking again. “Then what the bloody hell have you been gallivanting around doing all this time? It’s not as though he’s just had a post-case crash, is it?”Instinctively, he kept his voice down so as not to disturb the apparently sleeping figure beside him, even though he knew it was stupid and it would actually be better to raise his voice if that meant he’d wake him.“I’m perfectly aware of that!” Mycroft snapped back. “As well as I am of his continued inability to shift back, despite the apparent somewhat greater state of consciousness. There may be something else preventing him from shifting back, too, but to be able to assess that with certainty, we need to be certain that no other factor is interfering and eschewing the data.”John snorted despite himself, which earned him a disapproving look. “Sorry. I know it’s not the time, but I just had the mental image of you in lab garb, holding up a test tube. It was – ““Ludicrous, I imagine, yes,” Mycroft interrupted. The smallest of smile flitted across his lips at that, however.“So…how do we make certain? What have you brought?”Instead of answering verbally, Mycroft dug into an inner pocket, not in his coat or jacket but his waistcoat. Out came what looked like several small lumps of metal in a small translucent box. Metal quite distinctive in its colour.John frowned, not quite believing what he was seeing. The banality of it, relatively speaking. “Gold? You were gone for that long to find something that can be purchased in any jeweller in the city? Hell, I think we have some in the flat, if that was all you needed.”“I know you have,” Mycroft replied, with again a strong hint of a snap. “I can smell it.”“You can – oh.” Well…that made sense. Sense in the context of dragons and magic, of course, but still, a surprising amount of sense. “Why not use that, then?” He didn’t add ‘when time is of the essence’ because they both knew it already.“Because for one, what you own is at best 18karat, which isn’t pure enough for it to fulfil the needed role, even if it was in a large enough quantity to be usable. For another, even if it had been the pure 24karat in a large amount, it wouldn’t have been sufficient. What has taken me this long to procure isn’t merely relatively small lumps of pure gold, which, as you rightly say, is easy enough to find in London with only a bit of effort.”“What are they, then? Secretly the nine rings melted down?” It was meant as a sort of joke but to be honest, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if that did turn out to be the case.He got a nonplussed look for his trouble.“Never mind. Why are they not just your average lump of pure gold, then?”“They have been treated, by the experts I mentioned, so that when they are applied to the wounds in question, they will not only help close it but part of them will dissolve into the wounds and burn out whatever remains of dust still remain in the bloodstream. It is the best that can be done in the circumstances, given we don’t know the owner of the bones.”John wanted to ask how the owner was relevant, but another question barged its way in. “How can it dissolve into the wounds? Almost nothing can dissolve gold, that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s why it’s at the top of the ‘noble’ metals. Or is dragon blood filled with aqua regia?”“Not quite.”“What?”“Irrelevant. It can dissolve into the wounds because it has been treated, not unlike the methods previously used to treat rheumatoid arthritis. For one thing, it has similar anti-inflammatory qualities, which I think you’ll grant is rather relevant in the circumstances.”John nodded agreement. There was still one thing, though, that bugged him about this.“If it’s that good…why are you still holding it instead of administering it as we speak? Or as soon as you came in, really? Or is it that you want me to do it again?”Getting a hand free, the one hand that he had full movement of, wasn’t easy but he managed it, somehow, and reached out to take the small box, which wasn’t, as he’d thought, made of plastic but glass. Again, something pure.Perhaps that was the reason. It could easily be contaminated by being handled and it was imperative that it wasn’t contaminated. Well, he could get Mycroft to fetch him a pair of gloves – again, between a former doctor and a chemist, there were a few odd things that just came standard – that would take care of that.As soon as he was about to close his fingers around the box, however, it was jerked away. Not far but far enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for an involuntary spasm, something which John couldn’t see Mycroft doing in any case.He tried again, with the same results. Frowning, he lifted his gaze to stare at the elder Holmes.What he saw wasn’t what he expected to see, even if he hadn’t mentally articulated quite what that expectation was.Mycroft looked, strange though it was to see and even more difficult to genuinely comprehend, pained and agitated. More than that, though, he looked somewhat angry and…hungry? No, that couldn’t be right. Why would he look hungry, of all things?
Well, aren’t you an idiot? Why do you think? It’s gold, isn’t it? The one thing that is still extremely precious to and innately desired by every dragon in existence? Or did you forget that Mycroft is as much a dragon as Sherlock is?
Perhaps he had, yes. It was somehow, relatively speaking, easier to think of both Sherlock and Moriarty as dragons, with their showmanship and extravagance. Their cravings, daft as that sounded. Mycroft, on the other hand, was almost too…quiet to be a dragon. Too restrained, too controlled. It didn’t seem to compute in the same way that he was Sherlock’s older brother and therefore, in actual point of fact, another dragon, with all that that entailed.In an odd sort of way, it would be easier to assume that becoming a dragon was something you caught or, if it was hereditary, it’d be a recessive gene that Mycroft hadn’t inherited.But that was most likely just because he had a fixed idea of what and who Mycroft was and being a dragon didn’t really fit within that image, not even remotely. Sherlock, yes, that almost made his actions make more sense, but Mycroft? Not so much, and that was hardly fair, because it relegated him to being nothing more than an obstacle or sometimes a help, not an entity on his own.It would also be wrong to say that it was now that he’d stepped into character, because that would relegate him back to being a help to his brother, what he could do for him rather than something in himself, and while that wasn’t the most pertinent or immediately important in the current circumstances, it was important in understanding Mycroft Holmes a little bit better. Not much, probably, but even so.As he did take a moment, his hand hovering in an outstretched position though he didn’t try to grab at the gold again, he noticed something which he really ought to have caught immediately; the eyes which he’d seen those emotions in had…changed, or rather, flashed, much like Moriarty’s had. In fact, exactly like Moriarty’s had, the only real difference being that the colour the eyes had flashed was the blue-tinted white, very much like those of his brother’s, except one was green and the other blue.The pupils had momentarily also turned to slits before returning to their previous roundness. That he only registered they had now he found puzzling. But that wasn’t the issue that needed dealing with right now.How could he hope to get the little box, the contents of which was, it turned out, so very important to Sherlock’s wellbeing, from something, someone who was instinctively driven to collect and hold onto something like that no matter what? Regardless of how illogical it was or how detrimental to someone he clearly cared very deeply about, even if he was – they both were, to be honest, and John wouldn’t have thought either cared much prior to all this – normally rubbish at showing it, he couldn’t prevent himself from doing it, you could tell from the look in his eyes.“Mycroft, I…we need that,” John said, trying to keep his voice gentle and soothing, much in the way one would a skittish but dangerous animal, which wasn’t that far wrong, in a way. “I know why you don’t want me to have it, I do, and it’s perfectly understandable…”“Do. Not. Patronise. Me. Doctor. Watson.” The words came hissed out between teeth that seemed just a little sharper than before and John couldn’t help the lightning thought of how exactly transformation, or shifting or whatever, worked for dragons? There certainly seemed to be an element of emotions in the mix, at least where they came in unbidden and unchecked.More importantly, though, Mycroft was still aware enough that he could not just acknowledge John was there, but who he was and what exactly he was doing, at least to his mind.“I’m not,” John replied, though he did shift his voice back, not quite to his normal voice but at least to the one he employed to talk to his patients. “I’m trying to find a method that will allow me to take that gold from you that won’t result in me being gutted or having my throat cut.”“I wouldn’t…do that.” The eyes flashed again, seemingly not voluntarily, as they widened at the same time, even as they were still glued to the small lumps glinting dully in the growing light. It didn’t exactly lend confidence in his statement, though.What all of this did do, however, was lend credence to the explanation Sherlock had given earlier; that claiming things and hoarding wasn’t entirely a choice on their part. Probably not much so at all, and the consulting detective had just downplayed it. That he’d also averred that gold wasn’t as powerful a drug to dragons as folklore would have you believe, that could be said to have been disproven. Except…Mycroft had never taken the gold that was at 221B nor was it ever in pride of place anywhere in the flat.So, the real explanation was likely that he’d been right, in terms of acquiring it. Once they did have in their grasp, however, that was a different matter entirely.“No? You sure could’ve fooled me.” The doctor paused, trying to think. “Would it…would it be an idea to perhaps open the box, then shake one out into your palm so that you keep some of it?”
Will it fool your instincts enough to allow us to apply the rest of them to Sherlock?
“I…don’t know,” the elder Holmes admitted, the words sounding more than a little hard to get past his lips. “I would think we need all of them for the wounds but – ““Rather one goes untreated than they all do,” John interrupted and finished for him. It was hardly ideal but there wasn’t much that ever was, and you learned to play the hand you were dealt, especially as a RAMC officer, not to mention when you lived with Sherlock Holmes.He sighed, even more acutely aware of his friend’s condition now that he was this physically close to him and tried a different tack. “Look, you went all that way to find something that would help. Something which you knew, as far as it’s possible to know, that would be a cure, and even then, you went the extra mile to be even more sure. Are you going to let all of that go to waste?”The pain in the eyes grew more pronounced and the grip on the box slackened.John’s voice softened further. “This is your brother. Your baby brother, whom you’ve helped, protected and loved throughout your entire lives, even if neither of you will bloody well admit it to anyone else. I saw and heard you earlier when you got here, remember?” He didn’t quote him because he knew he remembered. “He needs these, now. Please?”He held out his hand, palm up, asking rather than demanding. Hoping that though it was a legitimate craving and therefore not his choice, he could, at least for a crucial moment, overcome that craving and give the box to the doctor. It wasn’t how you were supposed to handle drug addicts, he knew, but though addicts were far from harmless, they couldn’t rip him to shreds with their nails or incinerate the entire bloody street because they felt threatened. At least, he’d never heard tell of it, but then again, incinerated people were unlikely to publish their memoirs afterwards.Mycroft closed his eyes, squeezing them slightly in the process as he breathed through his nose, the breathing more than a little strained. His pale complexion was somehow even paler and yet, while there was no actual sweat on the brow, the was a ruddy tint to the skin, too, one that did not look healthy.Furthermore, it might be John’s imagination, but he thought he saw the faint, almost illusory-smoky image of wings as well as a reptilian head hover around the elder Holmes then. It wasn’t quite like it had been with Moriarty, as it was even more insubstantial than that had been, but it was along the same lines.Was that a good sign or a bad one? He honestly had no idea.He didn’t say anything more, just sat and waited with somewhat bated breath.What felt like an excruciatingly long time passed during which nothing seemed to happen, apart from the mirage-like image of the dragon fluctuating in solidity. Then suddenly, in one swift movement, with a pained, but repressed noise akin to the screech of a barn owl mixed with the rumble of earth moving, he turned his hand around and pressed the box into John’s still outstretched one, closing his hand around it for just a fraction of a second before he yanked his hand back.The box stayed in the doctor’s hand, still closed and retaining all the small but vital lumps of gold.Mycroft, who’d taken as many steps backwards as he could, was breathing hard and ragged by that point, as though he’d exerted himself immensely, his eyes now squeezed firmly shut. He was even paler than before, the also increased ruddiness bringing it into starker relief and now there was a sheen of perspiration on his brow. There was a minute but somehow still noticeable tremor in his limbs and the images had yet to fade.John felt a strange pang of…not exactly pity – the day he pitied one of the most dangerous and influential men in Britain if not the entire world, never mind his draconian attributes, was the day he signed his own death warrant, he was sure, and even he wasn’t quite that much of a danger junkie – but certainly some genuine and deep-reaching sympathy, seeing the man like this.“Are you…?” How did he finish that sentence? He could see that he wasn’t fine or even okay, far from it. ‘Going to survive’ seemed somewhat overly dramatic. Change of question, then. “What do you need?”“Help. Him. Now.” If the words said previously had felt hissed or forced out, these now sounded as though they were dragged out screaming and kicking. “Please!”John stared at him for only a fraction longer before he nodded. Keeping an eye on the older dragon just to be on the safe side, relatively speaking, he carefully opened the glass box. Then he paused, something occurring to him.I assume the box is to prevent contaminating it as well as keep whatever it’s been treated with from being rubbed off,” he said. He saw the other give a very small nod. “Right. But I don’t have any gloves to pick them up with and the tweezers are…I don’t know where, actually, and in any case, I can’t get to them right now. How do I handle them?”Mycroft just shook his head, another pained noise escaping him.Oh. Right. Idiot. John, not Mycroft.Couldn’t he just tap them out, like you did when you carefully measured out grains of something? Perhaps. It was worth a shot, certainly, mainly because it was the only real option that he had.Sherlock hadn’t made a noise, at least none that John had heard, during that entire incident. Encouragingly, though, the tail had moved a little more and the torso was tilted further towards the doctor.If he was to get at the wounds, however, he needed him back on his front and, preferably, up closer to him, too, so that he could reach the entirety of his back and the corresponding holes and also, get him in a position where, if he was more conscious than before, he wouldn’t flinch away from the ‘medicine’ being administered.At the same time, Sherlock wasn’t exactly keen on him moving, it seemed, not if it seemed like he was moving away. What to do?In the end, he settled for leaning over as best he could, hoping to everything out there his steady hand was still present and would work stretched like that.As the first one, he chose a wound that was close to the shoulder, one of the deeper ones which was relatively easy to get to and get a fair assessment on. Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the box carefully with a finger until one lump was at the edge of the box, close to tipping over. Quickly, he brought it as close to the skin as he reasonably could without touching it and tapped again, very carefully.The small piece of gold fell, landing neatly in the middle of the divot that was the wound. As soon as it did, the oddest thing happened. Well, perhaps not the oddest thing, compared to dragons and everything. But certainly, it ranked among one of the odder occurrences to witness, partly because it came far closer to something that he understood and had seen himself previously than what else had happened.Yes, so he’d had some of it explained to him and had understood it by way of his own professional lens, but this was still a little bit different. That had been understanding it after the fact, as it were, while this was seeing it as it happened and formulating an understanding by his own means.It likely also made a difference that he had an understanding of gold’s properties and to see it not even melt, which might be a stretch but still at least tenuously feasible given the oddly intense heat he knew came off the wounds, but disintegrate first and rather fast into grains as though the term ‘gold salts’ was more than a misnomer. Then, gradually though not especially slowly, those grains did dissolve into the wounds, disappearing completely.While looking at it, he also kept an eye on what kind of reaction it would produce in Sherlock. Though he was prepared for a spasm or even a stronger reaction, which wouldn’t be ideal, and he would need to stem somehow, he would, to be honest, rather have that kind of reaction than none at all.Though he had moved some and that was encouraging, the continued silence from the consulting detective was still beyond worrying.If only they knew what the exact cause, or, as it seemed to be, the exact mixture of causes was.No. One thing at the damn time. There was no use dwelling on speculations like that. He’d already wasted enough time doing it with nothing to show except more worries. This here was something that he could do and while it might not be all of it, he had faith that it would be a big part.That he’d believed the same for the removal of the bone dust, he firmly pushed to the back of his mind.Though he still kept an eye out for reactions, he didn’t stall to see whether one would come. It was probably bad enough that he’d waited to see it react, quite apart from having to also keep an eye on the older brother to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Instead, he immediately moved the box onto the next wound that he could reach easily.He worked as methodically and efficiently as before with the bone dust, professionalism edging out the worries for the moment.When he was at the fourth piece, the crystals happily dissolving and being absorbed by the wound, something happened. Something major.The previously limp, unresponsive body above him suddenly stiffened, tension surging into it in an apparent rush. The wing around him gave a spasm and tried to curl further while the hand around his wrist tightened, if that was possible, the clawed fingers piercing skin as they did so.John would’ve cried out, or at the very least cursed as pain shot through him at that, but he wasn’t allowed much chance before he was grabbed and dragged further underneath the lanky body, which pressed down onto him, pinning him in place. It ought to have been impossible, with John both being heavier and stronger than Sherlock but as he’d experienced earlier, the brunet’s body harboured a strength that belied the skinny appearance, and right now, he was using it to prevent John from moving as he curled further around him.To be honest, though, John’s priority was more on snapping the lid on the box shut as quickly as possible so that none of the lumps fell out and was wasted. Thankfully, he succeeded.“Sherlock?” he asked, hoping that this sudden reaction did at least mean that his friend was conscious again. He wasn’t certain because he couldn’t see the face, which was turned down towards the pillow and his chest.The curly-haired head lifted slowly, pulling away as it did. The first thing John noticed as he did so was that the horns seemed smaller, which made his heart jump with the possibility that the dragon appendages were finally shrinking away as Sherlock was able to shift back into full human. Well, human-shaped, anyway.When the face came into view, however, his heart sank again, however; the eyes were open and clear and staring right at him. That did not comfort him in the slightest. In fact, it sent a spike of dread through his heart, and there was one specific reason for that.The eyes were the iceberg green-tinted white that he’d seen before, with the corresponding slit pupils. The difference between the first time and now was that they weren’t flashing to that state and then returning to their pale multicoloured roundness, which John had always found fascinating. This time, even though the horns were shrinking and so seemed the wings to be, they stayed that way, the pupils almost nothing but the thinnest black line as they stared at him.They seemed to see right through him without comprehending him at all. Cupid bow lips were pulled back just slightly, so the sharpness of the teeth was visible.“Sherlock?” he repeated, hoping the calm tone he’d forced it into would make it recognisable to the man on top, thereby help snap him out of whatever was going on inside that massive brain of his.For a moment, the eyes returned to their normal hetero-chromic, round-pupiled state, recognition rising in turn along with puzzlement.John just managed to start smiling in relief and joy when Sherlock blinked, and the eyes returned to their dragon-state. The nostrils flared and the lips pulled back further, in a parody of a smile.Fear stabbed through John at that, like it hadn’t even remotely done when faced with Moriarty.A rumbling growl emanated from the brunet’s throat. John’s blood ran cold at the first word from his friend since he’d collapsed.“Mine!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The word came out as a hissing snarl, the baritone voice almost unrecognisable with the growl still present as an undertone.No. No, this wasn’t happening. What was happening? He had no idea except that this was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen. They had gotten the bone dust out. They’d found something that functioned as a sort of panacea for dragons. He’d stopped keening and had started responding, even if it wasn’t much.They’d done everything that they could do right so why was this the reaction, the outcome they got?Another thought flashed through his mind, fast and hard, like the wildfire of terror. Was this when he was going to die? Sherlock had said he didn’t count people, or at least dead people, among his possessions, but was that true? Even if it was, did his instincts see it like that? Could the base nature of dragons only see things they cared about as possessions?It certainly didn’t seem as though there was much of Sherlock left in there, at least not in the driver seat. The eyes were still entirely reptilian and almost pure white as they stared at him, with no hint of actual recognition of the person underneath him. The teeth parted just enough to allow the tip of a tongue to flicker out for a moment, the movement turning the smile almost grotesque.Not much imagination, if any, was needed to picture those teeth parting further just before they struck, either tearing the former soldier’s throat apart or breaking his neck, and it wasn’t at all because he’d seen a similar maw open.Right now, though, apart from the eyes and the smile, Sherlock was otherwise motionless.John held himself perfectly still as he kept eye contact, in the hope that it’d keep the dragon from deciding to make a sudden move as well as spark recognition. Any recognition apart from the base one that saw his friend as nothing more than something to be claimed.Perhaps it ought to be flattering, that even in this state, the immediate, instinctive reaction from the dragon was to regard the human doctor as a possession rather than a threat.It wasn’t.Especially not when you again took the possibility of possessions being dead bodies as likely as being living, breathing people into account. When your neck was snapped and left you a lifeless doll, it didn’t much matter for what reason you were killed, did it? At least, it didn’t to you.He wouldn’t even make an interesting case for the consulting detective. The thought flashed through his mind, wild and irrelevant but unstoppable, and it was true. It’d be an open and shut case. Probably not even a two.
You’re panicking.
Well, yes, I bloody well am! I’m trapped beneath the shapeshifting body of a mythical, impossible being that houses the friend I’m in love with, with no hope of getting out on my own and very little of getting help, as Mycroft has other things to deal with, even if he would raise a hand against his brother to help me, and I’m most likely moments away from being killed. I would be more worried if I wasn’t panicking!Even so, he wasn’t going to just sit idle by to be murdered. He might not be able to overpower the creature but there were other ways. He had to believe that because he wanted to live.Although to John’s growing dread, he couldn’t spot any spark of recognition in those eyes, he believed that Sherlock had to be in there still, and if he was, there had to be some way to reach him. John had no idea how, but he had to try and do so fast, before Sherlock snapped out of his momentary stasis.Speaking of fast, however…as he had to blink rapidly, trying to dispel the sudden feeling of fog sidling into his brain, he remembered why staring into those reptilian eyes for any length of time was an extremely stupid idea, and realised just why the dragon was quite content to stare at him rather than pounce on him immediately. A pliant little victim, content to wait for its fate, that’s what was wanted.Lamb to the slaughter, led by the strangest Judas goat in existence.But why hadn’t the hypnotic effects been immediate? Oh, but neither had Moriarty’s and he’d had time to prep John, as it were, so maybe…Maybe what? What had he been…what…? The fog rolled in again, stronger than before, clouding his thoughts until they started to become an increasingly pleasant soup.The white-green eyes seemed to glint in satisfaction. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? That he was pleasing –No! Bloody, bleeding, buggering hell, this was the very definition of invasive and wrong! He shouldn’t be feeling content to be either killed or turned into as much of a marionette as the snipers that Moriarty controlled, good for nothing but what the dragon wanted of him, likely until he got bored with him.Oh, but it felt wonderful, to have his thoughts and worries drain away into the white nothing that seemed to come ever closer. So very lovely and comforting. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, really…Yes! Yes, it would! Either choice is hell but whatever the end is going to be, I’m not going to let him overpower me like this without a fight, regardless of what powers he happens to possess. It might be for naught but that doesn’t make the battle pointless.The burning steel that was the core of John Watson flared up and pushed the clouds out of his head by sheer force of will. Human he might be, with no mythical powers or inhuman strength to assist him, but on the other hand, he was a human being. The indomitable species.Closing his eyes, he felt his thoughts return to him. Not fast but fast enough that he could string together a sentence in his mind. He didn’t need to think about much, however; his own instincts had been awakened, though why they hadn’t weighed in earlier he couldn’t say, and they quickly assessed the situation.He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, of course he didn’t, but if it came down to either the dragon – this right in front of him right now didn’t feel like Sherlock at all and so didn’t deserve the name of his friend – or him, he wasn’t going to hesitate in hurting him.As he closed his eyes, he thought he heard the faintest and strangest of small noises, one which he couldn’t identify but which seemed to come from the dragon. Was it surprised at his action? Annoyed? Amused? Enraged? All of them? He couldn’t tell but whatever it was, he didn’t want to hang around to find out what the further reaction would be.Keeping his eyes very firmly closed so as not to run the risk of falling back under the paralysing and, well, hypnotic powers of the dragon again, he fought against the limbs pinning him and managed somehow to pull his leg up enough that he had some leverage, which he then used to first stab his knee into the wiry body’s chest and then kick his heel, as best as he could, into the groin.He hoped that it would give him at least enough of a reaction of pain for the dragon to release his hands and him consequently being able to get out from underneath.Once free, however, he had no idea where he would go, or even if he could make it. If Sherlock wasn’t going to hunt him down and claim him anyway, the escape only meaning a delay in the inevitable.The wings had, along with the rest of the appendages, shrunk away, at last, a sight which even half an hour earlier would’ve filled him with absolute joy, but there was no indication that they couldn’t come back. That Sherlock was no longer not in control of them and he had merely done away with them for the moment.Even if he couldn’t fly, couldn’t use aerial surveillance to locate him, there was not only the surveillance that Mycroft could provide, if he felt inclined to help his baby brother rather than an ex-RAMC officer and the odds of that were not in the doctor’s favour. There was also just the simple fact that this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with. Even if that wasn’t the case, if the person had given way to the instincts completely, there was likely other ways available to dragons.In any case, John had very little chance of making it out of this as himself, if any chance at all.Was this deliberate? Not on Sherlock’s part, but on Moriarty’s? That even if they saved him from the bullet wounds and the bone dust, the whole experience would send that massive brain into a breakdown that would leave only the dragon?That didn’t tally with Moriarty wanting to claim John for himself, though, did it? Then again, that might’ve been a spur of the moment decision, whatever the underlying reason for it might be, which wouldn’t be hard to believe of the Irishman.All these things flashed through his mind quickly as his knee and heel made impact, the main part of his brain focused on what was happening and to be ready to react when he got his window to escape.Only, he didn’t.Both his knee and heel clearly impacted, with a relatively large amount of force, given his position. It should have had some form for effect on the body above him, enough so that he could use the momentary distraction, whether it came from pain or pure surprise, to get out from under the other’s body.While there was unquestionably a reaction, it was more of a small grunt – he couldn’t see the face as he was still keeping his eyes firmly closed – and contraction of the muscles which were hit. The body didn’t budge and neither did it release him.He heard a growl again, but though it was far more pronounced than before, it didn’t sound aggressive or even annoyed. Then he felt the head move closer to his throat, betrayed by the heat coming off it, slowly but with an inevitability about it, a slight moistness indicating that the teeth had parted as well.No. No. Oh, god, no. No, he wanted to live. Please, God, whoever might be listening out there, let him live!He kicked again, with the same horribly muted response.There was still no indication that Mycroft was in a fit state to help him, and even if he was, there was no saying whether in this state, the other dragon would bother to think about a potential rival rather than claiming its prize. For that matter, would Mycroft even be considered a rival, seeing as they were brothers? Litter mates? Clutch mates?“Sherlock. Sherlock, please. Stop. Please stop. Sherlock!” he cried as he writhed and buckled, with no discernible effect.He knew he was pleading, begging for his friend to still be in there somewhere and for him to hear him, to snap out of it and not do this. Possibly, there was a school of thought that said that he ought to try harder, fight more to get out, but he was fighting as hard as he possibly could, with all the mobility that he could conceivably gain in his current position. There was no shame in employing other methods, too, and quite frankly, when it came to saving his own neck, he wasn’t going to let what other might think dictate how he behaved.The claws had punctured his skin at last when the dragon had woken up and taken over, and the struggles only served to push them deeper. Blood oozed from them, stoppered somewhat by the claws still embedded in them but still seeping thick liquid continuously, staining the pillow and bedsheets underneath him a slowly darkening red.The other hand was on his shoulder, the claws also pushing in there, making more wounds to rival the ones in the dragon’s own back as well as effectively holding the doctor down.“Mine,” the wyvern hissed again, the breath gusting across John’s throat in its proximity. He thought he could feel the tip of pointed teeth start to press ever so slightly against the already abused skin of his throat.“Sherlock!”The growl had turn to a pleased rumble, which only served to heighten the feeling of terror.John swallowed, feeling the tips press deeper as he did so. They didn’t stop once the swallow was over, pressing unerringly deeper but still without piercing skin.Does he enjoy it? Is that it? Is the terror something he can smell and does that appeal?Oh, god, I’m going to die. This time, I’m really fucking going to die. Killed by my best friend and kept as the ultimate serial killer trophy by that same friend.Because he still had his eyes closed so very tightly, he didn’t notice that a few tears had begun to escape his eyes and trickle down his cheeks.If he was going to die, though…he might as well say it. It wasn’t how he’d ever imagined himself revealing it. To be honest, though, if the consulting detective hadn’t worked it out for himself yet, which seemed unlikely given that they’d been living together that long and he had yet to make any sort of comment about it, acerbic or otherwise, John wasn’t at all sure he would’ve revealed it to him at all.The likelihood of there being a favourable outcome to such a revelation was zero, he knew that, and as he’d had no desire to leave 221b or have Sherlock pull away from him, he had no reason to.In light of him dying, however…honestly, what harm could it do?Of course, there was the risk that the dragon wouldn’t understand, and Sherlock couldn’t hear. It certainly didn’t seem as though he could hear his pleas for him to stop, to not do this, so there was no reason to assume that he’d somehow miraculously hear this.But this wasn’t really about Sherlock. Sort of but not truly. Even if he did hear, the previous thoughts about his reactions still applied. That wasn’t the point. The point was that John wanted, perhaps needed to say it. That he wanted Sherlock to know without a doubt, subconsciously or by Mycroft telling him afterwards, that he, John H. Watson, loved him.He would look the other in the eye and he would say it.“Sherlock,” he said again as he opened his eyes, his voice deliberately, studiously firm. The sight of the side of Sherlock’s face as he’d tilted his head slightly for better access to the soft throat, pointed teeth a large part of the visage, stirred a mix of emotions in him, not all of them unpleasant. This wasn’t the Irish madman; this was his friend.The eyes were still on him, though, even from the somewhat awkward position, and so made contact almost the moment he opened his own, boring into him.He would’ve lifted his head a little, in slight defiance and bravado, if he’d thought it a wise idea with the teeth. He didn’t. Even talking, he could feel the unyielding quality of the teeth, but that he was determined to persist with. Though the inevitability of his own imminent demise was crystallising for him, he was going to say his piece before there was no more him, one way or the other.He wanted to live, dear god did he, but if there were no more possibility for that, then he’d die as much as himself as he could.“Sherlock. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. I love you.”The reptilian eyes didn’t blink but they widened. The teeth pulled away just slightly, no longer touching his skin, as the head tilted back upright to look him more directly in the eye.“I love you,” he repeated. “In fact, I’m in love with you.”The face didn’t show any further hint that what he said was understood but that the teeth had pulled away, he counted as a positive thing. He knew it wouldn’t last long but any small thing was good.
At least when it finally happens, let it be over quick.
“I possibly should’ve said something about it earlier,” he continued, all the while aware that he was talking on borrowed time, that each word could be the last, “but…I suppose I was afraid. You’d probably laugh at me if you could understand me. But it doesn’t matter. I just…wanted you to know, before…well, before you eat me.” No point beating around the bush about that, was there?After that, he did tilt his head up slightly, continuing to look the other in the eye. The tears had dried on his cheeks, no new ones refreshing the trail.Though it felt somewhat silly, if not downright stupid in the circumstances, John couldn’t help the small sense of relief at having finally said it to Sherlock’s face, regardless of his ability to understand him and react, one way or the other.He hadn’t expected there to be any reaction to his words. The fact that he had gotten something of a reaction earlier he didn’t put much stock in. That could’ve been for any number of other reasons, none of which had anything to do with John being heard and understood.Breathing deeply, he tried to steel himself for what came next as best he could. He would not close his eyes. At least, not before the choice was no longer his.Except…there was no movement. No attempt to get the teeth to connect with his throat again. Nothing. Just the white eyes continuing to stare at him, unblinking. He thought he saw them flicker and become that more familiar pale kaleidoscope for just a moment more than once as they stared but he wasn’t at all sure. It could as well be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part.Why was he not moving? Had something gotten through to him at last?It felt wrong, not to mention saccharine and hackneyed, to think that it was the confession that had made a difference, as there was no feasible reason for it to have done so. But perhaps the fact that he’d spoken longer had been the important point? It had focused something, perhaps given his friend some sort of tether, a metaphorical beacon to latch onto and follow back into his own body from where he seemed to be still stuck in some form of horrible limbo inside his own mind.John opened his mouth to call Sherlock’s name again, in the somewhat feeble but nevertheless fervent hope that it would guide him further, strengthen the tether. Anything that could help, really, and not merely because it might buy him some more time alive.Before any words could pass his lips, however, he watched the face in front of him…stiffen, for lack of a better word. Fearing that he’d lost whatever moment he’d managed to gain as nostrils flared in inhalation, he instead watched the head suddenly whip around and the lips part fully in a snarl.Daring to turn his head, John was surprised to see Mycroft standing rather closer to the bed than John would’ve thought. Not only that, he seemed somewhat recovered from his ‘episode’. He didn’t sport any wyvern appendages nor was there a phantom shape, whole or partial, of dragon behind him and yet, there was no question that it was the dragon that was at the forefront.In contrast to Sherlock, though, that fact didn’t seem to entail that the dragon was in the driving seat. The eyes, though evidently reptilian, seemed somehow still the eyes that John was familiar with.That he registered as a dragon now as he hadn’t before was borne out by the reaction the younger brother suddenly had to him, snarling in face as well as voice. He raised himself up into a kneeling position as he turned to face the ginger, freeing John a little, or, as he was still somehow somewhat hunched over him, at least giving him more room to breathe and, importantly, move. Without the teeth being inches or less from piercing his throat.“Run!” Mycroft shouted the moment he spotted this. “Out of the room!”John didn’t need to be told twice. To be honest, he didn’t even need to be told the once; he’d seen his opportunity the moment Mycroft had, and he took it, drawing his legs up to get them free as he rolled to the side and off the bed, the glass box somehow still clasped tight in his hand, unheeded but still clung onto.The dragon that was his friend noticed the abrupt move away from him, of course he did, and was far from pleased with that, the audible snarl rising to include a note of screeching as the head whirled around again to where John was now getting up off the floor, the movement started the moment he’d hit the ground.“Mine!” The voice was completely unrecognisable as Sherlock’s this time.Out of the corner of his eye, the doctor saw the lanky, half-dressed body lunge towards him, eyes wild and face contorted, and he tried to speed up his movement, to will his limbs to go faster, faster.Again, the thought of just where he would go with a dragon intent on claiming him on his tail flashed through his mind, and again, he had no answer, even if it seemed that Mycroft wasn’t intending on aiding his little brother in claiming John after all. Not that it likely mattered much but it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?He scrambled upright, expecting at any moment the claws or the teeth to sink into him, ripping him apart rather than merely claiming him, as a retaliation for his escape attempt. For one horrifying, heart-stopping moment, he thought he did indeed feel points against where his shoulders met neck, but it left almost as soon as he’d felt it, with an abruptness that was odd as it was incredibly welcome.The explanation seemed to come with another snarl and an answering roar from a throat that wasn’t his friend’s.John didn’t turn to look at what was happening behind him. Instead, he continued to move forward as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the bedroom door, which he slammed behind him on principle, as he didn’t think for a moment it’d hold either dragon out, out through the small passageway that led into the kitchen and all the way out into the living room.There he stopped. It wasn’t to catch his breath, and he knew perfectly well that there was very little, if any, sense in looking behind you to try and gauge what was going on. He knew what would be chasing him already, and that his best bet to escape was to run and keep running. To put as much distance between himself and the dragons while Mycroft kept the other at bay.And yet…there was something in him that didn’t want to move further. That felt horrible at the mere thought and for a moment, he was afraid that the hypnosis, for lack of a better term, was still drawing him in and affecting his thoughts as well as also his body, now.But no. He felt clearheaded enough, able to form a complete sentence in his mind without issue and with none of the foggy pleasure he’d experienced twice now.Was it…Mycroft had only said to get ‘out of the room’, hadn’t he? Not the flat, not the building, city or even country, any of which would’ve made far more sense in the situation. Why be that specific? You’d either be more likely not to use any specifier at all or, if you did, there’d be a reason to choose a specific place. So why the room in particular? Why not any of the others, to put as much distance between them and him while he could?Or maybe it was just that the others were all implicit in that one descriptor. That to say more might upset Sherlock more or tip him off and be more likely to send him running after the doctor than fending off Mycroft. Or it might mean nothing at all.In any case, his priority should be to protect himself. To keep running and not stop until he found something or somewhere that could keep him safe.But the problem, the big problem, was that he couldn’t think of where or what that could possibly be. Nowhere seemed safe. Also, apart from every other point he’d thought of earlier, there was another risk to consider, and that was Moriarty.Why he hadn’t followed them here or had otherwise interfered was not unimportant, but the immediate issue was that if John went out into London right now, he may be running from two dragons rather than one. It didn’t matter whether Moriarty genuinely wanted to claim John, or he was just a cog in the wheel of messing with Sherlock, because whichever was the case, it didn’t alter that he’d be a hunted man.At the same time, to stay put in the flat ran the risk of putting him straight back in the claws and maw of a dragon intent on claiming him by killing him.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
While immobile, he instinctively listened for any sound coming from the closed bedroom. He thought he heard something, a crash and some sort of growl or snarl but he wasn’t sure. He frowned.Even a short distance away, he ought to be able to hear it far more clearly than he was. In fact, with at the very least the screech earlier, it had been loud enough that someone should’ve heard and reacted to it.Were the police on their way? A group of incurably curious, if not downright nosy, neighbours? Both? What would happen if they turned up and started searching the place, then found the two brothers fighting with either appendages or something else that gave away their less-than-human – no, not less, other-than-human – origin, at which point the likelihood of this turning out anything other than a complete disaster was eradicated.Not that it was very likely to turn out good at this point. All he was doing right now was delaying the inevitable. But then again, that was always the way, wasn’t it? That was how humans survived from day to day and how they’d hung around for so many generations.The thought that all of this might expose the two brothers to the world, purely because Moriarty had meddled, or at least mostly, that twisted and tore at something deep inside John.He was meant to protect Sherlock. Hell, he’d promised to, hadn’t he, even if not in so many words, when he’d been effectively keeping vigil over the unconscious body earlier?If he was going to die anyway, and he couldn’t see a scenario in this entire mess that didn’t end with him dead, either physically or at the very least mentally and psychologically, then he owed it to Sherlock to stay and protect him to the very best of his abilities.
Are you really going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of friendship and unrequited love like that? What happened to staying alive? Not being a possession? Does that suddenly just crumble in the face of his wishes? Were you really that right about you continuing to stand by his side no matter what?  Even if it costs you your very identity? Because that is an unhealthy relationship if ever there was one, I’d say.
There was some truth in that but not all that much. It didn’t crumble; in other circumstances, he would’ve held fast to those ideals with tooth and nails. Hah. And to be honest, as much as he still had no desire to die, he would do a lot to ensure that Sherlock killed him rather than turn him into a marionette.
Perhaps my skull can end up on the mantelpiece alongside Billy? On either side, perhaps, so that they balance out? Make a proper feature of it?
A louder bang than before, which was accompanied by a clearly audible shriek, jolted him out of his thoughts.Someone was definitely going to hear and come running – or alert the police. Did Lestrade know about their nature? John wouldn’t have thought so, or he wouldn’t have had such a disregard for overturning the flat, the den of a sodding dragon, like that in a drug’s bust. The man had never struck the doctor as suicidal.John, finding that his legs were suddenly, finally cooperative once more, darted over to the front door to close and lock it. Trying not to think about the fact that in the process he was also locking himself in with two dangerous creatures, for all that he knew them, he looked around the living room.A lock wouldn’t be sufficient to hold them out for long, if they were determined to get in. Dragging the sofa over would be the most efficient way of blocking the door but it was not the lightest or most easily movable item in the room. Nor could he drag it onehanded, and his left arm, though the blood was no longer oozing out, felt heavy and lethargic. Certainly not up to the task of pulling a sofa over.But there were other items that he could drag onehanded and so he did, listening all the while for further sounds from either side, trying to gauge what was going on and when he should be ready for the fallout.Once there were enough things stacked in front of the door to form a proper little barricade, he stopped. There were still no definitive sounds coming from either end but that didn’t fill him with anything but further tension.It would come. He knew it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Minutes ticked by, without anything other than the outside noises of normal city life. It seemed almost absurd, that life ticked on like ever before just outside their own windows.His phone rang, the noise of it shrill in the eerie stillness that had descended on the flat in the wake of the earlier muted commotion.Thinking that it might be Sarah, or possibly Greg, calling him because he couldn’t get hold of Sherlock, with the risk that he might come to Baker Street or even already be on his way, John answered the call. Without checking, because his focus was still mostly split between the door and the bedroom.“Hello?” he said into the speaker.He wasn’t sure whether he had unconsciously expected the voice he heard on the other end to be who it was but regardless, when the voice did register, it made him tense up further than he already was.“Johnny-boy!” the lilting voice said, a note of what might be faked delight in it, and then again, might not be, even if it wasn’t quite as innocently cheerful as it might suggest. “How lovely! I didn’t think you’d pick up – are you free for another play-date, then?”“What the fucking hell did you do to him?” John replied, a snarl of his own in his voice.“Aw, is he not tackling it well? Tut, tut. And here I thought you might bring him along, too. We did so get along. Such a shame.”“Don’t piss around, Moriarty. If you wanted to kill either of us, why the bloody buggering fuck didn’t you just do that at the pool?“There you go again, no manners at all,” Moriarty sighed, almost theatrically put-upon. Then his tone shifted entirely, to something that sent a chill down John’s spine as it had before. “Killing you at the pool would’ve been boring, Johnny, and I do not like boring.”Even though he couldn’t see him, it wasn’t difficult to envision the brown eyes flashing amber at that.“Why did you bother looking at me in the first place, then?” It wasn’t a good idea to ask such a thing, he knew that, but Moriarty wasn’t the one he was worried about angering right now.That question only earned him a small chuckle, which he knew ought to have been a bigger surprise to him than it ended up being.“Because you’re far from boring, at least for now. But then, very few things aren’t boring for long.”“Wouldn’t Sherlock have fit that criteria? What’s the point of mucking that up if that’s what you want? To not be bored?”The Irishman’s voice was back to cheerful, although that didn’t help the chill down John’s spine. He knew how fake that cheeriness was now, or at least how temporary and changeable it was. “Sherlock’s very boring. He doesn’t want to play or share.”“But you can’t share as dragons, isn’t that the whole point?!”I really don’t have the time for this, John thought, but at the same time, I don’t want to find out what happens if I hang up on him. He’s wrought enough chaos here as it is, and I’m in no doubt that he can cause a whole lot more if he gets annoyed.“Yes.”The word was hissed and for a moment, John thought he could feel that tongue on his face again. It was all in his head, of course, thankfully, but the memory was uncomfortable all on its own.He didn’t want to play this game. If Moriarty wanted to spend time taunting him like this, John was going to get some proper answers out of him.“How do I get him back to normal? What exactly did you do to him and how do I reverse it?”“Hasn’t dear brother Mycroft been scouring the shops for suitable gold to use? Or…hasn’t it worked like you thought it would? Or…like he said it would, at least? Oh, poor darling, having to put your trust in dragons like that.” His voice changed again. “Trust will get you killed.”I’d rather be killed by him than by you. He didn’t voice that thought out loud, though, as he didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. Or whatever.But still…was there some truth to that? Had Mycroft been – no, of course he had! It was ludicrous to even entertain the notion that he hadn’t been telling the truth. Why wouldn’t he? Even if he didn’t care about John, even if Moriarty was right and it was wrong to put your trust in dragons, which he didn’t believe, there was still Sherlock.However much apparent animosity there was between the two, it was the petty sort that only siblings know how to ignite and keep aflame. One that could be snuffed out, or at least brought down to the merest embers, when the situation called for it. The fact that they were dragons didn’t alter anything.If Mycroft had faked the concern and care he’d exhibited towards his brother when he’d seen him lying unresponsive on the sofa, then he was wasted as a civil servant and a profound loss for the acting profession.So no, he couldn’t see any reason for Mycroft to lie about the gold being a dragon panacea. Not even the, in hindsight obvious, reaction to having to give it up counted towards that, really, no matter how difficult it had been. In fact, that he’d given it up despite abundant evidence he didn’t want to, was only further proof he’d been telling the truth, and that the recovery of his brother was more important.
In general, it’d always also be a good rule to dismiss anything Moriarty has to say on principle, wouldn’t it, though?

How do I get answers out of him, then? Everything he says might be to mess with me, or not be, just to mess with me further.
“If that’s the case,” he said out loud, still with an ear on both directions where trouble could potentially lurk, “then I don’t see any reason to continue talking to you, either.”“Oh, but you don’t trust me, Johnny-boy. The only reason you’re asking me is because you have no other choice. You’re not scared of me, either, though, which is interesting.”“Do you expect me to be scared of you because you’re a dragon or because you’re off your rockers?”He got no immediate answer for that but got the distinct feeling that he’d managed to amuse the man again rather than anger him, which served to anger John.The life he’d worked to build after being honourably discharged and the life he’d hoped to have in the future, both of those had been ripped apart by Moriarty being bored and thus ‘playing’, with no discernible sign that they could ever be mended. How could that fail to make him angry?Not all of it was directed at Moriarty but right now, he was more than fine with channelling and concentrating that anger directly at the Irishman, even if he was unable to physically get an outlet for it. That the man, for a given value of the term, didn’t even see fit to have the expected sort of response – though of course, it really was par for the course, given his apparent mental state – to a given situation, including this, was only adding fuel to the fire.Even more fire was added when the eventual verbal response he got was, “No…I expect you to either die or wish you had. Well, if you still had the free will to wish for anything at that point, of course.”Another crash sounded from the bedroom and the erroneous thought of ‘there shouldn’t really be more to crash in there’ flitted through his mind. However, it also brought his focus back more fully on what was possibly unfolding in there and the fact that at any minute, it could spill out into the passage and further, put the danger closer to him.“Look, is there any reason that you’re calling me, at all or specifically now? Because if there is, and I don’t think – no, actually, I don’t care whether there’s a reason you’re calling or not. Piss off and leave us alone.”“Long to stay on the phone if you didn’t care at all.” The voice sounded almost hurt now, in a way that’d probably be believable, if it’d been anyone else. Then it changed, dropping to a hiss. “Do you really think the only thing I’m capable of is bombing people?”“No, I think much more highly of you,” John snapped back. “I think you can kill people in all sorts of ways or just fuck them up. I don’t care what you do, you cannot make this any worse, so just piss off!”“Can’t I? I think poor little Molly would disagree with that, along with your faithful bumbling policeman.”No. No, no, no! No, this wasn’t happening. Not them, too. Why couldn’t he just learn to…stop?!
Calm down, would you? You just thought to yourself how you cannot trust him on anything, why would you suddenly trust him on this? He’s deliberately trying to rile you.
But why?
He doesn’t bloody well need a reason. He just needs an excuse and you’re giving it to him free of charge!
Another crash and finally it registered in John’s mind what it had been he’d heard crashing. It wasn’t items in the room – now knowing what he was and what that entailed, the room seemed oddly spartan in its decoration – smashing to the ground because the two dragons were fighting and knocking things over.At least, it wasn’t exclusively that. One crash had definitely included the tinkle of glass shattering, but a few of the others, and this one included, was the crash of something colliding heavily with some wooden surface, presumably a door, which was beginning to splinter underneath the continued assault.
Well, you can say this about the bugger; if nothing else, he’s determined and persistent.
This really wasn’t an area in which those traits were good things.Of course, it could also be the wardrobe they’d hit but repeatedly? Unlikely. The splintering audible underneath the last crash seemed somewhat conclusive. It was rather loud, which meant that it wouldn’t stand up to much more before it broke, and Sherlock continued his hunt.He was out of time. To protect himself, to run away. To protect the ones he cared about, because there was a slim chance that Moriarty was actually telling the truth, even if retroactively, as it were. To be his own person. To get a chance to say goodbye.To end it himself on his terms rather than by anybody else’s, especially three variations of dragons.All of that, Moriarty had robbed him of by calling him like this, just as he’d robbed him of his future. His best friend. His love. His personhood.And for what? Because the berk-shite was bored and wanted some sort of diversion, and he’d decided that going for Sherlock, and by extension John, was the best option for it. Nothing more than that. No deeper meaning, just…boredom.
Or he genuinely wanted you and now he’s lashing out. Doesn’t make it better, admittedly.
John’s blood was metaphorically boiling at that point.“I will kill you,” he said into the phone, his voice deadly calm. “Whatever I’ll have to do to stay alive long enough to find you and kill you thrice over, I will do it.”With that, he hung up. He took a deep breath.Time to get it done. The wood finally splintered all the way, making it rather unequivocal that it was indeed the door that had been hit rather than the wardrobe, especially when the remains of said door fell down and landed on the floor with quite the audible thud.John listened intently for further sounds, this time mainly from the dragon side of things, even though he also kept an ear on the outer door, just in case that somebody did try to break in that way.That would just be the tin-lid, wouldn’t it? The dragon breaking through just as the mob, or whoever else it might be, made it through the other side. Almost bloody Hammer Horror.If it was a Hammer Horror, though, this…what seemed like it was going to be the end would probably feel awfully anticlimactic, all things considered.
Well, if they’re going to come bursting in here, they could at least be kind enough to bring the torches, for the extra flare. As it were. One set of flames against another.

Shut up, this really isn’t the bloody time!

If there isn’t time for gallows’ humour now, then when?
He was still in the living room, though he’d moved closer to the windows straight after having hung up on Moriarty.Which was probably a completely idiotic thing to do but at this point, John couldn’t bear to think of any more worries, especially not when they crisscrossed and contradicted one another.
In a way, it’s almost going to be a relief, then, isn’t it? To not have to think anymore. Just…stop.
He wished he could wholeheartedly and immediately dismiss that thought as untrue. As he couldn’t entirely manage that, he settled for telling his mind to shut up, again, hoping that it would.The front door was, by opening into the flat rather than out and therefore meeting the barrier John had managed to get in front of it, keeping people from entering the flat. At the same time, it also made it difficult to get out of the flat that way – for John, at least, for Sherlock it’d probably be cakewalk to claw or burn his way through. Did he even have fire breath? It was almost the defining feature of a dragon but for all he knew, they didn’t, or some spewed flame and others spewed…other things.But the windows…it would be more than a little stupid to try and get out that way, but it could be done.It might seem contradictory to his earlier behaviour and thoughts, to be ready to climb out a window and down a building without any proper handholds or experience in wall-climbing to escape from them. Especially in light of his earlier consideration that he wouldn’t make it far, not to mention his promise that he’d protect Sherlock.But that was just what he’d do. Protect him, and by that extension Mycroft, by escaping. Not forever, he still didn’t believe that would ever work, but long enough that he could make it to Whitehall, to Mycroft’s offices and warn whatever-she-called-herself-at-moment. As Mycroft’s PA she’d know, as well as know what to do about it.That way, he could at least make sure that no harm would come to the Holmes brothers and they wouldn’t likely be exposed, either. ‘Anthea’ knew her stuff, after all, or Mycroft wouldn’t have hired and kept her. Hopefully, though that was a bit more uncertain, what with the time he’d have to spend going from Baker Street to Whitehall.It’d be roughly twenty minutes by tube but that would be, if he was caught before he reached his destination, be an enclosed space where potential fire outbursts would prove far more detrimental than in the open air. By foot, though, he’d estimate that a run would take him there in twenty-five to thirty-five minutes.In that time, Moriarty could easily manage to harm any or all of the people close to both Sherlock and John, quite apart from the time it’d take to actually get into Mycroft’s office and her, and for her to organise things. He didn’t doubt she could move quickly, but still.Even so, it was worth it.
Worth it to put all the lives of the people you’ll run past to get to Whitehall in danger from a fairy tale creature intent on claiming you which, according to every story you’ve ever heard about it, has fire at its beck and call? How are they worth more than all the other people, apart from the fact that Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson are important to you?
They weren’t. To him, yes, of course they were, but that wasn’t a valid reason, and no, he couldn’t think of a good reason beyond that. But if he was honest, with perhaps just a touch of rationalising thrown in, he could admit that, he couldn’t see Sherlock, even in the state he was now, incinerating people like that.At least, not before he’d gotten hold of John and the dragon sought to keep others away from its treasure. He’d seen how the bric-a-brac that’d been brought home had been handled, after all, and he guessed it would be the same fate for him. Even Billy wasn’t ever manhandled.That and spewing flame, from a human throat, before he’d caught hold of his flatmate would run the risk of incinerating John as well. Though he couldn’t entirely discount it – ever since this whole ordeal started, he hadn’t been able to discount much of anything – the likelihood that a pile of cinders would be able to count as treasure for a dragon was slim, to say the least.He could, of course, have gotten a head start by crawling out of the window the moment he’d hung up instead of waiting for the door to come down and the younger dragon to cover the distance, as he was now doing. But while there was merit to the idea, he’d chosen to stay until he could see what state his friend was in by now. More importantly, it would also mean that Sherlock would be able to see him leave.Possibly he could trace him regardless of whether he was seen or not, either through his nose or even ‘normal’ Sherlock methods, but to provide him with clear confirmation of John leaving that way might prevent him from further anger, from it escalating.A clear trail might appeal to the instincts of the dragon even if the person behind would wrinkle his nose at something so easy.Or maybe he was just stalling for time. Though he knew he ought to, he hadn’t yet given up hope that he would see Sherlock without the dragon again, for more than a second or two, not entirely. He’d tried, hard and several times, but had found that he couldn’t.
Good old John. Loyal bleeding-heart right to the end, eh?
Once the door hit the floor, several noises followed, among them the footsteps thudding hard against the flooring, bangs against walls, from something that John couldn’t identify and just audible, voices.Why were they so muffled, though? And there was one noise in particular that he was listening for which he wasn’t getting; that of any type of growl, hiss or roar, especially the last one.The dragon wouldn’t have been pleased at being challenged and restrained, thereby preventing him from getting to John as he wanted. Hell, he’d seen that it wasn’t pleased. Now that it sounded like he’d managed to overcome Mycroft – John fervently hoped that didn’t mean the death of the older dragon – and was closing the distance, it would stand to reason that he’d make some sort of noise. Either one of anger and danger or one of triumph and that it in any case would be something that could be easily heard.And yet…there was nothing.Stalking his prey? But dragons weren’t exactly the type of shape suited for stealth. Of course, they would be far more capable of that when in human form but even so, their mindset didn’t seem right for that, either. Then again, Sherlock wasn’t normal for a human being, it’d somehow make sense that he’d employ behaviour not typical of dragons, either.It certainly seemed as though he was trying to sneak up on John, to gain the advantage and recapture him.
Except I’m waiting for you, you bastard.
Part of him felt bad for thinking of his friend like that, but it was a small part and was in any case drowned out by the knowledge that it was the dragon, not Sherlock, he was dealing with. Besides, he’d called him worse things when he’d been completely himself, hadn’t he?He held his breath as he waited. For a moment, he’d thought of going for his gun but had decided it as for one thing, it was up in his bedroom as normal, and, more importantly, he’d seen how little effect bullets had on a dragon, ones without special coating, anyway.In what simultaneously felt like a very long time and no time at all, he could see the shape of the brunet emerge from the small passage and into the kitchen where he stopped for a moment. From his position near the living room windows, John couldn’t see him clearly but still well enough to see that the appendages hadn’t returned.That was about all he had time to register before the dragon was on the move again, moving at the same time with a force and a grace that should be incompatible but looked completely natural.It wove past the clutter of their kitchen as effortlessly and quickly as a dolphin through the water while his eyes didn’t waver from their target for a moment. None of the obstacles in the path between him and John seemed to be any trouble for him, and he was closing fast, still as silent and intent as before.There was something else in those eyes, too, however. Something changed but at the distance, John didn’t register it. Or maybe he did and didn’t know what it signified.John hadn’t expected the speed but managed to get the rest of the way over to the window before the dragon was out of the kitchen. He hadn’t opened it before, worried that the smells coming from the opened window would tip the other off on what he intended to do.Luckily for him, it didn’t stick too much, which was just as well, as he was forced to turn his back on the dragon while he worked, doing it one-handed simply not possible. He tried to listen for him as he worked, though, and refused to be panicked by it.The window slid open and he was up and sitting on the sill before he’d gotten it all the way up.Looking out, he saw that he’d have to squeeze out between the window and the ornate railings more than he thought he would have but on the other hand, he could use the railing to pull himself out instead and swing other onto the other side, climbing down it enough that he’d be able to touch the canopied awning on Speedy’s with his feet. It wouldn’t break his fall, of course, but it’d help him make sure he didn’t land on the spiked railings at the front door of 223. Small mercies and all.He reached out, still with his back unfortunately turned, and managed to get hold of the railings, which seemed, despite their obvious age, rather sturdy and in good nick. Victorians did love to make their ostentation last, didn’t they? Thankfully.Satisfied that it’d be able to bear his weight at least for long enough that he could drop down and hopefully not sprain something, as would just figure with everything else that had happened, he started to pull himself out – only to be grabbed by the ankle when he was almost all the way out.No. Not yet. Fuck it all, he couldn’t be caught so soon. That wasn’t the plan.
And maybe therefore you shouldn’t have waited for him like the giant idiot twat that you are but gotten on with it the moment you hung up on Moriarty – or alternatively, at the very least when you heard the door fall down.
There was no point in dwelling on that now, though. Done was done and he’d have to deal with the outcome.Though he could feel the claws on the bony fingers as they circled and tightened around his ankle, it was only around the one, which left his other foot free. It wasn’t the best or safest way to do it, but he estimated that he’d have about enough leverage, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow the dragon to just pull him back in like it pleased.Not yet. Not ever if he could’ve helped that but since he knew that couldn’t be the case, then certainly not yet.So, glancing as briefly as possible over his shoulder to try and gauge where exactly the brunet’s face was, which consequently meant that he didn’t take in anything beyond that fact, he tightened his grip on the railings and kicked backwards, feeling his shoe connect with something hard and bony, not something yielding. He would’ve thought it to be the jaw, which was certainly not quite as guilt-inducing as hitting him straight in the nose.It wasn’t as though he was exactly thrilled to hit Sherlock, even in the circumstances, but he would if that was what it took to get him to let go and allow John to get out.There was also the risk that it wouldn’t be enough to do that job, seeing as he hadn’t exactly been hurt by the bullets themselves. Nor had his earlier attempt to kick him yielded any result but this time, it might possibly at least shock him enough to let go. It was a frail hope, to say the least, but it was about all that he had right then.He thought he heard a noise come from the dragon as his foot made impact but whether it was one of pain or merely surprise, he couldn’t say. It wouldn’t have mattered, either, if not for the fact that despite his best effort, his ankle was not let go of. The grip didn’t even loosen.He kicked again, harder and wilder than before, just trying to inflict enough damage or cause enough shock that he could pull the ankle free and get out. But he didn’t have the element of surprise on his side this time and instead of impacting with a part of the other’s face again, he had his other ankle grabbed, too, the grip just as strong as the other.Both hands began to pull at that. Not hard, not forcefully, just enough that it took a real struggle to keep his grip on the railings.Despite that, hold on he did. Even as his fingers protested and the cuts that he’d sustained on his wrist earlier sprang back up and began to trickle blood, he held on. At the same time, he also tried to pull himself out of the grip using that very hold.A thought occurred to him while he wriggled and struggled; the dragon had remained, apart from that one noise, entirely silent ever since he’d gotten into the kitchen. No roar, no hiss, no exclamation of ownership. Nothing at all, which was almost more unsettling than the alternative.Why was that? Had he managed to sink further into whatever primal state he’d descended to? He didn’t seem to behave more ferally otherwise but perhaps that wasn’t how it worked with dragons.It didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure that he not just got word of to their friends to warn them of both Sherlock and of Moriarty but to make sure that neither of them could actually turn up and hurt them, one way or the other.He realised he himself was making plenty of noise, mostly through swearing as he struggled. It wasn’t something which had much coherence except being a string of abuse that he was controlling at all, just his mouth running off by itself. At another time, he might’ve wondered why it was doing that now and not at an earlier point but right then, he didn’t spare the thought.Then he saw that people passing on the street were actually looking up at him as they passed, though they didn’t yet find it interesting enough to stop and watch the spectacle of what, to outsiders, probably looked like a loonier version of a domestic.This wasn’t how he’d intended to attract attention, if he’d intended to attract attention at all. In fact, it was exactly what he’d been afraid of in relation to why he’d barricaded the front door in the first place, wasn’t it?His mouth clicked shut hard, though he didn’t stop struggling as hard as he still could against the hold the other had on him. The people passing stopped glancing up at him.Then, though his mind was filled with thoughts, he heard his name being called.For a moment, he had no idea who said it or even where it had come from. Then he thought it might’ve come from someone down on the street but that wasn’t the case.Where then had it come from?Then, he realised where and, more importantly who, and his heart vaulted in his chest.He closed his eyes, praying that he hadn’t misheard and that it wouldn’t turn out to be just a ploy to stop him struggling. It wouldn’t fit with the baser behaviour but then again, dragons were cunning by nature, weren’t they?
Regardless of whether it’s a ploy or not, you can’t deny that you left it too late to get away from him and now you’re caught without hope of escaping. You might as well see for yourself.
Reluctant though he was to agree with that, he nevertheless opened his eyes and turned his head.To find Sherlock looking intently at him with just about the oddest expression John had ever seen on him, which was quite an achievement given all that had gone before.In contrast to when he’d regained consciousness earlier, though the pale eyes were still those of the dragon rather than the person, it wasn’t the near-blank slate of then or the subsequent grin of possessiveness. Alternately, it could be said to have been the grin of a skull, too.In fact, while that base blankness was still in there, the rest couldn’t be more of a contrast, with the positive tapestry of emotions vying for space on that face. Anger, for one, bordering on that strange kind of rage that he’d seen before, more animal than human. Joyful triumph was another. Confusion was a large part and so was pain, both the twist of physical pain and the deeper but subtler emotional and mental one. Fear, dread, horror and panic was, though not quite as large as the others, slowly growing.Tying them all together was a hopeless and yet hopeful, almost desperate pleading, as if Sherlock really didn’t understand anything anymore and he was asking John to make sense of it for him, somehow.That pleading, that naked vulnerability that was too lost and flickering to be anything but genuine got through to the doctor, and not just because it was that of the lost creature pleading for help.It was his friend looking out at him again, not the dragon. Regardless of the eyes that hadn’t returned to their human state, he felt certain in calling them that. That was Sherlock looking at him, for help, for guidance to understand what he couldn’t.As he’d done before while they’d lived together. Every time, in fact, he’d looked to John.It might be that he was being tricked, of course, with the nature of dragons and everything that had happened, but it didn’t feel that way. If that had been within the vocabulary, as it were, it felt likely that he’d have employed it much sooner, feral reaction or not.Besides, it wasn’t as though he had anything much left to believe in, was it? And it certainly wasn’t as though he had many other options, either.
And you also want to believe that he’s still in there, too.
Well, yes, he did. Of course, he did.“Sherlock?” he asked again, aware of all the times he’d called that previously and hoping that perhaps this time, it would get through. Fully. Truly.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

For a long while, there was no response, and John thought that he might’ve gotten his hopes up for nothing once again.The expression remained, however, and the pleading only grew stronger.John didn’t notice, focused as he was on something else and not in the best position to scan the surroundings, but Mycroft had also entered the room now, looking very much worse for wear. Sherlock didn’t look any better, really, but John’s focus was on something else.The elder brother didn’t make any attempt to draw attention to himself, either, though. Instead he chose to watch what was playing out in front of him with bated breath, hoping that his brother had finally managed to find enough of a tether to break all the way through and take over again. That what had happened in the bedroom after the blond had scarpered had been enough to make the difference.If not, then he’d continue to waylay him.He dug his phone out of his pocket to send a quick text to Anthea, just in case that this would be the case and she needed to prepare for it.“John…?” Sherlock said, his voice slow, hesitant and more than a little lost, as though it’d had to fight its way through to get out.That didn’t matter, though.He’d said his name, twice now, with no addition of possessive proclamation or a switch back to the wholly triumphant, possessive expression that had been on his face previously.The former soldier loosened his grip on the railings so he could turn his body around and get a better look at the other, to make sure that what he thought he’d seen was what he genuinely had seen. As he did so, there was no further attempt to tug at his legs or otherwise pull him in.Instead, Sherlock just continued to look at him, that same expression on his face.“Sherlock? Please, for the love of…please tell me you’re in there.”The brunet’s brow knitted strongly. He let out a small noise, almost like the keen from before, but much softer and more lost, somehow. Then he blinked rapidly a few times and when he stopped…“John?” he queried again as his pupils widened into something more closely resembling those of cats, which could be slits, too, but weren’t as often as not. The fact that they were widening at all and wasn’t immediately slipping back to slits were the important thing, though.“Yes?”John had ended up sitting on the windowsill, his ankles still gripped by Sherlock but as the man had moved closer, it would almost, to an outsider, look as though the blond was about to slip his legs around the waist of the other.“John,” he said once more. Then he blinked again, and his eyes returned almost fully to the shape and colour John knew. “Please don’t leave.”“I – what?” Immediately, the distrust and wariness slammed back up into defence. Why would he ask that? Why would that be the first thing he said other than John’s name? Was it just another ploy to claim him?No. He forced them back down again. It wasn’t. If he was mentally there enough to employ a tactic like that, he’d be there enough to realise that he already had him. That there was no real escape left to him, not on his own, so there was no reason for him to say that.He could claim him just fine without resorting to such measures.“Please don’t leave,” Sherlock repeated, a little more insistent. He tugged at the ankles he was still gripping, possibly to underline his point.“I…” How to phrase it? It didn’t quite feel as though his friend was completely there just yet and he didn’t want to somehow tip the scales back towards the dragon being in charge. John had no idea whether he could do that, but he’d rather not risk it. “I don’t want to, either. Believe me. But I don’t…I don’t want to be nothing more than a part of your hoard, either.”After that, he waited, trying to gauge how that was received and whether it had even gotten through.The pupils narrowed into slits again, but it was only for a moment, thankfully. Then they widened back up into what they’d been before and then wider still, as though in dawning realisation of what John had said.Or maybe it was something else. The doctor didn’t know and couldn’t say.The hands let go of his ankles, though, with the speed of someone who’d been burned, an observation which John couldn’t help finding slightly amusing, given the nature of the brunet.Most of him, however, was more occupied with working out why he’d let go in the first place and what that entailed.“Sherlock?” he asked again.“I…I don’t…” The eyebrows knitted together again in incomprehension and confusion and the hands came up to press against the eyes. “I…”“Sherlock?”It took a few long moments before he got an answer and when he did, his voice was not only hesitant, it was small and a little pained. “Don’t…please…I…I can’t…please…”There was a keening noise again. It was brief but it was most definitely there, and it sent a small shard of something painful through the doctor.
No. Not again. The trade-off can’t be that. I don’t want the alternative but that can’t be…there has to be another way, some way in which to break this for good without breaking Sherlock at the same time. Fucking Moriarty, why couldn’t he just have left us the fuck alone?

Because that’s not how he plays, which you know perfectly well – and that’s beside the possibility that he actually does want to claim you, after all.
He finally noticed the other brother was in the room when Mycroft stepped forward, slowly, but with his hand held out as though to ask Sherlock to take it.John held up his own hand as he caught the other’s gaze, noting in the back of his mind that Mycroft didn’t have the dragon eyes and taking some comfort in that.The elder Holmes stopped at the doctor’s silent request, hovering just out of range with an indiscernible expression that John was still willing to bet meant concern for his brother.“Sherlock? Can you hear me?”“I…I…you said…but…I don’t…why is…”
Well, he’s still talking. Even if he’s not making much sense, it’s far more than he’s said, coherent or not, since he first fell into that comatose state. That has got to count for something.
Still feeling rather apprehensive of the true meaning behind and the eventual outcome of it all, John nevertheless reached out to take Sherlock’s hands. The consulting detective let him do it without fight or comment, and he tugged them down and away from his face, gently.When he could again see the eyes, which opened slowly as he drew the hands down, they were still the pale swirl of colours he was used to seeing and he breathed a sigh a relief even as he also held his breath.“John?” he asked. The lost, pleading look almost dominated his features now.“Are you…are you really in there, Sherlock? Please. I need you to…I need you, okay?”“You…I…we are…you said…” He trailed off again.“I think he might be stuck. Further than last time but still.”The words, audible mainly because of the quietness around them, came from Mycroft. John’s eyes darted to him, to acknowledge that he’d heard and understood, noting in the back of his mind that for all the evident dragon’s healing capabilities, both brothers looked as though they’d been in the wars, then back to see what reaction Sherlock might have to that, whether it was positive or negative.Nothing. Not even anything to indicate that he’d heard him, which might very well be the case.But if he was stuck, then what could be done?
He’s no threat to you now. If you want to calm him with a hug or similar, you can. He’s terrified of losing you, if the fact that that’s what his first words were counts for anything. Perhaps that’s been the underlying factor.
No, that didn’t quite feel…it was probably a part of it, possibly even a large part but it wasn’t all of it.To be honest, he didn’t know, and he was somewhat beyond the point of caring, at least unless it was a direct way to help his friend return.There was something to what he was saying, however. He wasn’t just terrified of John leaving, he’d referred, twice now, to John having said something, though he hadn’t been able to specify.He tugged at the hands again, gently, and Sherlock followed, drawing close but still without any dragon indication.“I said what, Sherlock?” he asked, voice very soft and encouraging.
Small steps. Baby steps all the way if that’s what it takes. Just come back to us, Sherlock.
“You said…that you…” The eyes squeezed shut, as though it hurt to think but he was determined to make the effort. “That you…”He pulled one of his hands free at that, which initially John, unable to stop it, felt incredibly uncomfortable with, to say the least. For one thing, they were still very much clawed, and they’d done damage before.But he only brought his fingers up to his lips, tapping them twice, as though that would yield an answer. Then he brought his hand back down to rest over his heart, pressing into the flesh.What had he said that had to do with…oh?That? He’d actually…oh.
Oh.
John felt his own heart do an odd flip and thud inside his chest at the same time.Well, it was certainly worth a shot, wasn’t it?He leaned in, carefully, mindful that this was his friend but at the same time, it was someone in a rather fragile mental state, one who could tear him asunder if he chose.Sherlock didn’t seem to notice him moving in, eyes still closed and his mind stuck on something.Just before he made contact, John hesitated. But then he steeled himself and continued.“I do love you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear, trying to sound as earnest as possible, because he was. “If that’s what you were referring to. I said that and I meant it. I’m in love with you.”With that, he pulled back, readying himself for whatever the declaration might bring now that there was a far greater chance that Sherlock could actually understand him. It might still be the same reaction as before, or a worse one, or even no reaction at all, of course.Only, he didn’t get to pull back that far; before he’d gotten even halfway back to an upright position, he was grabbed. Not by his hands or his shoulders. Not even his throat but his face, the bony, clawed hands coming up to frame it in a way that was far gentler than anything Sherlock had done since he’d fallen comatose.Had he ever touched John gently like that? John had difficulty recalling but he wouldn’t have thought so.That wasn’t what stole most of his attention, however. That was reserved for the expression on his friend’s face. Or at least, it was for the split second he got to register it before his head was pulled forward swiftly and Sherlock’s lips almost crashed into his, kissing him as though his life depended upon it.In other circumstances, John would’ve been ecstatic to be kissed by Sherlock. To be honest, if it had happened during normal circumstances, he probably would’ve been surprised and a little suspicious, first of all, depending on what had gone before. But on the condition that it was consensual and honest on both parts, he would’ve been over the moon.Now, though…he was still happy, in the pure sense that something he’d hoped for was happening, but it was…it felt wrong. It didn’t feel as though Sherlock was kissing him. Rather, it felt as though he was trying to establish an anchor, attach himself so firmly to the other that there was no risk that he’d detach and be cast loose again.In other words, it felt like it had nothing to do with John. Which was probably true, considering, but that didn’t make it feel less gut punching.Even so, he found himself unwilling to disengage, if he could’ve done so. That said, he wasn’t exactly actively kissing back and when the tongue tried to push his lips open to gain access to his mouth, he did his best to prevent it.Not that would’ve likely worked for long, given the brunet’s nature, but that wasn’t the point.In any case, that he so staunchly refused seemed to pull Sherlock up short, at least enough to open his eyes and look at John, a frown of confusion creasing his brow again.Then realisation seemed to dawn for him, in one sudden swoop, and he pulled back, dropping his hands quickly.“I didn’t – I – “He looked horrified as he stared at the doctor, and while John would normally be incredibly offended that someone who’d kissed him had that kind of reaction, now…well, to be perfectly honest, he couldn’t deny that it did hurt quite a lot.The reason it hurt, however, was more or less the same reason he felt some relief at the reaction. That he’d be horrified, or at the very least shocked and aghast, at such an action as kissing, when it wasn’t acting for a case, fitted within normal parameters for Sherlock. Which in turn was quite the strong indicator that he was genuinely back behind the wheel in his own body.That was what mattered in all of this. Not John’s hurt feelings or breaking heart. That could mend, as it had before this, and not purely before he’d been drawn into the chaos that was life at 221B.What mattered was that he’d be able to mend it because Sherlock was, or at least so it seemed, back with them, as his own person rather than just a part of a greater yet baser creature, which in turn meant that he could be persuaded that John shouldn’t be a possession.“It’s okay,” he heard himself saying, voice quiet but cracking slightly even as he tried to sound reassuring. “I know you didn’t, it’s okay.”Something wasn’t quite right with the expression on the brunet’s face. Yes, he could buy that he’d be shocked, maybe even a little aghast that he’d put himself out there like that, whether he’d meant it or not. To be downright horrified, however, seemed just a little too strong a reaction for it, or at least, not quite the right one for Sherlock to have.Especially not when it didn’t seem to abate as Sherlock took a step back from where John was still sitting on the windowsill.Unless…unless he was missing something. But what could that possibly be?“It’s…it’s not…it’s…I…”Sherlock tried to take another step backwards but John, sensing that there was a risk the other was going to turn tail, hah, and flee, reached out quickly and grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, to prevent him from leaving.
Well, there’s a nice turnabout, hm?

Shut up!
“It is,” he said, insistent, looking into the pale eyes blown wide. “If you’re back here with us, truly back, then it’s okay.”Was it really or was he saying that to appease his friend more than anything else? To calm him and prevent him from swerving himself back into some sort of state? It wouldn’t be a stretch to believe that a genuine risk and therefore, to say something that stood a chance of preventing it wasn’t much of a stretch, either. So, the question became, did he really mean that it was?Yes. Yes, it was. He did and it was.That didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry because he very much was. For almost everything that had happened between him storming out of the flat and now, and it wasn’t that he no longer felt justified in that anger.The thing was, however, that the anger was no longer the main emotion inside or even at the forefront, and that, he thought, was at least partially because he now understood why. Not the exact ins and outs of dragons and their behaviour, obviously, but the reasons for them happening, he now got, at least to an extent.In particular, to know that much of the reactions and behaviour was genuinely outside of Sherlock’s control – a good portion of the rest was probably only kept under control by force of will – did a lot to quieten the anger.Or, perhaps it was fairer to say that his anger was no longer directed at his friend because of the aforesaid realisation. He was still angry, yes, but it was directed at the nature of dragons, the circumstances and the events that had sprung from those, and especially Moriarty. Not Sherlock.So, yes, it was definitely okay, and he could say with honesty that it wasn’t to appease the dragon or prevent him regressing back into whatever had been going on.That said, it didn’t mean he didn’t watch for it, since the risk was very real. It just wasn’t why he said what he did.Looking at Sherlock, though, he wasn’t exactly sure he’d said the right thing; the look on his face didn’t abate and the hands John was holding were trembling slightly.Shock from all that he’d gone through? Or perhaps just exhaustion? The fact that he’d been practically comatose for as long as he had didn’t mean much. Comatose didn’t automatically mean resting, whatever people thought.Or perhaps he was indeed retreating.“Are you back with us? Sherlock?”The brunet blinked again, rapidly, but his eyes stayed the same after he’d done so and his teeth when he briefly grimaced also looked decidedly human. Now if only the claws would disappear, too, John could rest far more assured that he wasn’t still on the precipice of going dragon again.“I…yes, I think…but I can’t – you shouldn’t be…ngh!”Grimacing once more, he tried to tug his hands away, hard, but John held on, even as the claws dug into his flesh once again.He considered another kiss, this time instigated by him rather than Sherlock, to show that it really was okay, but he wasn’t sure how that would be received, though he suspected it wouldn’t be well.“What shouldn’t I be?”“Here. You shouldn’t be here!” The words came out in a shouted rush, as though they’d tumbled their way out by force.Thrown for another loop, even if he noticed that it was a complete sentence rather than a fragmented confusion, John tried to not let that show when he said, “But you just pleaded with me not to leave. Or was that a lie?”Sherlock shook his head, quickly. Emphatically. “I don’t want you to leave.”“Then what the hell are you on about?”The pleading in the pale eyes were back, begging him to, it seemed, understand. “I don’t…but you shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”“I think we passed not safe when you attempted to sink your teeth into my neck!” Okay, so perhaps he wasn’t quite over his anger just yet and certainly not entirely in control of it. “And that’s not even taking everything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours into account!”Sherlock winced at the words, something which, again, didn’t seem right for him to do. He tugged at his hands again, this time with enough force to get them out of the doctor’s hands. That meant his claws bit into soft skin before they disengaged, not quite drawing blood but certainly rising welts.That fact didn’t seem lost on Sherlock, whatever else was going on in that humongous brain, but it only served, it appeared, to heighten his intent to step away.John took a deep but quick breath, tamping down to the best of his abilities at the moment on his anger. He didn’t try to reach out for his friend again, worried of what the reaction to that would be.“I’m here, though aren’t I?” he asked instead, trying to ignore the fact that he’d tried to get away not long ago. That was something else entirely.“But you shouldn’t. It’s not safe. I’m not safe.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

To have Sherlock say that, openly and frankly like it was an indisputable fact, was as jarring as the horrified look had been, possibly even more so.“That is very far from the truth.”It was Mycroft, speaking to and looking directly at his brother.Sherlock almost spun towards him, though it seemed more out of surprise that he was there than any outburst of hostility or territoriality.“Don’t lie to me, Mycroft,” he said, and not even his voice was the snap it’d normally be when talking back to his brother or refuting a stupid point in general. It was much quieter, much more sincere. Much more unnerving. “I can smell the blood on both you and John, and not much of it is mine, at least not on John. I can also recognise claw marks when I see them, particularly my own, and you’d be wilfully blind not to spot John wincing, quite apart from what he said just before.”Was it an odd sort of relief that his eloquence and not just the ability to string sentences together had at least returned to him? Possibly but not that much, all things considered, nor was the fact that he pulled out truthful deductions.Sherlock paused to press his hand to his head, as though in pain, closing his eyes as he did so before he continued. “All of that, and likely more than that as I can’t seem to concentrate, and you tell me I’m safe for John to be around? When I’ve clearly tried to hurt him more than once since…”He trailed off, a noise of frustration leaving him as he pressed his hand harder against his head.“And I’ve succeeded in hurting him, as well,” he said after a lengthy pause. His voice, though not changing in volume or pitch, had a slightly haunted undertone to it now, at least to John’s ears.Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, his gaze fixed on the blond who was still sitting on the windowsill, immobile for the moment. Or perhaps it was the wounds on John’s throat he was focusing on. “No wonder he was trying to escape, considering that. So yes, it is very much true. I’m a danger to him and this place is no longer safe for him.”“You’re far more coherent now than you’ve been since…well, since you went comatose on me. Surely that’s an argument that you’re no longer dangerous to me. Your…your appendages have disappeared, too, so whatever was preventing that is gone, as well. That’s another tick, right?”Sherlock smiled and while it wasn’t the slightly grotesque parody it had been when he’d been in the clutches of his dragon side, it was still unsettling in its completely lack of mirth.“And how do you know that that will last?” he asked. The question didn’t come out challenging or menacing or anything remotely similar. Instead, it came out quiet and flat, an honest question even as the answer was foregone.John wasn’t going to let that derail him, however, or lose hope. Certainly not when he had valid counterarguments.“Well, there’s the fact that your wounds are now completely free of dragon bone dust, for one,” he said, meeting the pale eyes directly. “And your body accepted the gold, too, which should mean the dust that managed to get absorbed into your bloodstream has been dissolved, for another. As both of those are gone, then the conditions that formed the base this all rose from are no longer an issue, which in turn seems a pretty good indicator that it will last. Unless you’re thinking of dunking yourself in bone dust again, of course.”Sherlock blinked, looking somewhat thrown and just slightly impressed. However, the expression faded soon enough, replaced by what seemed to be carefully schooled blankness.“That is not the entirety of the issue,” was all he said in response, as though that alone did away entirely with John’s points. Which it didn’t but it did make the blond’s anger flare up a little again.“Isn’t it?” John asked, a snap in his voice as he glared at the other. “Because that’s what it looks from here but then again, you’re the ones with the bigger picture and the knowledge, aren’t you? Even when it can threaten the entirety of the ones who care about you, you still have to let me know that I have to be told even the most basic thing – ““You are the one who wanted to understand and yet you seem incapable of grasping the crucial and dangerous nature of the situation – ““That’s because you keep contradicting yourself, you winged cockwaffle!”Both their voices had risen during the argument, going up into the range of shouting. Even so, a voice managed to cut through their cacophony.“Enough!”It was Mycroft again, with a tone of command in his voice that John couldn’t remember him employing before, at least not like that, emphatic yet quiet but effective in its insistence. It certainly did the trick; for John, at least, it went straight down into the core of his inner soldier and tugged hard. It seemed to do something even to Sherlock, too.For one who was normally rational, calm and relatively softly spoken, not to mention preferred to do his work through means of persuasion and…other such ways, it was quite jarring to have the steel hiding underneath revealed, or possibly more accurately in the circumstances, the fire.
But you saw something similar earlier when he first saw Sherlock on the sofa, didn’t you? So much for him not fitting as a dragon, huh?
“This will end,” Mycroft continued, glaring at both of them in turn, the fire evident in his eyes and the steel in his voice. “I will not have you devolve what has finally a chance to be resolved, and to a better outcome than expected, because you’re both convinced you are right and are too pig-headed to listen.”“Mycroft, this isn’t a situation – ““Have you any idea of what has happened between you falling comatose and regaining consciousness here, in this room?” the older brother snapped at the younger, almost literally as his teeth clacked together at the end of the sentence, hints of dragon teeth visible as he did so. “No? Then I suggest you actually listen to the one who had to deal with you in that state and knows exactly what he’s up against! The person who has managed to not only avoid being killed or claimed despite the efforts you put in to do both, but has worked on helping you in any way he could ever since you fell comatose – just as he always had, I might add!”Of all things, John would never have predicted that Mycroft would be the person to speak up on his behalf like this, outright berating his brother for his assumptions and behaviour. It was a little heart-warming. No, actually, it was a lot heart-warming, especially considering the state Mycroft was in, dragon healing or not.That in mind, he wasn’t too surprised to find himself addressed next. What did surprise him was that the tone was far more civil even if it hadn’t lost its snap entirely. Nor did the fire in the eyes abate.“I would’ve thought you would realise that this issue isn’t entirely rooted in the machinations of Moriarty, though he will pay dearly for what he has wrought.” The last part of the sentence did somehow drip, though with metaphorical liquid fire rather than venom.John frowned at him, not quite getting at what he meant. No, honestly, he didn’t get what he meant at all. This issue, by which John would think he meant Sherlock’s struggles with retaining control and his subsequent attempts to claim the doctor for his treasure, had actually started with Moriarty.He’d been the one who’d kidnapped John in the first place, the one who’d made a show of wanting to claim the doctor, whether that was genuinely the case or merely because it wound Sherlock up – which had worked, too – and had further worsened the situation by both pushing the two residents of 221B into their dilemma with the snipers and the subsequent issue with the wounds.There had been a bit of something previously, in that they had argued before that, granted, but then they always did. It was par for the course for them, even if this time, it had been rather more…well, more than their usual bickering. Not arguing at all ever again would…it would probably be the single best indicator that their friendship had died or was in the process of dying.But this? All of this…madness, for lack of a better word that sufficiently encapsulated everything that had happened in the last however many hours had passed since he’d stormed out, that had most certainly everything to do with the Irish madman.Did that rankle just a little bit, too? That they were this easy to blow apart? No, that wasn’t it, because they weren’t. The way they’d handled all of this showed that, didn’t it? When Sherlock had his faculties back, he was trying to protect John at the same time as he was trying to keep him.Something did rankle about that, though, so what was it?Surely it wasn’t that without Moriarty’s intervention, none of this would’ve happened? Why on earth would he have wanted any of this to happen? To be kidnapped, attempted claimed, cut, bruised, pulled and fought over, shot at, almost bitten, cut again, threatened, scared half to death, worried the other half, nearly, chased and all the rest?Yes, okay, so he knew he did have a need for adrenaline, for danger and something to happen. But that was different. That was a whole other situation.Why, though? How could he be so adamant? So much of that did fall straight into what they normal dealt with on their cases so it really should be par for the course rather than entirely different situation.Why – because that wasn’t it, either. Or rather, it wasn’t the kidnap and the rest part of it that rankled. Nor had it anything to do with Sherlock being a dragon. What rankled was that without all of this, he might never have known that Sherlock thought very highly of him.It wasn’t that he hadn’t said ‘I love you’ back. Even if he did love him, which was a can of worms he wasn’t about to reopen right now, to hear him say it back, especially straight afterwards seemed…well, it didn’t seem like Sherlock.Surely, though, he knew that. He’d lived his life with the berk for some time by now without much indication that Sherlock thought well of him or considered him a friend.Perhaps it was that it had taken Moriarty to bring it out in him? Of everything, Moriarty.
Perhaps it’s that squabbling children aspect of it, hm?
…Yes. Probably. Possibly, at least.But that did tie into why he had trouble believing Mycroft that the issue was rooted in something before all of this. If it did, why hadn’t Sherlock spoken up about it? Or at least shown signs? Any kind of signs, really. John felt sure that if he had, he would’ve picked up on them at some point.Mycroft seemed rather adamant, though, and so John’s frown seemed to serve to frustrate him, or at least annoy him.“You’re not that dense, Doctor Watson. You will have noticed.”“Noticed what, exactly?”The words came from both Sherlock and John, at almost the same time. They also wore almost identical nonplussed expressions as they looked at the older brother.At that, a flickering and translucent to the point of almost indistinct but at the same time worryingly familiar shape rose behind Mycroft. Thankfully, it faded again almost as quickly as it had appeared, and John let out a breath he hadn’t been consciously aware that he’d held.Still, the voice, when it came out, still bore that icy fire in it. “Noticed that the attempt to claim you goes back far further than anything remotely to do with Moriarty.”“No, it doesn’t.” This time, it was solely Sherlock speaking but John most certainly shared the sentiment.The flickering shape was back for a moment. The blond was reminded that for all the mythological origin, it had been a trying and exhausting time and Mycroft would be feeling the pressure and the drain at least almost as much as the two Baker Street residents. At the very least, given that he’d fought with Sherlock for some time and though both had emerged in one piece, the doctor had an inkling that that had more to do with their apparent ability to withstand injury and, when they were hit, to heal faster than any human than anything else.Given that, it was no real wonder that his control was slipping, even at such a thing as this, and the shape of his dragon form was visible, even if John still had bugger all idea of how it actually happened. Magic, obviously, but beyond that.“Do not. Antagonise me. Right now. Sherlock.” The words were very carefully enunciated. Then he took a deep, seemingly very careful breath, one that sounded somewhat like the intaking whoosh of air just before a roar of fire burst through.John instinctively tensed as he edged further back on the windowsill, ready to make a jump for it just in case there really was going to be genuine, physical fire as the end result. The railings ought to be able to withstand heat long enough for him to drop the last bit of the way out.No fire came. Not even a little.It seemed that the intake of breath had allowed the elder Holmes to regain some control. There were no clear outward indicators but even so, John felt the slight ease in the tension.It helped that Sherlock appeared to have been genuinely confused rather than merely trying to goad and antagonise his brother as per his norm; the slight softening of the ginger’s features as he took in this fact was one outward sign.“Are you really that blind?” he asked, though the snap had gone out of his voice. Instead, it was almost…sad? “You must have realised at some point what you’ve been doing.”“Realised what?” Sherlock asked. As before, he sounded more genuinely puzzled than anything.John, for his part, had the kind of sneaking suspicion about what Mycroft meant creeping up on him that ran fast towards him but hid in bushes and behind walls whenever he tried to get a more solid fix on it.When it reached him, it fell on him swiftly and forcefully.He must mean – was that it? Mycroft had alluded to some kind of attempt at claiming John being made, hadn’t he? But that had been an attempt today, yesterday, whichever. Or wasn’t that at all what he’d meant, after all?He tried to think back, the sheer number of things that had happened between even then and now muddying the waters for him, but he managed to sift through them after a moment. It helped that he’d thought about the comment before and brought it back up near the top of the pile, as it were, even if it had been in a different context.‘Recently’ was the one that stood out to him right then, mainly because that could mean either within the window of this whole ordeal or somewhere before then.Given Mycroft’s whole attitude right now, it would be reasonable to assume that what he meant was the latter.Actually, to be perfectly honest, it would not only be obstinate but downright idiotic to assume anything else, really.The part of the suspicion that slammed into him so hard was that if Sherlock had made an honest attempt before all of this, one which evidently had turned out to be unsuccessful, there must be something else in there. Something that prevented him from doing so.Right? Or at least heavily discouraged him.It wouldn’t have been Mycroft, considering his behaviour now and their overall relationship. In any case, Sherlock took people’s efforts to discourage him from a course of action as a challenge in much the same way a child did when it was told that it was incapable of doing whatever it was it wanted to do. With often enough the exact same result.So, given all that, what could discourage him or alternatively prevent him? Nothing that came to John’s mind – or wait.Did claiming him as a treasure mean that something else would be impossible? Something which Sherlock might want deep down but wasn’t consciously aware of?It would make sense that the only one who could get Sherlock to stop doing something he wanted to do was…well, himself.
And you.
Not – well, yes, he supposed, to a certain extent, that was…but not really. Sherlock still listened mostly to himself.Mycroft was speaking again, answering the question, and it was a wonder that John didn’t miss it.“That you have a desire to claim John, yes, but not in the way of claiming a treasure.”Sherlock’s puzzled expression didn’t abate.Mycroft sighed, and part of John felt almost relieved at the strained, long-suffering patience with exasperation lurking just beneath. That felt reassuringly normal and known, especially for their interactions. More so when instead of a dragon shape flickering, he pinched the bridge of his nose.“You haven’t…but of course, you would’ve deleted the part about mating.”Despite all John had thought, despite what he’d said about loving Sherlock, to hear the word ‘mating’ come out of Mycroft’s mouth, in particular in relation to Sherlock and him, that…was jarring, too, even if it wasn’t in the same way as the other instances.“I have never had any wish to mate with another dragon and share my – oh.”The realisation seemed to have finally dawned on him. A realisation, at least, and one which sent his eyes wide and his mouth into a little oval.He looked at Mycroft, then over at John, where his eyes narrowed briefly before going even wider than before, if that was possible. Then they darted back to his brother.“You don’t really – “he began, and there was a note of the panic from before present in his voice but also a smaller one of…hope?“I do,” Mycroft interrupted, voice soft and warm. He stepped close to Sherlock, who allowed it, and said something to him, so quietly that John had no chance of hearing, even not being very far away.For a moment, Sherlock stiffened at whatever the ginger said, his eyes darting back to look at John.Who in turn stiffened as he thought he saw the pupils become slits again, but he blinked and the gaze was no longer on him, so he told himself he’d just been imagining it.The elder brother stepped back after that, then turned to address John.“He still needs to be looked after and monitored,” he said. “It looks like we are out of the woods, but it depends on what happens next.”“Yes, of course it bloody well does. Figures, doesn’t it?”Mycroft didn’t rise to it. Instead, he stepped closer to the doctor and took his hand.John didn’t spot Sherlock stiffen where he stood or the flickering of his own dragon shape behind him, pale eyes fixed on where his brother was touching the blond.“I think that Moriarty’s meddling wouldn’t have been quite so successful if he hadn’t chosen to exploit a weak point already present.”“What weak point?” John asked, even though part of him already knew.“You, Doctor Watson. But likely not in the way you think.” He’d lowered his voice as he had before. “The danger of him losing control to the dragon is, as far as I can estimate it, very slim now, thankfully. The treated gold has worked as far as it can. But I should still tread enormously carefully, if I were you. For both your sakes.”“Is this to do with what you did after you told me to run? What exactly -?” He stopped at the raised eyebrow.Casting a brief glance behind him, Mycroft let go of John’s hand. He didn’t step back before he’d uttered one more thing, however, in the same whisper that was only just about audible.“It seems that I have overstayed my welcome. In case you should need it, I will stay close until it is safe.”With that, he did step back.“Thank you for the help, Mycroft,” John said as he did so. He meant it, too.Without the help of the elder Holmes, he’d either have been dead thrice over or he’d be left with a catatonic and slowly dying friend, neither of them a prospect he particularly relished.That and through all of this, he’d gotten a far greater appreciation and respect for the man, not only as a genuinely caring brother but as a person, flawed as he was. Human as he was, regardless of his nature.John gave a small but warm and entirely sincere smile after he’d finished speaking. He watched Mycroft blink then nod, the ghost of smile answering him, but not before he’d cast another glance behind him, at his brother.Then he was out of the door, leaving John alone with a Sherlock that he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was safe with, however fervently he hoped that he was.
Please don’t let me down, Sherlock.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock watched his brother leave, his head a throbbing, dizzying swirl of half-formed thoughts, half-remembered snippets and confused but genuine emotions.That wasn’t to say that was all that was going on in his head. His thoughts had become coherent enough to not only register and understand what was being said but form understandable and logical comments.But even so, they did still form a large part of it, and he had to struggle quite a bit to keep things held together.As he could feel the dragon lurking underneath, sinking progressively but still worryingly slowly further and further down in his mind, ready to rise back up if he should lose control, his determination to keep it held together was significantly strengthened.He couldn’t remember feeling this out of control of his dragon state since…well, he would’ve assumed his relative teen years but as he had deleted large parts of those a long time ago, he couldn’t actually remember.If he was being honest with himself, however, he couldn’t even truthfully say the instincts of the dragon held no control anymore; when he’d seen Mycroft grab John’s hand, he’d felt a stab of possessiveness that hissed ‘mine’ loud and clear through his mind. He’d forced it down, with effort, but it had reared its head again almost immediately afterwards when John had smiled at his brother.Now there were just the two of them. The dragon was pleased.And Sherlock was scared.No, scratch that. He was absolutely terrified.And it wasn’t as though he didn’t have reason to be so, was it? No matter what Mycroft said, the fact of the matter was that Sherlock had hurt John, both physically and mentally, despite all of his attempts to protect him. He’d hurt his brother, too, but that was a different issue, both of them being dragons.But his brother also believed, not just in Sherlock but in John as well and in what they had together.What he’d whispered to Sherlock when he’d stepped up close was a reminder that he had begun to collect treasure almost as soon as John had moved in that would please or help the doctor, which he’d then followed up with the comment that they only ever collected something for the benefit of someone other than themselves, since he seemed to have forgotten, when they attempted to court the person in question, whether they were a dragon, too, or human. Or another mythological creature, of course.Sherlock wanted to scoff at it. Say that he was wrong or that it couldn’t be that since he would have to be aware of what he was doing for it to count.He knew that wasn’t the case, though. Hell, he’d seen first-hand…no, John and Mycroft had seen first-hand and he’d come to, to see the aftermath of what happened when instincts were allowed to take control.That didn’t feel quite right, either, but trying to sort it out in his head only made things clash harsher.The point was that he could’ve easily done such a thing for the reason that Mycroft claimed without being aware of it. Some things did run deep, after all, and though he had never ever felt a smidgeon of romantic feelings and maybe only just some lustful possessiveness towards people before now, hence why he’d deleted it in the first place, it would make sense that it would be John.But there was a problem inherent in that. He had deleted what he’d known about courting and while his instincts were likely capable of getting him at least some of the way, he had no desire to relinquish the hold he had on them.That he might lose his control of them regardless was another matter, and part of the reason he was terrified.He stared at John, at a loss at what he should do or what he should say now that they were alone. Not only that, he was also scared that coming close to John again would set something off, something which he couldn’t then rein back in.
But you were close to him just before, weren’t you? When you were trying to prevent him from leaving, you grabbed hold of his ankles and you didn’t fall on him then, did you?
No, that was…. nngh…that was….That was certainly no guarantee, even if he was confused as to how exactly he had managed to surface. Something Mycroft did? Something John did? Both of them?He couldn’t say.Mycroft had been right; in between the headache he’d had when he’d been sitting on the sofa, trying to explain to John just what the whole hoarding and claiming was about – had there been something in there about him not wanting to claim the doctor, too? He couldn’t recall, though he tried hard – and when he’d resurfaced with John halfway out the window, there was nothing.Nothing at all, as far as he could tell.So, perhaps, finding it deeply unsettling to have such blanks in his mind that he didn’t create himself, he ought to try and at least get John to tell him what had happened, however unpleasant that might be.He blinked, unaware that he’d been absent for a moment until he felt the heat of the other’s body next to him.“John, no. Please.” He took a step back and saw, though there was still a wariness if not downright fear in John’s eyes, for which he really couldn’t be blamed, the face of the blond fall just a little. Sherlock’s heart sank in response.“No, it’s not – I don’t – I wouldn’t want – “He tried to explain but stumbled over his words. Why was that so difficult? It wasn’t as though he could no longer form a sentence so why was he struggling like he was?“You’re afraid you’ll hurt me? Well, yeah, me too. God, me too.”Sherlock saw him take a deep breath and close his eyes, his body giving a single shudder. But he was clearly working something out in his head and whatever that was, Sherlock would wait for it. However long it would take.After what felt like ages, blue eyes opened again, and they seemed much more…perhaps not outright confident, but at least certain as well as hopeful.  “But I don’t think you will.”“I have, several times in a very short amount of time.” It was an argument he’d raised before but right now he felt it was valid to bring it up again.“True,” John conceded. He didn’t step back, though. “I’m not denying that you have, nor that it’s hurt but you’re not doing that now, are you? And you’ve clung to me like I’m the only thing that kept you tethered, even when you were deeply unconscious.”He held up his wrist in evidence. The claw marks were clearly visible, blood, both fresh and dried, and all. Sherlock winced at them.“Point is, it’s probably a bit more complicated than you or I think it is. I don’t get quite why you resurfaced, as it were, when you did and not at any earlier point, despite all our efforts.”He paused for a moment, frowning, but before Sherlock could say anything, he wasn’t entirely sure what, he continued.“No, scratch that. I don’t get it at all, honestly, but maybe it has something to do with the gold finally doing its job properly. Or maybe you just had enough time to wrestle control back. Or perhaps a fairy flew in and sprinkled us all with fairy dust. Maybe I’ve dreamed this entire thing, or I’ve just gone so round the bend it’s become a bleeding helter skelter.”He smiled as he said the last bit but there was only very little humour in it.“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no such thing as fairies.”John blinked, stared at Sherlock as though he’d just grown an extra head, speaking authoritatively and seriously. Then a small giggle forced itself out of his mouth, nasal and rather repressed, but not entirely so.As it sometimes happens when one starts doing something, it is impossible for anyone else nearby not to join in, whether it was a joyous or a sad thing, and so it was for Sherlock. An answering chuckle sidled its way out of him, the ridiculousness of the situation providing ample reason to and his comment being the last drop that made the cup run over.The fact that he joined in managed to, as it also so often did for people, strengthen John’s own giggle into a full-blown laugh that admittedly had a brittle edge. But it was an honest to goodness laugh, almost liberating in its own way. It certainly felt that way to Sherlock as he joined in the proper laughing, too.What was more, he suddenly realised, it was something they were sharing. Laughing and doing so together, despite all that had happened – even if he couldn’t remember an apparently large portion of what had happened and not just when he was comatose, he could infer quite a lot – that felt significant. Extremely significant, as though there might be some hope yet.As they laughed and went on laughing, he could feel the dragon sinking faster into the depths below his Mind Palace. It wasn’t gone, it never would be. As an integral part of him, it couldn’t ever be entirely gone. But it could be banished as far down into the depths, below the cellars, below the foundations, as it could possibly go.There were dragons, Moriarty undoubtedly included, who would look at that as a betrayal of his nature, of his very essence. That he had been given a gift by being born as such a creature, powerful, enduring and beyond clever, with the thirst for treasure, the need to collect, no more than the smallest and easiest of shackles to overcome. To deny it was to, quite frankly, shit on it.He didn’t care.Nor was he terribly concerned if it cut him off from aspects of his nature that would prove useful. If this was what it would take to have John stay with him and, just as importantly, make it possible for Sherlock to ensure his safety while he stayed, then that was what he’d do.You’re forgetting something, came a quiet voice inside his mind as the laughter petered out into silence, though a far more comfortable silence than before. Quite a few things, actually, but let’s stick with this one for the time being. You’re not really in a state to be speeding down any mental motorway right now, are you?He wasn’t forgetting anything.
Do you want a list? But you’re most certainly forgetting that without your dragon instincts, you may risk not claiming John.
But he didn’t want to claim him! That was the whole point! He, Sherlock, had no desire to claim John, and especially not when it meant sacrificing John, in person if not necessarily in body. In fact, that was an enormous part of what he was so terrified of; that if he was to be allowed close to John, it would reawaken that instinct, that deeply rooted desire of the dragon to claim him, which was nothing to do with him.
Quite apart from the fact that if Mycroft is right, then you have at the very least been trying to claim him through courting for most of the time you’ve known him, there is an entirely different aspect that you seem to have forgotten.
And what was that?
Moriarty wants to claim John, too. Doesn’t matter what his motivations for it are, not right now, but you cannot deny that the desire in those eyes weren’t genuine. As long as he isn’t dealt with, then you still cannot ensure John’s safety. He might get snatched away from within this very flat next time, regardless of the fact that this is your territory. Do you truly want to risk that?
No, of course he didn’t. But neither did he want to lose John.He felt a hand on his cheek and instinctively jerked back from it, afraid of touching, just in case it brought something forth that he’d just pushed down.As he watched John’s face fall a little again before it was quite forcefully hidden, however, the thought that he could manage to lose his friend in a number of ways, not just through claiming, flashed through his mind. Again?He didn’t know but he tried to push his cheek into the hand that had only just begun to drop, trying to make up for his mistake.Another thought rode along on the current of the first one. Or perhaps it was more of a memory than a thought, one with slipped underneath the first to punch him hard in his gut with the realisation.The face falling was because John was hurt but it went beyond the hurt of a friend, didn’t it? Because he had said something, hadn’t he?It was foggy and hard to grasp at, as it, as far as he could recalled, had happened when he’d begun to resurface and reclaim control of his mind, never mind his body, but he had most definitely – it clicked. Or rather, it banged into him like the last domino in a set made of six feet iron slabs.Oh.
Oh.
He’d actually said that. There wasn’t even any doubt in Sherlock’s mind that he had. As soon as it had dawned in his mind, as a proper memory rather than an odd, cracked fragment that was wholly disconnected from anything, he knew it with stone-cold certainty.That certainty washed over him along with the memory, almost staggering.But…why? Or rather, was there any other reason he could’ve said that? Not that he instantly wanted to disbelieve his words, it wasn’t that.
Isn’t it?
No, it wasn’t. But he had to question why he would mention it now, of all times? If it wasn’t because he had an ulterior motive, why pick that moment out of all of the ones where he could’ve said it?Perhaps he was afraid that that was the last opportunity for him to say it?No, that wasn’t…that wasn’t right. He hadn’t just said ‘I love you’, had he? He’d mentioned that he’d meant it when he’d said it…so he must’ve said it before. But Sherlock couldn’t remember hearing it before. Or could he? Hadn’t there been a disjointed…something rattling around his brain when he’d started to resurface? Something that had registered as joyous, as warming, something that he thought, perhaps, it was hard to be sure, because he’d been struggling with pretty much everything at that point, might’ve been something along the lines of ‘love’.He’d felt rather sure when he’d spoken that he remembered John saying something, though whether it was that he had meant that or something else, he couldn’t say, even though he wished to, and not just for his own sense of clarity.In any case, to have John come right out and say it like that, with the emphasis on meaning it, that at least somewhat negated the idea that he had ulterior motives, didn’t it?Then something else clicked in his brain; what had come immediately after that comment, that declaration. Why hadn’t that arrived together with the first part? It was more linked than anything, even if it hadn’t been something John had done. But it was far blurrier than the almost crystal clarity of John saying, ‘I do love you’ and ‘I said that, and I meant it. I’m in love with you’.He felt quite certain he’d kissed John, though…but it didn’t feel quite right, either. Not that he exactly had a lot of experience with being kissed but what he remembered from that didn’t line up with what he experienced with John.
Perhaps what you ought to do is bloody talk to him rather than just swirl back away into the comfort and security of your Mind Palace where he can’t hurt you?
That – that wasn’t what he was doing! If John could stand there, afraid of what Sherlock might do if he lost control as before – he wasn’t just wary, he was afraid, even if he was good at hiding it – and still have the courage and loyalty to be in the room with him, trying to work things out, to help, then Sherlock would try, too, and not run from it.No? Go on, then. Ask him.Right. Okay. He could do this. He wasn’t going to lose John, not over one small question.“John?” he asked, suddenly aware that the hand on his cheek had moved away in his mental absence. Though before he could curse himself for that, he noticed that it hadn’t been removed entirely. Instead, it had drifted down to rest again that spot where neck became shoulder, including his clavicle. It felt oddly reassuring.“Yeah?” the doctor replied.“Why do you keep touching me?”No, that wasn’t what he’d meant to ask.He hastened to correct himself, not least because he didn’t want John to stop touching him altogether. “What I meant was – “John interrupted him with an answer to the question he’d asked. “Because you keep shrinking away from it, looking as if you don’t deserve it.”Sherlock frowned. “That’s not an answer.”“No? I would say it was because that’s why I’m doing it – and because I want to.”“But why?”John frowned himself. “You really weren’t fully there earlier, were you? Figured not, the way you kissed me.”“So, I did kiss you.”“I – yes?” Despite his words, John didn’t seem entirely surprised that he needed it confirmed nor too put out over it.Rather irrelevant in the circumstances, it felt wrong to Sherlock that he wasn’t put out. Well, more put out than he was. If he did love him, was in love with him, surely, he’d be more upset that Sherlock couldn’t remember their first kiss?Or was in a non-sexual way? Possible, of course, with the number of girlfriends John had had, even throughout their relatively short friendship. He was always adamant he wasn’t gay, wasn’t he? So…what was it? Biromantic, then?Where had he even picked that descriptor up?But that didn’t scan if John had initiated the kiss, did it? Only…even with what he’d said just now, Sherlock couldn’t actually remember whether he had or not. Nor was it very clear to him if it had been reciprocal or one-sided, both of which worried him somewhat.Judging by the blond’s confirmation, you might take that as proof it had indeed in fact been the dragon who’d initiated it but that wasn’t iron-clad. It might just be a confirmation that a kiss had taken place and nothing more.Why was this so important? Well, apart from the small, insignificant fact that it was their first ruddy kiss, it mattered because it would tell him or at least give him a hint as to how to proceed. Or, if it turned out the kiss had been entirely on Sherlock’s part, as he was beginning to suspect, and John had said what he had for ulterior, though not negative, reasons, if he ought to proceed at all.First of all, therefore, to know whether he could and should proceed at, he needed to ask the question he’d actually meant to ask before.“Didn’t you intend –? “John continued but Sherlock interrupted him.“John, I need to ask you something.”The doctor stopped speaking, blinked but didn’t object. Instead, he merely nodded and then waited for Sherlock to pose his question.“Did you…I need to know for certain because things are blurred and shaken in my mind, but did you say…”The words got stuck in his throat, hard to get out past the sudden rock wedged in his throat despite their importance. What if he had miscalculated or misheard? There would be consequences, one way or the other. Was he ready for that?This was John, though. He had to remember that. It wasn’t just anybody, it was John Watson, soldier, doctor, rock. John, who had stood by him, not just in general but in this situation in particular, helped him in any way possible, who didn’t judge him.The one person he knew who wouldn’t think worse of him if he mentioned John saying, ‘I love you’ to him, Sherlock, and was told he misremembered or had accidentally misconstrued what he’d said.In fact, he’d probably think worse of him for being a dragon than he would for thinking he might’ve said something like that.
And he hasn’t thought that badly of you for that, either, has he? I mean, he’s here and all, isn’t here? What’s more, even after everything, he’s making a conscious effort to touch you. If he’s going to leave you over something, do you really think it’d be for admitting, even vaguely, that you love him – or at least, that you think he loves you and that you care enough to ask, which amounts to basically the same thing – rather than whatever shit you’ve pulled while you were under? Rather than you being a treasure hoarding dragon?

Compared to all that, not to mention the rest of it and all, what are you actually afraid of?
He swallowed hard, with determination, and managed to get the lodged rock down, at least enough so that he could speak again.“…Did you say that you loved me? No, not just that, but that you meant it, that you were in love with me?”“Wrong.”The word slipped out so quickly, so easily, that Sherlock almost didn’t register it as anything out of the ordinary. Then it hit home and started to crumble his heart.Oh.John’s hand on his shoulder tightened, trying to prevent Sherlock from moving away. It wasn’t forceful, however, just enough to be a clear indicator that he wanted him to stay and perhaps also to listen.“No, not like – I meant, dammit, sorry. I didn’t mean you were wrong, well, I did, but…bloody hell, I meant that you were wrong because you used the wrong tense. It’s not ‘were’, it’s ‘are’. I am in love you with you, yes, and I’ll say it as many times as you need for it to sink in and stay in there. Or not, if that’s what you’d prefer.”Sherlock’s brow creased deeply at that, not comprehending. “Why would I prefer that?” he asked.John’s lips quirked in an odd imitation of a smile. “You are still Mr. Married-to-my-Work, aren’t you?” he said, his voice warm but…sadly wistful? Just slightly? “The one who has always had nothing but scorn and haughty dismissal to utter about the defects of the human brain, including that of love? Hell, in that context, you being a dragon is…to be honest, I don’t even know whether it explains a lot or just makes it more confusing. But in any case, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to work out that you might not want to hear somebody else express those sentiments to you.”“But you’re not somebody else. You’re…John.”A huff of more genuinely amused laughter, though still with something of a brittle edge to it. “Still not entirely there, are you? Because that deduction even I worked out first try.”He took a deep and slightly wobbly breath before he continued. “Anyway, the point is that I’m not afraid to say it out loud as I have been. If you don’t want to hear it, that’s fine, we can work around it, or you can delete it, if you prefer. But I wanted you to know. That’s probably incredibly selfish, just dumping that on you, come to think of it. Twice, too. Three times, really, but this time, you did ask, so – ““Wait, what do you mean, three times?” Was that mess of a mostly emotional memory real, then?John’s eyes shifted away for a fraction of a second. “Doesn’t matter.”“Yes, it does. It very much does.” Not least because the doctor wanted to avoid it, it seemed.“Sherlock, you were a snarling, possessive beast at the time, even if you no longer had wings and a tail. It’s not exactly – ““What has the shape or state I was in at the time to do with it? Either it matters all three times, or it doesn’t matter at any one of them! You can’t just take backsies on a declaration like that just because of what shape or state of mind the other person was in at the time!”“Yes, you can, you ruddy pedantic, suits-my-needs-right-now wyvern, it’s called ‘under the influence’ – and what do you mean, backsies? Since when have you used the term ‘backsies’?”“That only applies to the person who is in an altered state, not the ones who deal with them!”“And being scared for my fucking life doesn’t count as an altered state, does it?”John’s voice had risen to almost a shout at that point and his face had taken on that particular expression he used when he was angry but also couldn’t believe he was having this argument.Then suddenly, his eyes went wide, and his expression turned blank, oddly, almost worryingly fast as he looked away. Not hard but enough that he wasn’t looking directly at Sherlock’s face.It took Sherlock a moment to work it out, partly because it didn’t click that would be the reason and partly because his brain was still juggling too many unknowns with a blindfold on, but when he did, his heart sank.John was worried that shouting or similar outbursts might be enough to trigger something in Sherlock, that much was obvious, and it didn’t exactly take a lot to work out what he thought that something was.But…that was something, though, too, wasn’t it? If it had been anybody else in the situation, Sherlock would’ve said that they were frightened or downright terrified of that happening, and it would be understandable. It would.John’s reaction wasn’t that, however. It was worry, not fear, even if you had to look hard through that careful blankness to see it. Worry for himself, obviously, but also, the brunet would say, worry that he would be the cause of the regression, too.That was…rather endearingly in-character, wasn’t it? Sherlock felt his heart swell in response to that even as he also felt a stab of guilt and unease at having caused it. More so when he knew that the fear and worry were entirely justified and had harmed him earlier.Was he justified in being worried now? He took a moment to check within himself just to be absolutely sure, but he couldn’t feel that the dragon had managed to rise further.“John, please….” How should he phrase it? “Could you look into my eyes?” That would convince him that he was still in control rather than the dragon, surely.John only gave him the briefest of glances before looking away. “And risk being hypnotised when you ask like that, phrase it like that? Not really interested in that, thank you.”Risk – oh. Had he done that, too? Well, it was within the array of tactics dragons employed when they wanted to claim a sentient being as their treasure, he knew that, and a not uncommon one, either, so it wasn’t strange to assume that he had used it, too. Despite that knowledge, the fact that he had, that was what startled and unsettled him.“I…I didn’t mean – I’d say I would never, but I very evidently have and I – I wish I hadn’t. I genuinely do. I’m not asking you to look me in the eye if you don’t feel comfortable doing it.”“It’s not really because I’m ‘uncomfortable’ about it, is it?”“No,” Sherlock conceded. “It’s not.” He noticed with some hope and relief that John still hadn’t removed his hand. Taking a quick, deep breath himself, he reached out in turn to touch John’s cheek, gently, almost hesitantly. The doctor allowed it, even if he didn’t turn to look at Sherlock.“I’m so very sorry, John, for all that you have had to endure. I don’t want to hurt you further than I already have, but I don’t want to lose you, either.” He felt like he’d said that already, but he wasn’t sure, and in any case, it bore repeating.He paused to take another deep breath, one which a bit shakier, and carried on. “If you don’t want to stay, though, that’s entirely up you. I would never blame you. Whatever you want, I won’t stop you. Whatever it takes.”At that, John did look at him, properly, though there was a tension in him that revealed he was still just a tiny bit wary that he’d be hypnotised and no wonder, after he’d become unsure of how deep down the dragon had actually sunk. The fact that they were this close now in comparison to earlier was a factor, too, he knew.His words, however, were much more confident. Not that he hadn’t been confident or, more accurately, courageous before but this was putting on just a bit of a brave face. “I said it before. I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”“Intentionally, no, but that’s rather irrelevant in the circumstances.” He let his hand drop from the cheek, feeling it was a little inappropriate.“I don’t think it is. Yeah, I’m still wary, I won’t deny that, and not just because I know you can tell I am, but that will pass.”“John, you just unquestionably showed that in actual fact, you are scared of me, of the part of me that you’ve had to deal with for the last roughly twelve hours.”To help John, or possibly just to underline a point, he took a step or two backwards, though he was hindered in stepping back further by bumping into his armchair.“I just said that, didn’t I?”“No, in actual fact, you said ‘wary’, but the point is that it’s not just an immediate response to the current situation. Even if you don’t acknowledge it right now, it’s not going to fester.”“That’s just projection!” John almost shouted.“I – what?” That was not the argument he’d expected at all and it threw him just a little.“You’re the one who’s scared. Who’s terrified of what you can’t remember, of how you behaved while you weren’t in the driving seat – while you weren’t in the car at all, really.”“Oh, yes, because colourful metaphors are really what’s going to swing it – “He stopped at the expression on the doctor’s face; John looked just ever so slightly triumphant, of all things, which didn’t make any sense at all.“See?”“See what?”“You’re bickering with me.”Sherlock frowned, now thrown for a proper roller coaster loop. “Shouldn’t I be? We always bicker. What’s the point you’re trying to make?”“Yes, we do. But you’re arguing a completely irrelevant point just on principle. Or to be contrary for the sake of it, which is more or less the same thing when it comes to you.”“We bickered before Mycroft left.”“No, that was an argument, that’s different.”“Now you’re just being incredibly pedantic for the sake of winning the argument.”Sherlock hadn’t realised it, caught up in the minutia of something so familiar and, in its own way, very comforting, but they had gotten close enough again to be almost nose to nose, and it wasn’t only the blond that had moved.When he did, he did something very close to startling but before he could get very far, he was halted again but this time, it wasn’t by any kind of furniture.Instead, it was by John pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, not enough for be forceful or demanding but at the same time enough to communicate that it was entirely intentional.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock’s mind, taxed already even by his standards after everything, spluttered and whizzed as it tried to work out what was happening. His body, though not in a much better state than his brain, did seem to catch on a little better, though. At least enough to reciprocate to some extent.When John pulled back a few moments later, without having attempted to deepen it or do anything other than just press their lips together, really, it felt far too soon.Interestingly, though, Sherlock managed to note as he opened eyes which he hadn’t realised he’d closed...he hadn’t had any thoughts of possessiveness during the kiss or after, either. Nor, he checked, was the dragon otherwise rising back up to the surface, threatening to take control.
Don’t you mean thankfully?
Well, yes, that, too, obviously. But why? He still couldn’t find any clear, definitive reason as to how he’d managed to resurface and take back control when he had or why, and that genuinely scared him.So maybe John was right, and he was indeed projecting, though he would still say that the doctor was scared, too. Not that that negated his feeling scared, obviously, he wasn’t going to try and deny that.
Well, we’re both scared, then, that’s new – or perhaps just admitting that we are is new.
But, come to think of it, there was something else about the kiss that needed thought; like with the declaration of love earlier – the fact that it was apparently three times over was something that he wanted to talk about, too, but perhaps another time – it was John who had initiated this kiss, not Sherlock.Granted, he managed to kiss back rather than be a purely passive partner in it but even so, it had again been John who had acted, who had taken steps towards something more romantic, if not thereby automatically sexual, between them, not Sherlock.Perhaps, that was for the best, though? Perhaps that was how he kept the dragon in check? Letting John take the initiative and the lead in all of this rather than try to be forward and risk the possessive nature rearing its head again.The case to be made for that was shaky at best, though, as it rested on one or at most two datapoints, neither of which was all that substantial. It might still easily be that something could and would trigger it, with the consulting detective remaining relatively passive, risking the same results after having lulled himself into a false sense of security and stability by taking what he thought would be sufficient precautions.And in the meantime, John would, even willing that everything otherwise worked out to the best, be expected to carry the brunt of the work of the relationship for fear that Sherlock would regress somehow.Granted, John already bore a rather major part of the friendship, Sherlock could admit that if only to himself at the moment, far more than most would put up with. But even so, it would be a rather different thing to ask for it to be so much on his shoulders if they advanced to the next level.Even John would be likely to tire of that sooner rather than later and again, there would be more than one way to lose him and they didn’t need to have anything to do with his dragon nature.More importantly than that, far more so, was the point that Sherlock didn’t wish to be a passive partner, either now or later. Yes, he’d been surprised and stunned – if he was completely honest, he still was – and hadn’t managed much reciprocation right then and there but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.The dragon would still be an issue, of course it would, but as he stood there, staring at John, he knew that he would do everything in his power to keep it maintained. Perhaps he couldn’t push it down where it couldn’t rear back up as he had thought earlier, but he could keep it contained, tamed for a given value of it.It had been ´relatively contained for ages before now, content to for the most part metaphorically slumber for years after having been pushed as far away from him as possible. He couldn’t deny it entirely, but he had managed to get by without the majority of it.
That’s not entirely true, is it? In fact, that’s closer to a downright lie.
Possibly, yes, but it could be true going forward, because he needed to find some way in which he could make sure John wouldn’t come to any, further, harm without having to move out permanently.This time, his brain worked somewhat faster than before, and he didn’t end up standing there staring for long enough to worry John, or so he thought.When he did resurface, though, he quickly closed the, thankfully small, distance John had just recreated between their faces to plant an answering kiss on the doctor’s lips.It was more of a peck than anything else, to be honest, but it was entirely of his own volition and under his own steam, which he hoped would count for something.John blinked and the corners of his lips twitched as though some muscles wanted to form a smile, but the rest adamantly refused to and so it was stuck somewhere in between.“What was that for?” he asked. He didn’t sound accusatory or even angry, just puzzled.Nevertheless, the puzzlement made Sherlock frown, uncertain.“You kissed me,” he said and that came out as more of an accusation than an explanation. “It’s not that difficult a concept that I should want to kiss you back, is it?”The muscles pushing for a smile won, though it wasn’t a big smile. “For you, it kinda is, yeah. More than kinda, really.”They’d just been here. Why were they back at this point of conversation?
Because you never actually resolved that point. He called you married to your work, listed the ways you’ve acted towards couples and sentiment and you didn’t correct him on any of it. In light of that, why would he not still think that about you? What reason have you given him to assume it would be otherwise?
He’d reciprocated the kiss John had given him! That should count for something, right? More than something.
Compared to two, possibly three, genuine declarations of love and initiating a kiss, pressing back in said kiss without otherwise doing anything is hardly much of something, is it?
No, that was true…but it was still a little bit of a something. Something he could work with, apart from the peck he’d just given.“Oh,” was what he said out loud. “I see.”He was going to say more but was interrupted.“It’s fine, though,” John added, and the ease with which he said it sliced at something inside Sherlock. “Like I said, if you’re – “He didn’t get to finish the sentence before Sherlock was once again kissing him, this time for much longer, though he didn’t quite feel certain enough to push it further.When the brunet pulled back again, it was with a look not of triumph but of tentative hopefulness in his eyes.John smiled back at him, small but warm. “Well, okay – “He stopped, eyes narrowing slightly just for a moment as he looked at Sherlock’s eyes. Then he relaxed again.“I’ll keep it under control, don’t worry,” Sherlock said.“I’m not but honestly, you really don’t need to.”“I very evidently do, John, and I’m not having this argument with you again. I’m the dragon here.” In the circumstances, it was both a rather solid argument and a rather poor one at the same time.John wasn’t backing down, however, instead folding his arms over his chest. “And I’m the one who knows what happened between you falling unconscious and your own self resurfacing, so I’d say we’re pretty much even.”“Not really.”“No? You don’t think so? Did you realise, then, the exact reason you fell unconscious in the first place? Because it wasn’t just you who were feeling exhausted or anything. It wasn’t he ruddy bullets that did it. Well, technically, it was, but that was…well, Moriarty had meddled further than that.”He didn’t say more but it didn’t take much for Sherlock to work it out.“He coated them with something,” he said, watching John’s face for confirmation, “that would hurt me in a way that the bullets themselves never could, so that whichever one of us got hit, there would be consequences.”“Or both of us would be.”Sherlock shook his head. “No. That would just result in a horrible mess that would require clean-up and nothing more. That wouldn’t be fun for him, after all.”He watched as a shudder ran through John at that, stronger than he would’ve expected it to be if it would occur at all, and he had to wonder why that would be.“John? Has he – he hasn’t been back, has he?”He couldn’t smell him in the flat but that wasn’t necessarily any indicator you could rely on. Sherlock might have overpowered whatever traces there had been in the flat when he’d burst into the living room, ready to prevent John from escaping.Was that what he’d been doing? God, he hoped not, he fervently hoped not, but that said, he didn’t really believe it. It would more than fit in within a more or less feral dragon’s behaviour when it wanted to claim something, in particular something that it was being denied, which seemed to have been the case, judging by the state of Mycroft before he’d left.Shuddering himself at the thought, it was another one that he had to push aside for later consideration, and he couldn’t say whether he was reluctant or grateful.But that left a sliver of opportunity for Moriarty to have visited while he had been…otherwise occupied.“No. He hasn’t been here,” John said but the answer came a little too quickly. Not enough to suggest that he was lying, just that it was a truth covering over something else that he was happy enough not to say.“But you’ve been in contact with him since.” It was a statement, not a question.“I...” John paused, then sighed. “Yeah. He called while…well, he called me.”
Burn the phone.

And he will just find the next phone and the new number without problems, so it will have been for naught.
“Why did you pick up?” He shouldn’t sound accusatory and he thought that for the most part, he managed not to.John didn’t seem to take it as such because instead of his hackles rising, he merely sighed again and grimaced. “Because I didn’t know it was him and before you ask, I was about to hang up on him, but I thought that maybe…”“Maybe what?”“Maybe he would have some clue as to how to help you and yeah, I know perfectly well how that sounds but as things stood, there seemed very little if any chance that you would ever resurface on your own, and he was at least partially responsible.”“Wholly responsible.” Even if he wasn’t, Sherlock would say so, because otherwise, the risk of John taking on responsibility for it, any responsibility at all, was real, even if it was obvious that he shouldn’t.“I’m…not so sure. What Moriarty did ought to have been out of your system when you woke up – that was why you woke up at all. Nothing we did until then had any effect. But when you did wake up, you weren’t…” He trailed off.“I was a monster,” Sherlock finished for him.“No. You weren’t.”“No need to mince words, John. I know what I am.”Of all things, the doctor snorted at that. “And here’s me thinking you’d be proud of the fact that you’re something other than a stupid human. Something more.”“Why on earth would I be? It’s a defect of birth, nothing more.”“So is your brain, if we’re going to be ruddy pedantic about it, and you’re bleeding well proud of that.”“Well, yes, obviously. I can use my brain.”“You can use your dragon nature, too.”“For what? Fly around? Apart from the fact that people would be after me, for a host of varying reasons, there are far easier ways to transport yourself nowadays. Breathe fire? What would I have need of that?”“You could save us a bit when the radiator’s being a bugger in winter,” John commented. He tilted his head in the way people do when they want to make a significant comment seem casual and offhand. “Or fry Anderson.”“Second aspect is appealing,” Sherlock admitted, a smile forming. “But I don’t think he’d burn very well.”“There’s the shapeshifting and the whole hypnosis thing you’ve got.”“Induce people into doing what I want? No.” Especially not when you then had to deal with them one way or another.“No, you can usually manage that without, that’s true. Look, I’m just saying, there are things about being a dragon that people would give their arm for.”“People would give their whole bodies, their minds, up for something without any real value all the time, that’s hardly an argument. In any case, whatever traits the dragon nature might bestow, they are static, unimprovable except by breeding. My brain I can work on and improve.”“I guess the whole ‘needing to collect things’ rather than doing it out of interest has to be a something of a drawback, too.”“You could put it like that, yes.”John opened his mouth, paused, then closed it as he frowned. “I…you’re certain you don’t collect people?” he asked, sounding oddly insistent.Then again, given what the argument had been about when Sherlock had fallen unconscious or comatose or whatever, it was not an unreasonable question to ask nor was it odd that he was that insistent. To be honest, Sherlock was just pleased that he wasn’t angry about it anymore. Or at least, he didn’t seem to be.“Positive. Notwithstanding recent behaviour, obviously.” He meant it to come out light and joking but instead, it came out somewhat pleading.“Obviously.”“John, I truly am sorry for attempting to claim you like that.”“It’s…no, I can’t say it’s okay because it’s bloody well not. but I get it. You haven’t exactly been in control.”“That is no excuse.”John sighed again, a more beleaguered and tired sigh than before. “Well, yes and no. You know as well as I do that state of mind is a valid argument in court.”The consulting detective made a face. “Court? Who said anything about court?”“I did, because it’s there for a reason, and I know for a fact that you didn’t hurt me while you were in any way there.” He pointed to his head to illustrate.“Making excuses for such behaviour could prove dangerous further down the line.”“You think I don’t know that? I’m not stupid, you twat.”“Then why do you insist that it’s okay when it’s not?”“Why? Because…because I don’t want to go any more than you do, idiot. I want to stay here; I want to work this out. Friend or partner or whatever else we’ll end up settling on, I want to stay by your side.”He paused, but seemingly only for breath. “Solve crimes together, obviously, see your mind work and call you brilliant, dangerous chases and all that, but go for dinner afterwards, too, tell you off for leaving body parts in the fridge again, have your violin playing help me get to sleep again when I’ve had a nightmare. Bring you cups of tea that you’ll completely ignore until it’s gone stone cold then either leave me to clean up or down it in one as though you never noticed it had gone cold.”Reaching out, he gently grabbed hold of the brunet’s bony hand and Sherlock let him without a word, far too focused on what he was saying. “Takeaways, late nights shouting at the telly, giggling at inappropriate things, quiet afternoons and lazy mornings. See the way your eyes light up, both in the fireworks way when you’ve worked something out and that quiet, warm way when you’re just…content. The way your nose scrunches up when you’re disgusted or angry, your mangling of the furniture.”“I don’t mangle the furniture.”John smiled, though he also raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”“…Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded.That wasn’t what he’d focused on, in any case. His mind had just plucked that one out to have something to refute on a sort of autopilot. What he’d actually focused on was…well, the rest of it.All of it.All those little mundanities, unimportant humdrums of everyday life. The ones that he always detested, or claimed to, anyway. All the ones he’d never thought John had paid so much attention to, never mind actually, genuinely had seemed to cherish, and that wasn’t including all the ones that he hadn’t mentioned, the ones that Sherlock would add if he was asked.Things such as John expertly finding the medical clue that helped his brain to make a link, his fierce protectiveness on cases. Almost everything he did on cases, actually, but far from limited to those. The way he could stomp in different ways depending on his level of anger, his atonal, slow tapping of keys while he typed up a case becoming endearing rather than annoying.His dry comments, his quiet grumblings their own little tune in the quietness of the flat. Turning things around endlessly just to get Sherlock to eat or sleep. Stealing the brunet’s shampoo when he thought he hadn’t noticed because he’d run out of his own, but he’d never hear the end of it if he admitted that he had. As if Sherlock couldn’t smell it, without needing to use his dragon senses.His expressive eyes, the way the corner of his eyes crinkled when he was smiling. The fierceness of his glare.
His ability to roll with whatever oddness you put his way, not to mention the additions he has made to the hoard. Even you haven’t forgotten the significance of that, however much you might try to claim that you have.
That wasn’t for…no, he truly didn’t remember. Or at least, he hadn’t when it had first happened. In fact, he was utterly certain that he hadn’t been aware of it until after Mycroft had mentioned it, the nearness of the dragon allowing some information, which he honestly thought he’d deleted, to be dredged up at the mention. It wasn’t a lot, but it was a few of the fundamentals, as far as he could recall.In any case, wherever it had come from and however it had gotten started, he needed to ask. It may have been that he’d inadvertently allowed a courting to begin by accepting the things John had brought to the flat. Not the things that were his own, obviously, or the ones he bought for himself after moving in. It was the ones he’d just sort of…acquired for the flat itself, which of course was all Sherlock’s den.It wasn’t even just that he’d bought them for the flat, though. He’d particularly sourced them, even if he wouldn’t admit to it, finding something that would fit in with and compliment the knickknacks, bric-a-brac and other assorted trinkets that the dragon had accumulated over the years. In other words, he’d made a particular effort – and he hadn’t even known that his actions had so much significance.And Sherlock had allowed it. He hadn’t questioned the joy and contentment he’d felt at the additions to his treasure, chalking it up to his desire for a larger hoard and perhaps sharing that part of his life with John, even if the doctor had no clue as to what he’d done.Not only that, he’d allowed it to go just a bit further on, he realised. The reason he had been so very reluctant to return that watch, why he’d taken it in the first place, wasn’t merely his dragon nature playing up and preventing him from giving something back that he’d claimed. It was part of a process that he, though unconsciously, hadn’t been keen on stopping.That he had tried to return it later, that was something different, though. Or perhaps the desire to keep John there, to not anger him, further, and have him move out, had clashed with the courting claim? He had no solid idea. It needed further research, like so much of what had happened since the kidnapping.The question, one of the important ones, at least, was; would Sherlock, if he’d been in a state to realise what was happening, had put a stop to it? Yes, it had filled him with joy and contentment, he wasn’t questioning that in the slightest. But the knowledge that he had thereby allowed a courtship ritual, one that was innate and partially instinctual, to begin, would that have been enough to make him stop it? Without alerting John to what was really going on, of course.He had a feeling that if he’d been asked less than a week prior – hell, if he’d been asking more than twenty-four hours ago, probably – he would’ve said yes but at the same time, he knew that he would’ve been lying, to the asker and himself.John wasn’t alone, after all, was he? Not just in wanting this to work out, for them to stay by each other. To enjoy their odd, mundane, helter-skelter, hodgepodge life together as best as possible for as long as possible, though that was unquestionably part of it, and a large part at that.He wanted something more than what they’ve had. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that he wanted a formalisation of what they had, not so much the next level as the inevitable next chapter of a book. That wasn’t to say it didn’t feel like a big step, because it did, but at the same time, it felt like turning to each other and shrugging at the same time because of course that just happened.So, regardless of the courting happening without either of their conscious agreement, regardless of the unpleasant possibility that he would need to claim John to avoid Moriarty staking his own, regardless of the feral behaviour of the dragon, there was a wish for things to progress, for both of them.The fact that John, his kind, brave, clever John, had listed all those things, the reality of their life together, not some romantic pipe dream, was almost more touching than the declaration of love.Well, no, that wasn’t true. It was just as touching because they were really very much linked, weren’t they? The love was what made those mundanities have meaning and the mundanities grounded the love into something concrete and proper.It was easy enough, relatively speaking, to have a declaration and then follow it up with some big romantic gesture or even a series of them as you floated high above in your little castle in the air, filled with love and ease. Sooner or later, though, reality, or rather the everyday, would infringe upon any such bubble and would, if not exactly burst it, at least puncture it enough for it to slowly leak and deflate.If you had not built up anything substantial, any proper foundation, in the time of the bubble, found joy in the small things that would occur far more often than the sweeping gestures and amazing moments, then it would be so much harder for you to maintain a relationship, especially a romantic one. That wasn’t to say it was impossible, of course, but it is always harderThat was part of why John’s relationships with the women he found always failed. Some of it was John’s love of danger and his adrenaline kick, too, obviously, but how could he ever hope to find someone who could be a long-term partner when he always stuck to the bubble aspect of a relationship?Alright, admittedly – if asked about a week ago, he would’ve utterly denied it but sometimes, introspection on the most unlikely though not unimportant things  can sneak up on you – Sherlock was a factor in that as well, but really, he was only adding kindling to a fire that had already begun to smoulder, sometimes as early as when he started out seeing them.But now…this wasn’t that. Oh, there would undoubtedly be something of that bubble nature simply from the nature of it, but this bubble would have quite a few tethers to the ground.
Suppose you say some of all this to him rather than just thinking it, hm?
Well, yes, of course. Obviously.But how? To say what he had thought precious about their time together would sound as though he was purely echoing John, parroting him to say the right thing. In other words, it wouldn’t sound genuine at all.To just nod and say something along the lines of ‘me, too’, however, would feel trite and not encompass what he wanted to say. Kissing was an option, but it ran the risk of seeming like another copout. Neither was it an option he was particularly keen on doing, not as purely a response.Perhaps the best option was just to say what was on his mind?“You…” He started but then paused."It’s okay – “"It’s not, so shut up and let me finish!” Sherlock snapped. Fortunately, the only effect was John’s second eyebrow joining the first.“I’m…I want to keep that, too. All of it and so much more,” he said, feeling exposed but pressing on. “Everything that we do, that you do. I never would have thought it before I met you but I…I don’t ever want to be without you in my life again, and I…”He took a breath and wet his lips, nervous about what he was saying, but looking into John’s eyes, how they had gradually lit up as he’d spoken, that bolstered him and made his heart warm all at the same time.“I love you,” he said, and it felt simultaneously like the easiest and most difficult thing he’d ever said.That wasn’t to say he didn’t mean it or that it wasn’t worth it. Because it was.To say it and feel the truth of it, something out of joint sliding into place and settling unmovably yet easily, a truth that had always been present, even if he hadn’t seen it or acknowledged it.To see the expression on John’s face as he said it.That alone was worth anything.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

If he expected John to wrap himself around him, though, he was to be disappointed. Nor did he get pulled down to get snogged for all he was worth.Honestly, though, it didn’t matter. Not when those blue eyes, the toll of the whole event evident in the redness of them, looked at him as if he’d just been told the most wonderful thing in the world.It might be cheesy, it might be fanciful and flowery, but at that moment, John’s eyes sparkled and shone, and Sherlock couldn’t look away.Endless moments seemed to pass before either of them moved or said anything, and when they did, it was Sherlock who spoke.“Will you…would it be alright if I kissed you? A proper kiss, I mean. Please?”John blinked. Then he huffed, which turned into a smile. “Of course, it is, you idiot. As often as you want to.”“You did ask ‘why’ earlier,” the brunet pointed out.“I know. I’m an idiot.”“At least we’re matched, then.”With that, Sherlock closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to the blond’s softly. Not because he was hesitating this time but because he wanted to savour it, enjoy the softness and the slightly chapped areas of John’s lips.After a moment or two of that, he tilted his head and began to slowly part his lips, carefully cataloguing each and every reaction he got from the doctor, both good and bad. If there was something which he was uncomfortable with, Sherlock wanted to know, likewise if some action triggered a memory of something.He was going to get the full story of what had happened while he wasn’t there himself, as it were, from John but right now, that could most certainly wait.At the same time, he also wanted to record his reactions for future reference. Know what gave the best responses in a way that he couldn’t deduce from observation, so that he could replicate it and make sure that…By the time John’s own lips had parted and his tongue met the doctor’s, carefully but enthusiastically, Sherlock had forgotten about his cataloguing, lost in just experiencing kissing John properly for the first time with all his mental faculties with him. Not that he minded. How could he mind?He wasn’t exactly an expert in what you might call the practical application of kissing techniques. In his youth, when he’d been trying to satiate the hunger that materialised at the start at puberty as part of the hoarding tendencies, he’d been trying to get close to people in a way that he would never have thought he’d want to when he was younger and he’d deny when older.Not to claim them, in the traditional dragon way. At least, that wasn’t what he consciously wanted to do. His wires were rather hormone-crossed at the time, and so he thought that he could lay a claim on them by getting close to them physically. That he wouldn’t need to claim them as treasure after all, that he could get what he needed, satiate the hunger without going the whole way, as it were.Of course, the fact that he was all hormones at the time hadn’t exactly helped him think particularly straight. Even the greatest mind isn’t automatically unaffected by the thorny path through puberty.But in the end, he’d never gotten further than a few kisses and half a hand job before he’d felt the need to claim them, to sink his teeth in and make them part of his treasure for good. It had turned out that rather than circumventing the needy hunger, he’d actually only managed to stoke it and focus it on the more carnal aspects, which in turn only served to fuel said lust.He’d broken it off, then, in shock and some horror at the vehemence of that desire, the hunger overtaking and guiding the lust, twisting it into something else.After that, he’d mostly stayed away from physical interactions of the sort. Not entirely but enough so that he felt as though he was kissing someone – a peck on the lips didn’t really count in that context – for the very first time.Perhaps it was also a factor that this wasn’t some random person or even just someone he’d managed to form an emotional connection with. This was John. His John, which made it significant all on its own.
Oh, fucking hell, I’m going to mess this up royally, aren’t I?
Despite the thought, he carried on kissing John…who didn’t kiss the way Sherlock might have expected him to. It wasn’t as though he’d exactly snogged his girlfriends in front of the consulting detective from which he could’ve gleaned something useful. Probably bad form or something equally tedious.John kissed…it wasn’t fair to say he kissed passively or hesitantly. There was real passion there, it would be difficult if not downright impossible to deny it, but it was cushioned with a care that Sherlock wouldn’t have expected. As though he was afraid to break something or…or scare Sherlock off.Or he’s still frightened that the dragon is going to re-emerge, an inner voice remarked, which isn’t an unfair fear, given everything.No. No, he wasn’t.Sherlock didn’t believe that merely because he didn’t want to stop and was making a convenient excuse. That wasn’t it at all. Nor was it because he didn’t want to think that it could resurface, since he knew perfectly well that it could.No, this was something else, and he could prove it; the care John was exhibiting wasn’t the one of someone walking on eggshells, afraid of the consequences should even one of them break, which would be the appropriate reaction, even from the former soldier, to being worried about that.The care was instead the kind that you exhibit when you are doing something that you want to be sure you get right, with perhaps a bit of precaution in case of skittishness on behalf of the other in there, too.In that case, how could he be annoyed with it? Instead, it made his heart swell a little.He felt hands come up and he expected to have his face bracketed again. But what he got instead was one hand back where it had been before while the other settled onto the nape of his neck, its fingers sliding into the soft hair there.John didn’t try to tug him down, however. It felt more like he was trying to anchor himself somehow, which the brunet certainly didn’t mind.He was quite content to continue to explore John’s mouth and had no need to go fast.They pulled apart eventually, though.When they did, John opened his eyes to look the other in the eye, this time with a slightly hazy look to the blue.“Alright?” he asked, his voice quiet.“You really have to ask that?”He meant it to sound jokingly offended but instead, it came out as more of a genuine question.Thankfully, John just smiled softly. “Well, given everything, it’s not an unfair question, is it?”“I suppose not.” Sherlock leaned in and stole another kiss, savouring the fact that he could do this. “But yes, definitely alright. More than alright.”He brought his own hand up to let it trail through the strands of blond hair. It wasn’t softer than he’d imagined or anything like that, but it was still lovely to be able to touch it without having to think up some excuse.Then he realised something else; there was none of the hunger that he’d experienced in his teen years. No urge to push it further than what they were doing, or rather, no urge to sink his claws and teeth in.Which was even odder when you considered he’d begun a courtship claim with John, admittedly unconsciously for both parties, but even so, it didn’t compute. Hell, even without the experiences from his youth, he would’ve expected to have to restrain himself when it came to being so close to John, actually touching him like that.Granted, he hadn’t experienced that at any point leading up to this, worried though they’d both been, so it wouldn’t necessarily follow that he’d experience when they got physically close like that. On the other hand, it didn’t necessary follow that he wouldn’t, either, and after the time he’d had, they had had, he would be more surprised if things weren’t on a sort of hair-trigger wire, ready to tip over into something they were both desperately trying to avoid.And he hadn’t been that close to someone since his youth, not really, and he certainly had never been this close emotionally to anyone else as he had John, that was for certain.All in all, it was very odd that he had yet to feel the hunger that he’d experienced in his teens and which he, presumably, had been completely under the sway of before he’d resurfaced.Was that possibly something to do with the courtship? No, why would that be? Something else, then? But what?“Penny for them?”It was John, now tugging slightly at the hair he was still holding onto to attract his attention. He had a look of concern his face. Just a mild one, mind, but still.“Just…thinking…”“Yeah. I’m not that daft, ta, I could see that, even if it wasn’t what you always do. What you were thinking about, was what I was asking – and don’t fob me off with ‘nothing’ or similar.”I was…I was wondering why I wasn’t experiencing hunger.” At the doctor’s nonplussed look, he elaborated. “I told you earlier that we don’t choose whether we want to claim something or not, yes?”“Something to that effect, yeah. What – oh, you mean that if you’ve felt that strong a need to claim me, which you obviously have, what with…” he waved a hand to encapsulate them, “and all, then it would be odd not to feel that when you were that close to me. Kissing me and all. You seemed to have a fondness for my…my throat.”Even as his heart sank a little at the thought that he’d been that close to forcefully claim John and physically hurt him, it also swelled with the fact that John could understand what he meant that easily, could work it out without any real prompting.“Precisely. It’s where we traditionally tend to bite when we claim someone. Arteries or something.”“Something? You mean you don’t know?”“I have never had any interest in having people as my treasure, John. I’ve told you that before. Therefore, there was never any need to remember why it’s a specific place.”“Isn’t that just instinct?”“To bite, yes, and where to. Not the whys of it.”“I suppose not. But you – you didn’t experience that hunger just now?”“No. Nor at any of the other times you’ve worried about it. I don’t blame you for that, that’s not what I’m saying. Anyone would be far more scared than you’ve been in the circumstances but then again, you were a soldier.”“So…is the hunger tied into you…your dragon, is that it? Is that why you didn’t come back when you woke?”“I…I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, grimacing. “Everything is either a blank or possibly a blur, with an occasional sharp, horrible spike of…something in there for spice. I just know that if I was that desperate to claim you earlier, then it makes no sense I shouldn’t feel any of that now. I don’t, however.”He paused and let his hand, which had slipped from John’s head earlier, caress the by now slightly stubbly cheek. “I honestly don’t. Well, apart from the wish to kiss you again but that’s got nothing to do with the dragon.”John smiled at that. “I hear you. But we do need to know because it’s going to rear its head sooner or later.”“Not if I can help it.” There was steely determination in his voice at that.“And what if you can’t, Sherlock?”“Nature isn’t all there is to dragons, John.”“I’m not saying it is. Not at all. Nor am I saying you’re going to be dangerous or would hurt me.”“Yes, in actual fact, that is precisely what – ““Well, then, what I meant was that sooner or later, it’s going to creep into your mind that maybe you’re not safe around me, just like it did earlier, and, knowing you, you’re going to find some way of dealing with it that’ll be anything but the smart option. Which, yeah, I know, people in glass houses and all, but the point remains.”Sherlock opened his mouth to argue…then closed it again. Because, that was what he’d been doing, wasn’t it? Trying to push it down as far as he could, ignore what he was, find a way to control it and push it away entirely. For the sake of keeping John safe, or perhaps, purely to keep him there with him.Was he really that…that deep into the dragon mindset? Had he not really resurfaced, after all? It seemed ludicrous and hyperbolic but at the same time, he had to ask himself what his actual motives were for wanting John there.All that he had thought of before, of course. Because he loved him, too. But was it genuine or did that stem from the subconscious desire to claim him as treasure? Was his claim to wanting to keep John safe merely something he told himself to justify his want?No. No, it couldn’t be. No.He hadn’t wanted John to leave but at the same time, he’d known he should because Sherlock wasn’t safe to be around.Perhaps what he needed was something more solid and concrete, something he could latch onto and work from.“Or perhaps what you need is some actual rest,” John said and only then did the brunet realise that he must’ve spoken some of his thoughts. His eyes searched John’s, trying to work out how much he’d said out loud.“I believe that you love me,” John said in answer to his unspoken question, confirming at least some of it. “Genuinely, or why would you have waited to this point? If you just wanted to claim me, there’s been plenty of opportunity for that during our friendship. Hell, you could’ve just done it when you were wrapped around me back at the pool, if that was all that you wanted. You were certainly agitated enough about someone else having a go at it, what with the blood and everything. Is that what you bond with, by the way? Must be, since you mentioned arteries earlier.”“I could’ve just needed to wait until you were inside my territory.”John wasn’t backing down, though. “Then why not do it while I was trying to patch you up? Why only do it when almost every shred of your humanity, for lack of a better term, was…well, not gone, per se, but certainly very, very deeply buried? That does not make any sort of sense. There’d be far better times to do it – before I ever knew you were a dragon, for a start. It’s not as though you haven’t exactly been close to my neck before now.”“Perhaps the pool triggered something. Or the fact that Moriarty was trying to claim you might have been the deciding factor.”“Now you’re just being contrary for the sake of it.”“I’m not.”“Uh-huh. Trying to get a rise out of me to derail the argument isn’t going to work, either.”“It usually does.”John opened his mouth, then paused. “Touché. Not now, though. I just don’t believe that you’d do it while you’re…well, there, mentally.”“You thought so earlier,” Sherlock pointed out, voice gone quiet and more sincere. “When we got back here, after…you thought what I claimed was people, just like Moriarty does, albeit without eventually killing them. If you thought that, you would’ve walked out there and then. You were rather…adamant as well as angry that I only seemed to value you as a possession.”It was the last thing he remembered with the normal crystal clarity his memories had when he was fully present in the moment to record them, that and his snapping comment that he didn’t want the doctor as a possession.No, not quite the last thing. The odd array of emotion playing across John’s face was quite vivid, too, as was the clenching of his heart at that. That last one did swirl just slightly, though – was that when he’d begun to lose consciousness?But when falling comatose like that or similar trauma, the brain jettisoned whatever was stored only in the working memory at the moment of the trauma. He shouldn’t be able to remember that, should he?John stared at him, a deepening frown on his brow as it seemed the memory came back to him, too. Then he swallowed, his jaw working for a moment.“I... I’m sorry about that. It was prejudiced and well, yeah, I was angry, but I…I really shouldn’t have – ““No,” Sherlock interrupted, gently, though it nevertheless managed to get John to shut up. He reached down to grab hold of John’s hands, savouring the experience. “You should have. You were within your rights to. Are within.”“No, I wasn’t. I’m not. To be angry, possibly, but not to accuse you like that. That was…”“Perfectly understandable.”“No, it’s not!” John snapped. “Why the fuck are you suddenly so ruddy reasonable?”“Because I understand why you might think that was my motive, too, seeing you’d just faced Moriarty, your experiences with him being the first ones of a dragon, of course you’d draw parallels between the two of us. Quite apart from the other aspects of similarity between me and him. In the circumstances, it would be odder for you not to.”He squeezed the hands he was holding, about to say more.“You’re not Moriarty.” John’s words were adamant, which was slightly odd but mainly, it was sweet and very touching. “You are not like him.”I’m more like him than I’m not and more like him than either of us want to admit, Sherlock thought but didn’t voice out loud. It wasn’t as though they didn’t both already know that.“I am still dangerous,” he said instead, “and we’ve had proof that I do wish to claim you, even if it’s not my conscious self. But that doesn’t mean your value to me is that of a possession. That’s part of why I’ve never wanted to claim you. I…I didn’t want to lose what we had, which I would, will, if I ever claim you. I never wanted to lose you. I would rather lose myself.”Never mind the teensy, tiny fact that losing himself had almost resulted in him losing John as well. He felt his heart clench.John stared again, blinking at the sudden moistness visible in his eyes in the morning light. “I…that’s…you idiot, you shouldn’t say something like that!”Sherlock’s brow knitted slightly. “Why not when it’s true?”“Why not? Because that…that’s not something you say!”“You haven’t answered the question.”“Sherlock, you only just admitted to…to loving me. You’ve been adamant in your derision of sentiment up to this point. It’s not that I don’t believe that you love me, I do, because it’s not something you would say if you didn’t mean it. Not now, not after all this.”“I could be saying it just to get you to stay with me.”“I – what? Now you’re just taking the piss, aren’t you? Because if you think I’d stay here if I thought you were just manipulating me, to an extent such as that rather than your normal little tricks and such, then you’ve got me entirely wrong, mate.”John sounded angry. He looked angry, too, but oddly, interesting he didn’t feel angry. Nor had he pulled his hands away from Sherlock’s grip, a fact which the consulting detective used to pull them closer to himself, even though there wasn’t much space separating in the first place.He pulled them upwards, too. Not to kiss them, though a small part of him wanted to, just to have them close. It felt…right.“I never would. I promise,” he said, trying for as much earnestness as he could, because it was true, and he needed to be sure that John believed him on that score. It was imperative. “I love you. I should have said before this, I know – ““That’s something of a pot and kettle, there, really.”“– But I’m not sure I was ready to admit it, to myself or to you, not before. I never wanted to lose you.”“You thought you would if you admitted that?” John sounded sympathetic but also…hurt? Just a little? Was that really surprising? Or incomprehensible?“I don’t think it had reached my conscious mind by then but…you’ve always been adamant you weren’t gay.”“And you were above such things, so it’s not as though you have the high ground here.”“Pot and kettle?”“Exactly.” John squeezed the hands holding his before he leaned up and stole a kiss.Sherlock followed him when he tried to pull back, stealing one in turn, then another and another.Then he yawned, the action happening before he was aware of what was going on.John laughed, the sound warm and tingling and relieving to Sherlock’s ears.“Best get you off to bed, then. Come on.” The blond started to pull at their joined hands.However, the brunet refused to budge, even though he was swaying just a little on his feet. “No.”“Sherlock, you’re tired. We had a case before all of this, and you’ve put your body through the ringer both before and during it. You need some kip.”“First of all, so do you, and secondly, I can’t. Not yet.”John did stop at that, his eyebrows raised as he waited for a reason. “Why not?”“Because even if I’m not currently in danger of claiming you, it might…” flare up if you’re not close to me as much as possible. He didn’t say that out loud, though, aware of how that might come across. “I’m not the only danger.”It only took a moment for John to cotton on. “Sherlock, we can’t…I really don’t think Moriarty is any real danger to me. He just wanted to mess with you, and I was an easy way of accomplishing that.” He grimaced, as though thinking of something he’d rather not contemplate.Was there something guilty in there, as well? He’d say that John didn’t actually believe that he wasn’t in danger from Moriarty, that he knew he was but was trying to convince Sherlock and, just as importantly, himself that he wasn’t, in order to cope with it.There was something else on his mind, too, however, though linked to the first.“He succeeded in that, too, didn’t he?” he murmured, as though to himself.Sherlock heard, however, and heard what wasn’t being said, too. He spoke quickly.“John, you’re not to blame for this.” He tightened the grip on his hands. “None of it. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I will not have you blaming yourself for something that only got started because of me.”“I’m as much to blame as you are.”Were John being dense on purpose or was he suffering the delusion that his actions had somehow provoked Sherlock’s? Or that he could have stopped it before it got this far? Surely not. Perhaps he was just being idiotically noble or kind.“Oh, so you were the one who played into his game, were you?” he asked, a little pointedly. “You thought ‘oh, hey, let’s get kidnapped by a madman because Sherlock is being an arse and not taking things seriously’, did you?”John frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You want honesty?” he asked, sharp in turn. “I wasn’t expecting you to turn up, if we’re being honest.”Sherlock stared at him, thrown.His first thought was indignation and anger. How on Earth could John not think that he would come for him? When he’d run as fast as he could to get to him, worried out of his mind, then –Oh. No, honestly, how could he think anything else? What real reason had he had to expect that? Sherlock had taken quite a long time to notice John had gone in the first place, hadn’t he? So certain in his ability to find him, keep the thread on him, that he hadn’t even taken a moment to check where he was when he’d gone storming out and hadn’t returned after the normal stomp around.John had no way of detecting the reaction the brunet had had when he’d discovered he was gone, that he couldn’t sense him, either.And when he had come, how was John to know that he was there for him and not for the challenge that Moriarty provided?He’d gone for John first, hadn’t he? Not Moriarty. His priority had been getting to John. That ought to have been a rather big clue-by-four, even for the doctor in the state he’d been.That was when you had arrived, though, wasn’t it? Before that, between him storming out and Sherlock showing up at the pool, how was he ever to know? What clues should he have followed to lead him to the right conclusion?It wasn’t even as though the previous behaviour from Sherlock gave him much to go on, either, was it? Hell, that had been some of the argument that had prompted the whole thing, hadn’t it? And what had led up to it, with the watch and everything.Given all of that, how could he be blamed for thinking that?“You…I went to find you the moment I realised you were gone, that you’d been taken.” He left out mentioning how he’d realised, reasoning that the blond probably didn’t want to know that he could keep tabs on him like that, even though he might suspect something. “I’m…I don’t blame you, though, for…for any of it.”John looked at him for a moment longer, brow knitted. Then he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, weary.“Hello, kettle, I’m pot,” he said. Then he snorted, a small, sharp exhalation, looking down at the two hands that were still joined. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?” He paused, seeming to think for a moment. “The point, though, I think, is that there’s still a pair to be. I’ve spent most of the night and morning being worried, being downright terrified, honestly, that either you or I would die today.”“I was never in – “Sherlock began, but a glare from John shut his mouth.“No? Do you know what he coated the bullets with?”“Yes. You said. It was…”He had the word; he was sure of it. It had been said shortly after he’d resurfaced, he knew that, but when he tried to focus on it, it slipped away. It couldn’t be that hard, though, to work out, given the limited number of things that could hurt a dragon.“Bone dust,” John supplied. “Off an old dragon. Dead dragon.”“Yes, of course dead. It’s not as though we go around dropping appendages like some sort of lizard, whatever the physical similarities.”“Shut up. You know what that does, if it goes into your bloodstream? Yeah, of course you do. Mycroft does, so why wouldn’t you? It’s not as though you’d never meet other dragons and never have any use for it, so you wouldn’t delete it. So, don’t give me that ‘I was never in danger of dying’ because I’m not having it.”“It depends on – ““And I’m not having the idea that being rendered a mental vegetable, if even that much, doesn’t count as dying for you. But I don’t…I – “The lump in his throat John had been speaking against, voice gradually getting more and more strangled, finally shut him up.
Well, aren’t you a first-class berk? Of course, he’d be scared that you could actually die from that. Downplaying it really isn’t helping anybody, is it?
Shut up!Exhausted, feeling even more guilty than before and suddenly craving contact, Sherlock used the hand he was still holding onto to pull John in the rest of the way. Not to kiss him or otherwise do anything, but just to wrap himself around him.John grabbed onto him without reservation, almost clinging to him in a way that spoke volumes.
He’s been holding on for dear life for my sake, hasn’t he? He’s beyond exhausted, scared for his life, my life, trying to figure out what it all means and having his world turned upside down. His body, which hasn’t been given much if any respite, judging by the state of it, has been put through…hell, for lack of a better descriptor, and it is, without deprecating him in the slightest, only human. It’s frankly a miracle he’s lasted this long.
There was still so much to sort through and work out, but far too much had happened already, and they weren’t going to get much further right now. Even if they were, Sherlock ought to put a stop to it and focus on protecting his friend. No, more than that. His…his romantic partner.That thought sent a jolt of…pure joy through him. That John genuinely loved him, was in love with him, was something that he honestly hadn’t seen coming, something which, quite frankly, floored him.Something which he wanted to hold onto and protect as the most fragile of flames until it burned bright and was incapable of being extinguished. Not that it probably was that fragile – to not just survive but grow after all they’d been through took resilience, though really, wasn’t that par for the course for John? – but nevertheless, it was something that felt delicate to him. Perhaps because it was so precious to him, which in turn was because it was John.Part of that protection would be to make sure that not just John but Sherlock himself got some rest. Otherwise, tempers would only continue to fray and rise as they had before when for instance a case had run on without any breakthrough. Consequently, the risk that he might tip over could rise back up. Or they just bit each other’s heads off. Either or, really.But where to go? They obviously each hair their own bedroom they could go to but that felt incredibly and entirely wrong, after they both had admitted that they loved each other. After they’d kissed, properly, even if they hadn’t gone any further than that. Now really wasn’t the time for it, though, and not just because they were, thankfully, metaphorically dead on their feet.It wasn’t merely the change in relationship status that was a factor. It was that, obviously and primarily, but the fact that John was still in danger was at the forefront of Sherlock’s mind and part of him was reluctant, to say the least, to let John go, to let him sleep in his own room.Even if he was just up the stairs, close to the dragon as he was more or less directly above him, he would still be up the stairs, which was easily accessible by the landing, without needing to go into the rest of the flat. Of course, Sherlock could transform and break through the floor but if he slept soundly, which he was quite confident that he would, it was within the sliver of possibility that Moriarty would reach John before Sherlock could transform and get there.
Not to mention there’s a bit of residual possessiveness in there, too, even if you’re not keen on admitting to it. Is it really something of the dragon, though?
He didn’t know the answer to that. It didn’t matter, anyway. He had no right to be possessive, wherever it stemmed from. John was his own person, free of Sherlock.
You gave him something, though. He wasn’t much living before he met you, was he?
Not at that precise moment, no, perhaps not. But even Sherlock wasn’t that much of an egotist that he couldn’t acknowledge John had had a life before Sherlock, before he’d been shot. An interesting, danger-filled, thrilling life. That he couldn’t return to that life and he’d struggled to keep himself together when they’d met, that was another matter entirely.The point was that he wasn’t a possession, either in the dragon or the human sense of the term, and Sherlock would make certain that he never treated him as such. Whatever that would take.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“John,” he said, softly, almost speaking into the blond strands streaked with just the hints of grey. “John, you were right, we need sleep.”He didn’t try to persuade him or tug, however, or otherwise push him in a direction. This needed to be discussed beforehand.“You said we couldn’t,” John said, voice just ever so slightly laced with tiredness now. It was also vague but that had more to do with his face being halfway buried in Sherlock’s bare collarbone. “You couldn’t. That it might flare up if…”He trailed off but then again, he didn’t really need to elaborate further.“I know,” the brunet replied, keeping his voice soft. “But you can’t stay awake indefinitely, nor should you. You need a good, long sleep.”John inhaled in the nasal way people used when they were either waking up or preventing themselves from falling further asleep than they already were. To accomplish that, the body effectively jerked itself awake, with the resultant inhalation.“Right,” he said, standing up straighter as he settled into practical mode, making to step away from Sherlock’s grasp. “Okay. I can do that. It’s only a single flight of stairs, it should be…be fine.”The consulting detective let him step away but didn’t relinquish the grasp he had on him. John looked up at him.“But you wouldn’t be happy with that, would you?” he asked, a look of scrutiny on his face. “No, not that you wouldn’t be happy, really, but you would have to struggle with your instincts…right? That’s what would make them flare up, yeah?”“Yes…” Sherlock admitted, a little reluctantly. “Well, one of the possible reasons.”"The other one being Moriarty, not caring about this being your…your territory.”“Yes.”The former soldier was silent, an array of emotions flickering across his face.When he spoke, it was quiet but firm and just a little steely, despite his tiredness. “Sherlock, how can I ever leave this flat again if I have to continuously worry that if I step outside, I might be kidnapped again and this time, I will have a dragon claiming me through blood like the most bizarre mashup of 80s fantasy and Hammer Horror? Or even feel safe within it?”“I don’t know, John. I wish I did, and I am sorry for dragging you into it.”John held up a hand. “We’re not having that conversation again. Can we – would it help to sleep together? As in, share a bed that we both sleep in. For tonight, anyway. Work it out in the morning.”“And then you’ll go back to your own bed?” It was more than a little trying to keep his voice neutral, let alone soft.A look of confusion passed John’s features. Then, seemingly despite himself, he snorted and gave a small smile.“No, idiot,” he said, and there was a strong note of fondness in there. “I meant that the reason we’d sleep in the same bed tonight wouldn’t be entirely the same reason we will later. Both in the literal sense and the more metaphorical one. Only if you’re comfortable with the latter, of course.”“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asked, the comment confusing him slightly.“Why – for the same reason I would never have thought you interested in a relationship in the first place, among others.”“Just because I’ve had little patience for the relationships of others in the past doesn’t entail that I am averse to a relationship for myself now or to the concept of physical intimacy when it comes to my own relationship.”“It doesn’t follow that you are comfortable with it, either,” John countered. “For someone with such a remarkable habit of disregarding other people’s personal space, you never really, properly touch them, do you?”“I do,” the consulting detective protested, though slightly weakly. “I…I touch you, for instance.” He meant to imply that he touched others, too, even if he couldn’t think of them, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.“Well, yes,” John replied, and was there a touch of exasperated fondness in the eyes and in the smile? It felt rather reassuring, in its own way. “But do you touch anyone else? When you’re not in the rush of a case, I mean.”“Why doesn’t that count?”“Why doesn’t – because that’s…that’s entirely accidental because you’re caught up in something else entirely. Like kids knocking into each other in a full bouncy castle.”“A what?”He got a sigh. “Never mind. Point is, you’re never touching someone if you don’t have to and it isn’t accidental.”“Except you.”It was an important point to make, he felt, a very important one. John may be right, that he didn’t touch others, really, but so what? It wasn’t as though there was any need for him to or use for it, except perhaps when he was on a case, and besides, he didn’t want to touch anybody else, just John. What was so wrong with that?How did that mean that he wasn’t comfortable with…with intimacy? It surely only showed that he was just rather selective.He picked quality over quantity, was what wrong about that?“Except me,” John agreed. He hesitated then cocked his head.Sherlock cut in before he’d formulated the sentence, knowing what he was going to say.“It has nothing to do with the hoarding,” he said, needing to clarify. “I just…I like touching you. For you. Because it’s you.”To illustrate his point, he raised the hand that John had let go of and rested it against the side of the doctor’s neck, close to where it became jaw. It wasn’t close to anything sexual, other than that anywhere could be sexual if you wanted it to be. It was just a nice, warm place to have his hand and hopefully it would show what he wanted to get across.It seemed to, as John leaned into the contact, and not in a way that could be mistaken as merely him being tired. Not that he wasn’t tired; his eyelids fluttered a little before he widened his eyes quickly and with determination.He then looked up at Sherlock and smiled. The dragon’s heart did a warm thump against his ribs.“And now that I can,” Sherlock whispered, “that I’m allowed to do it as much as I could wish to, how could you ever suppose that I wouldn’t want to?”He leaned down and captured a kiss, long and warm and lazily passionate. John was happy to kiss back but keep it at a slower pace.When they stopped and pulled away, Sherlock stayed close enough that their foreheads and noses touched, and their lips would touch as well if he spoke.“Anything, John,” he whispered. “Anything you want. Everything.”“No,” John replied, shaking his head ever so slightly. He was smiling, though. “Got to be both of us, if it’s going to be any of us. What we both want, that’s how it works, not exclusively one or the other.”“I never said exclusively.”“No, but I can read between the lines, too, you twit. Now, could you please help me into bed? Yours, mine, I don’t care, I just need to lie down. I’m fucking well running on fumes here.” He lowered his voice to mutter, “Would’ve had quite a better reaction to that if I wasn’t bloody knackered.”“Better reaction to what?”“Never…oh, you’ll know anyway. Hearing you whisper ‘anything’ like that in a sexual context would normally have a stronger…well, you get the drift.”
I don’t…oh. Oh, yes. Really? Oh, fuck.
Sherlock felt a faint stirring of his own at that. But he had to admit that between the same exhaustion that John was experiencing, the continued wooziness from when he’d resurfaced, and the force to keep everything in check and down, as it were, he wasn’t having the best reaction possible. Or the most faithful to what he’d otherwise experience.So, he nodded.“Another time?” he said, and it came out as a question rather than a promise.He got a brief but hard kiss for his troubles.“Oh, fuck, yes,” the blond said, just the faintest of growls in his voice. Then he pulled away, further than before, though he kept hold of the broad hand. “But…yeah. Sleep now. Come on.”Sherlock let himself be tugged towards a bedroom.Interestingly, John didn’t pull them towards his own bedroom. That would’ve made sense, as that was his territory and his alone, even if it was also an example of Sherlock’s tendency towards disregard of personal space.It made even more sense to have come into John’s room rather than Sherlock’s when they stepped into said bedroom and saw the…Well, carnage was probably too dramatic a word for it, as was destruction. Mess didn’t convey the severity. Possibly wreckage was the appropriate term for what his bedroom had become.There was the door itself, of course, or rather, the remnants thereof, lying on the floor both outside and inside the room, for a start. Then the shattered glass of his periodic table on the floor, and the table itself a rather tattered mess in its frame. Well, half a frame.The curtains were oddly intact, a contrast to the wardrobe, which had tilted and was resting against the dresser beside it, its doors hanging open, clothing out on the floor, too. There were claw marks on the walls, the floor and on the furniture, including the bed.That wasn’t even mentioning the smell but at least John wouldn’t be able to detect that. As for the dragon himself, he was somewhat surprised that he could regard the tableau in front of him so dispassionately.Not so much because he’d expected to be saddened by the state of his rooms – nothing in there wasn’t repairable after all – but because he could still smell Mycroft and had an idea of what had gone on here from deductions, even if he had no actual recollection of what had occurred.But even without the smell, it was not a sight that said much of anything good about dragons in general or Sherlock in particular.He looked over at his friend, anxious about what reaction there would be to this. He couldn’t imagine that it would be a positive one and he was tempted to just pull the blond straight back out of there and up the stairs to his bedroom, even if he had to carry him all the way.Only to find John looking around not with an expression of disgust or even one of fear. Granted, there was a smidgeon of fear in there, not surprisingly, but the most prominent expression there was one of…guilt? No, that couldn’t be right, surely?He was looking at something specific, though, not the room in general.Sherlock followed his gaze and his heart did a stutter that wasn’t pleasant. He felt the dragon stir and rumble in its deep imprisonment.It was his coat. Or rather, it was what was left of it, lying in tatters on the floor on the other side of the bed.Why was it in tatters? What on earth had happened? There was no possible reason for either Sherlock or Mycroft to have shredded his coat when they’d been coming to blows, whether that had been straight-out fighting or his brother trying to contain him.No, wait. Hold on. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t in tatters. It was, he moved closer to see, in what appeared to be two parts. Moving closer still into a crouch, John making a small, suppressed noise that Sherlock didn’t notice, he picked up the garment to examine it closer.The thought that his coat, one of his most cherished treasures, had been cut in half like that hurt, even more than he would’ve expected it to with it being part of his hoard. It hurt quite badly, to be honest, but the rage that he might’ve expected to accompany the pain was oddly absent.It had been cut, quite neatly if not exactly professionally, from the bottom hem all the way to the top of the collar in a straight line, which was made easier by following the seam all the up.By doing so, it had not only been made a little bit easier to cut it with the large scissors they owned, it had, he realised, been made considerably easier to sew it back together again. The wool was of good enough quality to handle being re-stitched, even if the lining couldn’t be saved. He would still need someone who knew how to sew well, obviously, but the point was that it could be done.Perhaps that was why his rage at having part of his hoard destroyed hadn’t appeared; the item hadn’t been shredded, it had been cut in half as carefully as possible. Preserved as well as it could be.“Sorry about that,” John said from being him, sounding sincerely contrite. Sherlock turned a little to look at him, one half of the coat still in his hands. “I know how much that means to you and we tried to find another way around it, we really did. But the only way to help was to get to your wounds and we couldn’t get to them with your coat on. But when your wings wouldn’t disappear due to what was in your wounds, then – ““It was impossible to get the coat off,” Sherlock finished for him. He rose back up onto his feet in one long, graceful movement that belied his exhaustion.The hurt had taken a backseat to the feeling of joy again; John knew the value Sherlock placed on the garment, and had only done it because of lack of options, to save Sherlock.“Well yeah. Bit of a ‘hole in my bucket’ situation otherwise, so…but I’m really, really sorry.”Sherlock tried for a smile. “Don’t be. It’s only a thing.”He got raised eyebrows for his trouble, in that particular ‘you have to be kidding me, Sherlock Holmes, or I swear I will – ‘ way of John. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? Even if you weren’t what you are, you would cherish that coat.”“…well, yes, I suppose that’s true,” Sherlock conceded. “But it is only a thing, comparatively speaking. I’ll live.”A minute grimace flickered over the doctor’s face at that.“John, I didn’t – “The blond pursed his lips for a moment as he shook it off. “I know. I just…not the right phrasing right now. I’ll make it up to you with the coat, though, I promise.”Sherlock smiled. It was small and trembling and at the same time, large and warm, somehow.“I should’ve asked before dragging you in here, but – are you okay with this?”“With what?”A bony hand was waved to indicate the room and by extension, what had happened here.John got the point. “Ah. Right. Should’ve figured.” He took a deep breath, possibly in deliberation.“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay with this,” he said, nodding slightly as he did so.“Are you sure? It’s…” He trailed off.Obviously somewhere where some extremely unpleasant things, to put it mildly, happened a very short time ago, with me unquestionably the perpetrator, he finished in his thoughts. And while I know you’re brave – you’re far braver and stronger than me – and the PTSD diagnosis about your time as a soldier was incredibly wrong, it doesn’t follow that you wouldn’t have a hard time being in the room where it happened.He didn’t say this out loud, though. Not because he was afraid to say it or didn’t believe that John could hear it. He knew he could but by that same token, he knew he didn’t need to because John could finish that thought himself, too. Probably far better than Sherlock could.“I know,” John said, his voice quiet. He looked Sherlock in the eye, though. “I know. I won’t lie, it’s in the back of my mind and part of me is not comfortable with it. Far from it. But yeah, I’m mostly okay. I can deal with it. Just…if you didn’t loom over me or hold me down.”He didn’t look away as he said it, even though one might’ve expected him to.Facing what he was uncomfortable with head-on even as he admitted it.
John!
“I can sit on the floor,” he offered, thinking it’d be welcomed.He was wrong.“What on earth would you do that for?” John asked and there was slightly angry incredulity in there. “That wasn’t what I was getting at, at all, you berk. You’ll mangle your back, for a start, if you have to sit like that for an entire night. Day. Whichever.”“I’ve sat in much more uncomfortable positions before when my transport has given out on me. It’s not as though it’s something that is irreparable or even that damaging.”“And I’ve hauled you off onto at least the sofa when I’ve found you because sooner or later, you are going to do irreparable damage to your body.”“It’s hardly going to happen from this once, and it’s much better than you not sleeping in a proper bed, with your leg.”John’s jaw worked for a moment. “Sherlock, could you…please just drop it. I didn’t mean for you to sleep propped up against the bed, I just wanted some way for us both to sleep comfortably, without my bloody instincts waking me up in the middle of the night and thumping the hell out of you because you’re inadvertently triggering something.”“First off, it’s still not night-time, and secondly, I’m not made of glass. Thirdly, if I’m asleep, I cannot control how I move and could therefore always potentially trigger something.”John froze at that. “Right. I’m taking the floor, then.”“No, you’re not.”“You just said you would, the hell is the difference?”“I just said.”“My leg isn’t that bad anymore.”“It will be, after all of this. There is no need to exacerbate it.”The jaw worked again. Then he sighed, heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.“John, if you thump me, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” I deserve it.The former soldier looked up with a slight glare. “Well, tough luck, sunshine, because I do mind, and it’s not okay.”“But we need to find a way, and no, not because of the dragon. Because…” He took a breath, still needing a bit of mental push to admit such things, before he then continued, “because I want to watch you fall asleep and want to wake up with you. Feel the warmth of your body next to mine and be able to touch you when you’re calm and relaxed in a way which I’ve never seen you while awake.”John blinked. “I…that was not what I was expecting you to say.”With that, though, he closed the distance between them for a kiss. It was brief but it was turning out to be an excellent way of communicating. Not that Sherlock wanted it to be purely that, obviously, or for John to stalk talking normally but it was a wonderful addition, and it did offer something that talking didn’t.“But bloody hell, if that wasn’t sweet, though. I just…wait…”He paused, thinking. “Yeah, that might…I think that might just…”A decision apparently having been made in his head he began to unceremoniously divest himself of his clothing.It wasn’t done slowly or with any kind of finesse. It wasn’t for Sherlock’s benefit at all, just as efficient a way of taking off his clothes as he could do, and part of the brunet found himself rather cheated at being robbed of the opportunity to see it slowly revealed.Of course, he’d seen it before. They lived together and with his lack of boundaries, Sherlock had more than once walked in on his flatmate while he was showering or soaking in the tub. But apart from that, John wasn’t exactly an exhibitionist and what was exposed, when it happened, tended to be the upper half, at most. On top of that, there was quite the difference between that situation and this.On the other hand, this really wasn’t the right situation for that sort of thing, either. If they indeed would be sleeping together in the euphemistic sense, then yes, it would fit but as it were, the purpose was to get some kip, and for that, this method was better. Even if Sherlock’s lizard brain, aha, was protesting.Besides, it wasn’t as though he didn’t get anything out it, was it? John might be efficient about the task, but he wasn’t hiding behind anything while he did it nor was he trying to do it in a way that made it impossible to see.He felt some stirrings again, stronger than before, but his transport had been through too much to muster the energy for something like that, too, not without some rest first.John stripped down to his pants but left those on, much to Sherlock’s surprise.The doctor shrugged. “How I always sleep.”“No, it’s not. You most often have a t-shirt on when you venture downstairs in the morning but that’s mostly for my sake, as though I’d be horrified by the prospect of seeing you shirtless – and if we’re going to be perfectly honest here, you have a liking for sleeping naked, for comfort rather than any other reason, which has been curbed mainly because you’ve slept in close quarters with others for so many years.”“I – you did not seriously just…but of course you did. Of course, you’ve actually taken time to notice something as utterly irrelevant, let’s not go into the whole ‘personal’, as what I wear when sleeping. Why, Sherlock? What possible relevance could my preferences in something like that have to you?”Sherlock didn’t answer. He hoped the slight colour he could feel in his cheeks wasn’t visible.Why was he suddenly feeling self-conscious about it? It wasn’t as though he didn’t have quite a lot of details about John taking up space in his brain, details which he had no intention of deleting. He had even aired some of them to his flatmate at times, without so much as a blink or a care, even when John hadn’t taken to the revelation favourably, to put it mildly.He certainly had never bloody well blushed about it before so why on earth start now? It wasn’t even as though it was admitting to having spied on John in the shower or something – which he hadn’t! He couldn’t help that the door from his bedroom to the bathroom had frosted glass rather than wood all the way, could he? Or that the frosting was rather…inefficient as far as obscuring the view went?To try and cover up, pretend that he hadn’t just blushed at something as insignificant as that, he started to undo his own trousers.Again, he was feeling unaccustomedly self-conscious, which was even more stupid, seeing as he’d been shirtless for the entire time since he’d resurfaced and hadn’t felt bad or uncomfortable with that.Or perhaps, that made a bit more sense, actually; though Sherlock had no issue with seeing John undressed or being so himself, John was rarely looking. Oh, he had once or twice but not…he’d only lingered when he had thought Sherlock couldn’t see him.And this was different, anyway. This was…well, this wasn’t two flatmates just happening to get an eyeful of whatever bits were exposed at the same time. It was something rather more…intimate, and not because they were getting undressed. Because they’d moved onto something else, something closer, and it would be their first time seeing each other in that context.The fact that he’d been exposed as a dragon, that he’d hurt John and attempted to make him into another object, that played a part, too. Of course, it did. It would be worrying if it didn’t, quite frankly.He wasn’t just worried about what John might think of him in the context of a partner but as a mythological being. A beast, which could, if he wanted to, destroy him in several different ways. Being the partner of that was something else entirely, he knew that.Sherlock undressing, with what was meant to follow after that, might bring that into sharper contrast and in turn, might make him question whether it was really a good decision to become the partner of a dragon.Or it might not, of course.He worked progressively faster as he thought all of this, shucking off his trousers and his pants in one long, smooth motion that might’ve seemed nonchalant to people not in the know. His shoes had already been taken off, presumably when he’d been laid out on the bed to have his wounds tended to, so it was easy to take the socks off straight after, leaving him entirely naked.Not looking at John a few feet away, he turned to move to one side of the bed, the one furthest from the door, so that the doctor would be the closest and had, if the need arose, the best chance possible of escaping Sherlock again.
Not that he has much chance of escaping you. Not really, not for any serious length of time, and especially not if he doesn’t have Mycroft there to stop you, which –
Shut up, shut up, shut up!He closed his eyes, trying to will away the thoughts.Before he could get more than a step or two, though, he was stopped. Not by a hand on his shoulder or his arm, as he might have expected. Instead, it was a hand on his hip, with enough grip and strength behind it to stop him, despite it being only the one hand.When he did stop, the hand slid from his hip onto his stomach, where it was joined by the other, linking them.“John?” he queried, uncertain and hesitant, when he felt the stockier body…not exactly press up against his back but certainly move up behind him.“I might be neither a dragon nor a deduction genius but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely stupid.”“I never said you were.”“Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Point is, I can spot stuff, too, even when they’re not spelled out.”“Well done. Gold star.”John didn’t rise to it. Instead, he pressed a small kiss against a point on Sherlock’s back. At first thought, it seemed rather a random spot until it clicked; it was the site of one of the bullet wounds, now mostly healed. Given that there had been meddled, as it were, it wasn’t an unfair assumption that there’d be some sort of mark left behind, even if it wouldn’t be a full-blown scar. Normally there wouldn’t but in the circumstances, it was quite likely.The significance of picking that spot, or one of them, wasn’t lost on him.“Could you…shift for me?” John asked, voice quiet but earnest.It wasn’t what Sherlock had expected to be asked. At all. He turned his head, fast enough that there ought to have been a snap, to look at the other.“What?”“Shift. Could you – ““I heard you. Why on earth would you want that?”Why would you want to risk that, given that I’ve only just managed to shift into fully human? The follow-up question was unspoken but nevertheless heard.There was a moment’s pause before John answered. “Because I want to prove a point.”“I am not risking your life for you to prove a sodding point!”“I’m not asking you to shift into full dragon, you idiot, I was going to say that I wasn’t. I only meant one part, like your tail, for instance. Just the one.”“The question remains of why. Not that it matters because I am not doing it. I will not risk your life again.”Just the thought of it, having been brought from possibility into reality by recent events, was enough to make him tense.“You’ve risked it on a, probably worryingly, regular basis in the time we’ve known each other, when I haven’t done it myself. It’s not as though I’ve minded in that time, is it?”“That’s not the same thing.” The words came out of slightly gritted teeth but despite that, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the embrace. It was warm and comforting in a way he hadn’t known he craved.“The end result would be the same, however we arrive at it.”Sherlock tensed further at that, reality crowding in on him, pressing down.“Please don’t, John,” he whispered, voice strangled, very aware of his body and the fact that John was just behind him. Close enough to lean into. Close enough to easily hurt.
Close enough to claim. To kill.

No, don’t. Please don’t. I’ve…I’ve mucked up and put him in danger, I know that, but I never wanted that. Never wanted to hurt him. Never wanted to claim him. I’d rather…
Long, tension-filled moments crept past at a snail’s pace, both of them standing there, seemingly frozen on the spot.“I’m sorry, love,” John said, eventually. He sounded sincerely regretful; his voice small. At another time, the brunet would’ve heard the endearment and mentally rejoiced in it even as he outwardly scoffed. “I didn’t…I know you’d never hurt me intentionally, and I put myself in danger often enough. I went to war, invading countries and everything.”It didn’t get a laugh or even a chuckle, but Sherlock suspected John wasn’t expecting it to. It was more of a band-aid, a bridging tactic more than anything.“It was a stupid thing to say.”Sherlock would agree but something was stuck in his throat, so he only managed a small nod.More silence. Then, the doctor spoke again.“I…the point I wanted to prove was that…it wasn’t to show that you could turn back,” John continued. It sounded as though he didn’t want to say it but was pushing himself to, to get it out in the open between them rather than letting it stay unsaid. “It was to, I hoped, demonstrate that you were in control again. That you can…shift and then shift back, without losing control.”“And if I couldn’t? Don’t tell me you didn’t consider that.”“I did. But I…”“You thought that if I couldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted, voice tight, “then it would’ve been only a matter of time before I lost control anyway and at least like this, you’d be somewhat mentally prepared for it, so you could escape.”Rather than pull away, which Sherlock would’ve expected and, quite frankly, understood, John used his hands to turn the other around to face him, and Sherlock let himself be manhandled. He came face to face with a man who looked more concerned than angry, exhaustion still nibbling at the corners of his expression.“Now you’re projecting. I did consider it, but I dismissed it. You didn’t automatically tip over into full-blown feral dragon when I first saw you shift, did you?”“It was triggered by an unplanned emotional reaction,” Sherlock pointed out.“Unplanned…? Sherlock, most emotions are unplanned, that’s kinda the point of them. Not the whole point, obviously, but quite a large part. But the point is also that you would’ve been able to shift back had you not had Moriarty bloody well mess things up. You would’ve been in control.”“You cannot possibly know that.”“I can. Because while I don’t know everything about this whole dragon business – hell, I probably know almost nothing, comparatively speaking – I do know you.”What if I had just been presenting a façade to get you to like me? Manipulate you into staying with me, so that I didn’t have to physically claim you?”It was John’s turn to tense up at that. To be honest, though, Sherlock was surprised to see that it didn’t last very long, leaving his body in a long, and long-suffering, sigh.“There’s really my proof.” At Sherlock’s frown, he clarified. “Nobody would ever, if they wanted to manipulate someone, use your personality and your habits to entice people into staying with them. Not even someone like me.”
What are you saying?
His frown must’ve deepened, and his slight panic must have shown through because John’s expression lightened a little in turn. “Point is that you’re like Marmite.”“I – what? What does brown, inedible gunk have to do with anything?”“Love or hate. You don’t breed middle ground, Sherlock. Well, okay, there’s like and dislike but it’s still strong either one or the other. That’s not the kind of personality you entice people with, and yet, I still love you, and I’d say I know you well enough to know that you would be in control of it.”“That’s wishful thinking, John, not knowledge.”John shook his head, lightly. “No. That’s trust.”“You shouldn’t trust me.”The doctor narrowed his eyes for just a moment. “Maybe not but I do. Trust yourself. You can control it.”“Why are you so adamant?”“Because I believe in you. I trust you, not despite everything that’s happened but because you’re you and what else we’ve been through. Because I don’t want to see you scared of being near me while at the same time not being able to stand not having me near. Because it would give you confirmation that you are not a slave to your dragon side.”“Because I’m selfish and want to be able to touch you without needing to be scared myself, or you trying to pull away from me.”He reached up to brush at an errant curl. “Because you always trust yourself and your abilities, even when you really shouldn’t. Why should this be different?”“This could mean I’d lose you.”

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Even as he said it, he knew that he was going to do it. Nothing big. Nothing that would require much effort and let the leash off too much, as it were, but that was…wasn’t that the point, really? The point John was trying to make; that he could control it enough that the partial shift would only be a small part of him shifting, not large parts or even him in his entirety.
And what if his trust in you is entirely misplaced? What then?
Then he would have to live with the consequences. It sounded easy. It was anything but, but it would crop up sooner or later, that was right, as well. It wasn’t necessarily better to test it now, when he was still rather close to the edge, metaphorically speaking, not to mention exhausted. In fact, considering that, the risk was greater, so why was he even considering it? Besides the desire to prove John right, obviously.He didn’t know. Or at least, he couldn’t catch the haze of the general idea about it enough to form it into a coherent argument.But he wanted to prove John right, didn’t he? Show him as well as himself that he could be safe to be around, that John didn’t need to be worried, be scared of him. Show that he was worthy of his trust.It was…just a matter of concentrating, more or less. He was good at that, wasn’t he? Very good, in fact. He could concentrate on that one thing hard enough for just long enough that he could shift one part of him, preferably one that he could keep an eye on at all times, then shift it back once he’d accomplished it.Perhaps…perhaps if he could get John to keep watching his eyes? Alert him the moment he noticed his eyes changing into something more…more reptilian? It was hardly enough to be certain, but it just might be enough.John certainly had good reflexes and no qualms about punching Sherlock or similar if that was what it took.The doctor hadn’t answered his comment, had remained silent while he’d thought about it all.“John?” he asked, raising his head to meet the other’s gaze.Yes?”“Would you…would you keep me in check? I mean, if I do try to shift, then I need to…to make sure that…that I don’t – “A hand come up to rest against his cheek, gentle as it pressed against the light stubble there. It stopped him speaking.“Of course, I will,” John replied, voice soft. He then leaned up to press a small kiss to cupid bow lips.“Love you,” he said when he pulled back.That comment, that knowledge, was simultaneously heart-warming and helpful and incredibly nerve wracking and hindering. There was so much at stake here, wasn’t there? But there was also so much to gain.With his free hand, John grabbed hold of one of Sherlock’s bonier, broader ones and brought it up between them.The claws on his hands, or possibly only a claw on a single finger; something which wasn’t a big thing and which they could both keep an eye on while it happened. Of course, John needed to keep an eye on two things at the same time, but the point remained.So did the hand touching his, which it really didn’t have to, strictly speaking.Sherlock gave a small but grateful smile of recognition and John returned it.
Right. Okay. Breathe. This can be done. Time to prove that you are not the dragon. Or, that you are more than the dragon, at least, because the ship has sailed on John being persuaded otherwise. Hell, the ship’s far past the horizon at this point, gaining speed.
Breathing through his nose, he reached inside of himself, diving down. When the shift happened as a result of an emotional stressor, such as the panic back at the pool, there was no effort, no time to think or calculate. It was something that not only happened immediately but without any conscious effort.When it was a deliberate, conscious effort instead, the effort was much greater, even comparatively speaking. It was only made worse by the fact that he’d pushed it so far down earlier, to keep it from ever resurfacing.The fact that he did have a Mind Palace, was used to wandering the hallways and odd rooms of his mind on a regular basis made it slightly easier, as he already had paths that he knew how to traverse. The trick wouldn’t be going down there itself, then, nor would it be to keep his eyes open while he did so. That he did often enough while just off in his Mind Palace, after all, much to John’s initial frustration when they had started living together.No, the issue would be to get…not exactly get it back because as he’d realised earlier, it could never go away, never not be a part of him. It would be to have some of it tethered, within his grasp, without waking up the rest of the instincts and the feral nature of it.In effect, it would be kind of like sneaking into a dragon’s lair and stealing a treasure, wouldn’t it? Even if the analogy was rather on the nose.He passed down, walking the steps down to the cellars of the palace and then deeper, ignoring the thoughts and other debris he had left to fester down here as he went. The things that he hadn’t deleted but didn’t have any wish to see surface.Further down, then further again he went, the walls resembling more natural cave walls than anything constructed now. The more primal feelings and urges were down here, along with the memories they had birthed, all chained and barred but still present, unable to be completely scrubbed from his ‘hard drive’.If he had looked, he would’ve seen the urge to steal everything within a ten-mile radius for his own hoard, as a start, chained up beside the desire to burn all threats to said hoard down. He might have caught a glimpse of the feeling of rage he’d experienced most fiercely when he had first had something of his hoard destroyed.Further down, the feeling of bliss, blessed silence of a high grinned at him from its prison, the blinding glare from its crystalline teeth beckoning.He ignored it and kept on walking.Some part of him was actually surprised that he managed to do so with relative ease, considering everything, but right now, what had held such sway over him before had little if any appeal now.When he finally reached the part of him that was the dragon, it appeared completely dormant.To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t quite fair to say that he only reached the dragon at that time; he had actually seen it, or parts of it, all the way through his descent. A patch of scales here, a claw there, maybe a bit of membrane. Which, of course, would make sense, as it wound its way around his entire mind, his whole being. It was part of his being, if not outright the core of it. He could banish the majority of it, but it was such an integral part of him that it’d always be wrapped around the foundation of him, at the very least.Looking right at it, at the bulk of it, it felt as though it was all of him. The mass stretched on and on, beyond vision, the scales of every conceivable shade of copper and bronze almost burning from within while also illuminated by an invisible light source. That only seemed to enhance the magnitude of it, even though that sounded incredibly overwrought.The fact that the head itself was massive, even if it was long and relatively narrow, for a dragon, which still meant quite a large and powerful one, with a strong hint of the prominent cheekbones he had while in human form, didn’t help in that regard.Nor did the fact that the wings weren’t invisible because they were folded in on themselves but because they rested far, far above him.Despite the fact that he was looking at himself, in a form that he had been familiar with since birth, possibly more so than his human one for the first many ears, to be faced with it like this, without the barriers of physical limits, regardless of the magic, the sheer scale of it not only dwarfed him but sent tremors through him.For a moment, it felt as though this was in fact the entirety of who he was, the monstrous creature from the depths, born of raw energy and greed, the human part of him nothing but a veneer stretched out of too much flesh and power, straining to cover what lay beneath.It hadn’t woken up at any point during his descent, only shifted occasionally. Nor did it give any real indication of being awake while he was next to it.That didn’t mean it was completely dormant. Being mentally right beside it as he was at that point, he could feel the energy, the power coming off it, in resemblance of the embers of a fire rather than the afterheat of a stove. The afterheat is eventually going to cool off, leaving an entirely cold and safe stove behind, and while embers may do the same, they not only smoulder for longer, they are easily brought back up into the same full roar they had been when they had been flames, within moments.How should he approach it? He needed some way that would allow him access to some of that energy, without risking the dragon waking. He’d thought about it all the way down here and he believed he had one that could work, but it had to be for certain.Do it wrong and they would all pay the price.Back up in his body, he could feel John changing his grip on the hand he was holding. He was gripping it tighter rather than letting it go, curling his own around it in a way that left Sherlock’s fingers free, for obvious reasons, but otherwise enveloped his hand, squeezing it.That simple action, apparently small and irrelevant though it appeared, jolted something inside of him, felt all the way down to where he was now, words whispered speeding along with it, intertwining with.He no longer felt alone down there. Not because the dragon, the huge, hulking beast was right there beside him, the continued, utter stillness of it worrying. Nor because he had the weight of everything else that was stored in his Mind Palace bearing down on him, the depravities that was contained around him.No, it wasn’t either of those. They were there, certainly, but at the same time, they weren’t, seeing as they were part of him.Technically, so was what actually had been what made him feel no longer alone. But that was only because it could only exist here if it came from him, was made up inside his mind. Apart from that, it was entirely its own.As was the man it had been created from.‘John’ took Sherlock’s metaphorical hand and squeezed it in much the same way that the real doctor just had, rubbing his thumb up and down a small patch of skin in a way that felt grounding.“Where did you come from?” Sherlock asked very quietly, even though part of him knew already.“Came from you, didn’t I?” ‘John’ answered, in an equally low voice. “From him, too, though, really, I suppose, since…well, doesn’t matter. What does is that I’m here.”Sherlock might have asked what for but honestly, he didn’t need to. He already knew what for, and he was incredibly grateful. Not so much to himself for having a ‘John’ that was fully formed enough in his mind to be here – after all, he’d be far more worried if that hadn’t been the case, given the amount of space facts about John took up and the importance the doctor had come to have in his life at this point.It was far more for the fact that his real John, and by extension this ‘John’, to be able to know when he was needed and to provide that support immediately and without question. To be honest, it was almost exclusively that.With John, in both forms, here with him, lending him the support that had been his since the start and the love that he was starting to recognise for what it was, in a way that was concrete in a way it had never quite been before, it felt…not exactly easy. No, that would be entirely untrue to say.What would be more accurate was to call it tethered. He could reach out into the stream with his rope, knowing that something was keeping him from being swept away in the current, something immovable.It would still be risky, but it felt achievable.Everything else faded around him until the world seemed to consist of ‘John’, his hand in his and the dragon in front.He reached out his free hand towards the unmoving mass in front of him. It wasn’t the snout or anywhere else on the head he reached for, however, even though that would probably make the most apparent sense from an outsider’s perspective.Instead it was the foot, the part of him that he wanted to shift. That wasn’t the sole reason he picked it, of course.As he gradually got nearer – a quick jab at it would run the risk of alerting it far more than a slow approach, the movement sensed where his presence might not, due to him being it and vice versa – the energy coming off it felt progressively stronger and more oppressive. It was as though it was trying to browbeat him into submission while at the same time, also trying to seep in and convince him that he was better off with the dragon in charge. That he’d let it lie dormant, suppressed and muzzled, for far too long, and just look where it had gotten him.
It’s gotten me John, for a start, someone whose company is invaluable to me.

‘Someone who you can never truly have without feeling that need to make sure he cannot leave, that he is yours completely, quite apart from the risk of others claiming him.’
It was the same arguments as had floated around his mind before, with nothing new added, but it didn’t come from him, from the part of him that he thought of as Sherlock. Instead, it came from the dragon, and he suddenly realised that it hadn’t been quite as dormant as he’d thought.The eyes slowly opened, the greenish white of the iris contrasting sharply with the shades of copper that surrounded them, the pupil a long, vertical sliver of black infinity.There was no movement, no pull of lips and yet, he was in no doubt that it was not only speaking, it was smiling as it did so.‘It will fester, that need, that desire,’ it said as it continued to stare at him, unmoving, unblinking, ‘especially now that it has a target, something it wants but is denied, until it one day does consume you, with nothing left of you. Deny it all you like; it is an incontestable fact of your existence. Try to change it, find a way around it, if you like. The end result will be the same.’
‘You are a dragon. You were born of desire, of greed, of a need to possess what you deem precious and never stop. It is your essence. You can deny it all you like but you cannot escape it. At your core, you are empty, a black hole that is forever gobbling up all that comes near.’
The pupils widened as it ‘spoke’, the infinity rounding into resemblances of the black hole it spoke of.Sherlock could feel it dragging him in, quite a bit, even as he tried to resist it doing so. There was truth to what it was saying, he knew that. Knew it without having to think about it. Quite a lot of truth.“Well, that’s a load of utter shite if ever I heard it,” John said from beside him. It came out quite calmly, in that special tone of voice John used when someone thought they could pull one over on him and he was putting them in their place, without having to expend effort.It was the core of steel speaking.Looking at him out of the corner of his eye confirmed that; though he was still holding Sherlock’s hand, the rest of his body language screamed arms crossed, leaned back a little, eyebrows raised; take your shot, mate, go ahead, I’m not going to stumble or even flinch.Even knowing that it was his mind’s manifestation of John rather than the man himself, Sherlock couldn’t help the feeling of grateful pride and joy.The dragon’s eyes shifted over to ‘John’ only briefly.‘How interesting. And you would know that how, little human figment? Your human counterpart has only the barest minimum of information about dragons we told him earlier. Even as a figment born of this place, you cannot exceed the knowledge that is within the conscious mind of this…this palace’, and the word was spat as though it tasted nasty.‘John’ remained unperturbed. “Well, neither can you,” he pointed out.‘Do you really think I exist purely in the mindscape of this one little vessel?’ The sneer was abundantly evident, even without any movement on the dragon’s part. ‘I am dragon, little figment. I exist within the core of all people. I am part of the very fabric of humanity.’“You certainly don’t keep your light under a bushel, do you? But if you really are all that universal, that integral to the very existence of humanity, why are you contained in vessels in the first place? Surely, you would have no need of puny bodies or their accompanying brains if that was entirely the case, never mind the fact that it is actually possible to push you away and have control over you. You’ve been shackled and suppressed for a long time, so excuse me if I fail to be all that intimidated by you.”For a moment, the pupils contracted to mere lines of black, which was the only outward sign that ‘John’ had managed to hit home with his comments. When they widened again, they were still thinner slivers than they’d been when they opened.‘And what exactly makes you think that I haven’t chosen to remain dormant until now?’ Despite the unaffected phrasing, there was just the hint of a hiss to the voice.“Point,” ‘John’ conceded. “Or rather, it would be one if you had chosen just about any other time than this to emerge and take Sherlock over. Why be content to wait for this long – and we’re not counting John in this, he’s a convenient catalyst – and only resurface when the overall mind was out of commission?”‘John’ took a step forward and to the side as the dragon’s head shifted, placing himself neatly between it and Sherlock, while still holding onto his hand.“Only, it’s not even that, is it? Because if that was the case, then you also would’ve had plenty of opportunity to take over while he was high as a kite.” There was no slight grimace or other expression of anger visible on the side of ‘John’s’ face that Sherlock could see, which marked a difference between the real one and the figment. Real John did not approve of such things.“It might of course have been that it effected both sides, as it were, but I somehow don’t really think so. Not least because it would’ve quieted the rest of the mind, the higher brain functions, and consequently, that must’ve opened the gate and taken off the shackles for you to come through and take over. You could’ve done that, but you wouldn’t have let go once you’d gotten hold – if you really were that powerful, that is.”The dragon’s eyes had widened, insofar as that was possible for a reptilian creature, even as the pupils had retracted to the merest line. Sherlock could feel the energy pouring off it as it slowly shifted its head further and shifted its body a little, too.It didn’t immediately speak, however, just regarded them with that piercing, hypnotic gaze as it drew a little nearer.‘John’ didn’t budge, though, facing it down much like Sherlock imagined that his real John would’ve done when confronted with the dragon. Possibly that had happened with a bit more compassion, as he had been faced with the dragon in Sherlock’s body, but he couldn’t imagine that John wouldn’t have faced it head-on.‘Little figment, you are quite amusing,’ said the dragon, and it did suddenly sound rather amused, even if it didn’t quite sound right. ‘Regardless of what you think, how he tries to delude himself by fabricating you to stand between him and me and passing off his doubts as confident comments through you, the facts of the matter do not change. I cannot be controlled by the likes of you.’The eyes shifted so they looked directly at Sherlock, passing over and through the shorter man in front of him. The consulting detective felt them bore into him, connecting with him in a way that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Not at all comfortable with, in fact, because even as he felt it slip into him, alien and strange, it also felt familiar and right, like a coat that you haven’t worn in years and are certain will no longer fit and yet it slips on as though it was made exactly to your current measurements.It felt right in a way that he wished it didn’t, and he fought to keep it out, even as he felt himself being drawn in, the clatter and clamour of his base desires around and above them rising.The fact that he was still genuinely exhausted, though not as much as John, was undoubtedly a factor as to why it was easier for it to pull him in, pull him under, than he would’ve expected it to be, even given the circumstances.Was this what it felt like when people were subjected to being hypnotised by a dragon? Did they feel that same sense of dichotomous, simultaneous wrongness and rightness? They certainly looked far more blissed than Sherlock felt right now but perhaps that underlay something else? This horrible drag that he was drawn to, couldn’t escape?He felt himself shrinking, fading slowly away as the dragon grew more solid, seemed to stretch itself larger all across the areas it occupied. If this carried on, he would, in fact, end up –No!No, this wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t going to drag him in and take control of him, ever again. He wasn’t alone in this, neither in reality nor in his mind. This wasn’t the dragon’s domain, for all that it was his foundation. This was his mind, his person, nobody else’s, and he would control it.Squeezing the hand of ‘John’ even tighter, feeling the presence of the real John right beside him back in his body, lending him his strength, even if he didn’t quite know it, Sherlock began to try to claw his way out of the grip it had.‘John’ was right. If it was that powerful, that integral and universal, what need did it have of him? Why was it trying to tip the hand in its favour if it held all the cards to begin with? It needed him, obviously, even though it wouldn’t admit it. Without him, it was just a beast, a feral monster cut from people’s fears which would consume indiscriminately until it met its destruction, either through someone stopping it or it falling incurably ill from hoard sickness or similar.For all its inherent cunning, it was as much a slave to its nature as anything else, letting it power it and drive it rather than the other way around. Even more so, in a way.He wasn’t going to banish it, as he had thought before and semi-tried, as well. It wouldn’t work, as the dragon was indeed part of him, and he could no more banish it than he could cut his heart out and expect to live. Though nor would he allow it to take him over or remain dormant, lying in wait for when it thought it could seep back in and take over.This was his body and his mind, Sherlock Holmes, and while he had been ready in his younger years to allow the drugs to consume him, for reasons that were quite different, he wasn’t going to allow this part of him be his master now. He was the master, he rode the dragon and held the reins, not vice versa. Not now nor ever again. He would make certain of that, one way or the other. He would.The fact that he had John by his side in both the physical and the metaphorical sense didn’t just help centre him and lend him strength, though it unquestionably did that. It also…It had tapped into something else. Something more, stronger, deeper. Something which he hadn’t expected, as he had no frame of reference for it. Apart from base instincts and what Mycroft had said, of course.But surely, that couldn’t be it? Why would that have any significant impact on him, on them? Granted, it wasn’t as though his knowledge was great on the subject, to say the least, but even so, it didn’t seem like it would matter that much.“Sherlock!” ‘John’ said, snapping. “Now isn’t really the time for all that! Later!”There were some advantages to this John being a figment, at least.He was right, too.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The dragon’s head had continued to rise slowly up above them, maw opening at an equally slow pace in what may have been a grin or maybe nothing more than a prelude to attempting to swallow them whole – or burn them. Though burning them would have rather little effect, considering where they were. Swallowing them, on the other hand, might not only kickstart the attempt to usurp Sherlock again but actually speed it up.Sherlock moved forward, swiftly, past ‘John’ whose hand he continued to hold onto, the tether thankfully continuing to strengthen. He was careful not to at any point look towards the dragon’s head as he lunged towards the foot.If he wouldn’t go for the head, it could be argued that it would be more logical to go for the heart, if he wanted to have control over the wyvern. After all, that would be the core, wouldn’t it?In a way, insofar as it was powering the rest of its body, but for what he needed to achieve he didn’t need the heart. Not that the hearts of dragons were exactly the centre of their beings, in a metaphorical sense. If it had been, it would have rotted away from neglect long ago. Both the heart and the dragon.That was one area where the dragons of old differed from those of today, or in other words, the ones who lacked a human shape and the ones who had attained one.The former, they were the oldest, from a time before it was necessary to blend in amongst the cattle to survive for any significant length of time, relatively speaking, and where your hoard was significantly more likely to be the target for opportunistic little louts who thought of…well, who had the same idea as the dragons, really, if we’re being entirely honest. It was merely that they were doing it on a much smaller scale, as it were, the limitations of their size and the time they were allotted on earth, which back in those days were pitifully short.Without those limitations, some of them could give a dragon a run for its money.But very few of those dragons remained and those that did tended to be the sea serpents of sailor tall tales, the depths of the seas protecting them, the cargo of ships seemingly sufficient for many of them to satiate the ever-present hunger, just enough to survive without succumbing to…well…The ones who had learned to shift into human shape stood a far better chance of being allowed to carry on with both their life and their collecting, their natural tendencies often ensuring they had the means to be called ‘eccentric’ rather than ‘weird’ and be persecuted for that weirdness.Over the centuries, however, something had changed, and the human was no longer merely a skin for the dragon to slip into to remain undetected amongst the cattle. It had come to be as much a part of the dragon as the wyvern part itself, if not more so.The dragon might not have a metaphorical heart, but Sherlock did. He had tried to ignore it over the years, to shut it away, bury it deep and forget that he had it, but it had continued to beat on regardless, and luckily so, for both his and John’s sake, really.What he needed wasn’t the dragon’s heart. Nor was it its mind. It would be handy to have a metaphorical muzzle and leash, of course, but the foot would do the job. More than one job, really, if he could pull it off.
Right. Concentrate. This is your mind, not its. You can do it.
As he moved, the dragon seemed to sense that something was off. It didn’t roar or otherwise show its outrage; it blinked and then dove straight down for him, the maw opening wider as it did, ready to swallow him whole.He ignored it as best he could, which was something of a struggle given the closeness of it. When he touched the foot, he felt a shock of that energy he had sensed before, running through him hard. Attempting to dominate him, to control him.He pushed back against it, employing the strength that he was receiving through John as well as his own sheer willpower. The energy rippled and shook but held. He pushed harder, then harder again, fuelling it with all the anger and guilt and terror he’d felt since he’d resurfaced, until the energy, with the odd sound of a sheet of metal being shook, burst and allowed him through.Allowed him to wrest just enough control back to get a firm grip on the foot. It tried to rise, to swipe at him but he held fast.He was the master, not it, he was the person.He would not bow to it. It would bow to him.It would obey him.As he thought it, as the maw was about to make impact, a cobweb seemed to extend itself across the foot, frail and almost translucent but spreading and strengthening at speed until it resembled a spindly but nevertheless strong rope which wound itself…not quite over the entirety of the foot but certainly around a large portion of it.Just as important, that rope had an end. An end which Sherlock held in his hand, wound tight around it. Making sure that it wasn’t escaping his grasp.He only just had time to register triumph that he had managed it successfully before he felt a hard yank on his arm, forceful enough to disrupt his balance and send him stumbling.That in turn allowed ‘John’ to pull him away, moments before the jaws of the dragon snapped closed around him. Instead, they closed around empty air.As the dragon realised what had just occurred, its gaze shifted to them, swiftly and threateningly, the teeth bared in a snarl.Sherlock had been moved out of the way, that was true, but only insofar as to not be in immediate danger of being swallowed.He was still very close to the head of the wyvern, dangerously so, and though this was still only within the confines of his mind, he knew that if he, what constituted his person outside of the dragon, was swallowed here, then the dragon would win and could take control of the entirety of his mind, not to mention his body. Their body. His body.But he had the upper hand now, didn’t he? He held the leash, on a rope that continued to strengthen and spread, not only tying it to him in a way that he was in control of but tying it down, as well. Tying it to the foundation itself.The dragon seemed to have cottoned onto that fact, too; it had tried to move its feet to move itself closer, around the foundations, presumably for another try, only to discover that something had covered one of its feet. Reptilian eyes snapped back down to look at what was the issue, the lips pulling back further when it discovered the source.‘You think that this will hold me?’ it snarled, amused contempt not managing to hide the anger. ‘Such a small thing, so tenuous. So very dependent on outside factors. So easily breakable.’As it spoke, it pulled at the foot, in the clear expectation to have the rope snap into tatters with barely an effort.Sherlock could feel the energy, which had snapped, yes, but hadn’t dissipated, trying to pull the rope apart as it ran along it, testing and challenging his willpower with that of the dragon’s, trying to push him out and make it snap.But it wouldn’t. Even as he watched it tremble and shiver across the surface of the foot, he knew that it would hold. There were no cracks, no indicators that anything would break, even under the pressure.He’d known that without needing to see it, he suddenly realised. The moment it had caught, that he had managed to get his will to bend it and break through the energy to make that connection and make it spread, he’d known that he had the upper hand. That he was in control, the master.Another thing that he’d known was that the dragon wouldn’t realise until it was too late. It wouldn’t have registered that the energy had been burst and that he was able to attach it, not until it was restricted. Not so much because it was busy trying to gain the upper hand itself by swallowing him, though that was a definite factor, too, he’d have to admit.It had far more to do with arrogance. The arrogance of the dragon that was almost built in, in a way, which blinded it to the possibility that he could actually try something like that.At another time, he might’ve credited his dragon with more intelligence than that but right now, he knew that it was true.‘John’ continued to pull at him to get further away, just in case. At the same time, however, he was grinning broadly, in that special, warm way that only John seemed capable of producing, at least to Sherlock’s mind, one that brightened up the entire world and yet was reserved just for the two of them.“You did it!” he exclaimed, excitement in his voice along with undeniable pride. “I knew you would but bloody hell, you did it! Don’t let go of it!”“Wasn’t planning to!” Sherlock returned. He gripped the leash tighter, just in case.They watched the dragon stare at the rope that didn’t snap and the foot which didn’t budge. It tried to pull again, much harder this time – Sherlock could feel it jerk and strain the rope and not just through his hand – to no avail. In fact, despite its best efforts, the gossamer strands spread and thickened across what passed for the ankle. Despite its apparent lightness, the ankle and forelimb sagged, as though weight was being applied to it.“I think you ought to leave,” ‘John’ said, speaking directly into the brunet’s ear. Not that it mattered much, as the dragon wasn’t paying attention to them, not right then.It let out what could only be described as a screech as it continued to pull and now also rip at the continuously expanding threads. They weren’t moving quite as quickly as at first but there were still threads spreading despite the best efforts of the dragon.“Sherlock! You need to leave!” John was shouting now, yanking at his arm as he tried to pivot him back the way he had come.Being pushed along for a step or two, Sherlock thought about resisting. There was an instinct, one which had nothing to do with the dragon and everything to do with him, even if he had failed to acknowledge it consciously for far too long, to protect John, to make sure that he wouldn’t be seriously harmed.“I’m not John!” the shorter man shouted, as though he’d read his thoughts. Being a construct of his mind, a representation of a real person inside Sherlock’s brain, like he was, in a far more concrete way, if such a phrase could be used, than the dragon ever would be, that was entirely possible. “I’m just a figment, remember? I can’t be hurt, not unless you are. Now bloody well get on with it! You’ve got it, don’t waste it! Go!”He shoved at the consulting detective hard and Sherlock took the hint. Reluctantly letting go of the hand he still held, he began to move towards the upper parts of the palace.The enormous head of the dragon snapped around to fix its gaze on him as he headed back the way he’d come, far faster than he had arrived, the rope wrapped tightly around his hand. He wasn’t foolish enough to turn around to see its eyes, but he didn’t need to; he could feel the gaze on his back, boring into him.‘How? How did you do this?’ it snarled. ‘You have never even come close to something like this, so how did you do it?’Sherlock didn’t answer. If it didn’t know already, he saw no reason to enlighten it. Not because he was afraid that it would thereby have a way in, to break the rope but because he had better things to be doing with his time.Such as move faster. It might be that the foot was tied down, securely and immovable, and the bottom half of the leg as well. Possibly it had spread even more by this point. He would hope so and expect so. But even so, there was a whole lot of body to the dragon, including the neck itself, and that wasn’t even mentioning its flexibility. It was still capable of moving the neck, stretching out and possibly reach him.One might’ve thought that he’d be able to just snap himself back out of here. This was his mind, after all. One quick mental pull and he’d be out. Much like he normally did when he was thinking about some point in a case or similar. Except that he didn’t snap out of it, not really. If he did, John would’ve been able to get through to him much easier than he’d ever managed. He surfaced rather quickly, yes, that was true enough, but it wasn’t an instantaneous thing, relatively speaking.More importantly, when he’d been touring his Mind Palace, it had been in the various rooms, small and large, as well as the hallways, possibly the cellars. Always somewhere where it was relatively easy to metaphorically reach the front door and exit.This wasn’t that. This was the very bowels of his mind. He would need to traverse the same route back up as he had down.Though its foot tied immovably down, the risk of the dragon reaching him was only tangible, for a given definition of ‘tangible, which limited it movement, it was not only capable of stretching its neck, the rest of the body could move, too, which lent it additional manoeuvrability.Of course, that still had a limit so all that he had to do was to make it beyond its reach and he would be safe to surface the rest of the way, safe in, not to mention comforted by, the knowledge that he could shift one part of him without risk. That he would, as long as he kept that leash, he would never not be in control again. Not in control of a sleeping entity, though, waiting to erupt, but one which was already awake, fiery and dangerous – and it still had to obey him.It sounded so easy, put like that. Just run, without any physical barriers of getting winded or the like in the way to hinder him, as fast as possible back to the upper levels of his mind, back to safety. Back to John, who he could feel around him.The issue, though, wasn’t just the dragon and the continued risk of being swallowed – it wasn’t that it couldn’t breathe fire but if it did that, to what was in control of the mind, whatever it claimed, destroyed him rather than consumed him, then there wasn’t much mind left to control, was there? No, the issue was just as much that he had to navigate through an increasingly tired mind, through the pitfalls and desires of the depths.Granted, he had passed through them once on his way down, able to shut them out as he did so. But as the dragon woke and subsequently started to move, or perhaps more precisely by this point, thrash, they’d started to clamour, too, and as they were part of his makeup, this deep down, he couldn’t remain as unaffected. Not when he was tired, with such an important thing in his grasp, as well.What was more, as he ran, he could hear not just the escalating thrashing but the things that it crashed against, the pillars and walls of the surrounding area, which resembled both the deepest cellar and a naturally occurring cave. The thrashing shook the surrounding area, which might in turn bend or even break restraints that had been placed on the other things down here.Despite that knowledge, that worry, he pressed on, speeding up as best as he was able, determined to reach the out, for both his sake and that of John’s.John. What about the…no, not the figment, he was more than that. He was a manifestation of the real John. But that said, he was only a manifestation, wasn’t he? As long as Sherlock himself wasn’t hurt, in one way or the other, then ‘John’ couldn’t be, either, however real, how tangible he might appear down here.All the more reason to keep moving, then.Behind him, so close that had it been in the physical realm, he would’ve felt the air move, the maw of the dragon snapped shut, its teeth just barely missing him. It tried again immediately as it stretched the very limits of its range. It fell short, however, and shorter than before.Another try and it was evident that he was getting beyond the point where it could reach, the continued extension of the rope – considering what it was based on, he didn’t need to see it to know that it was spreading – assisting in that regard.As he could hear and feel the base feelings and desires throw themselves against their shackles around and ahead of him, some of them linked to the dragon by instincts and nature, he didn’t pause to revel in his escape. He would have to get through them too, push them away so they didn’t manage to drag him back into reach of the dragon.He could hear the dragon as it roared its frustration and its sheer fury, its defeat, into the surroundings. There might’ve been words in that roar but if there was, they were quite unintelligible to him. Neither did they really matter. There was nothing that it could say or do that would sway him. As for the rest, they didn’t matter.There were more important things to focus on.Such as the things, some of them almost humanoid in their shapes while others resembled the merest sketch, crude and unfinished, of something human and still others had not even concept in common with humanity, that had broken free from their restraints and were creeping up on him.Some had blocked his path, too.Though many lacked what could be called an actual face, there was nevertheless no doubt that they were making noise nor that a good few of them were grinning at him.For a moment, as he looked at them more closely than he had in a very long time, he recoiled. Not because he was unwilling to accept that they were part of him, both in his past and in his present. Okay, perhaps somewhat that, but it was more the size of them, the tangibility of them.It spoke of how real they had been. Of course, everything was relative down here but real in the sense that at least some of them had been instincts and desires he’d fulfilled, that he’d listened to. They had been in some sort of control of him at some point, and they were eager to regain their position.He felt one hand, for lack of a better word, wrap itself around his upper arm and slither further up as it squeezed with what felt like a slimy version of an octopus arm, the fingers more like extended suckers.Out of the corner of his eye – for more than one reason, he hadn’t much wish to turn his head while he was moving to look at it – he saw it and recognised it for what it was; greed.Not the greed of the dragon, the need to possess everything of perceived value within its grasp and beyond. This was an entirely human desire, though no less ugly and twisted for that, even if its ill-fitting mask was quite beautiful to behold, at first. It wasn’t for physical things but for the more insubstantial but no less dangerous things; knowledge, mental stimulus in various forms, validation. Adoration, too, if he was being completely honest with himself about it, which he rarely, if ever, had been up to this point.Its hand slithered further up and either became or revealed itself to be more cephalopodan as it did so, twisting itself around, its suckers digging into him. He tried to wrest his arm free all through that movement, while still pushing forward, the others closing in on him. It didn’t work, though, even as he twisted and pulled harder at his own arm. It smiled at him, a wide and toothless gap.In an odd sort of way, it made a great deal of sense that it would be that, of all the base desires and vices that had managed to get free and was now coming towards him from all around, that had managed to latch onto him first and done so as effectively as it had.After all, it was such an integral part of him, so difficult to deny and had featured in so much of his life, from seeking validation and adoration through companionship from his peers in primary school, to the thirst for knowledge that had consumed both primary and secondary school, and to a lesser extent, beyond into his adult life, not to mention the rest of it.In a sense, it was wrong that it was tied up down here, or perhaps, it just didn’t feel quite right, as he was beholden to that greed fairly regularly within the everyday of his life, even if it was nowhere to the extent that he’d allowed it to grow to when he was younger.Perhaps that was why it had been so easy for it to break loose, relatively speaking?
Does it matter? The point is not to get bogged down and held back by it, to be dragged back and swallowed – or allow any of them to dislodge or loosen your grip on the rope.
Well, yes. Obviously. But how could he accomplish that? Keep a tight grip on the rope, of course, and be aware of it at all times, but as one limb tightened as it slid up, he could feel something else, possibly the other limb, possibly a limb or something else belonging to another shape, try to slither into his closed hand and insinuate itself between his skin and the rope.Something else pulled at the cord itself, further down, and on his other side, he recognised the empty brilliance of his highs coming closer.As it did, he could feel it, its influence stronger now that it was no longer restrained and further amplified by the mental taxation both the confrontation with the dragon and keeping the control within his grasp had caused, which left him with far less mental surplus to push it out.It latched onto that, too; whispering, in a voice that was needle sharp and oblivion sweet, how much easier, how much better things would be if he just let go, let it take over and guide him as it had before. He didn’t need to think, didn’t need to worry. All he had to do was enjoy the silence, the peace of it as he had before.As for coming down, that horrible crash, he needn’t worry about that ever again, it said as it moved even closer, very close to touching him now, if he would just relinquish that control. He didn’t need it, did he? Whatever would he need it for? What had it ever brought him, all the worries and the stress, the tight discipline and denial he had to exhibit to keep everything down? Wouldn’t it be so much better to just let it go, let it be and have some peace? Didn’t he deserve that peace?It finally made contact at that, pressing part of itself against his back, the touch of it like the tip of a needle before it was pushed through skin and the softest, warmest of blankets.As it did, he felt its effect, its promise, seep into him and for a moment, he considered it.Would it be so bad? To just let it –
And then what will you have fought for? What will the point of all this have been? Won’t you just have proven the dragon’s point, then? Or is that really what you want? Was that all just a charade, putting up a façade that you could drop when it became more convenient for you?
The voice, though he wasn’t here, sounded incredibly, vividly like John. A John who wasn’t just angry, he was disappointed.But it wasn’t John. At most, it was his mind’s representation of him, regardless of whether he was there beside him or not, and therefore, it was just another aspect of him, whichever skin he gave it.By now he struggled to make progress through the throng that surrounded him. The upper parts of his mind seeming to get further and further out of reach as he was pulled at by different more or less humanoid shapes in their effort to get a toehold back into his conscious mind. Meanwhile others tugged and yanked at the rope that tethered and controlled the dragon. He hadn’t yet let go but it was taking a greater effort each time to hold on.Even so, the moment that he had the thought, the realisation that it was indeed all still him, different aspects, yes, but still him, he blinked, surprise and growing hope filling him.That realisation brought others along with it; right behind it came the thought that if everything was him, then it was easy.Honestly, he should’ve realised sooner, shouldn’t he?It was a matter of control, and he had it, didn’t he?Did he?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Taking a deep, metaphorical breath, he twisted the hand that held the rope twice, bringing more of it round his hand and simultaneously tightening it, the vibrations reverberating throughout it and into the things that hung on it.As he did so, he could feel that control slipping back more firmly in his mind, the strands, which he hadn’t noticed thinning ever so slightly, thickening again, pushing at the desires and instincts which had already managed to attach themselves to old receptors. Pushing them out as best he could.It would of course only be when he made it all the way back to the surface, as it were, that he could say with certainty that they were out but just the amount that he managed to make them withdraw, almost recoil, that was enough for him to gain some much needed headspace.With that, and the momentary immobilisation it caused among the things, he managed to get further, much further than he would’ve thought he would at that.Eventually, however, they were moving back towards him, as slow-moving but relentless as zombies, with none of their attractiveness.Would it work a second time?Not as well, he came to realise almost the moment he thought it. They would be expecting it, after all.He redoubled his efforts to move forward, bolstered by the fact that he didn’t have that much farther to go and that once he moved beyond this place, they wouldn’t be able to follow him. Freed though they were at that moment, they were still a construct of the deepest levels of his mind and could only be brought out of there with his help, the active mind.That thought alone gave him hope and determination to keep on going. Not that he wouldn’t be fighting for it, regardless of hope, whatever his momentary lapse had said, but nevertheless, it did make some difference, he would have to admit.But he did need to find some way to keep them off long enough to achieve it.Will was obviously a good way but if he wasn’t to use the rope itself, then he would have to split it between the rope itself and whatever else he was going to use, and splitting his focus between the two would only worsen the situation, not help it.What else, then?Perhaps – no. To invite the high in and let it shut out and push away the rest of the clamour might seem to be a good idea but the risk that he wouldn’t be able to shirk it when he reached the exit was too great a one to take, and he was not bringing it with him. Not for anything would he allow that.He felt the rope shake hard, the soft threads of it digging into his hand as it was yanked with a force that he hadn’t previously experienced.The thread had either spread over a significantly larger part of the dragon than he had anticipated it would, or the dragon itself had gotten angrier and more explosive in its thrashing despite the rope continuing to spread.Right. If it could manage that, without much other input from him than having to keep a constant hold of the rope, then…well, surely, even if they were expecting it…it might not be a hundred percent effective but was he really going to allow that to stop him?The noise around him had risen gradually but steadily as he’d moved until it reached something close to cacophonous. It made it impossible to distinguish much of anything, much less an individual noise, all of it swirling together into that audial discord.Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. If he couldn’t hear any individual, it made it harder for them to make themselves heard, all of them working towards the same goal and getting in each other’s way.He listened to make sure and indeed, the cacophony outside created a sort of calm inside of him, which in turn aided his focus.
Focus…on the path in front of you. They cannot touch you, not truly, not if you keep on focusing. Just press on, keep going. You’re nearly there, you can do it. It’s going to be okay. I’m here.
Here?In the calm, he could feel something that he hadn’t been able to distinguish since the clamour had started to surround him. Which in a way was both odd and silly, as he’d never really gone away since he’d first arrived and therefore, Sherlock should’ve been able to sense him all the time. On the other hand, such things were always good at crowding out the voice of reason, weren’t they? Especially in situations such as this.Doesn’t matter, love, ‘John’ said in his head. What you need to keep your focus on, what you need to remember is that you’re not alone and you have braved far worse than this before now. This should be a cakewalk for you, considering some of the cases we’ve been working on, not to mention the ones you’ve done on your own. This was something entirely different, though.
Is it, though? Okay, let’s say that it is. You still managed to get clean a few years ago and you’ve managed to stay clean in all that time, haven’t you? Well, near enough, and the last time was a long time ago, too. If you could manage it then, push them away, you can do it now.
He knew that, he just didn’t know how to do it. Not quite.
Pull the bleeding other one, of course you do. Look behind you or just look down for a moment, if you don’t believe me.
Look at what, exactly?The rope, you twat. Now that definitely sounded like John.  Look at the rope. Feel the rope.Sherlock did. He thought he had earlier. To be honest, he thought he hadn’t stopped feeling it since he’d tied it but when he focused on it, he realised that that wasn’t quite right. The awareness of it with a calmer mind, assisted by the continued presence of ‘John’, meant that he could feel not just the rope itself, the strength and flexibility of it. He could also feel how it continued to spread and exactly what parts of the dragon it touched.More than that, he could feel it reverberate inside of him, lending him focus and strength even as he gave it his attention and energy.As he focused further, allowing John’s presence to help once again, he found it easier to wade through the masses; they shrunk from him where before they’d sought him, their bodies deforming further. Not because he was banishing them or making them disappear, as he couldn’t, but simply because they were losing solidity as their power waned in the face of…well, his determination.His will. His…his love
That’s it. That’s it, love, you’ve got it. Come back to me now, you can do it.
He could. He was almost there, and he was going to make it.Hang on, John, I’m coming. I’ve got it now, completely, so you don’t have to worry. As he broke through, the howling screeches of defeat behind him ignored and rejoiced in at the same time, the going got incredibly easier, allowing him to almost rocket through the next few levels.He wasn’t quite alone, though, and it wasn’t John who was the extra passenger. Well, he was but he wasn’t the one Sherlock had noticed.To call it another passenger was somewhat off, though. It was more along the lines of discovering that your hair had grown to the point that it could stream somewhat behind you when you ran. Something that was inherently a part of you. A change which had been the case for a long time and which you might’ve had some notion of, relatively speaking, but you hadn’t quite paid attention to before then.Even so, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It felt good, however, in a way that was soothing and reassuring. That should probably alarm him but when he probed it, it yielded easily then flowed back, unthreatening and unwilling, it seemed, to push further against him until he was on the backfoot.Given that all the things he’d just struggled against had tried to push their advantage at the first given opportunity, without exception, and this wasn’t even making the attempt, he was safe enough. Probably.
You don’t know what that is?
Should he?
You’ve been making use of it since long before you got yourself into this mess.
Moriarty got them into this mess, thank you very much, not him. That was quite the important distinction, he felt.
You might have avoided quite a lot of it if you’d told him, though.
No, he couldn’t. He wasn’t to know how John would take such a revelation as that, however much of an ability he had to roll with the punches on the oddest of things, was he? It could’ve been a disaster and have robbed him of his only friend if he’d told him and he hadn’t responded well to it.Actually, to be perfectly honest, if it came to that, he wasn’t entirely certain that John would’ve stayed if there hadn’t been the issues with the wounds infected with dragon bone dust. His medical training would’ve kicked in, in that situation, overriding other concerns, which had bought Sherlock some time and sympathy.You really believe that, do you? Honestly? his regular inner voice asked, the one that didn’t sound like John. Then you don’t know John all that well.It wasn’t a given that John would’ve stayed. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Not with how things stood when you did tell him, no. But chances are, and in fact that is a rather strong chance, all things considered, that he would have stayed quite willingly if you had told him…well, perhaps not quite at the start, along with your tendency not to talk for days or play the violin at odd hours.

You probably could have after the first few weeks, though. Relatively soon afterwards, really, and John would more likely than not have accepted it. Perhaps not straight away, no questions asked, because to learn your flatmate is a mythological beast is not something even John would just go ‘Oh, right. Did you want tea, then?’ about. But nevertheless, it is more than reasonable to assume that, given a proper explanation and a bit of time to digest, John would’ve been…perhaps not fine with it but willing to listen and accept it.
He wouldn’t have been fine about a desire to claim him, though.
Would any human, though? In the sense of the dragon rather than as the sort of bout of possessiveness that humans tend to favour, that was. A few might, granted, but the vast majority wouldn’t just be appalled, they’d be horrified at the prospect of being nothing more than a possession, however noble the intention of the human side. They have enough trouble when they’re reminded that for all their superiority and airs, they’re animals. Being told you were regarded as another thing, on the level of a piece of jewellery or a snuffbox, that won’t go over well with anybody.

You know there’s a reason most dragons don’t tend to tell the people they’re intending to claim – and don’t go telling me you’d have told him about that desire, whatever else you might do. You would’ve rather be without a case for months than risk John over that, and you’d find a way to get around it. It’s not as though it’s common knowledge about dragons, is it? Not the human collecting part, anyway.
No, but John’s not stupid. He’s anything but stupid – he worked out that what Mycroft collects is at least partially people, without any prompting. He would’ve worked out that part on his own sooner or later and probably sooner. When he did, he would both be angry about it, even more so than he’d been earlier when Sherlock hadn’t seemed to care about the bomb victims, and feel betrayed, to a greater or lesser extent.
Perhaps so, but that’s not any different from how things have actually transpired, is it? And in any case, you’re forgetting something on that score. Something important.
And what would that be?
That if all that was keeping him there after you fell unconscious was a concern for your wellbeing, as a doctor with a professional care and pride, then why would he have stayed after that? He could’ve easily booked it the moment you became a threat. That would be the smart thing to do, especially if he no longer cared for you as a person.
He did, though, didn’t he? Book it or attempt to. The coat had been discarded in the bedroom and there were a few other things, including the smell of the doctor somewhere he’d rarely if ever been long enough to leave distinct marks, that gave clear clues he’d been treating Sherlock in his own bed and yet, when Sherlock had resurfaced, John had been trying to get out through the window, the brunet’s hands gripping his ankles to prevent him from doing so.
But he wasn’t already away despite the time that must’ve elapsed between his escaping you and you resurfacing. You were fighting Mycroft for long enough to trash so much of the room and yet…John was still in the living room, wasn’t he? He wasn’t running as fast as possible away from you.
I am a dragon. I can fly, he cannot. He knows I’d be able to catch up to him in a very short amount of time and – oh.He’d been wondering why he was suddenly thinking about all of this now, given everything, and it just hit home when he actually took in his ‘surroundings’ as he continued to run.It might be that he’d successfully left the depths of his mind and all the associated undesirable things down there but that didn’t mean he was on the upper floors of his conscious mind yet, either. Instead, he was in the part of the palace where his worries and concerns were, especially the ones that he didn’t much want to acknowledge in his waking moments.And this was a worry, wasn’t it? Something that went beyond this point in time. A concern that John wouldn’t accept who he was, what he was, regardless of when and how that revelation had come about. Of course, it hadn’t exactly helped that it had been Moriarty who’d revealed to John that dragons existed and that he’d been…not exactly forced but still, he hadn’t had much choice about outing himself, too. It had all been instinctive.A genuine fear that John would no longer see him as another human being, however broken he might be in comparison to others and even to the blond himself but as a monster. Not even just a beast, a creature, but an outright monster, nothing more than an embodiment of greed which took anything and everything that it could.But he’d proven that he wasn’t, hadn’t he? He had!Even in his own mind, thinking to himself, he sounded just slightly pleading, slightly desperate.Then he realised and his heart sank a little.No…he hadn’t. That had been to the…the personification of John in his mind, not the man standing beside him in the real world. Not to the real John. To the one who mattered.Could he ever hope to do that? John couldn’t see his dragon side, would have no proper idea of what had occurred inside the taller man’s mind. He would have to rely on Sherlock’s word that he was trustworthy and truly no longer a threat to him or the rest of the world, and wasn’t that a rather large ask?He almost slowed down, uncertain of what would await him when he actually made it back.It wasn’t helped by the fact that said personification was being awfully quiet and there wasn’t anything to make a racket that would drown him out.Soon enough, though, he willed himself to push forward and to actually speed up as best he could. Whatever awaited him, he would go there and find out. He wouldn’t retreat into his mind forever and if he could – but that was just it, wasn’t it? How could he ever hope to convince John, he’d asked himself, and the answer had been staring him in the face.He didn’t need to convince him because John already trusted him. Even when Sherlock had made it clear why he shouldn’t, before he’d gone into his Mind Palace, John had stood firm, hadn’t he? Declared that he trusted him, even, unrelenting and yet kind.More than that, Sherlock had believed him. Once he stopped and thought about it, he realised that he still did.He had to get out of here; he wasn’t yet out of danger. Just because this felt calmer and safer didn’t mean that it was.Curiously, though, the thing that he’d prodded earlier, which was a part of him that he hadn’t noticed, that did not feel tied to this area at all, and it hadn’t given him any input, as it were. It just stayed there, soft and pliable and part of him, without asking for anything else. That concept might sound odd but given his current surroundings, it was almost mundane.Against the things pressing into him, less visible and immediately threatening but seemingly no less capable of and willing to mess with his mind, it was both a comfort and an unexpected anchor.
I’m making it back to John, one way or another, and I’m going to make this relationship work in whichever form it works best, whatever it will take. No, we are going to. Together.
Further bolstered, he pushed on.For his part, John had something of a tense wait on the other side of the fence, as it were. Of course, what felt like ages inside a mind doesn’t have to take more than a few minutes in the outside world. But even so, and this had taken considerably longer than a few minutes, the wait felt incredibly long and all the time, he was waiting with somewhat bated breath and tensed muscles, needing to be mentally and physically for the moment he saw the eyes shift and become the tell-tale greenish white.Several times, he thought he’d seen it, but it had turned out to only have been a flicker and had disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared.That wasn’t to say it was the only thing he looked for. He wasn’t purely there to look for warning signs, after all, and not just a sign of just that, either. Some of them had more to do with what Sherlock was putting himself through, both physically and mentally than they did with his mythological origin. John might not be that kind of doctor and he might only know very little, comparatively speaking, about dragons and their makeup, but he not only knew when a body was pushing its limits, he knew when Sherlock was doing it and how far he would continue to push at them if left to his own devices.Which was why John, if he possibly could, stepped in to help and be the counterweight and the voice of reason. The helping hand and the primary knot in the support network.That said, to stand there and watch and only be able to wait and hope while lending as much support as he could through whispered words and touches and just be there, close enough to feel and meanwhile, he also had to be ready to knock the man to the ground and make a dive for it. That was proving to be a special kind of torture. It wasn’t even like when he normally had to wait on Sherlock for one reason or another. At least at crime scenes or such, he could talk to one of the officers, tell the berk off or even just walk out on him, if he chose.Hell, when he normally disappeared into his Mind Palace for minutes or, more usually, hours on end, John could at least go and get a cuppa and possibly a bite to eat. He might even finish his newspaper or do something else that was nice and relaxing. He wasn’t waiting on Sherlock to emerge, of course. Obviously not but it did help to keep an ear open just in case Sherlock emerged from there with a shout of his name or rushed immediately out the door. Often the two were combined and…well, if he was being honest, he had to admit that he had on more than one occasion completely ignored Sherlock when he’d bellowed at him or just expected him to follow. Deliberately and pointedly ignored, as a matter of fact.This was entirely different and not in any sense in a good way.It didn’t help that he was beyond tired himself and honestly just wanted to go to sleep, his reserves depleted and his body running on what was left when the fumes ran out.So, he was both incredibly grateful, extremely happy and still a little apprehensive when Sherlock finally seemed to surface, his eyes losing that odd faraway, almost glazed look that they had whenever he retreated into himself. They blinked, then rolled around the head that wasn’t so much a case of crazed pinballs skating around their sockets as the mind behind having been in standby and needing to regather the data on its surrounding.At the same time, there was a small, barely audible keen which sent John’s pulse up quite a few notches when he noticed it.
No. Please no, not that. Not again. Please, no.
When the eyes reached their normal placement, they blinked again to bring themselves into a better focus. John stared intently at them for any minute hint that the dragon was in fact lurking behind those eyes whose mishmash of colours he’d come to adore. That it had managed to tag along for the ride and was about to spring free once the connection between mind and body had been properly re-established.It wasn’t as though this was the first time within the last twenty-four hours when he had to use this method, was it?“Sherlock?” he asked, tentatively, hopefully, as he had so many times already. Hoping that he wouldn’t be let down. Or eaten or claimed. Those were quite important factors, too, really.Sherlock blinked again, then closed his eyes tight. That was only for a moment, though, thankfully, and he then opened them wide. The doctor was also incredibly relieved to no longer hear even a trace of a keen.“I’m here,” the brunet said, voice strained and raspy as though he hadn’t used it in days rather than the roughly twenty minutes that was the case. I’m here.”“Are you?”“Yes,” Sherlock rasped. “Yes. I’m…I’m here. Fully here. Only me. I promise. I’m the one in charge.”“Right.”Sherlock took in John’s wary expression but didn’t seem affronted by it.“I wouldn’t expect you to believe me straight away, no questions asked,” he said, sounding as though he meant it.Instead of nodding or something similar, though, the doctor frowned a little as he…well, he didn’t quite pull away, but he was at what you might call a pre-stage to it.“…You would. Don’t even start, you always just expect me to take whatever you say at face value and I’m lucky if I get you to answer half the questions I ask, if even any of them at all.”“Not everything.”“Close as.”“John, I’m not trying…I mean, I didn’t, I wasn’t, I promise that I – how do I convince you, then?” he asked, sounding increasingly pleading and just a little desperate as he spoke.That certainly didn’t sound or otherwise resemble the dragon, not what John had seen of it, but that in itself wasn’t really any kind of clue, was it? It most definitely wasn’t any kind of clincher.He had to be sure, needed to be – but what had they decided on before Sherlock had taken his tour into his own mind? That he would shift, just that one small part of him, to prove both that he could shift again without risk and that he was enough in the driving seat to keep it at that small, tightly controlled area until he willed it away again.Well, that was it, wasn’t it? That would prove it, as far as it ever could be proven, obviously.
And that’s a thought you wish you hadn’t ever thought, isn’t it?
No, not…well, perhaps a bit but mainly not. He trusted Sherlock and while yes, this was a test of a sort, it wasn’t an unreasonable request, given everything, nor did it mean that he didn’t actually trust him. Besides, it was as much for Sherlock’s benefit, for his piece of mind as it was John’s.He didn’t say anything out loud, though. Instead, he chose to lift the hand that he hadn’t let go of up so that the other could see it.Sherlock cottoned on immediately.“Of course,” he breathed, frowning in what might have been annoyance with his own momentary stupidity or could just as well have been concentration. Or a mixture of both.“Let me see,” John whispered.“John,” Sherlock whispered back, his eyes flickering all over the other’s face.“I’m here,” John replied, his voice as reassuring as he could possibly make it.The consulting detective nodded, took a deep breath and looked down on his finger. John followed his gaze, and, unlike earlier, didn’t have to wait long.The transformation was oddly slow; the index finger gradually began to bulk up at the same time as scales began to cover it one at a time, the copper colour made clear against the paleness of the rest of the hand. Meanwhile, the nail blackened and seemed to thicken, too, into something resembling almost a carapace but one made of keratin rather than chitin. Then it stretched into the length and curve that John remembered and for a moment, he had to suppress a hard shiver.He looked up quickly at Sherlock’s eyes but all he found there was the wonderfully familiar pale eyes narrowed slightly in concentration.For a moment, that worried him, too, until he realised that what Sherlock was concentrating on wasn’t keeping the dragon in check – there wasn’t even the tiniest flicker of white or slitting of pupils. It was to keep the transformation, the shift, as slow as possible. Not because he was struggling but to showcase that he was indeed in control and couldn’t just keep the shift itself in check but the pace of it, too.It was an entirely deliberate move.That knowledge alone sent a wave of relief through John. He turned his gaze back down to watch what was left.Which, honestly, wasn’t much. The last few scales were growing in, as it were, to meet up with the edge of the nail, completing the shift of the one finger into a full claw, the keratin stretched across the entire tip of the finger, the scales shiny in their diminished size.That was another thing. Though the finger had bulked up somewhat, it was still within the realms of a human finger, albeit maybe one which’d had a run-in with a miffed bee. It hadn’t needed to be, if he was just trying to get his point across. Of course, you could argue there were physical constrictions but those were a bit more bendy when you took into consideration that he could shift into a dragon at all. They didn’t disappear, just became rather more…fluid.Proportions didn’t need to be something to keep in mind, was the point, and yet, he had, for the most part.Another way to show that he was the one in control.
He really wants to hammer it home, doesn’t he?
Well, who could blame him? It had been abundantly evident that he was frightened of losing essentially himself to the dragon, for good. No, terrified would be a better word. Seen in that context, John would be, if the shoe had been on the other foot, doing the exact same thing.
Not to mention that it makes it rather unequivocal for you to believe that he does have the control, too, of course.
Well, yes. Compared to the other times where he had shifted, and it had been quick and…well, not violent, but with a force that didn’t speak of calculation or control but pure reaction, this couldn’t speak louder about its difference.“John?”Sherlock was looking at him now rather than the finger but, when the blond quickly glanced down at the digit again, it was still the same amount that had been shifted and was kept shifted.John smiled, a smile which became a beam before he reached the cupid bow lips for a kiss. It turned French but it wasn’t about passion. Just about connection and joy and relief and togetherness. It was just about them.“You made it,” he whispered when he pulled back. “Welcome back, love.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock gave a small smile that was both proud and yet worried. “Thank you but I’m not done yet.”“What – oh. Yeah, of course. You’re right.” He moved close so that he could wrap an arm around the brunet’s waist. “Go on, then. Let me see.”Sherlock complied without a further word, though a bit of tension left him a moment after the arm went around his waist. They watched in unison as the claw turned back into a normal human finger, albeit a rather long one, just as slowly as it had become a claw.In particular, to watch the scales slide back underneath the skin rather than just disappearing was simultaneously both a fascinating and slightly unsettling experience. Not that watching the claw retract was much better, the look of it like the reverse of having a nailed pulled out, in slow motion.The unexpectedly uncomfortable spectacle – the reverse, the growing, had been more odd than downright uncomfortable, for whatever reason – was alleviated mainly by what it signified.Once it was done, Sherlock caught John’s gaze. One might have expected him to look triumphant or at least pleased with himself in the way that he’d always excelled at. To be fair to him, though, it was truly a major achievement. A life-shaping one, as a matter of fact. He would be entitled to feeling pleased with himself.But that wasn’t his expression. Not even close.Instead, he was looking at him with uncertain but hopeful joy. In a way, it was much like that of a child succeeding in doing something for the very first time that they’d struggled with and, since they had struggled, needed confirmation that this was indeed right.In another sense, it wasn’t even remotely close to that at all.Whichever it was, the fragility of it, especially after the strength, control and utter determination he had just displayed, wrapped itself around John’s heart and squeezed hard.It didn’t help when he heard what his flatmate said next.“Do you believe it?” he asked.“I do,” John confirmed, smiling and blinking to keep the tears that threatened in check. “Well done, love.”He tightened his hold on the waist and the brunet turned in his grip and set his own hands on John’s hips. For a worrying moment, the doctor thought that he was going to be picked up. Not because he doubted that Sherlock could, not after he’d carried him all the way home while flying, nor because he had any issues with being picked up. The practicalities of being a soldier had long since burned any such notions, if he’d ever had any, out of him.But the fact of the matter was that for all the strength he clearly had as a....not a monster, never a monster, whatever Sherlock himself said. As a mythical being, the strength he had might far exceed that of a human but that didn’t mean there were no limits. With everything that had gone before on top of the exertion he had just put himself through…To say that there was a very great risk that he’d be dropped, or the brunet would collapse with John on top of him. Neither scenario was appealing, obviously, and the likelihood of that happening should he attempt seemed assured. For crying out loud, the man was swaying where he stood.So, John slid the hands off his hips, despite the look of protestation, wrapped one arm back around a too-slim waist and gently herded the lanky body towards the bed.When they were lined up so that Sherlock would hit the bed when he fell and not the frame or the bedside table, he nudged at the body, trying to make it topple gently onto the mattress.Sherlock resisted him, however.Pale eyes growing progressively blearier as sleep finally began to march through his head, planting flags and claiming territory all over, Sherlock had something to ask, it seemed.“You’re coming with me?”“Coming – oh. Yeah, of course I am, you tit,” John said fondly. “You really think I’m going to miss that now that I’ve been given the go-ahead? Honestly, and they said you were smart.”Sherlock’s brow furrowed until he realised it was a bad attempt at a joke. He didn’t smile, though.“There still might be a risk when I sleep,” he pointed out. He sounded as though he didn’t want to say it but felt that he needed to, which was probably the case.But John shook his head.“No,” he said. “No, I don’t believe that, and neither do you. Otherwise, you would still be deep in your Mind Palace, making sure.”“John – ““No, you’re not making me question you. Not over that, anyway. You’re not off the hook for some chewing out on a few things but that can wait. Now come on, get down on that bed…and that sounded far more suggestive than I meant it to. Not because –”“It isn’t the time,” Sherlock agreed as he interrupted.“I know you’re in control. You’ve just showed me – your eyes didn’t at any point change to that greenish white. While you were in your Mind Palace it did, yes, but not while you concentrated. I made sure.”“They could have flickered.”“Well, yes, technically, I suppose.” John paused, then decided to take advantage of Sherlock’s momentary distraction and nudged him again.This time, the taller man did topple onto the mattress though he did so gently, not bouncing when he landed.John crawled in immediately after him. Actually, he pulled the duvet loose first, all the way so that movement on either of their parts wouldn’t be hindered, should they for whatever reason need it.The lanky body moved willingly enough to allow John to do so, the contact with the quality mattress having made him even drowsier than before, it seemed.Then the doctor crawled in to lie beside Sherlock, pulling the duvet and its Egyptian cotton bloody high thread count linen cover over them both.Part of John couldn’t help noticing that he was now in bed with Sherlock bleeding Holmes and the man was gloriously naked. Everything was within reach and no longer out of bounds for him.A shiver ran through him, but it was an almost perfunctory one, born of nearness to a body he’d been admiring for so long rather than a present desire to jump the body in question. Granted, yes, he wanted him, quite strongly, but not now and not before Sherlock felt comfortable with it.
And if he never does feel comfortable with it? Regardless of what he’s said and how his body has reacted, it might turn out when it comes down to it that he really cannot go through with intercourse or anything sexual.
Then that was how it’d be and that would be fine.
Really?
Yes, really.
Even when you’ve been almost relentless in your pursuit of women in a romantic and sexual context? Then you’re suddenly completely okay with not just being in a romantic relationship with a man but one that might end up entirely sexless?
First off, he hadn’t been relentless, or even close to it. Keen, perhaps, but that was about it. And why wouldn’t he be okay with that? If someone had told him two years ago that he would find a person that would infuriate and confound him on a very regular basis and yet be the most fascinating, brilliant and exciting person John had ever and would likely ever meet, then he’d have been thrilled.Yes, so he might have expected that person to have been a woman, he wasn’t going to deny that, especially if that someone had added he would end up falling in love with that person. That did not equal that he was averse to it being a man and he couldn’t deny that Sherlock did tend to blow past any normal boundary as if it didn’t even exist.The point was that when it came to Sherlock, he was more than worth staying for and being with, with or without sex coming into the bargain.So, to make sure that he wasn’t moving into territory that could be considered suggestive or in any way inappropriate, he lay on his side and kept his back lined up with the edge of the mattress. It was close enough to it that Sherlock had plenty of room to move without needing to bump into John if he didn’t want to but far enough from it that he didn’t risk toppling out of bed if he so much as shifted.That position only lasted until Sherlock saw what he’d done. Then a long arm reached out to land on his hip. But surprisingly, it didn’t pull at him beyond a little tug.“I’m not dangerous.” It was whispered and ever so slightly cracking, the sleepiness in it somehow only making it sound more vulnerable.What? Oh. Oh.Idiot. Complete and utter berk, too. “I’m not – Sherlock, that’s not why – I just didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with it.”“With it?”“Having somebody sleeping in your bed, I mean.”“No, that’s not what you mean. I can see it.”“It is – well, it’s that and that…well, I can’t guarantee I won’t have any physical reactions.”“I’m not asking you not to.”
No, but there’s a fucking big difference between saying that without having any actual experience of it and having the physical reality of it pressed up against you.
He didn’t quite know how to phrase that right, however, so he instead said, “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”“I’m not. Not when you’re as far away from me as you can possibly get while still technically on the same bed and yet you tell me you’re not uncomfortable being near me. It’s incredibly and annoyingly incongruous.”“Sherlock, it really has nothing to do with you being a dragon or me being uncomfortable being near a naked man or whatever else you think it has to do with.”“Then what has it got to do with?” Sherlock more or less snapped.God, I’m too fucking tired at this point. “That sharing a bed with someone is a…well, it can feel claustrophobic or restrictive when it’s not something you’re used to.”“Mycroft shared my nest when I was little.”“Nest?” John asked, suddenly thrown by the unexpected image. “Did you – really? A nest? Not made of straw, surely? Or gold?”“No. There’s no need for gold with dragon babies and straw is scratchy.”“You’ve got scales. Birds have only feathers and they lie on twigs and stuff.”“Mostly, they lie on moss and feathers and other soft furnishings, which is also what my nest was made of. Wool, linen and silk and small pillows. It was propped up on a metal frame.”“I…that sounds adorable, actually. Can I – do you still have it?”“Not here, no.”“No, I wasn’t actually expecting you to say you keep it under the bed or something. But it still exists?”“Yes, it still exists. Mummy refused to get rid of it, on the practical grounds that it might be needed one day.”“Might be – wait, no, hold up. Not going there right now. This has already been far too much to take in for one day, night, period, whatever. I’m not going to ask about dragon reproduction because I think that might actually make my head explode.”“John, it’s not possible for your head to explode.”“Don’t start lecturing me on what’s possible right now, Sherlock, okay?”Their familiar bickering, even if the topic was still very bizarre, felt comforting. So comforting and familiar, in fact, that the blond hadn’t noticed that Sherlock had moved steadily if minutely closer during that whole exchange and was now less than a foot away from him, the hand still where he’d originally placed it.When he did notice, his eyes flickered down the length of the lanky body then snapped back up again.“Please, John,” Sherlock said.He didn’t say anything more but then, he didn’t really need to either, did he?But he wasn’t going to pull him, that was for sure. John closed the remaining distance between them under his own steam, as it were. They weren’t quite pressed up against each other, but it was a close enough thing.The moment they were touching, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter body. It might be considered clingy or even possessive, especially since he also shifted a leg over one of John’s, but it didn’t feel like that, and the doctor would consider that he had some experience to back that up by now.Instead, it just felt sweet and touching.The impression was aided by Sherlock more or less pushing his face into the crook of John’s neck breathing deeply as he did so, the tension leaking out of his body fast.“You okay?” John asked softly, just to be sure.He got a nod, a vigorous one despite the curly head’s position. Interestingly, not to mention comfortingly, the hands did not tighten their grip, just stayed exactly where they were.“Can I –?” He gently touched the brunet’s back to indicate what he meant.Another nod, almost as vigorous.Then, “John, this feels…why does this feel so good?”John, body finally having had enough of his stalling and taxing behaviour and starting to shut down, yawned deeply. “Could be for several reasons, so I don’t know. I’m glad it does, though.”“Does it –?”“Yeah, ‘course it does. Or I assume so, but maybe there’s something else at play, too. I really don’t know, love, I’m not a dragon, and even if I were or otherwise knew, I’m far too knackered right now to think about anything.”Sherlock raised his head a little, just enough so that he could look the other in the eye. “You’re clearly thinking because what’s coming out of your mouth isn’t pure automatic – ““Sherlock. Enough already. Go to bloody sleep, okay? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, I promise, so just…do as you’re asked for once and get some bleeding kip. You need it and so do I.”Whether it was his words that did it or just the brunet’s body finally overcome and shutting down, John had no idea but whatever the case, Sherlock complied.The pale eyes – still their blue-green-brown kaleidoscope with no hint of old ice in them – began to close and Sherlock’s head dropped back to the crook of John’s neck. Whatever tension was left in the body, which frankly wasn’t much, drained out of it as the breaths quite quickly deepened and even to a point where it was clear he was genuinely asleep.John, somehow holding onto a shred of wakefulness despite his body’s extremely valiant fight to shut down, watched and felt his friend succumb to sleep. It was less to do with wanting to watch him sleep than it was to ascertain whether…not really whether he was truly safe from the dragon, whatever beliefs Sherlock might still cling onto, but how he’d behave towards having another body so close while he slept.Okay, so of course it was a point to consider that the two Holmes brothers had apparently shared a nest – and he was most certainly going to ask Mycroft for pictures of that and then find some way to keep them that would be Sherlock-proof. But that had been, inferring from ‘when I was small’, many, many years ago and it didn’t follow that he’d had someone sleeping next to him in the intervening time.It was still a very real possibility that he would react differently once asleep. John genuinely just wanted to make sure that Sherlock was as okay with it as he claimed. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had lied about what he could handle or, for that matter, he himself had overestimated what he was capable.So, he would just keep his eyes open…for another minute…or two. Just to…to see that…He was asleep before he was even aware that he’d begun to drop.When he woke, it was dark out, but he couldn’t gauge whether that meant it was very late evening or early morning. That might be just as much because calling it ‘awake’ was something of an overstatement as it had to do with the darkness not being particularly distinguishable, which in turn wasn’t helped by the artificial light from outside muddying things further. Then again, he ought to be used to that by now, didn’t he? He had lived here for a while.He raised his head a little and stared ahead of him, trying to make things come into focus a bit, and realised that what he’d taken as a spot before his eyes were actually a mop of tangled and slightly matted dark curls right in front of him.His mind was still swimming in the treacle that always surrounds just after you wake up after a really deep sleep and so it took him an embarrassingly long moment to piece together that no, he wasn’t in his own bedroom, but neither was he in a woman’s. There was a lack of scent, for one, of the type he normally associated with – hang on. He knew that – oh.Of course. A tilt of the head to bring the face resting on his clavicle into a clearer view confirmed what he’d already sussed; he was in Sherlock’s room and he had his flatmate sleeping on him. Without…any clothes on, it seemed.Slowly, the rest of what had happened started to clarify in his brain like so much soup and though he’d been at that point where he was just awake enough to have his brain running, albeit on energy-saving state, and yet asleep enough that he could still slip easily back into temporary oblivion, he was now wide awake.Had he…? Had it? Did Sherlock really…?Yes, he realised with surprising speed and certainty. All that was flashing across his mind was of a clarity and a detail that he wouldn’t have bothered with had he made it up in his conscious mind and with a lack of odd, irrelevant tangents and additions that his sleeping mind could conjure.But that meant something else, too, didn’t it?He fought against the darkness of the room as he sought to check on whether any part of the brunet had shifted while he was asleep. The danger wasn’t the issue but more to see whether it was something they would need to keep in mind. For Sherlock’s peace of mind.There didn’t seem to be anything to indicate it, as far as he could tell with his eyes and the one hand that he had free. The other was trapped beneath the weight of one consulting detective who’d apparently decided that mattresses weren’t for him and that John was much better to lie on.Well, that was something. And he’d made it through the…day? Day. He’d made it through the day sleeping without being eaten or claimed. Right?He brought his free hand up to carefully feel at his neck, mindful of the head resting close by, and couldn’t feel anything that he thought would be a clear indicator, such as bite marks or claw scratches. Apart from the ones he’d already gotten, of course. Another tick in the box for relief.He settled back down, staring up at the ceiling while his hand found its way, almost automatically, into the tangle of curls, carding through them as carefully as possible.Should he wake Sherlock? No, he didn’t know what time it was. Though it felt like he had, they might not have actually been sleeping for very long and after the ordeal they’d had, he not just deserved some proper kip, he needed it.So did John himself, really. Though he was definitely awake now, he could feel that he was nowhere close to rested. Granted, that would probably take another week or so’s worth of sleep and rest for that to happen, but he would settle for at least another few hours.The question was, why had he woken in the first place? He didn’t need to relieve himself, he hadn’t had a nightmare, there had been no sudden noises, and Sherlock hadn’t, as far as he could tell, done anything that could set off anything latent inside John.Sometimes you did just wake because you did, of course, but he felt certain something had woken him other than himself. He just couldn’t work out what it was.Then he heard his phone vibrate. It was still in the jeans pocket he’d had it in when he’d undressed before going to bed, for whatever reason that he couldn’t quite grasp right then, and the noise of it vibrating against the denim and carpet had somehow slid into his ears.Was that it? It didn’t quite feel right.It vibrated again, sounding somehow more impatient and angrier than before.Who would call? Sarah? Shit, he didn’t – no, he hadn’t missed a shift, he knew that, provided he hadn’t sleep for several days, which his continued tiredness would strongly suggest he hadn’t. Would she still call him? He wasn’t entirely sure.Lestrade because he couldn’t get hold of Sherlock? No, he’d go back to trying Sherlock’s phone, which was…somewhere. Who else?If he stretched out a leg, he could possibly pull it close with his toes and avoid getting out of bed or otherwise potentially wake up Sherlock. The bugger would probably then go straight to some experiment he had on the boil or he’d be looking up ways in which they could make sure that John could leave the flat without risking being claimed by –Moriarty. Was it him calling? Not Moriarty. No. Fuck no, not that bloody wanker of a creep again, he’d had enough!
Well, it’s something that you’re angry about it, isn’t it?
He was angry about it before. To be honest, he didn’t think there had been a point where he hadn’t been angry about all, well, most of this, and certainly he had about the shit Moriarty pulled. Angry was not even doing it justice. That he’d been horrified and scared at the same time was an entirely different and, in the circumstances, irrelevant point.Moving faster, lest it be Moriarty and the shit-heel thought of another method of getting through to him if he still didn’t pick up, one that would be far less pleasant than this.Somehow, he wasn’t quite sure how, he managed to not only get hold of the waist of the trousers but fish the phone out of the pocket with relatively speed and ease.It had finished ringing but was ringing again, and he managed to answer it, noting that it wasn’t a number he recognised but that that didn’t have to mean anything.“Hello?” he snapped in a whisper, suspicion in his voice.“What a hostile reaction, Doctor Watson. And here I thought we’d developed something of rapport after everything that has happened.”For a moment, the voice sounded like the one he so very much didn’t want to hear, and he stiffened despite his best efforts to remain calm and not disturb the one curled up mostly on top of him.Then his brain kicked in and informed him that though the speech could’ve been with Moriarty, too, this was Mycroft’s voice, clipped in its Englishness, with no hint of a lilt.“Yeah, sorry,” he said quietly, wanting to scrub a hand over his face but not having the hands free to do so. “Sorry, Mycroft, I just…thought you were someone else.”“And it hardly takes much effort to guess who that someone is.”John stifled a yawn. “Any particular reason you’re so keen on contacting me at this…well, I don’t even know what time it is, but…”“Of course, and it is half nine at night, but I suspect that doesn’t tell you much, as you won’t have been aware of the time when you went to sleep.”“Right.” Some thought poke at him, hard. “Oh. How are you holding up? You looked rather…”“Beaten up? Well, yes, Sherlock makes up for what he lacks in experience with sheer tenacity, but the worst of it has been patched up and the rest has already healed.”Ah. Yeah, of course. The healing factor of dragons. Probably some other doctor than John, a more academically minded one or one with a particularly strong sense of needing to save the world, would’ve been eager to learn more about that.The motivation would’ve either been a selfish desire, for glory or academic standing or financial security, or an apparently altruistic one, to help and heal so much of the human population, forgetting the fact that there invariably would be people to exploit it rather than help. Not that he had a problem with helping as many people as possible but the naïve belief that often accompanied that altruism…was less than helpful, that wasn’t unfair to say.It was more that…yes, that was a benefit but to extract that, to harness it somehow, what would be the sacrifice that would take? When did that sacrifice become justified other than never truly? Also, what side effects would occur? How could they make certain that said healing factor didn’t come with a side order of the less…helpful dragon traits? And that was thinking only of if it worked, which was quite a major ‘if’, not to mention getting a dragon to cooperate or subdued enough that they could take by force, of course.“Glad to hear it,” was what he said out loud. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude or ungrateful or anything, but what do you want?”He really wanted to go back to sleep, perhaps bask in the novelty and loveliness it was to have Sherlock sharing a bed with him like this for a bit before he fell asleep this time. He really had neither the will nor the energy right then to deal with whatever else Mycroft thought needed to be dealt with as of that moment.It must be something important enough to warrant him calling John rather than Sherlock, the doctor knew that, and do so repeatedly, according to the list of missed calls John had vaguely registered before he’d pressed the button to take the call. But even so, he struggled to find the energy to just keep the conversation going.Possibly aware of this, or perhaps he just had other things to be getting on with, despite the hour, Mycroft didn’t waste time being offended at John’s words or his tone of voice, audible though he was still whispering.“There are two things. First of all, do you have any clue as to where Moriarty is?”“Isn’t surveillance of the entirety of England your milieu, including the dragons therein?” He didn’t get an answer. “I don’t. Sorry. The best I’ve got is that he called me while you were…stalling Sherlock. Don’t know the time frame or whether it was a pay-as-you-go but…”“It’s something. Thank you, John.” The ‘thank you’ was delivered unexpectedly earnestly and quiet.There was something John needed to ask the elder Holmes, too, he realised. “Mycroft, do you really think it’s possible Moriarty wants to claim me? Sherlock seems to be convinced, but I really don’t think so. I mean, me in particular, not…not just – ““Not just because of your association with Sherlock?” The implications ‘wanting to screw with you to get to Sherlock’ didn’t need to be said to be heard.“…Yes.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There was silence for long enough that John thought Mycroft wasn’t going to answer. But he did.“Yes, I believe so but in the sense of a novelty, that a collector would have in an object of rarity and quality.”“Your flattery isn’t working.”“It wasn’t meant to be flattering, that is rather the point.”“So, the interest somebody would have in an object, even if it’s a prized one.”“Yes. Why do you ask?”“Because I…” John sighed as he thought it through. Beside him, Sherlock shifted and tightened the grip he had on the blond slightly but otherwise it didn’t seem like he was waking up. Thankfully. “I suppose it’s easier to ascribe it to something dragon rather than something human, somehow, even though it probably ought to be the other way around. Does that even make sense?”“More than you’d know.”John couldn’t quite stifle a yawn. “And the second thing?”“Yes, of course. Has my brother claimed you yet?”“That – what? You cannot be bloody serious! Isn’t that what you tried to help me escape?”“Not as an object, John, do keep up. As a mate.” Well, that had sounded almost uncannily like Sherlock, but the doctor shrugged it off.“I don’t even know…what’s the bloody difference?”There was a pause at that, a lengthy one. “I thought you’d know.”“How would I know?” he managed to quietly hiss. “I can’t magic understanding out of thin air, whatever the pair of you might think, and it’s not like either of you has told me what the difference is or even really that there were two different ways of doing it. You at most alluded to something or other, to Sherlock, not me, just before you left earlier. So, what the hell is it and why does it matter whether he has or not?”“I’ll tell you later.” It was a mumble more than anything and it came from Sherlock. He’d raised his head somewhat at some point while John had been distracted, though he hadn’t otherwise moved, and was now glaring slightly, not at John but at the phone in his hand.It probably wasn’t hard to work out who John had been speaking to, even muddled by sleep as he undoubtedly were. John certainly still was, and he’d been awake for longer than the other.“Sherlock, you had absolutely no clue as to what I was talking about when I brought it up and it is crucial – “Mycroft began. Thinking that if they were going to argue, or bicker, through a phone line, then he wasn’t going to be the mediator.“You’re on speaker now,” he interrupted the older dragon. “Easier for you two to argue that way, and I can get some more kip.”“John, you are not taking this seriously.”“If I wasn’t, I’d be hanging up on you, Mycroft,” John said, shortly. “But I have been through far too fucking much in too short a time, having had to come to terms with some pretty major stuff, and I cannot deal with more right now. Not before I have a proper chance at some sleep, some tea and a good breakfast.”He expected Mycroft to argue back but instead he got silence. In fact, he got it for long enough that he genuinely thought the other had hung up on them.“Quite understandable,” the ginger finally said. “Nevertheless – ““Hold on.” It was Sherlock speaking. “I think John’s right.”Then Sherlock reached out a hand and, gently, took the phone from the doctor, who didn’t attempt to hold on to it. The speaker was switched back off, presumably to spare John, and the brunet held it up to his ear, already frowning, though whether in concentration, irritation, sleepiness, or a combination thereof wasn’t evident.He did seem to genuinely listen to what his brother was saying, however, something which was rather a novelty in its own right. Whether it was a good sign or more a worrying one wasn’t entirely clear.As he’d suspected, John found himself slipping back towards sleep but faster than he would’ve thought. So, when Sherlock started to ask something in turn, John only caught a part of it, and what he heard made him somewhat wish that he’d heard the rest and the answer.But he was claimed by the waves of sleep before he could even start to struggle his way back up to consciousness.He thought he did feel lips press against his temple, though, and Sherlock whisper, “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. Go to sleep.”And he did.When next John regained consciousness, it was light out. Proper light, too, which was for some reason incredibly reassuring.This time, he felt properly rested, as well, rather than just barely over the threshold of functioning while awake. Not that he was wide awake or instantly on guard or anything like that. Just thoroughly rested and actually capable of comprehending what was around him.He stretched slowly and then registered that he was on his side and Sherlock was no longer resting on top of him. Instead, he was lying on his side, too, and was…effectively, he was the large spoon.Well, that was most definitely a relatively new experience, mainly except for that one girlfriend he’d had before he’d been deployed to Afghanistan. She’d been tall, almost a foot taller than him, but more than a little awkward about it; if she was the little spoon, she felt like an adult trying to fit onto a chair made for children. He couldn’t exactly relate but he could empathise and honestly, it had been good to be the little spoon for a change.His subsequent girlfriends had either not liked spooning much, which was fair enough, or had preferred to be the little spoon. Or they hadn’t thought about it, of course, that was an option, too.The point was that the experience was new but rather wonderful, really. Especially since Sherlock had tucked his chin to rest on the outer edge of John’s clavicle, which meant that he wasn’t breathing right into his ear.And again, the way that he was holding onto him felt warm and comforting, just like one would hope it to be. It didn’t feel possessive in the slightest, which was admittedly not great as evidence, to say the least, but John would take it.He felt the chin move, the stubble of two days scratching across his bare skin before lips pressed against the skin, the juxtaposition of soft, warm lips and the scratchy softness of the stubble creating a lovely sensation.“Morning,” Sherlock whispered and oh, god, hearing that voice deepened by sleep but without the slurred or muddled quality that actually just waking up achieved…that was…well…“Is it?”“Mmh. Decidedly before noon, judging by the angle of the light when taking the time of year and the amount of cloud cover over – ““Sherlock, a bleeding ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed.”“But you like my voice, especially right now. I just felt your heart rate – ““Yeah, okay. I…yeah, I do. No point in trying to hide it any longer, I suppose, with you so close and all.”“Any…longer?”“Come off the surprised bit already, would you? You just admitted that you knew I like your voice.”“I didn’t know you were hiding it. I thought you liked my voice because it was soothing or something, in the same way you like that announcer – ““Which I like for pretty much the same reason and why the hell are we discussing this again?”“You started it.”“I – no, you know what, never mind. I’m not going to go there right now.”John turned over to face the other and rested on his elbow, having propped his head up on his hand, almost completely mirroring the position Sherlock was in. His intention was to better be able to discuss things, facing each other and everything.He wasn’t quite expecting the slow glide of pale eyes across his body in a way that could only really be described as appreciative and lingering. His morning wood appreciated it in turn, twitching in its confines.“Sherlock…”“Am I not allowed to look?” Sherlock asked, quiet. Slightly uncertain, even now.“Of course, you are, you idiot,” John replied, fondness in his voice. “As much as you like. That wasn’t what I meant.”“What did you mean, then?”“You can’t honestly expect me not to react to it when you look at me like that.”“Who says I wasn’t expecting you to?”John blinked.Well, that was a point, wasn’t it? Was it, though? Was Sherlock aware of what he was implying? Yeah, of course he was. He’d said as much before they’d even gotten into the bedroom, hadn’t he? Something to that effect, at least.And it was rather unfair of him to assume that just because Sherlock hadn’t shown any interest in sex or anything related to it in the time in which they’d known each other, that he was completely inexperienced or just unaware. Their first kiss, with both of them mentally present, had been somewhat passive on Sherlock’s part but the second one definitely hadn’t been.Of course, just because he hadn’t been unaware or willing to participate in kisses, chaste or more passionate, didn’t automatically negate the possibility that he had no real interest in sex. But nothing that he’d said earlier, when John had had to explain his tiredness, had given the indication that he wasn’t.What was that term? Demisexual? Was that it? Sherlock would probably know better than he would because somehow, it would just figure that the berk would have knowledge of the different types of sexualities and their nuances while facts about the solar system eluded him. And that that would be the case even though technically, with his disdain for such things, he should have as little use for the – no, that wasn’t right, was it? He could possibly have use for the former as clues to people’s motivations and such.The point was that John should take it up with the man in front of him rather than speculate and spin thoughts out.Certainly, the look he’d given him was…well, it was a strong clue, at least, as was the hardness that he realised he’d felt as he’d woken up and which, he glanced down, hadn’t abated. In the slightest.When he looked back up into those familiar eyes – the threat of hypnosis was no longer one he thought he needed to worry about – they were not only ready to meet his, there was heat in them that had nothing to do with the dragon.Quite a lot of heat in them. John licked his lips, his heartrate indeed picking up.“Sherlock…” he breathed.“John…” Sherlock mirrored, edging himself a little closer still. John copied him. There hadn’t been much distance between them before but now there was no more than a few inches. A few inches were an easy gap to close.“You sure?” John asked as his gaze flickered from Sherlock’s eyes down to his lips, then further down before returning to the consulting detective’s face.“Positive,” Sherlock returned. “Absolutely so.”He reached out his free hand to touch John’s skin. Before his hand made contact, he hesitated and the doctor watched him, prepared to pack it in, as it were, if that was what was needed. His cock protested but he ignored it.Sherlock bit his lip for a moment then seemed to resolve whatever issue he’d had.“John, I have to tell you something before we –”The blond smiled, reassuring. “It’s okay, love, we don’t have to if you’re not – ““Do not interrupt me. That wasn’t what I was implying, and it certainly wasn’t what I meant, either. It has nothing to do with my previous sexual experiences or what you seem to think is the lack thereof.” Sherlock glared at him as he spoke.“I’m…I didn’t…I’m sorry.” Honestly, what else could he say? He had assumed that and had barged ahead with the assumption rather than actually listen. “What did you mean, then?”“I talked with Mycroft while you were…asleep.”“Oh.” His nose wrinkled and his erection flagged slightly. “That’s really not a name I needed to hear in – wait, that was to do with the…claiming of a mate rather than a claiming of a thing, was that it?”“Yes.”Despite the seemingly assured manner of his words and his demeanour, there was just a hint of uncertainty in there. Which had been there when he’d brought up what he had to say, too. So, nervous of what he was going to say or more likely, what that would mean and how John would take it.“And that has to do with…this,” he waved his unoccupied hand between them, “how exactly? Don’t tell me that you boning me is going to seal anything – oh, fuck, it is, isn’t it?”But Sherlock suddenly had a slightly dazed look.“Sherlock? Oi, stay with me here. You’re not allowed to run out on me while staying perfectly immobile. Not right now.”“Boning?”“Yes, boning. You buggering me, or me buggering you. Either is perfectly fine but I’d really like to know whether you’re going to go feral dragon on me while either of our cocks is buried in the arse of the other.”“John!” It came out a strangled shout.“What? You just claimed that you didn’t have any problems with it so why are you suddenly balking at a bit of dirty language?”“I don’t have a problem with it!”“Then what is the issue?”“You’re…you’re…!”“Yes?”But Sherlock wasn’t talking anymore. Instead, he had closed his eyes and was breathing through his nose, fast and shallow though evidently trying to calm it down.“Sherlock?” John asked, worried. Not just of whether his friend was in pain or otherwise hurt but whether this meant that he was, after everything, still having a problem getting the dragon to remain…contained, as it were.“Nngh…!” Was all that he got, the breathing still too shallow and too fast. It was slowing, though.When it had reached a more normal level, Sherlock finally opened his eyes again.“What was that all about?” John asked, endeavouring to keep his voice calm.“You can’t just suddenly…”“Suddenly what?”“Suddenly say things like that!”“Like – oh. You mean…Sherlock, you’ve heard me say stuff like that before.” He felt sure that he must have, at one point or another, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember when and where.The brunet shook his head. “You swear but that’s roughly the extent of it.” He paused and wet his lips, looking both excited and a little bit out of his depth, which was sweet and also, surprisingly, a little stimulating.  “And you certainly haven’t ever said any of those words in relation to me.”Oh. No, he hadn’t, had he? He might have thought them, when he’d allowed himself to dwell on it, which was for his own sanity in the face of bouts of frustration, relatively rarely. But he most definitely hadn’t voiced them. An asexual consulting genius and a not-quite-as-heterosexual-as-he-claimed doctor who ran towards at least a good few British stereotypes? No, that wasn’t exactly the sort of thing that came up between them.“No, I suppose not. Do you…is it a problem?”Sherlock shook his head again. “No. Not beyond the fact that you talking dirty – “ and wasn’t that something he wouldn’t have thought would come out of Sherlock’s mouth, and certainly not in relation to John – “apparently have a significantly more pronounced effect on me than I would’ve anticipated.”“Plain English, Sherlock, it’ll do fine in the situation. But thanks, that’s…well, that’s good to know.” It was a bit flattering, really, to know that he could make Sherlock Holmes come over all flushed through some pretty simple and common dirty words, even if it might just as well be because he wasn’t used to such words.The brunet gave him a slight, suspicious glare for his trouble. “You’re going to employ this against me at every given opportunity, aren’t you?”“No, of course not.” He paused and decided to plump for honesty. “Not at every opportunity, at least. Just…a few?”Sherlock huffed, or tried to. It would’ve worked a whole lot better if his eyes weren’t still rather dilated and his cheeks lightly flushed in a way that had nothing to do with remnants of sleep.His expression then softened. “Nor need you worry that I lose myself,” he said.“Oh?” John made a concerted effort not to make it sound in any way doubting. He wasn’t entire sure he succeeded but he did try.Sherlock didn’t seem to mind because if it had been there, he would’ve picked up on it, John knew.“No. I did catch what you said earlier, and I can assure you that I am not about to ‘go feral’ on you.”“I’m sorry if I…I didn’t mean it that way.”“I know you didn’t,” Sherlock said, backing the claim up with seeming unaffected, “and I don’t blame you for the thought.”“Uh-huh.”“I honestly don’t. It’s a perfectly understandable worry to have in the circumstances.”“Who are you, horribly understanding and forgiving creature, and what have you done with the contrary, childish person I call my best friend?”Sherlock frowned in incomprehension and worry but only for a moment. Then, as he understood, he grinned.John smiled in turn then leaned in for a kiss. One which started tender and sweet but rather quickly grew firmer and more passionate and then he opened his mouth.Getting to explore a partner was always one of the things John enjoyed about a relationship. Not exclusively in a sexual manner but certainly there as well, and it didn’t matter whether it was a new or familiar partner. There was in a sense more to explore when the territory was unfamiliar, that was true, but at the same time, seeing something familiar change in a new circumstance or even just retracing what you’ve already uncovered, enjoying the known path.A big part of what was the appeal was, of course, the reaction that he got out of any touch, though obviously that wasn’t a requirement. But to watch and listen to the reaction, whether a small hug, a squeeze of a shoulder or a proper snog, that was a boost each and every time.Before he had much of a chance to properly explore Sherlock’s mouth, with no tiredness or worry getting in the way, though, much less any other part of him, the brunet pulled back. It helped a little that he seemed reluctant and went back for a quick peck before pulling away properly.“I really do need to tell you something before we go further.”We haven’t even gone anywhere yet,” John growled but there was no heat behind it. “What did Mycroft say?”“My very first experience was when I was a teenager,” Sherlock said, obviously attempting to sidestep the issue. John made a mental note of it and let it slide for the moment.“Right, okay. That’s…surprisingly normal, especially for you.”“John.”“Yes?”“Shut up, would you?”“Right.”“The point isn’t to relay a detailed account of my sexual debut, whatever you might think.” John opened his mouth to correct him, but a raised eyebrow snapped it shut again. “The point is that when I had that experience, it didn’t get very far and that wasn’t due to me being sex-averse. It didn’t get very far simply because when I tried, I felt a growing hunger in me in relation to the person I was with.”“The urge to claim them?”This time, Sherlock didn’t admonish him for interrupting. “Yes. Only, though I wasn’t in a position to make any kind of fair assessment of the issue at the time, it didn’t quite feel like the hunger I had for objects.”“Right, okay. So, it was more this mate claiming, then?”“Not…no, I wouldn’t have said so,” Sherlock replied, unusually contemplative and reflective. “Certainly not at the time but neither would I say it now that I know what it means and entails.”“And what is it, exactly?”“That claiming someone as part of a courtship ritual has to do with the dragon only in the sense that the way it’s performed correlates with dragon behaviour. Well, almost only.”Trust Sherlock to put it like that. “So – wait. Almost only? What else is there, then?”“Nothing to be alarmed about.” Never mind the fact that when it’s you, Sherlock, that phrase turns upside down completely and automatically fills you with a mild form of dread. “It’s merely that such behaviour, the desire for a mate rather than an object to covet, as it were, that doesn’t…Mycroft has never heard of it happening with anyone other than another…”“It only happens between two dragons, is that it?” John asked, putting two and two together. His own expression turned thoughtful as he gave the issue consideration, intrigued almost despite himself. “Normally, I mean, which would make sense, I suppose. Why choose to mate with something that you cannot breed with? Unless you can? If you’d found a woman, I mean, rather than a man. Or just someone with a womb, of course. You obviously have the human equipment so I’m assuming – ““John, please, shut up?” It was probably meant to come out commanding or at the very least demanding. Instead, it came out pleading, which puzzled the doctor.Then he looked at the other and twigged.Oh. Embarrassment. Really? Of all things, this was what he found embarrassing? Sherlock had no boundaries; shame and embarrassment was something that happened to other people. Was it really embarrassment, then? Discomfort?“Sherlock – are you uncomfortable with the thought of breeding with a woman?”“No, of course not!” The answer was immediate and possibly, automatic. Possibly not, of course, but there was something there, that was for sure.“What, then? Breeding in general?”A shake of the head. “Please, stop.”“Right. Sorry.” Saying ‘please’ twice in fairly quick succession rather drove the point home. There was a drawn out pause between them. “Can you tell me the rest of it? Why did – you didn’t claim the person you were trying to have sex with back then, did you?” A thought occurred to him. “That’s not…fuck, that’s not the skull, is it?”“What? No!” Now the discomfort and pleading had transformed into something resembling the pleading he’d had when they’d first gotten back to the flat and he’d tried to explain himself. “I told you, I don’t collect humans, neither living nor dead.”“That doesn’t in itself mean you never have or that you haven’t tried.”This time, though, John didn’t sound or feel particularly angry. Well, he was still angry that dragons used humans that way, saw them like that but then again, it wasn’t as though he could claim humans didn’t do the exact same thing, was it? They didn’t even have the excuse of a biological imperative. There might be some imperative, of course, but a depressing number of people couldn’t claim even that.“No, it means I might have had the urge but that I haven’t followed through with it. Not then nor in the intervening years,” Sherlock replied and there was more than a bit of snap to his voice. Some hurt there, too, if you listened carefully. “I have never had and never will have any interest in claiming anybody as treasure, and that includes you!”John blinked. Then swallowed. Sherlock had a point, one that he’d more than proved by this point. What had wanted to claim John wasn’t Sherlock but the dragon, and he had learned, even if he had been standing on the side lines for one of the most important parts. the two were entirely different beings that just happened to have to inhabit the same body.“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out to lay a hand against a stubbled jaw. “Even if you had, I know it’s more complicated than just…well, than I gave it credit for.”“Did Mycroft tell you?”“About what, exactly?”“About what it entails to be a dragon.”“Well, he told me some of it, mostly related to what was going on with you at the time. But yeah, some essentials, too, I suppose. But what did he tell you, precisely? That’s the more important point.”“I was in the process of telling you. There were similarities between the sexual experience I had when I was a teenager and normal dragon claiming behaviour. Quite a lot, actually. It wasn’t entirely that but that, as far as I can surmise from Mycroft’s vagueness – “ or possibly just more delicately phrased than the detailed bluntness Sherlock favoured, “ – had more to do with the hormones interfering with the desire to claim than any proper example of a courting claim.”“How can he tell? I know both of you pull stuff out of your arses on a regular basis, but you always at least claim to have a good reason for it.”“A courting claim isn’t possible to establish before full maturity is reached. Apparently.”“Ah.”Probably to be able to fulfil the purpose of courting within a relatively short time period that doesn’t risk something not being fully developed. It would make sense to have it that way, anyway. It was probably for the best not to mention that out loud, seeing how he’d reacted before.“But your brother thinks that that’s what’s going on here? That it isn’t just the only way to go to prevent not so much you from claiming me as me being a target for other dragons, but that you’ve already begun it? That was what it sounded like, at least.”“It’s not just Mycroft that believes that.”“But that still doesn’t explain why you stopped me. I’m glad for all of that information, don’t get me wrong, but time and a place, Sherlock. We were kind of at the start of something that I would really like to get back to, and soon. I’ve been waiting for bloody ages for it and I…well, obviously I can wait some more if that’s what’s needed but…I’d rather not.”He moved closer still but didn’t touch the other. It wasn’t the time for that yet and it would be cheating to employ physical touch. “I’d love to just get to explore you, bit by tiny bit until there’s not an inch of you I haven’t touched in some way, then go back and variate the touches to see if that gets a different reaction until you’re writhing, incoherent mess of pleasure.”Sherlock’s eyes widened rapidly at that and he made a choked sound at the back of his throat.“John…” he breathed. Okay, so maybe that was still cheating.“I want that, but I don’t want to put you in danger by doing it. Or myself, obviously. So if you’re saying we can’t, then – ““No, that’s not it. I’m not saying we can’t, that’s the point,” Sherlock said. Or at least, that was what John assumed he said, since the words themselves came out as a somewhat unintelligible jumble, stumbling over each other in their haste to get out.“What?”The brunet stopped, inhaled quickly and deeply and tried again.“What I’m saying is not that we cannot proceed because there’s a risk that the instinct to claim might rise back up again,” he tried again. “It won’t because now, kissing you, touching you, I haven’t felt any of that hunger, that base need. Not even before I…I wrested control back.”He clenched his fist momentarily at that, as though he was clutching something in there and was determined not to let go of it.“All the other experiences I’ve had, that desire has clawed its way to the surface sooner or later, normally sooner, and I’ve had to stop so as not to accidentally do it while in the throes of it.”Of course, he’d used the word ‘throes’ about sex.That thought was both irrelevant and rather minor, though. The majority of John’s thoughts were taking up with sympathy for Sherlock. It might of course be more than that, in fact it was unquestionably much more complicated than that, but it was hard not to hear about such experiences and relate it to his reticence and resentment of relationships to at least some degree.He let the hand on the jaw slide slowly upward in a gesture he meant to be comforting and understanding. Saying something out loud would likely not be particularly appreciated. Not considering his earlier response, at least.It seemed, insofar as that was possibly to ascertain, that Sherlock took it as such as he smiled, with his eyes rather than his mouth but that didn’t diminish it.“But not now?” John asked, just to be absolutely and completely sure.“Not now, no. Not at any point while we’ve touched in a more intimate way, including kissing.”“Has there been any point during our friendship where it’s come up or where you’ve worried that it might? Or would you have deleted that?”“Possibly, yes. Probably. I don’t see how that is relevant, in any case.”John sighed. There were just too many things to consider, to remember and discuss about all of this, and very few of them were really, when you got down to it, all that important to the current situation.Right. So, the danger of that is non-existent. That’s a good start, since I really don’t believe that’s the end of it. What significance does it have in relation to the whole mating thing? One ejaculation and then that’s it?”Sherlock made a choked noise at that, but his pupils widened at the same time.John was definitely filing that away for later sure.“No,” Sherlock managed to get out. “It’s not…it’s not enough on its own. It’s part of the process.”“Part of it how exactly? And hold on, part of – you’ve begun it already, haven’t you?”“Not on purpose!” Sherlock almost shouted the words despite their closeness. “I would never have done it on purpose!”John blinked. Then he swallowed hard, trying not to get caught up in the instinctive hurt that bloomed forth at that. Telling himself that Sherlock hadn’t meant it like that, even if it did sound very much like him.Why would he have said and done all the rest of it if he hadn’t – well, that was it, wasn’t it? One thing did not equal or entail the other, did it? He could easily be genuine about the rest of it, about the feelings and desires and such and still have never wanted to claim John, even as a mate.Mate, in a non-jovial-British-male-term-for-other-males, though, that was also quite the big term. Big step, really, if it worked even somewhat like what happened with animals. Of course, not every creature had a mate for life but the ones that were termed ‘mate’ as a title rather than just being a polite verb for ‘buggered and inseminated’.As for dragons, it didn’t seem likely that something as…no, not necessarily selfish but greedy as a dragon would allow another dragon into its life, its treasure, if it was only for the short term. Did they birth live young? They were reptilian, yes, but they were also magical and could bloody well shapeshift at will, it didn’t have to follow that they laid eggs.Did they need both parents to be there for the upbringing? He supposed not necessarily, as a lot of humans managed to get by just fine as single parents, but perhaps there was something…well, why else would they call it a claiming ritual? If it was just a case of fertilising eggs and then going back to your own hoard, then there’d be no need for something like that, surely?“John?”He realised he’d zoned out a bit when he blinked again and Sherlock’s worried face came back into focus, distractingly close.“John, please. I didn’t mean – it’s not that I – ““I know,” he said, voice gentle. “I was just being stupid at first and then tried to think through it. I should’ve said something first, though.”Cupid bow lips quirked at that. “Would be a bit much of me to expect that from you, wouldn’t it?”“Since when has that ever stopped you, though?”“True.” He paused, pale eyes roaming all over John’s face.Normally, John would’ve felt exposed by that gaze, in a way that had nothing to do with how much he had on, and a slight bit uncomfortable with it, even after as much exposure to it as he’d had. Normally, it would also have been a downright deduction and while there were elements of that, most definitely, it didn’t feel flaying in the way it usually did.“I’m okay with it,” he ventured, guessing at the reason Sherlock was searching his face like that.“Obviously, you aren’t, or you wouldn’t have – ““I said that was a knee-jerk reaction, okay? A little time to think was needed, that’s all. I, and I know you’ll correct me if I get it wrong, am thinking that having a mate as a dragon is sort of along the lines of when birds find a mate? One for life, sort of thing?”“As far as I’m aware, yes. That is not to say that there might not be deviants from that, of course.”“When there’s a rule, there are deviations from it. But okay, I can see why that might be. Whew, that’s quite a big thing, isn’t it?” He grinned, a little nervously despite himself.Yes, so you promised the one you wed your life, too, but there was a reason divorces were almost as much of the norm as getting married itself these days. This didn’t sound like that at all.In fact, it sounded like the more benign cousin of the claim he had been close to receiving, and that wasn’t exactly comforting.Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable, not to mention nervous as he looked at the blond.“Yes. It is. A very big thing. But that’s the point, John. I need to know before we go any further if you’d be okay with…well, what it entails.”Well, that was the million-pound question, wasn’t it?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

One thing needed to be asked first, however. “But you said it’s already been started. If it’s in the process already, does it really make a difference whether we complete this part of it or not? Or how we complete it?”“It’s not an automated process. What has been started can be paused or stopped.”“But only up to a certain point, I’m guessing. Which in turn would be something to do with sexual intercourse in some way or another or you wouldn’t mention it at all.”“…Yes.”“So, what? If we have sex, that seals the deal? Or at least becomes the point of no return, anyway.”“More or less, yes.” Sherlock frowned. “Why are you so okay with this?”“What, shouldn’t I be? Should I be freaking out?”“Well, no,” Sherlock conceded, a complicated expression passing across his features. “But given your history and normal almost adamant denial, I would’ve thought you’d be more than just a little nervous as you are now.”“You know, this whole thing wouldn’t have changed the slightest bit if you’d happened to have been a woman. Female dragon, I suppose is – is that a dragoness?”“John.”“Sorry, but you can’t just dump the knowledge that a mythical being not just exists but happens to be my best friend and now expect me to at least ask some questions.”“I don’t mind you asking question so long as they’re not stupid.”“Sherlock, you deem almost everything I ask stupid. To be honest, I’m somewhat surprised you’re even bothering to answer my questions and not just dismissing them out of hand.”Sherlock didn’t have much of an answer to that, which sort of proved John’s point. That said, the fact that he hadn’t immediately denied it counted for something.“No, it is not a dragoness. A female dragon is still just a dragon, there are no special variations to denote the gender.”“Right. Okay. That’s…oddly progressive or it just proves that many things that seem new aren’t actually so. But still, if you had been a female dragon, or a woman, I really don’t think things would’ve been different.”“You’d have been far keener on trying to have sexual intercourse, and at a much earlier stage than this. I would’ve said around the time we’d finished that first case together. The one with the cabbie. I had an orange blanket.”Why on earth can’t he just call it sex? The thought flitted through John’s mind. Fair enough he might not want to use the more vulgar terms, for whatever reason, but there’s no need to go all textbook on it all.A much more important thought was occupied with the fact Sherlock not only remembered the case, which would make sense from a practical standpoint, if he needed to recall some aspect for future use. He also remembered the rather irrelevant fact about the blanket and, much more importantly, that it was their first case together. That, from someone like Sherlock who purposefully deleted what he deemed unimportant, and that was quite big chunks of his life, was quite thoughtful and, well, touching.“I remember,” he said, his voice soft. “But your hypothesis is wrong or at least flawed.”“Oh? How so?”“It supposes that the only interest I could have had in you would’ve been if you were a woman. Which I first off ought to feel insulted by, seeing as I’m not only here but the sight of you has kept me at half-mast through this entire conversation. Now, you might argue that you said ‘keener’ and ‘earlier stage’ but still, you assume there would be that large a discrepancy between the start of my attraction to you depending on whether you were male or female.”“You try it on with every female that comes into your orbit that you find even remotely attractive almost immediately.”“No, I don’t.”“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffed.John frowned. “I don’t. Yes, okay, so I flirt. There’s no harm in that. Some flirting can double as banter, too, or banter can look like flirting. That’s not the same as saying I want to get in the pants of every woman I meet.”Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John ploughed on before he could. “Nor does it say anything about the fact that I’ve wanted you for quite a while now. Okay, so maybe not exactly from the moment we met but it wasn’t that far off, actually.”John might have expected a slight surprise or, more likely, an offhand ‘of course’ from Sherlock, playing it off as though he might have got it a little wrong but that it still fit within the parameters he’d set. Something along those lines, as it would fit within normal behaviour for the man.What he hadn’t expected was the undisguised look of surprise he got, as though that possibility had never occurred to Sherlock, and he was thrown by it.Speaking of thrown, the next thing the doctor knew, his lips was more or less attacked by cupid bow ones, pressing against his hard and if not outright demanding that he should part his, at least asking very, very intently.John regained his footing, metaphorically, quickly enough, however, and willingly opened his mouth for Sherlock to delve into. For the moment, he was happy enough to let the other take the lead. Not that it was any kind of battle for dominance or some such, but he was taking a bit more of a passive role than he had before, however much he’d like to be the one to explore. That could wait for another kiss; he could have all the kisses he wanted from that delicious mouth, a thought which would’ve sent him weak in the knees had he been standing up.There were a few different reasons he let the other do the exploring. For one thing, he’d like to see how Sherlock would be when he took the lead in a kiss and for another, it would be a good way to…well, to show both of them that it was perfectly safe for the dragon-man to be in charge.He got a bloody wonderful and prolonged snog out of it, too.One thing he did not get, though, was any further touching. Which was slightly frustrating but the main point was that it seemed Sherlock was still scared of what happened when they went further.So, when they parted, John decided to ask outright for a change.“Love, are you scared?” he asked softly.“Why would I be scared of you?”“Not what I asked. What I meant was if you’re scared of…well, of the commitment.”“You’re the one who’s nervous.”John didn’t deny it. “They’re two entirely different things and you know that. You’re just trying to deflect. It’s okay if you’re scared of it.”“I’m not scared. Why would you say that? Why would I be scared?”“I say that because you’re not the only one who can recognise behaviour and such. You’ve never been in a relationship, much less a sexual one, and now, here, you’re not just about to embark on one, you’re likely going to be stuck with the person you’ve chosen for the rest of his natural life. And I’m guessing that divorce isn’t an option, all things considered, which makes the importance of getting it right even greater.”“There is.”“Is what?”“A divorce option, but…”“Yeah?”“It…supposes the death of the other partner, including murdering them.”“Ah.” That was widowing, possibly through murder, though, not divorcing, but they’d split enough hairs as it was.“You did ask.”“Well, it makes sense, I suppose.”“You’re being awfully calm about all of this.” It sounded almost like an accusation but not quite.“Compared to the rest of the things I’ve had to deal with in the last, oh, I don’t know, let’s call it seventy-two hours – ““Fifty-five, give or take twenty minutes.”“Alright. Fifty-five, then. But compared to the rest of things that have not just been info-dumped on me but expected of me to cope with, this is almost tame. It’s certainly far more within the realms of the logical – and that’s a strange statement, seeing as there’s bloody magic tied in with it.”He took a breath before he ploughed on with the meat of what he meant to say, as it were. “That’s not all of it, though. I think I’m as calm about it as I am…No, you’re right. I am nervous. It is a big thing whichever way you slice it. I’m not scared, though. It’s a bit like showing up for church and finding out you’re the one who’s getting married. That doesn’t mean you don’t love the one you’re getting wed to or wasn’t prepared to get married, it just means you’re a bit…underprepared when the day itself arrives. Does that make any sense?”“A lot of sense, yes,” Sherlock replied, and it came out almost whispered. He looked a little bowled over again but in a way that was entirely sweet and warm. There might’ve been some colour high in those cheekbones.“Point is, I might not have chosen to go about it this way but when I think about it, it doesn’t seem all that different from what we’ve been doing since I moved in.”“Apart from the fact that you’ll be sleeping in my bed. Both in the literal and metaphorical sense.”“Yes. But that’s about it, isn’t it? All the real difference, none of it something I have an issue with. Not anymore. At least that’s all the difference there is for me, as far as I can see. I don’t know, there might be something else to it for you, seeing as you’re the dragon in this relationship.”“How very astute of you.”“Yes, I thought so, too,” John replied, not rising to it. He leaned in so their noses were touching, and he had trouble making his eyes see a face rather than blobs of colour.Nevertheless, he made a concerted effort to focus those pale eyes. Not for signs of the dragon, not because he wanted to prove that he wasn’t afraid of being hypnotised. Not even just for the simple pleasure of looking.He was focusing on them so that hopefully Sherlock would focus on him in turn and by extension, what he was going to say.A moment passed by. Then another, silence descending around them while they looked into each other’s eyes.“I do,” John finally said, his voice soft but carrying quite well in the silence of the room.For a moment, he worried that Sherlock might not catch the significance of the words, despite the earlier mention of weddings. After all, why would he retain such useless knowledge?Then he heard the brunet’s breath hitch.“John…” Sherlock breathed, incredulity and joy, disbelief and relief, hope and worry all rolled into that one single syllable, somehow.The blond said nothing. He just smiled.“I do,” Sherlock said when it seemed he’d gotten his brain and his mouth to cooperate again. There was nothing hesitant about the words, though. Quite the opposite.“Well, then…this normally comes next, I believe,” John said and closed the small distance between them.By now, he was getting to a point where the feel of Sherlock’s lips had some familiarity to them. That did in no way mean that he wasn’t enjoying this as much the first…well, first proper one. The devouring of their technically first kiss he didn’t count.He kept it slow, despite Sherlock’s attempts to speed things up. There was time now. All the time in the world and he had a body in front of him that he’d longed to touch for a very long time.While they kissed, he reached out to touch the shoulder not on the mattress, pushing at it gently but firmly until the body started to tip over onto its back. He followed it, still kissing that soft, gorgeous mouth, and ended up, deliberately, hovering just above the longer body.His knees were bracketing slim hips and the top of long thighs while his hands were planted on the mattress just above the shoulders, which gave him a relatively good grounding.It of course also meant that he was not just bracketing the hips but effectively most of the body beneath him, which lay spread out and ready for his perusal. His mum had always told him that you didn’t look at things with your fingers but right now, he most certainly was going to.He pulled away from the kiss just as gently as he’d started it and got to see Sherlock looking back up at him., eyes wide and intent as they gazed back at him, allowing him to look his fill. Sherlock’s hair was a tangled mess of a halo against the pillow, except where it still stuck to his  evident stubble was peppering his face, which had a surprisingly ginger tint to it now that it was longer, and there was a bit of a mark on his cheek from where he’d rested on something harder too long.In other words, he looked absolutely gorgeous.John couldn’t help it; he grinned from ear to ear as he lightly shook his head.Sherlock asked what, with his expression if not his words.“Of all the things I thought I’d see,” was all the doctor said out loud.“You’ve seen me without clothes before,” the brunet pointed out. His eyes were still wide, though.“Well, yeah,” John agreed. “But context makes a huge difference, doesn’t it?”Sherlock nodded his agreement. He reached one hand up to cup the back of John’s neck, pressing at it, his intent clear.John let himself be pulled down for another kiss but he kept it brief, mostly so that he wouldn’t get distracted. Then he trailed his lips to the side, over warm stubble that he lightly nuzzled with his lips and his own stubble before moving on up slowly along the jawline until he reached an ear which he gently nibbled the earlobe of.He let the tip of his tongue trace the outer rim of the ear, noticing the small intake of breath.“We can do whatever you want,” he said into the ear, keeping his voice low and soft. “As much or as little as you want. There’s no rush.”Sherlock turned his head so that his mouth was close to John’s ear in turn, his breath blowing across it and sending a small shiver up the blond’s spine.“And what if I want everything?” he whispered and his voice had dropped a little, which sent another, stronger shiver up John’s spine. “What if I want you to open me slowly and then slide in, filling me over and over again?”
So much for the guy who was struggling to keep it together just because I used some…oh. It’s not the act of describing it in itself, it’s how it’s described that makes the difference. He did merely describe the barest minimum of the action, didn’t he?
“Oh? How do you mean everything? Because there’s a lot more to ‘everything’ than just a rogering, however good it might be.”Another small hitch of breath and, he could feel the heat of it as it moved, a twitch of Sherlock’s erection.“I did just specify,” Sherlock said, trying to sound unaffected – and failing.“Specify? That was barely a broad overview.” John smiled a little into the long neck before he pressed on, interested in seeing how the other would react. “Would you want me to open you with my fingers or my tongue? Both? How slow is slow, exactly? Would it be one digit at a time until you’re begging me to push another into your widening hole? Is it only my fingers you want or is it my cock as well? With or without a condom? Would it be with you on your back like this, legs spread or possibly around my waist, or would it rather be you on all fours?”He thought he heard the breathing get progressively faster and shallower. Not a quick progression but close enough and there were no words. Not to mention, it was quite gratifying to know that just the act of voicing it out loud like that could affect Sherlock like that.And John himself, he had to admit; the images he created in his own mind of doing that was certainly doing the job of bringing his erection into full…vigour, as it were, though it hadn’t exactly only been at half-mast before.As he spoke, however, he realised that however much he wanted to, they couldn’t right now. Not unless Sherlock had actually secreted some condoms and some lube somewhere in this room and that seemed somehow quite the unlikely possibility.Of course, there was the option of John running up to his room to get what he had, but not only didn’t he want to ruin the mood by doing so, he wasn’t entirely sure that Sherlock would allow him out of the bed.What could he do, then? What could he – well, yes, he could do that, couldn’t he?Shifting his weight more over to his right side and moving his right arm so he could keep himself propped up on that, he let the fingers on his left hand trail down the expanse of chest that really had no business being that muscled on such a bony body. Meanwhile, he trailed his lips and teeth down the length of the neck, just letting them lightly graze across the skin.That caused a small shiver in Sherlock, one which gave birth to a stronger one when John continued to speak.“We could also have you kneeling with your hands gripping the headboard or pressing against the wall as I enter your passage again and again, your muscles gripping me tightly as I hit your prostrate.” His fingers reached the smooth expanse that was Sherlock’s belly, and his mind took a small pleasure in noticing that it was no longer painfully concave, even in this position. Lower and lower they went.“Or you could ride me, sitting in my lap as you impale yourself, letting gravity slam you back down each time you’ve risen up, your erection,” his fingers had just about reached the shaft in question and he closed them around the tip, which earned him a strangled moan, “slapping against your belly each time until you can’t help trying to get a hand around it, work it in tandem with the rest of your movements to bring you over the edge.”He slid his hand a little further down and shifted for a better grip. Better in this case also meant firmer, which didn’t go unappreciated, judging by the way Sherlock gripped his shoulder hard and moaned, with no attempt made to quieten or censor himself.Which was just as well because John found a sudden desire to extract every possible sound of pleasure he could from Sherlock.“John…!”“That’s it, love, let me hear you,” he murmured, wishing for a moment he had more hand so he could still slide his hands over that soft, warm flesh. He sped up his movements a little, adding a slight twist on the upward stroke. “Come on, I want to see you.”But Sherlock, his eyes already shut tight and part of his lips caught by his upper teeth, shook his head, making an evident effort to concentrate. And also keeping himself together, as it were.“No,” he groaned, then tried again. “No, I don’t…John, not yet. I don’t want it to be over yet.”He now pushed at John’s shoulder and the doctor, guessing his meaning, stopped. John then shifted to a kneeling position that didn’t require him to support himself on his arms, though he was still careful not to press into anywhere except what his knees and his hand touched.“Who says it’s over just because you ejaculate?” he asked. That said, he removed his hand, too. If they were going to have the argument, he wasn’t going to be a berk and try to sway him that way. “That only gives me better time to explore your body while you recover. If you want me to.”“Of course, I want you to!” Sherlock snapped. “Don’t start being obtuse out of some misplaced notion of chivalry or whatever it is you think you’re doing. What exactly about all of this gives you the impression that I wouldn’t want you to? That I wouldn’t want to spend all the time I could possibly snatch to have your fingers all over me? Inside of me? My tongue all over you, learning all about the texture of your skin, the smell and taste of it? Whether there’s a difference between my human tongue and my dragon one? Whether I could wrap the dragon version all the way around your penis?”It was John’s turn to feel as though the air had been stolen from his lungs and left him light-headed and snapping for breath a little.Gods, he hadn’t even considered the possibilities inherent in Sherlock’s ability to partially shift. The images that thronged his imagination were quite vivid – and if the brunet wasn’t exactly skilled at intimate touches and explicit talk, he was, as always, quite a fast learner when interested in the subject at hand.“You’d be going out of your mind within an hour or two at most,” he pointed out, though the effect was lost a little in his slightly breathless tone.Sherlock managed to get himself into a sitting position, John still somehow hovering just above actually touching except for his knees against the hips.The consulting detective then brought a hand down between them and covered the length that pressed hard against the soft material of the underwear it was encased in. He didn’t squeeze or trail his fingers along it, just let his hand stay there with the lightest of pressures against it.“My mind might struggle but that would be from simple overload of delicious information,” he said and dammit if there wasn’t the slightest of purrs to it, “and wouldn’t that be worth it?”“You bastard,” John said, his voice full of adoration.”“Your bastard,” Sherlock corrected, sounding mildly smug, or possibly just jubilant. “Only yours.”“No, I think you’re a bastard to everyone. But you’re right…nngh, right that you’re mine. My partner.” The hand pressed more firmly against him, cupping him more fully and John bucked, just a little, the fabric a frustrating barrier and a small source of wonderful friction. “That’s cheating!”“Husband.”“What?”“We did just both say the words, ‘I do’, didn’t we? Ergo, husband, not partner.”That…wasn’t how that worked but did that really matter? Sherlock had a point, and in any case, this did go somewhat deeper than normal wedding vows.Sherlock’s hand had stopped but only so that it could slide up and tug at the waistband of the pants, with the clear intent to pull them down. At least, that was what it started doing; at some point, the hand got distracted by first the erection it had halfway uncovered, then by the balls beneath, fingers sliding over them with just enough pressure to be wonderfully, frustratingly teasing.Then it slid further back still and two fingers glided gently over the furled tightness that was his hole. Not pushing inside, just applying the softest of pressures to the nerves there.“Sherlock!” It was somewhere between a growl and a gasp.“Would that be a problem?” It was meant to sound teasing and just a little bit cocky but it came out with a smidgeon of uncertainty, too.John managed to pull himself together. The look he shot the other was close to a glare. “Only for the fact that, oh, nngh, that’s not – stop! – that we don’t have any damn lube at hand, and I am not using hand cream or lotion or conditioner or whatever else might be close by. However posh or expensive it is.”He saw Sherlock gain a thoughtful look. “No, you’re not experimenting on whether or not those would work – or running to a store to get lube.”“Why would I go to a store when you have a stash of at least two unopened bottles just upstairs? But you’re not running upstairs, either.”“Well, then, stop – Sherlock!”The tip of one finger had delved just the tiniest bit inside and circled. John swore then reached down to grab hold of the wrist of the hand touching him.“No. Not when I said stop, okay? You don’t just keep going when I clearly say stop.”For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he was going to argue but it melted away almost immediately.“No,” he agreed and to his credit, he looked and sounded sincere.Of course, Sherlock was quite good at sounding sincere even when he wasn’t and while John had gotten better, he had still been duped.“Do you understand me, Sherlock? If you ever so much as attempt to try something in bed when I’ve said stop or haven’t given consent, then I will knock your bleeding lights out for a start.”The pale eyes widened a little at that and not in the way they had earlier. This wasn’t arousal, this was mild fear.“For a start?” he echoed, voice odd. “I don’t – John, don’t leave.”“I didn’t say I was, did I? Barely even implied that I will, if you – ““Please don’t leave!” The words were quick and urgent, beseeching. “Please!”He grabbed the blond by the shoulders, fingers digging in, though without claws.John looked at his scared expression, his anger tempered. “I’m not leaving. But do you understand me? It’s my body and I have all say over it. I’ll go a long way for your experiments and curiosity, even when you don’t tell me the reason or lie to me, but not here. If I ever get any indication that – “He was going to finish that with something along the lines of punching him, again, but Sherlock interrupted, and he apparently took it in a different way.“You won’t, John, I promise.” Still urgent and pleading. “I promise. I’m sorry. Don’t leave. I’m sorry.”“Hey, now,” John said, voice gentle now, the anger gone. Something deeper was amiss. He brought a hand up to brush his fingers against a cheekbone. “What’s all this about all of a sudden?”But it wasn’t quite that sudden, was it? He’d said something to that effect earlier and had sounded just as scared then. Why? Was it something that had cropped up only after the reveal of Moriarty’s and by extension Sherlock’s nature or had it been present before then and had merely been pushed to the forefront?Right now, though, did it matter all that much? Wasn’t it more important to assure him he wouldn’t well enough that he’d be believed and then he could, hopefully with Sherlock’s help, work out what the underlying cause was at a later time?Sherlock didn’t answer, just pressed his face against John’s chest, his lips against skin while his fingers dug in deeper.“Love, what’s going on? Tell me. Please?”

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Sherlock shook his head.“Sherlock, please. I’m not angry with you and even if I were, I’m not going to leave. I had the opportunity, didn’t I? In fact, I’ve had more than one and I’ve not taken any of them. Look at me, please?”The brunet complied but the movement was slow and rather…hesitant.“I’ll tell you as many times as I need to for you to believe me; I am not leaving you.”“I tried to kill you.”There was no real arguing with that but even so, John would, because there were modifiers. “Not deliberately.”“Manslaughter is still murder, and the end result would’ve been the same. Even if I’d only claimed you, I would’ve killed you, with only a husk left behind. And even when I think I’ve got things under control, that I’m the one in charge, I still manage to…to…I’ll be better, I promise. I know I don’t know anything about relationships, not when it comes to actually experiencing them, but I’ll do…I’ll…anything that…”Mood well and truly killed, and frankly he couldn’t care a whit about it in the wave of concern, John settled himself into Sherlock’s lap. But only so he had more of a ballast to be able to wrap his arms around the taller man, slightly cumbersome as it was due to the hands still clinging hard to his shoulders.His own arms went around the middle of Sherlock’s back and around his shoulders, one hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, gripping it lightly and subconsciously beginning to knead gently in an attempt to further soothe and comfort the distraught dragon – who had buried his head back into John’s chest.The small noises of comfort he made he was aware of, though, even if he had no control over them.Sherlock slowly started to shake and for a moment, John thought that he was going to cry. That would be alright, of course. In fact, though it would be the first time he could remember his friend actually genuinely crying, it would be beneficial for him, to get some sort of proper outlet.But though the shaking got worse, there was no wet inhalation, nothing dripping down on his chest. Nothing to indicate that he was crying. Then again, he remembered, you could cry, sob, even, without so much of a tear falling. Without much of any noise, too, come to that.Whatever it was, if it helped, that was all that mattered.They stayed like that for a long time, long enough for John to start shivering in the relative cool of the room and his lack of clothes. But it didn’t matter. Nor did it matter when the hands changed to clutch at his shoulders from behind and the nails dug in hard enough that he momentarily feared they’d become claws. They hadn’t; they were just digging in very hard.Eventually, the shaking petered out, slow and almost painful. However, Sherlock still didn’t raise his head, which was…well, not precisely odd but worrying.“I’m not the dragon,” was what came out of his mouth at last, his voice raspy and just a tiny bit shaky. It was further muffled by him speaking into the doctor’s clavicle bone.“What’s that, love?”“I’m not the dragon. I’m not. I promise. I – ““I know you aren’t,” John interrupted, gently. He did.“You’re tense.”John sighed. “No, Sherlock, I’m cold. There’s a difference.”Sherlock shook his head and there was an inhalation as though he was going to argue but John continued speaking to prevent him.“And I’ve been sitting in a somewhat awkward position for a while now, too, which doesn’t help. And yeah, perhaps I’m a bit tense out of worry, too, but not because I’m afraid of you or am preparing myself for when you shift into partial or full dragon shape. I’m worried about you, that’s all. I’m allowed that, aren’t I? Even if it is sentiment and all.”That finally got the consulting detective to lift his head again, red-rimmed, moist eyes at least somewhat confirming that he had been crying.“John…” Sherlock whispered. He seemed to want to say something else but didn’t know how to phrase it. In other circumstances, there might have been something amusing to the notion of Sherlock Holmes, of all people, verbose almost to a fault, had trouble expressing himself. It wasn’t amusing right now, really.“Yeah?”“Can we…could we…” There was a breath, a deep yet shaky one and it felt as though in that breath, he got himself somewhat together but not in the way John would’ve hoped. Even though he couldn’t pin it down as more than a feeling, he got the impression that a wall had just started to rise up. “Would you still be willing to engage in a romantic relationship with me if there was no sex?”John blinked. “…Why are you even asking?”“It’s a simple question.” The calm, almost detached tone seemed confirmation that he was trying to pull away from all of this to some degree.“No, it bloody well isn’t, because it depends on what the motivation behind it bleeding well is!”He hadn’t meant to raise his voice at that. But he wasn’t going to sit idly by and watch those walls slam into place. Not now, not after everything.Swallowing, he tried again, in a calmer tone. “If it’s because you don’t feel sexual attraction, that’s fine. Either at all or to me in particular.”“I would’ve thought my erection if nothing else would’ve been an abundantly clear indicator that that notion is utterly incorrect.”“Not necessarily but that’s another discussion. But if you are ace, then that’s fine, and it’s fine if you’re not ready yet or are scared or similar. If, however, it’s because you think I don’t want to have sex with you because you’re male…we already discussed that, and if it’s because you think that you will screw it up one way or another, then – ““Molesting isn’t merely screwing up.”John sighed. “No, and I’m not saying I condone it. But you did stop, you have seemed to realise that it’s wrong,” he got an emphatic nod, “and like I said, if you ever try to continue after I’ve said stop or otherwise haven’t expressed consent, then I am not afraid to punch you.”He brought his hands around to cup both sides of Sherlock’s face. “That neither means that I am going to leave you immediately or that you cannot be trusted when it comes to sex, okay?”Sherlock nodded again. His grip on John’s shoulders not only loosened, it shifted to something more approaching a normal embrace. John slid his arms down again to return it, properly.“You’re not going to lose me,” the doctor said, voice quiet but firm. “I think that boat sailed long ago.”He tried for a smile, but Sherlock shook his head again, which made his heart sink a little.“Doesn’t matter,” the taller man said, which was hardly helping.“What doesn’t?” he asked, managing calm. Somehow.“How long ago the ship has sailed.”What? “Sorry…you’ve lost me. What are you on about?”“If I do something reprehensible, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been, and if I so much as try, then you should leave.”“I – are you trying to make me leave? Because it sure as hell sounds like it.”“No! Of course not!”“You could have fooled me, when you’re being this, no, it’s not even being persistent. By this point is obstinate to the point of pig-headed.”“I’m merely trying – ““To protect yourself from what you perceive as an inevitability.”That shut Sherlock up, staring at the other, his mouth slightly open in surprise.“I’m not as dumb as you make me out to be, love – ““I didn’t – ““ – I’ll say this as many times as it seems you need to hear it. I am not going anywhere unless I have no other option and even then, it’s probably going to be a toss-up.”He leant forward to kiss Sherlock, not on his lips but on his forehead, soft and lingering.“It’s not funny.”John pulled back again to look him in the eye. “No, it’s not, love. But it is rather heart-breaking, even if I get where you’re coming from.”“Do you?”“I think I just might, yes. I’m not going to be stupid, that’s not what I’m saying.”“It is.”“No, it’s not. I’m saying I love you and I want to work this out. Yes, so there are some sticking points and things to sort out still.” He paused, considering. Then he smiled. “But honestly, compared to how we usually go about it, I’m actually a little proud of us. I mean, we’ve talked about it and everything.”That pulled a smile from Sherlock, too. It started small but grew into something wider, more genuine and, gradually, relieved.Then John was grabbed on each side of his face and quite frankly snogged. Thoroughly. More importantly, as they kissed, that relief seemed to spread from Sherlock and into John.When they broke apart for breath, John was grinning and so was Sherlock. Then one or the other started chuckling and the other joined in.It felt oddly and yet appropriately like their first case together, laughing about something inappropriate in the circumstances but managing to bond over it; in its own way, this was a new start, wasn’t it? Sure, a lot of things would stay likely the same, but the fundamental relationship had changed and thankfully for the better.“Bloody absurd,” he managed to say while still laughing.“Utterly and completely,” Sherlock agreed, his grin stretching almost from ear to ear. “But then again, what can you expect when you choose a former army medic as your partner?”“Oi. I was a soldier, too, you berk. I can hold my own.”They stayed like that for a while, coming down a little from everything and enjoying the closeness. Then, feeling his stomach grumbling and his bladder starting to complain, John shifted off the dragon’s lap, or at least, he tried to. Sherlock stopped him, his grip tightening. “Hey, let me up.”“No.”“Sherlock, come on.”“No.”Right. Figured, really, didn’t it? “Why not?”“Because I’m…” He seemed to hesitate as his brow furrowed in thought. Then it cleared and he continued, “I want to try again.”It was hardly difficult to work out what he was alluding to.Even so, John wasn’t so sure. Not because he didn’t want to – the mood might have been shot rather effectively earlier but that could be rebuilt again – but he wasn’t sure Sherlock was actually ready for it, whatever his body could manage.Sappy as it may sound, he wanted to make their first time together into something at least a good experience, as the concept of ‘perfect’ was best off as a concept stuck in romantic movies, and he was rather certain that if they tried to now, earlier would be knocking on their minds relentlessly.At the same time, though, he couldn’t actually afford to put it off, as it were. Not just because there was the risk that Sherlock’s brain would do a strange hiccup and convince him it was something he did or said that was the root of the issue rather than just an unfortunate concatenation of things. Or that he himself would try to fix what didn’t need fixing or focus on the wrong thing.There was also the risk that they couldn’t ignore; Moriarty was out there and without some kind of claim on him, John was not merely fair game, he had an active target on him that was honing in. It had been made clear that he would become game, the phone call had cemented that, metaphorically hung on the wall when the chase was over. Or perhaps not necessarily all that metaphorically, considering the person in question.And the ‘mating claim’, as John found himself calling it in his head, was the only way to ensure that claim without becoming nothing more than a walking, talking, maybe, trophy. A doll, for all intents and purposes.So, Sherlock had a point, even if the doctor wasn’t entirely sure he was thinking about that. Exclusively, anyway.Still…“Not now,” John said, trying to keep his tone…free of inflections, really.That clearly didn’t sit well with the consulting detective but whether that was uncertainty finding an outlet through sulkiness or just Sherlock’s usual childish petulance at work, John couldn’t quite say.“Yes, now. Why not now? It’s hardly as though you’ve got a lot of other places to be right now. The case has wrapped up.”
Never mind that for one, we need to tell Lestrade, somehow wrangling a plausible explanation out of all of this without giving away that we were actually dealing with a dragon rather than only a mad bomber. Sort of. For another, I do have a job that needs my presence, even if that isn’t today, thankfully. Otherwise, Sarah would’ve called me several times by now, which she hasn’t.
He didn’t say it out loud, however. The endeavour would be rather futile, as it always was when he tried to argue with his flatmate over such things.Or maybe not. Looking closer at Sherlock’s expression, though the sulk was set pretty well into the features in general, there was something in his eyes that was…pleading? Was that right?Oh. It seemed like he had gotten the actual reason wrong.“Sherlock…you do realise that there’s not a time limit on this, right?”“No, there’s just a very significant deadline, which is an actual deadline.”“Yeah, ta for that. Like I need reminding. The bloody loon called me earlier and made that point rather clear, didn’t he? What I meant was that – “But Sherlock had gotten stuck at another point of what he’d said.“Called?” he interrupted; his voice was sharp. “What do you mean, ‘called’? When did he call you?”“When do you think?”But Sherlock wasn’t listening. “What did he say? John, tell me, what did he say?”“Does it matter?”“Of course, it matters!”“Why? It’s not as though it’s going to change anything, is it? Other than getting you more riled up for no reason. Trust me, if he ever gets hold of me again, I – ““You are not dying!”“I didn’t say I was, did I?” John growled back, thoroughly annoyed. “What I was going to say was that I’ll do my fucking damnedest to ensure that I kill him.”“Dragons aren’t easily killable.”“Again, ta, I’d gathered that. It’s not enough to hit it in the voolnerables, either, probably, though I should’ve given that more of a try when he was right up close.”As Sherlock tensed up even further at that, John realised what he’d said. But that was the fact of the matter and while he’d go a long way to help his friend and partner deal with things, he didn’t see why he should be the one to traipse around the topic. Not when it was him who’d been affected by it, not Sherlock.Well, that was hardly fair, was it?No, probably not. So? The kidnapping hadn’t been fair. The way in which Moriarty had handled his reveal hadn’t been fair nor had the utter amount of bullshit and terror he’d put them through at the pool. Not just at the pool, either.Having to worry about first whether his best friend would ever regain consciousness then whether the same best friend was lost to his feral, mythological instincts and would kill him in order to keep him, that was about as far from fair as possible.So, all in all, no, it wasn’t, but neither was much else.
You could still make it fair, though.
No, he couldn’t. Not really, because…that wouldn’t be fair.Regardless, he did need to deal with it.“What do you want me to do? Not mention it at all because it upsets you? It did happen to me.”“I know that!” Sherlock snapped back. “Of course, I know that! Just as I know that I’m being stupid for tensing up and for being scared but that doesn’t mean I can stop it.”“Why would…of Moriarty?”Sherlock didn’t answer that, just grimaced.Oh. Of course. Stupid of him.“Sherlock, I’m not leaving as long as I’m not mating claimed or whatever it’s called. In fact, if that’s what you’d prefer, I won’t leave your sight, provided it isn’t going to take weeks or the like. But I can’t change the fact that it happened nor do I want to keep silent about it.”“I don’t want you to keep silent about it.”“But you don’t want me to acknowledge out loud that it happened, either.”He got another grimace, one which turned into almost a scowl.“Can’t we just…do it?” he snapped.‘Do’ it? Was he seriously asking? For fuck’s sake, after everything, was he making it sound like it was something to get done, task complete? No more need to think about it again since the important part had been achieved, back to what they had been?Anger started to rise inside the doctor again, but he grabbed it by its neck and forced it into a position where it was under his control. Anger would not solve this but something else might.“Well, if that’s what you’d prefer,” he said, keeping his voice calm somehow, almost to the point of detachment. Pointedly so, in fact. He also shifted a bit, so that he was no longer exactly sitting in the other’s lap.“Doesn’t take much, after all, depending on how much is needed to fulfil the criteria of the claim. Even if it’s the full package, I reckon I could be open enough to fit you relatively quickly and then, well…just need to think of something that really gets you going. Could be over and done with inside an hour or so, I think, give or take, depending on variables, of course. Then you can get back to whatever you were experimenting on or cold case you left, and you won’t have to worry about it again.”Sherlock’s eyes, which had been narrowed in the scowl, blew almost comedically wide and his mouth hung open, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.“That wasn’t what I meant at all!” he burst out, sounding as shocked and confused as he looked.“Wasn’t it? Because it sure as hell sounded to me as though it was. It sounded as though it was something that you want to get over with as soon as possible. That the purpose isn’t actually sex with me but securing that I can’t be taken by Moriarty while still keeping me as a person rather than a living, breathing, life-size doll.”“John…”

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John folded his arms over his chest, refusing to acknowledge the calling of his name. “And you know what? If that’s the case, then quite frankly, I would rather get it fucking over with, too, so that I can put all of this mind-bending horseshit behind me and go back to living my life.”“John.” There was pleading in the voice now.He noticed there wasn’t any attempt to refute the claim or even try to defend himself, which made his heart sink a little.Or maybe Sherlock was waiting for him to actually listen first rather than just plunging ahead. John chose to believe that as it not only was kinder, it made far more sense with what had gone before.So, he kept quiet for the moment, giving the other the opportunity to say something else, either in defence or acknowledgement.He had to wait for somewhat more than a moment, watching several expressions flit across Sherlock’s face, too fast to pin anything concrete down, but he was proven right when the brunet finally answered.“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely sincere. “That wasn’t…John, I don’t want to go back to how things were. Neither do I want to get sex over with, now or later, if you’ll want to later, as well. I know that was what I said, and it makes sense you’d interpret it the way you did. But I don’t…”He faltered a little, then pushed forward. “I don’t want you to change your mind before…” He trailed off again.“Me? I’d change my mind? Now you are bloody well – what part of all of this gives you even the faintest idea that I would change my mind, not to mention after everything I’ve bloody well said?” John snapped.But Sherlock didn’t seem interested in picking an argument. He merely shook his head, somewhat meekly.“I don’t know. I don’t…I wish…I don’t know,” he whispered, sounding pained and more than a little lost. “I don’t know.”John sighed, the anger draining out of him. He didn’t have the energy for this; he hadn’t had enough sleep after all, it seemed, and he definitely could do with some food, whether it was breakfast, lunch or dinner. To be honest, he could probably eat all three at once without much complaint.He started to get up, but long fingers shot out to grab hold of him, tugging at him.“I’ll behave, John, I promise.”Another sigh. “It’s not behaving, Sherlock, and you don’t need to keep making those promises.” The more he did, the worse John felt. “It’s…it’s bloody well putting some thought into what you’re saying before you say them and giving me some credit, too.”He grabbed one of the hands holding onto him. “Not to mention actually trusting in yourself, of course, on more than an intellectual level. Now come on, I’m starving. I’ll make us some food, if we’ve got any left. You can shave while I do so – or stay in the kitchen, if that’s what you’d prefer,” he added, remembering the unease about leaving him out of his sight.With that, he tried to get up again and this time, Sherlock let him. Not only that, he allowed himself to be guided off the bed and out into the kitchen. On the way, John found one of the dressing gowns to put on him, as much for warmth as a bit of modesty.He tried to ignore the signs of what had transpired. That wasn’t something to deal with now.No, actually, it probably was, the wounds having only lightly been scabbed over, if even that, and there was quite the risk of infection. But he would have to deal with it later, regardless.Once in the kitchen, Sherlock flopped down onto a chair. He looked…almost despondent which was somehow just as off and unsettling as the possessiveness and the anger he’d displayed when the dragon had been in control.A Sherlock who’d given up, rather than just making John suffer through a hissy fit or a masterful sulk, that was…that was all kinds of wrong.Foregoing a meal for the moment, John sat down next to him.“What’s the matter, love?” he asked, gently.Sherlock glanced at him before looking away. “There you go again.”“What do you mean?”“Trying to sort things, and being gentle about it. Trying to make them right somehow.”“Well…yes? I…am not following you here, Sherlock. Shouldn’t I? Should I just leave things wrong?”“Of course not,” and not even then was there a snap. “But there are things – ““If you’re going to say something along the lines of ‘things that cannot be fixed’, then I’m going to either slap you or call Mycroft, whichever is worse. You’ve fought so hard since we…since it all started. What’s different now?”Sherlock just shook his head.“Is what you’ve fought for no longer worth fighting for?” He didn’t believe that, wasn’t affected by the comment, but he hoped that it might provoke something in Sherlock.Another shake of the head, though with a different meaning. “Of course, it is.” Some fierceness there, which was encouraging, if nothing else.“Then what’s the matter? What’s different?”“I don’t…I can’t…”John moved so he was sitting on his haunches before Sherlock’s chair. “Hey, now, come on. Look at me.”“You don’t have to worry or check up on me. I’m not going to let the dragon get control again.” Not really anger, but it wasn’t the lethargic almost-monotone from before, either, so he’d take it.“I’m not saying that you are. I just want you to look at me for a moment.”With some reluctance, the younger Holmes obeyed.There was indeed no indication of ice in the pale eyes nor anything else that he would classify as being dragon signs.However, that wasn’t to say there wasn’t anything wrong at all. He hadn’t taken notice of it earlier – he wished he could blame the lighting in the room – or maybe it had only just developed but there was something of a pallor to his skin beyond the normal paleness.Even the cupid bow lips were significantly paler.He checked, almost instinctively, for a temperature but didn’t feel anything that’d be worrying.“I’m not ill,” and where there should be a snap, there was nothing.“Maybe not in the traditional sense but you’re pale and you’re swaying a little, now that I can see you,” John said, a possibility dawning on him.“I’m not.”This was at least worth a shot. “Sherlock, did you actually sleep while I did?”There was no answer.“Sherlock…”“…Some of the time.”John felt an urge to pinch the bridge of his nose but ignored it.“Of course. Of bleeding course. How did you survive into your thirties again?”“I don’t need much sleep.”John rose back up onto his feet, having to steady himself a little, confirming his thoughts that he was still tired.“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. You’re getting something to eat, no arguments and you’ll clean the plate. Then you’re going straight back to bed and then you’ll get some sleep. Proper sleep, even if it takes twice as long as it ought to, and I’ll come in on the regular to check.”Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to argue about the doctor’s safety or something similar or perhaps just to point out that he could fake it pretty well if he wanted to, but John held up a hand to forestall any comment.“I’m going to stay in the living room, so there’s no distractions but I’m also going to call Mycroft and inform him of what’s been happening. I’m sure he can provide some extra protection if needed.”“John – ““You’re exhausted, Sherlock, aside from everything else, and to be honest, so am I.” He stepped closer to the still sitting consulting detective, who in turn pulled him closer still by his hips. Another good sign.“It’s really nothing to do with not wanting to do this or not being aware of what’s at stake. It’s hardly left my mind through all of this. But while I’m okay with us bickering, because frankly, that’s par for the course for us, I know…there’s hardly been a moment where we haven’t either discussed or argued about something.”He took a breath but ploughed on before Sherlock could start talking. “I know, too, that it’s been for a reason but that doesn’t really make much of a difference.”“But you did sleep.”“I did but I’m also human. I can’t steam on ahead like you dragons apparently can.”“What I demand of my body had nothing to do with my dragon nature.”Again, John took comfort in the fact that there was some emotion, some reaction in the voice as compared to earlier. Even if it wasn’t much and it sound like a bit of a struggle to get it there in the first place. It lent a bit more credence to his thoughts that it really was exhaustion producing the despondence rather than Sherlock making an active choice, if you could put it like that.“No? And Mycroft just happens to have that same stamina that you do, then? That will to keep pushing and pushing at what your bodies can accomplish?”Mycroft appeared to be in his beginning to mid-forties, however much that counted for when it came to dragons, and he’d spent most of that time in Whitehall, ostensibly as a civil servant. There might be perks and a good salary, but John didn’t envy them the amount of work and stress they were under.Especially when Sherlock’s claim of his brother being the British Government didn’t seem as farfetched an idea as it once had, which meant far longer hours even than normal civil servants, far greater things to juggle and a lot more stress than anyone else.Considering that, it also made far more sense for the older brother to reap some benefit like that from being a dragon. Either that or he was heading for a breakdown at some point, his heart giving him issues later on, especially considering his diet. It might not consist solely of cakes and biscuits, whatever Sherlock claimed, but it evidently wasn’t the health option, either.It was untenable for a normal human being to keep up for long, and in particular for as long as Mycroft seemed to have been at it.A voice whispered that with that in mind, it really did go to show Mycroft’s devotion to his brother, that he was willing to take time out of a schedule filled with so many important things. John had to admit to himself, with considerable shame, that he wasn’t a hundred percent certain he’d do that for Harry, if it came down to it. Not a full hundred.“We are brothers.”“And just as big pains in the arse as each other, yes. Anyway, regardless of what crap you put your body through, I can’t keep up with it indefinitely. Nor can you, it seems. I promise we can pick up as many arguments as you like later on. But not now.”The implications of what else might be picked up later on hovered in the air between them, felt but deliberately, at least for John, left unsaid. Things were complicated enough as it were.With that, he turned and had a look at the contents of their fridge. It was a depressingly quick look. He remembered that he hadn’t been down to the shops since before the case began, or if he had, it had been a quick stop to Tesco’s for absolute essentials.Which didn’t seem to include much that he could actually make a meal out of. He sniffed the open milk gingerly, but it smelled alright, so there was that. The best-before date on the few eggs in there looked alright, too. The meat he’d bought some time ago had been lying next to who knew what of Sherlock’s and had an unpleasant shine to it.A trawl of kitchen cabinets turned up some stale but alright toast, some biscuits, some jam and for some reason a pot of smoked salmon pate.Well, there was a whole range of options of things he could make with all of that but as the point right now was to get some sustenance into Sherlock and himself as quickly as possible, it wasn’t really the time to try and be fanciful. Practical and fast, that was the way.So, breaking and checking the eggs, he decided on some French toast, to get both egg and toast into the lanky git in one go. He put the biscuits on the table to eat while he cooked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms when Sherlock didn’t immediately start on them.It probably would’ve worked a bit better had he actually been dressed in more than his underwear, but it got the desired result, so he wasn’t complaining.“Tea?” Sherlock asked.Well, yes, of course, he’d push for something like that at this time. Git.There was some softness to the name-calling, though.“Nope,” John replied, popping the ‘p’ slightly, on purpose. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with tap water, I’m afraid. Or make a cold brew yourself. But this isn’t comfort food, this is pure subsistence food.”“You’re making French toast, with sugar and cinnamon on it,” Sherlock pointed out. “That is hardly merely ‘subsistence food’.”“Fine, make some bleeding tea, then. Go on.”He honestly didn’t think Sherlock would move but, perhaps just to prove him wrong, the taller man went to put the kettle on and more than that, got out two mugs and corresponding teabags.A thought came to him while he was making the food; perhaps the reason that Sherlock hadn’t actually slept much wasn’t purely because he didn’t need it or thought he didn’t.Considering his fears, it would only make sense for him not to be overly keen on sleeping. Yes, he said he’d got the dragon under control, and John believed him. The problem was that Sherlock didn’t seem to believe himself.Then again, it would be something that could have more than dire consequences if he’d miscalculated. He couldn’t afford to have gotten it wrong.He could be in control when he was awake but if he slept for too long…could it work like that? John honestly had absolutely no idea but at this point, he would hardly be surprised if it could, and he certainly wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Sherlock was afraid of it.
More than afraid, judging by his reactions.
Well, yes, but it wasn’t just his normal need to be in control, though that in turn might be related. It was this odd tangle of that and fear of losing John and possessiveness in relation to a potential rival and…it was a mess, quite frankly.But it would perhaps explain why he had been unwilling to sleep for long. It definitely wasn’t because he didn’t need it.Confronting him with it, though…even if he was aware, which John wasn’t entirely sure he was, then it would probably lead to another argument and he’d meant it when he’d said he didn’t have the energy for it. It could wait.
You could always ask Mycroft, you know.
He could but would that count as disloyal? No, not really. It was something he would need to know, not just for the future but now. If Sherlock was going to continue like that out of fear of letting control slip, be it conscious or not, then John would need some way to deal with it.
Or it could just be that he’s being a stubborn git about it all and you’re worrying for nothing. Or that he’s still feeling the effects of the case, going up against Moriarty, being shot, flying over the city, having the wounds infected by bone dust, being unconscious, falling prey to his baser nature and all the rest of it. Or a combination, of course, which means you’re still worrying for…if not nothing then at least far more than you ought to, considering.
True. Those were all very real possibilities, too.He’d wait for Sherlock to crawl back into bed and then he’d go out into the living room and call Mycroft. Then he could always pick up worrying afterwards. He might even have a brief panic attack about it all, who knew?Getting Sherlock to eat was almost unprecedently easy, which didn’t exactly assuage his worries but even though the brunet seemed to be watching him, he didn’t mention it. Right now, the important thing was to take care of his immediate needs and then he’d deal with the rest.As always, he was tempted to say. Then again, he’d known that almost since the start of their friendship, hadn’t he? And he’d accepted it just as early on.Sherlock had actually made the tea and not only that, he’d made it for the both of them. Yes, so it had consisted of getting two mugs, filling them and dunking the bags in but considering his normal behaviour, it was quite significant.Which put John in even more of a conundrum over what he ought to believe. Was Sherlock really that tired or was there something else at play?No, the exhausted expression that managed to extend to the rest of the body, somehow, told its own story, one that he had trouble imagining even Sherlock could pull off.Which meant that despite his exhaustion and his consequent lethargy, he had made tea. For himself might be out of spite or petty stubbornness, but to make one for John as well, not to mention finding the sugar from wherever it had gone, that was something else entirely.It was a small, seemingly completely insignificant, gesture but it made something burn warm and lovely inside John.Once the plates were clean – Sherlock hadn’t eaten all the biscuits, but John took comfort in the fact that he’d stashed the remainder of the packet in his robe pocket – and the dishes dumped in the sink for later, along with what else had accumulated during the case, John led his friend back down the hall, an arm wrapped around his waist, the brunet’s head resting, somehow, on top of his own.It was tempting to just cart him back to bed and let that be that. After all, it was sleep he needed.But there was also a matter of personal hygiene. He ought to relieve himself, of course, and a brush of teeth probably wouldn’t go amiss, either, for either of them, especially if John wanted to keep kissing him.Then there was the matter of shaving. That really needed to be done now before it grew too long, just in case the idiot ended up conking out for the next 48 hours. Of course, you could shave that long a ‘beard’, too, without too much trouble but he’d prefer not to have to.It wouldn’t be the first time John would’ve had to shave someone else. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time he’d shaved Sherlock, seeing as the git more than once had done something to his arm or wrist or hand that would render him incapable of shaving himself and there were standards to maintain. Said the man who didn’t think twice about walking around in threadbare clothes when at home.But even so, as he sat his partner down on the closed toilet lid so he could reach with relative ease, it felt different now. Not wrong but somehow ever so slightly charged. Intimate in a way it had never been before.“John, I don’t need a shave,” Sherlock said as the blond readied what he’d need. It probably was intended to come out sounding surly but instead, it came out sounding strangely adorable in its childish moping quality. It was probably the slight slurring lisp that did it.“I’m not struggling through that brush when it’s even longer than it is now. It’s going to be enough of a bugger as it is.”“As if you’re one to talk.” Again, the way it was said completely ruined it.“Do you think I’m not aware of that?” The not-so-low level itching he’d experienced since he’d woken had only been pushed into the background because of everything else that had been going on. “I was planning on having a shave myself once I’ve put you to bed.”He’d expected a comment along the lines of ‘don’t need sleep’, ‘I don’t need to be put to bed’, or maybe even ‘I won’t sleep if you’re not there’. Anyone of them would’ve made sense.However, what he got, as he started to turn around for the shaving cream, was a hand grabbing his wrist.He turned his attention back on the other, noting that the charge, which had lessened a little in the face of Sherlock’s unintended cuteness, had started to build up again.“Keep it.”“Keep what?”“Beard. Keep the beard. I like it.” Despite the look of exhaustion, there was the just start of a fire smouldering in pale eyes, one which had nothing to do with his wyvern heritage.But John had meant it when he’d said he wanted to wait. It should be good, damn it, especially if it was, in effect, a sort of marriage. Besides, it was hardly the most arousing thing ever when you saw how tired your partner was. Even if there was something to that slight lisp. It was for another time.“Oh, so that’s how it is, is it?” he said, trying to play it off as a bit of a joke instead. “All this time, all you were interested in was me beard!”Sherlock blinked, looking confused and a little hurt.John sighed. Nope. Not a battle, however small, worth fighting right now. “Alright, fine. I was only joking, and I’ll keep it. At least until you’ve got enough sleep and is capable of making proper decisions.”“I am.” There was a tug on his wrist.John gently pried the hand away, gripping it as he faced the other fully. “No, love, you’re not. Not right now and I’m not going to take advantage of you.”There was a faint scoff at that, but John ignored it. “You will be, though, and when you’re properly rested and ready for it, then I’m all yours.”He ran a hand across the long stubble then gave the other a long, scrutinising look, mainly to get him to pay attention and understand what he was about to say was serious.“I want to, you idiot. I do and you know why? Because I want you. I don’t want to get it over with, it has nothing to do with you being a dragon nor do I want it merely because it keeps me safe from Moriarty. That means I don’t want a quick hand-job or something perfunctory. And I certainly don’t want it when you’re in no fit state, either physically or mentally.”Sherlock frowned at him a little but didn’t say anything. Perhaps he hadn’t understood despite the attempt? Or maybe John had said that before and he was about to point it out. The latter seemed rather more plausible, what with John’s own tiredness. That he’d lose track.He kissed him, lightly.“Later,” he promised, going for a different approach. “As long as you’d like.”“John, I – “The somewhat unfocused eyes blinked again a few times, in rapid succession, and thereby regained some focus.“Thank you,” he said, with evident feeling.John smiled softly. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s get you nice and presentable again, shall we? It won’t do to scare off potential clients, now will it?”He set to work, moving as quickly and efficiently as he could, with Sherlock a still surprisingly compliant subject, and that was without being completely unresponsive, either. In fact, as John moved his head to and fro gently, taking as much care as he possibly could with the razor, the pale eyes followed him, regardless of where they were in relation to him.They weren’t accusatory or even their normal penetrating version. Sherlock just looked at him, his gaze continuing to be clear and alert but also open and trusting.It pushed the feeling of intimacy up a notch or two, but it was a different kind of intimacy than something carnal. To be honest, it was a bit of a balm after their arguments and bickering. Not that this was alone in being that, of course, but as they kept reopening the wounds, so to speak, it was good to be able to apply some balm to it more regularly.By the time he was done, John had to admit he was having to lock the muscles in his legs a little to keep himself upright. He’d done a pretty good job, though, he had to admit, and there was no blood anywhere.“There you go, Sir. All smooth and clean, like the proverbial, Sir. Will Sir be wanting anything else? Something for the weekend, perhaps?”It slipped out before he’d had time to think about it and as soon as it did, he could’ve kicked himself for it.Of all things to say, why would he go with that one? It wasn’t even as if it was a particularly clever joke or anything. It was just something that you said in the situation, trotting it out like a donkey on a pleasure beach.The lyrics to ‘Hello, who’s your lady friend?’ incongruously flashed past in his head at that.Ignoring it, he made himself look at Sherlock, to see if he’d picked up on the reference. It would be an odd thing for Sherlock to know, all things considered, but at the same time, he often had knowledge of the most seemingly irrelevant things.John just hoped he wouldn’t, not after he’d just said they ought to wait and everything.There was no comment and no raised eyebrow. If he did know what the ‘joke’ referred to, then he didn’t show it. Or perhaps things were finally starting to shut down on him. His eyes had closed, for one.“You okay, Sherlock?” he asked instead.“What would…what would you do if I said ‘no’ instead…of the expected reply?” Sherlock asked, cracking one eye open just a sliver to look at the doctor.“I’d try to help you deal with whatever it was. Just like I always do. Now come here, you. Into bed. At least it’s not a long trip this time.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

John moved around and manhandled Sherlock so that his arm was across his shoulders and the blonde’s hand was gripping a bony hip. Technically, he probably didn’t need all of that for such a short trip, but it would make it a bit easier to deposit him on the bed.Once on the bed, however, Sherlock tried to grab at him and pull him down with him.“No.”“John, please.”“I said, no. I’m not going to be here as a worry point or a distraction.”“I promise I won’t touch you.”“I want you to touch me, in other circumstances, but that’s not the point right now. You need to actually sleep this time, not spend most of the time worried what you’d do to me in your sleep.”“You need sleep, too.”“I do and my chair will have to do the trick. I have yet to see you sleepwalk.”“No.”“Sherlock, stop. Please.”“How can I sleep if I…don’t know where you are?”“I told you, I’ll be in the living room.” Despite his words, his tone was gentle. It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand his flatmate. “You holler longer distances normally and expect me to cover the same distances in a flash. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere, so don’t worry. I won’t leave you. Get some sleep.”You could see Sherlock actively fighting with a body that desperately wanted to do what it was told. “And what if Mm…Moriarty suddenly shows up?”“Then it’ll be the same story whether I’m here or there while you’re fast asleep.”“I can hold onto you if you’re here, protect you with my body.”“So that he can pump you full of another round of bullets coated in bone dust?” John asked, the exhaustion he felt keeping the anger on a low flame. “I don’t think so.”“He wouldn’t resort to the same, same trick twice. That would be…boring.”“Yeah, I’m not really keen on him upping the ante, either.” He didn’t even want to think about it; just the knowledge of what damage he’d managed to cause until now was hard enough to deal with.“So, you agree. Good.” The brunet redoubled his efforts.“No, I don’t. Sherlock, would you stop pulling at me for just a second?” Even as he spoke, though, John could feel the tugs and pulls at his arms grow less and less, as Sherlock’s body reacted to being enveloped in a soft bed.As his body started to give in, Sherlock seemed to become more panicked.“I don’t, I can’t – John, please –!““You won’t lose control. I know it and so do you. You’re in control. Of the dragon and your body. I understand fears can linger; I really do. But…trust me?”He hadn’t intended to turn it into a question but that was how it came out.The nod he got in response was given almost before his lips had formed around the last syllable.Right. Okay. How to handle this?“I’ll be right outside the door, then, how about that?”“Isn’t there.”“All the better for you to see me, then.”Would a fairy tale wolf be better or at least easier to handle? But that was a horrible story whichever way you looked at it and at least the dragon he got for his ‘fairy tale’ was…no, that didn’t really work, because the wolf clearly had a brain so you could reason with it, and Sherlock had been in a state where talking it out with him wasn’t really an option.The only point that could really be made was that when the wolf got out of hand, it had to go one by one while a dragon could be expedient in its destruction, as it were.“Isn’t…funny, John.”“No, but it’s about as absurd as most anything that’s happened to us recently, if not relatively tame in comparison so leave it. Come on, now, it’ll be okay. Just…here, I’ll go sit against the doorframe facing you, that way you can see me at all times. You’ll be able to reach me in no time, too, if you need to.”Sherlock’s grip was by that point so weakened by the sleep that was dragging him under despite his efforts that John could disentangle himself fairly easily from his grasp. The brunet made a pitiful noise at that.His heart clenching hard on him, even though he knew, or at least was as certain as he could be in the circumstances, that he was doing the right thing, John leaned down and kissed a forehead softly. Lovingly.There was another pitiful noise, much quieter than the first and then a drawn-out yet almost inaudible sigh, as though peace had been found at last, despite all efforts.“It’ll be okay,” he whispered and tried to believe in it fully himself.He kept his promise about not going anywhere as he sat himself down with his back pressed against the doorframe, facing the room and the bed as best he was able to from the position.On the way there, he’d grabbed his clothes, though, as well as both their phones, which had been left in the room earlier, just to make sure that he would have enough battery to call Mycroft and get a proper explanation.Not that he was likely to get a full explanation from the older Holmes brother but then, he never really expected that from him, as much as it could annoy him.To be honest, right now he’d be quite happy just to know that he’d done the right thing and get a better idea of what they needed to do about the mating thing, in a way that Sherlock could handle both physically and mentally.Of course, the reason they’d stopped in the middle of it all was because of consent issues and then it had devolved from there, but John still had the distinct impression that there was more to it than that. That maybe Sherlock wasn’t as ready for it as he was making himself out to be.John didn’t want to be a chore but neither did he want to be associated with an unpleasant memory for Sherlock. In fact, he didn’t want it to be anything other than good. Awkward was fine, over with quickly, too. Not too often an occurrence afterwards would be fine, too, really, though he would prefer it not to be a one-time only thing.They might have a literal deadline hanging over their heads in Moriarty’s desire for another plaything but that didn’t excuse much, if anything.Their first time together didn’t need to be perfect, but it shouldn’t awful, either, and it most definitely should not be traumatising.So, calling Mycroft it was. Not only for that, obviously – and good grief, he was genuinely about to call his best friend and boyfriend’s older brother to learn, among other things, how best to facilitate their first time together, which still was weird even after everything – but for that, too.His call was picked up after only two rings.“Is he alright?”Well, that was a marked difference from the man’s usual way of answering a phone call. Not that it didn’t make sense, of course. If anything, it made too much sense.“Yeah, he is. Well…actually, that’s why I’m calling.”“I can have a car – ““No,” John interrupted, again surprising himself with the strength of his denial. The ginger was only trying to help, after all.“No, it’s fine, Mycroft, thank you,” he repeated and forced himself to employ a calmer, even gentler tone. “Finally got him off to some proper sleep now, I think, best not to move him. He’s…fine. It’s not as much a physical threat this time, it’s…”He paused and tried to gather his thoughts. “It’s his head, really, his mind. Then again, when the hell isn’t it? But he’s had some struggles with control, keeping the dragon part pushed down…no, contained is probably the better word. Leashed and under his control. I think he’s managed it but now he’s scared that his control will slip, during sleep or during…” and he was a doctor, for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be hesitating even this slightly to say one measly word to, well, to be fair, one of the most powerful men in England, “…sex. Probably more to it with the sex part – and I still can’t bloody well believe I’m about to discuss that with you.”“Your previous proclivities would suggest that you don’t have an issue with – ““I don’t have an issue with sex or discussing it.” Not once he got over himself, anyway. “What I have issue with is the fact that I have to discuss my best friend and, hopefully, lover’s potential to engage in sex without either of us coming out dead, severely harmed one way or another or traumatised – with his brother!”“I fail to see how this differs significantly from what else we’ve discussed, none of which you seemed to have particular problem with discussing.”John sighed. “You don’t, do you? You really cannot see the problem. That would just bloody figure.”“Which is just as well seeing as it seems necessary to discuss it. At least if you wish to progress to a more carnal relationship with Sherlock, otherwise you wouldn’t have contacted me in the first place.”Something about hearing Mycroft utter the word ‘carnal’, fitting for the man’s vocabulary as it was, made the doctor’s insides shudder hard. Not quite as bad as the first time he’d heard Harry discuss her sex life in detail, of course, but still…Whether the fact that he was superimposing an image of the elder Holmes as a dragon onto the whole thing was making things worse or not, he couldn’t say.Shaking his head to try and clear it and focus on the problem at hand, he said, “I need to know how we can move forward, as just us as much as a couple, without Sherlock feeling as though he has to keep a complete lock-down on his dragon side. I know he always has a leash on everything but not…I don’t – ““I understand, John.” And despite the slightly snippiness earlier, which was both rather Mycroft and probably hid some genuine anxiety and fear about the state of his brother, there was indeed understanding in that voice. Some warmth, too. “I honestly do.”“Right. Ehm. Thank you. But that’s not – actually, can we talk about that a bit later? I…I’m not, well, it’s important but there’s something else I need to tell you.”“And you’re not quite ready to discuss the other issue in detail. Not just yet,” Mycroft added, with the usual amount of bluntness wrapped in courteousness. Bluntness that hit the nail on the head and all, too, which only made it stand out further.John rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows with a thumb. He was too tired for all this shit, to say the least, but it had to be done and done relatively soon and quick, at that, given…“No, I suppose not. I do need to know what to do, and not in the sense of the physical…” No, pause. Going out on the same ledge as before, even though he’d intended to change direction. “If Moriarty’s still…not that he’s out there because obviously he is but that he’s still interested in…me, I suppose, then that’s only going to make…”Did any of that even make sense? Come on, there had to be some sort of energy left inside that he could take from. Any kind of well – bloody hell, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had any sleep!“Make Sherlock more obstinately determined and adamant that he needs to keep control at all times?” Mycroft supplied, surprisingly quietly.“Yes. Even when it seems likely that it will tear him apart, sooner or later. So…I need to, to – ““To find a solution?”“Well, yes. But I need to understand what’s going on first for that. I need to know, too, that we have time to find a solution and implement it. That we aren’t interrupted in the process.”There was a tight silence at that, one which went on for long enough that John began to wonder if Mycroft had any intention of answering.“Moriarty has not been apprehended yet,” the ginger said at last, quietly once again. He sounded both angry with the fact and apologetic for it, too.“Didn’t think he was,” John said, with a sigh. As he said it, he realised that was true, and that it had been true before he had been contacted by the Irishman. If Mycroft’s men hadn’t been able to catch him up until now, there seemed little reason why now should be different.Even considering he’d let himself be seen by someone outside his web this time, there was nothing to suggest it hadn’t been calculated or at least taken into some kind of account by him, too. For all John knew, they could still be playing into the man’s plans by struggling or going against it.One genius with a precarious mind was enough to deal with, why did there have to be two? Well, misery liked company and genius needed something to measure itself against, he supposed.Couldn’t Sherlock have stuck with Mycroft, though? The sibling sniping was at least only metaphorical.Oh, for – and now his mind was running off without him, too. As though this wasn’t frustrating enough.Focus already!“So…I can’t leave the flat for the foreseeable future, at least, until Moriarty grows bored, and even that’s not a guarantee if he’s that uncaring about boundaries or rulesets, of humans and other dragons.”“John.”“Yeah, I know. Stating the obvious and all. Should be sleeping, same as – “He paused at the thought and listened. There were no snores but there was heavy, regular breathing that could just about be heard from the other side of the doorframe.“Sherlock, if you’re pretending to sleep so you can listen in, I’m going to come in there and string you up myself, do you hear?” the doctor called, somewhat irritably. Trust the man to pretend to do what he’s told and then disobey like a small child, even when everything sensible said for him to do as he was asked.There was no answer, obviously, but there was something of a quieting of the breathing, though for what reason exactly, it was difficult to work out.“I need to know how…how I –”“How you can fulfil what he needs without ending up in the situation you’ve tried so desperately to avoid, quite understandably, and without him tearing himself to mental shreds in the process, in the unknown and potentially non-existent time frame you have been given by Moriarty’s playing with you, whether seriously or merely for the…fripperies.”It was undoubtedly because he was exhausted, when you tend to be more…receptable to oddness, to put it diplomatically, but the word ‘fripperies’ coming through the proper, slightly prim received pronunciation of Mycroft’s speech was…just a bit too much.John started to giggle.“Sorry,” he said almost immediately, trying to stifle it and not having a whole lot of luck. “Sorry, I can’t – “With a force of will born out of frustration and irritation, he managed after a minute or two to wrestle back under control. He took another listen but couldn’t hear anything to indicate he had woken Sherlock. Which might be a good sign and might not.“Sorry,” he said again, more controlled, “that was…sorry.”No need to apologise, Doctor Watson.” There was no hint of irritation to be found in Mycroft’s voice, despite the situation and his no doubt even busier than normal schedule.Come to think of it, he had been extraordinarily patient with John throughout this, even though it had been his brother in the balance. The blond, too, of course, but mostly his brother.No, that wasn’t fair to say either, was it?Focus.“I…yeah, that sums it up pretty well, I think. You…you seemed to have some sort of notion about how…how we get to a claiming that doesn’t involve – but since that requires us to have sex, we’re in a bit…”And he was back to what he hadn’t wanted to discuss right now.He paused, drew a deep breath then blew it out through his nose, then once again.“Is there any way you can make sure that Moriarty cannot get in? Not forever, obviously, but…” He tried to calculate and found it difficult for several reasons, “call it forty-eight hours or so? I’m not saying there won’t be issues then, too, but at least we’re not both running on fumes, then. Then we stand a better chance at…”He sighed and made a small face to no one but himself. “Or maybe we don’t. I don’t know.” A huff of wryly amused laughter. “Seems to be my bloody refrain in all this, doesn’t it?”“Quite understandably so, I would say, doctor, and not only given the dragon business.”John blinked. “I could’ve sworn you were calling me slow there but as it’s probably me being tired, I’ll ignore it.”There was a huff of something that might’ve been laughter in the same way a raisin had once been a grape.“Touché. I promise you that no slight was intended. I merely meant that there is a lot of things here to sort and consider, far too much at once for anyone, and I can only commend you for all that you have done, for yourself and for my brother.”“Thanks,” John said, only the tiniest bit archly and otherwise warm.Silence reigned for a moment, two. Then, John spoke quietly.“What if I – if it isn’t enough? Sleeping, that is. What if it won’t go away, no matter how must rest he gets? He’ll break, Mycroft. I – I need to know why he’s so scared.”“And nothing in his behaviour has given you a clue as to that already?”John rubbed at the point between his eyebrows hard. At this rate, he wasn’t going to get any sleep, due to a massive headache. He wasn’t sure they had any pills left, either.“Probably. Likely there’s been a hundred and three different clues that you would’ve spotted in an instant that I haven’t so much as noticed.”There was no comment to that.Pushing his hindering frustration out of the way as best he could, he tried to think back over the conversation they’d had earlier. It wasn’t easy, and not just because he was tired, nor was it pleasant, but it had to be done.There were a few things that stood out. “He – he did seem scared of something from his past, in relation to sex. Of losing control.”Alright, so they were getting around to it. So much for trying to wriggle himself out of it, eh? Or postponing it, for that matter.“During – ““Mycroft, I swear, if you say something like ‘carnal’ again – “John stopped the warning mostly because he thought he heard a groan from the other side of the ‘door’. He therefore missed the answer as he tried to look in without moving too much.“Sorry, what was that?” he asked.I merely pointed out that while I – “It was the elder Holmes’ turn to pause. “Irrelevant. I’m afraid I cannot assist you in ferreting out what experiences my brother may have had in terms of…physical intimacy.”“No, I’m not surprised.”“However, if it has remained with him through however large a number of years…has survived several different deletions of information, it must have been seminal in his mind, even if he doesn’t know or hasn’t known it as such up until now.”“Yes, okay, I get it…ask him when he wakes up. Still doesn’t explain how we get through this.”“Does it not?”“No, it does –!” John barely managed to stop himself before his voice rose again. Fuck’s sake, he just wanted to go to bed. He sighed heavily instead. “It doesn’t. He is scared that he will lose control, even though he…how do I convince him that control doesn’t need a vicelike iron-grip on the thing at all times? It was difficult enough to get him to agree to sleep just now, and I’m not sure he is in fact sleeping.”Was it easier or more difficult convince him when you were also in the bed?”John spluttered. Or rather, he felt he ought to have spluttered. Instead, all he did was sigh, and pinch his nose. At this rate, he could have moulded his nasal region into a very distinguished roman nose.How was that for a disguise to throw Moriarty off the scent? No, wrong track. Back, back, further back, back on the proper path, there. Now stay on it. Focus.“I…I don’t know, actually. Think it’s a toss-up. He knew where I was, which seems to be something he needs to know for his dragon side or whatever it is that’s playing up. But at the same time, I was probably a reminder that he needed to be careful and in control still, despite gaining the upper hand, in a very tangible way. No, not probably. Definitely. He didn’t sleep all the time, after all. Don’t know for certain if he wasn’t awake for most of it, honestly, after you called that time.”He shook his head, letting out a noise. “Knowing Sherlock, it’s most likely he didn’t sleep. Would explain why he’s still…not that I’m in much better shape.”“You forget that while he didn’t exactly sleep, he was unconscious for a while, a while in which you were conscious and trying to cope,” Mycroft pointed out, quietly.“Suppose so, yeah.”There was silence on the other end of the line for what at least felt like a long time. Then, as quietly as before, Mycroft said, “I think you’d better tell me as much as you can possibly remember, John. Even if it seems trivial.”“Not that much has happened in the intervening time.”“Nevertheless.”Though they were speaking on the phone rather than in person, the mutual, growing understanding and the respect on another level that had been fostered between them in their race to save Sherlock from the poisoning, was still something that hung between them, unsaid but felt.They were only attempting to help each other.And so, John told Mycroft of what had occurred, in as much detail as he could remember, between the elder Holmes had left and now. There weren’t a lot, honestly, but there was more than the doctor had thought. Mostly, that was because whenever he fell silent, Mycroft would prod into one point or another.Some things, though, he couldn’t expand on, such as exactly what had happened in Sherlock’s mind during the time that he’d dived into his own mind to gain the upper hand and the leash of the dragon, no matter how much he tried.The older brother could undoubtedly extrapolate a lot, nevertheless. He always could, and this was something that he must have quite a bit of personal connection to and understanding of.When John had finished speaking, there was silence again, and in that silence, the blond thought he heard something turn inside the bedroom. Something which might’ve been Sherlock turning over in bed and might’ve been…something else.That noise, he definitely heard, though. Whether he heard the other one, further away and more echoey, was more uncertain. As it was something that sounded to John like…well, great flapping wings, to be honest, he ended up dismissing it altogether after a moment or two of listening for it. Nothing but his imagination playing tricks on him.“Sorry,” he said when he lifted the phone back to his ear.“Pardon?” The ginger’s voice sounded a little far-off itself. Had he not noticed John had…well, if he hadn’t, there was no need to tell him.“Never mind. What do I do, Mycroft? How do we bond without doing it wrong, ruining it or tearing our relationship apart in the process?”“One thing first and foremost, in order to be crystal-clear. This is something you want, is it? Take everything else out of the equation, everything you’ve learned in the last…” There was a pause, presumably to check on the time, which gave John an unexpected indicator of the other’s exhaustion, too, “…seventy-two hours or so.”“Everything about dragons, you mean.”“Quite. Take away all of that and then answer me this; would you want to be in a relationship with Sherlock? A full, intimate, emotional, physical, romantic relationship, that is, knowing what kind of man he is. Not dragon. Man.”John didn’t have to think, really, or if he did, someone had forgot to tell him. “Yes.”“Think very carefully now.”“I have,” the doctor said and was simultaneously astonished and not surprised at all to find that he meant it, too. But he had, hadn’t he? Several times over, really, and not just through this, either.It was kind, sweet, really, of Mycroft to ask him, not once but twice, whether this was something he in fact wanted. Not what Sherlock wanted or needed or what was expected of him but what John would want from this. You could argue that it only brought home that he didn’t actually have a choice in the matter and that was true enough, really, but all that said, he was considered as his own person rather than something connected to Sherlock.Ah, yes. One of the things that made it a bit ridiculous he was scared of losing himself to be nothing more than a possession for the brunet, if you looked at it at a certain angle; that he was already defined not by himself but by his relation to Sherlock.Ridiculous or not, though, he wasn’t going to define himself that way. Nor did he believe he had, though he might of course be wrong on that score. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been before, was it? Regardless, he wouldn’t be doing it going forward.He was not an object, he wasn’t an also-ran, he wasn’t a lamp ray clinging onto someone else for validation or sense of identity…well, mostly not the last one, and he hadn’t kept doing it. He was aware of it and so he could work on fixing it…The point was that he wouldn’t be treated as though he had no value of his own or that he was a chore to be dealt with then moved past without any further thought to his state of mind or state of being. He was not an afterthought, not in any kind of relationship, and Sherlock should be aware of that. Aware and willing to accommodate it just as John accommodated Sherlock.To be as valid and as worthy of consideration as anyone else, as his own person.Almost as if Mycroft had heard his thoughts, he asked a quiet but earnest question of him.“So…what is it you want out of this?”Ordinarily, John would probably be annoyed at the way Mycroft turned it around on him like the most frustrating two-bit psychiatrist. The blond should know, he’d been to see one, hadn’t he? Right now, however, he was barely registering it. Or perhaps he was just more receptive to what he was hearing behind the words.If only that had come about an hour earlier, huh? Then again, Mycroft was probably making a concerted effort, tired and worried as he was himself, to make what hid behind the words as clear as he possibly could without making them outright text. That was something that Sherlock didn’t bother with at the best of times, or he’d never learned to consider it.The erroneous thought of Sherlock stuck as a civil servant while Mycroft solved crimes flashed a fin at him as it swam past and John could barely manage to suppress a snorting giggle, which was made more difficult when he then couldn’t help but wonder whether Mycroft would then swirl his umbrella where Sherlock turned up his coat collar.Focus. Just a little bit further.Where he was dredging these energy resources from, even with the amount of sleep he had managed to get, he had no idea.This conversation? Asking for help, you mean?” he said. Just because Mycroft dealt in hints and things implied didn’t mean John would. He was far too tired, even if he’d been inclined to that kind of thing. “I want a way not to die, Mycroft. I want a, a way out of this that doesn’t see me reduced to another doll on the heap of discarded toys and doesn’t tear Sherlock into shreds, and I’ve said all this already and –“He cut himself off. It was unhelpful and he could feel himself getting angry, which would only make things worse.Already had, hadn’t they?“There has to be a way to work around his dragon nature…no, that’s not it. There has to be a way to, to…to work with it, not against it. Something that will assuage it, somehow, turn it into something manageable, for good. You must do it, for one.”“I am not my brother.”“No, but you are a dragon. The temptations are the same, from what you yourself have told me.”“Yes and no.”“Just tell me. Playing ‘what’s my cunning thought?’ with you two gets old and I don’t…” He sighed. “I’m sorry. That’s not helpful.”“There is no need to apologise, Doctor Watson. If anyone isn’t being helpful or forthcoming, it’s me.”“Hardly, I’m just being an arse, and when you’ve been…well, without you, I’m not sure we’d have something like a relationship. I definitely wouldn’t have been alive, which I suppose is a dampener on the relationship…”Focus.“I do mean that I haven’t been forthcoming about all about the relationship of dragons. In particular, their…that is, our mating claims.”“I think you said…something about it, when you were talking to Sherlock, but I can’t remember the details for the life of me.”“You have not had a tremendous amount of…respite, now have you?”“And you have?”Though they were on the phone, John could’ve sworn that he could hear Mycroft’s tight little expression and what might pass for a smile then.“In contrast to you, I do have the benefit of growing up knowing these things rather than having to take them all in in the span of a few hours when stressed, scared and feeling the effects of a kidnapping and a previous case, too.”There was something like a sigh. “However, since you know as well as I that you cannot make assumptions about what Sherlock has and hasn’t retained in terms of knowledge or what he will deem irrelevant, you will not be surprised to know that my dear little brother has thrown out much, if not all the information about dragons and their mating.”“Each time you say mating, I have the strangest mental image.”“Undoubtedly accurate even if likely also somewhat…crass. My point, however, is that where I hoped he would have known what to do or would have remembered based on my earlier conversation with him, it seems that he has not retained anything, after all.“Can’t he just have failed to say anything to me?”“Given how he has chosen to continue to deal with your relationship, it seems highly unlikely.”“Why haven’t you…if you think there’s a solution there that’ll do the trick, why didn’t you say so immediately? Come to that, why didn’t you say it to me when you mentioned it to Sherlock? Just to be on the safe side.”“Because it was up to you to decide what kind of relationship you would want.”“We – there’s no bloody decision to be made. That’s been all taken from me.”“The decision was still yours to make.”“Oh, piss the fucking hell off!” John snapped. Then he paused, thought, and sighed heavily, wearily, then pushed hard on his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. The lids burned beneath his pads.“I…sometimes I hate you both with a vengeance.”Of all things, the elder Holmes hummed a smile. “I would almost be disappointed if you didn’t.” A moment’s pause, then, oddly quietly, he said, “I shall endeavour to make it right, John.”The doctor blinked. “Mycroft – ““Please, listen, and listen very carefully. I have made a mistake and there is no guarantee that this will work, either. However, it is the solution that is the most plausible to work, if not the only solution there is.”“Not like we have a lot of time to go through iterations, is it?”“Quite. For several reasons.”“Yeah.” The word stretched around a sudden yawn. “Sorry, that – ““Perhaps we ought to postpone this to the morning.”“Don’t think I’m going to get any proper sleep if I’ll worry about…well, not once exhaustion wears off.” Never mind that he had slept earlier and had slept past the point where it could conceivably be exhaustion exclusively that did the work. That was not the point right now.“But of course. Silly of me to suggest otherwise.”“Didn’t say that, did I? Wasn’t finished yet. I just…I appreciate the thought, I really do. It’s only that...” He paused to gather his thoughts again. “Well, to know that there might be a solution, a solution to a problem that is…but you’re going to have to wait for it for another eight to ten hours for something as seemingly insignificant as sleep…do you think you would be able to get a wink?”“I know for a fact that I could not.”Even with the bond, for lack of a better word, that had grown between them in the tribulation of all this, John wasn’t used to this more…open Mycroft. The willingness to admit to such a thing at all, let alone without the defensiveness or explanation was honestly touching, and it didn’t really matter that it was a relatively small confession. To have it with no strings attached, as it were, was something significant in and of itself for the minor civil servant.Silence reigned for a moment or two. Three possibly, as John felt himself start to slip off into something approaching sleep, although admittedly, that didn’t have to take long.He shook himself awake, forcefully.“Best tell me while I can still make sense of what you’re saying,” he said and wished he didn’t sound sleepy.“Quite. Then listen carefully, Doctor.”John did. Very carefully indeed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In the end, John slept for roughly thirty hours. Slept wasn’t even quite enough to describe the heavy, almost hibernation-deep sleep he fell into almost the moment he’d hit the mattress.If Sarah rang to scream at him for not coming into work, if Lestrade and his team burst into the flat for another drugs bust, staged or not, he wouldn’t have noticed. Even if Moriarty had come to kidnap him from under Sherlock’s nose and the younger Holmes had made an uproar that made his clash with Mycroft look like a toddler flapping its hands, John was afterwards not at all sure he would’ve woken. Perhaps not even if Sherlock had made him into a part of his hoard while he had been asleep or…done other things. It had been that deep a sleep and it had been long overdue.Luckily for him, Sherlock had, it seemed, been as deeply or almost as deeply, asleep himself. Of course, you could never a hundred percent know with the consulting detective, but with the look that he gave the doctor when he woke, John thought it a safe bet that his friend had in fact been asleep the entire time.The way he looked thoroughly sleep-tousled and disoriented, in the way that only Sherlock could, and a freshly woken Sherlock at that, helped cement it and consequently, helped set John’s mind at rest. Not so much because of the berk listening in on the doctor’s conversation with his brother as the fact that he needed the sleep even more than John himself did.Speaking of that conversation, the blond was surprised to discover, once he’d woken, Sherlock wrapped around him like a creeping vine and deeply asleep still, that he had retained a good portion of it. Not all, which was possibly just as well, but he thought most of it was there.To check, however, he slipped his hand underneath the pillow. Then he had a momentary surge of worry, as he couldn’t find what he was looking for, only to relax when his fingers at last found it at the very top, squashed between the mattress and the headboard.He drew it to him and unfolded it carefully. With how much he remembered, which was honestly a miracle, he might not need it, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Not with something as important as this.Once that last part of the conversation was over, he’d got up with a bit of difficulty – the price he was eventually going to pay for his time in the military and beyond was going to be high, and with several dividends, he knew – and, keeping an eye almost constantly on the non-existent door, had moved to the living room, in the hope that he could find a pen and a piece of something to write the gist of it all down.A sort of aide memoire. Of course, he knew there was a risk it wouldn’t make much if any sense to him when he woke up, however long later that would be, but it couldn’t hurt to have another way to jog his memory when he wasn’t blessed with a Mind Cottage, let alone a Mind Palace.Honestly, though, he would rather not have a brain like Sherlock’s, with all the problems the man had as a result of it. Dragon. Man.No, man. Whatever else he was, he was still a person. A man, even if he were a dragon, and – and pronouns and classifications really weren’t something to think about right then. So of course he’d been unable to get it out of his mind even as he jotted the details of Mycroft’s suggestion, his plan down.Now, opening the paper, John was glad that he had. Some things were smudged a little and he didn’t think anyone else would understand but it was legible for him and that was all that mattered.Well, that and the fact that he now had something he could do to help. Possibly help, at least, but something was better than nothing, which was what he’d had before.What was more, it was something that should deal with it for good, so that they could move forward with the…the sexual part of their draconian marriage, as it were. Gods, that was still…Really, not that much weirder than the rest of it, if he was being entirely honest. A different flavour of strange to go with the palette explosion that had already happened in his life ever since he had been kidnapped by Moriarty, that was all.At least this wouldn’t leave a strange or bitter aftertaste in his life. Alright, perhaps somewhat strange, but not unpleasant.If things worked out as he hoped, excessively improbable as that sounded right now, then it would be the best taste that he could imagined.On the other hand if they didn’t work out as he hoped, then…John felt his hand start to clench around the paper and closed his eyes, willing his hand to open again. Luckily, he was unlikely to have done more damage to the paper than he had by sleeping on it. Taking a deep, slow breath, he then decided to take a moment to…To look at Sherlock, really. Just take a moment to properly drink him in, without the need to do anything else. What he and Mycroft had talked about could, and had to, wait until the brunet was awake in any case.For all that, John couldn’t find it in himself to wake him. So he turned himself around from their impromptu spooning – being little spoon was an experience that…wasn’t novel but had been long enough ago that it almost qualified as such, though that didn’t make it unpleasant in any way – and sat up, being extraordinarily careful not to jostle or otherwise disturb the still sleeping figure.Thankfully, he seemed to manage it, propping himself up on one hand while remaining in the other’s embrace, though that might be more to do with how deep the other slept rather than any skill of John’s. Still, he was glad that he managed to not do something that might trigger a reaction.That wasn’t to say that he was always afraid of triggering a reaction, only that it was one step at a time right now.Besides, startling a dragon awake when they were not in the best of states was sure to be a recipe for disaster.At first glance, Sherlock’s sleep could be mistaken for the induced unconsciousness, and the doctor felt a chilling gust blow through him at the thought.But no; at a closer glance, it was more than clear that this was something different. The face was at the same time far more alive and yet more relaxed than it had been at any point during…that time. It looked healthier, too, somehow, though that might be John’s wishful thinking because of the state Sherlock had been in when he’d pushed him into bed.There was no doubt that he had slept, either, and slept for a good long while before now. How could the blond be so sure, given that this was the younger Holmes? Well, for one thing, his hair was flat, tousled, and tangled in that particular way it only got when he’d been sleeping for long enough that even the bounce of his curls succumbed somewhat.For another, there were impressions on the cheek that faced John which could only come from having slept on that for some considerable time.Which was a potentially good sign; it might mean that just John being in the bed had been enough to assuage Sherlock’s dragon side. Of course, you could argue that had already been proven when the blond had sat outside the bedroom where he couldn’t be seen and couldn’t be touched. John didn’t know whether the brunet had been asleep then, however, which changed the situation somewhat.Quite a lot, actually, come to think of it, considering how afraid Sherlock had been of sleeping. Of losing control of himself while he slept and doing something to the doctor that he couldn’t take back.Apropos…He checked as best he could but there was no indication that teeth had shot out in his sleep and had done the unthinkable, and so he relaxed.There was a rumbling groan. Rather than waking up, though, Sherlock buried himself further into the pillow and, incidentally, into the blond.John smiled. Even with his hair a mess, indents on his face, his skin sleep-blotchy and his mouth open in a surprisingly nasal snore, he was in no doubt as to why he had fallen for Sherlock. Not because of his looks alone, mind, but…But the sweet dorkiness of the look, freed from the airs and shields he put on while awake, brought home what Mycroft had talked about. That what mattered was how John felt, how they both felt, when they stripped away the dragon and all its mess.Them. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Doctor and Consulting Detectives. Flatmates, colleagues, partners. Potentially lovers. Bickerers over the smallest of details but somehow also savers of each other, in more than the physical sense.Which brought him back to the note he had written. Somehow managing to unfold it with one hand, he paused to bend down and press a soft kiss to the other’s temple. There was a snuffling mumble and a wiggle.“You big cat,” John mumbled affectionately. An image of a dragon basking in the sun like a cat would almost made him snicker despite himself and when he then imagined Sherlock doing it, there was no helping it.A harsher, snorting grumble came from the younger Holmes then and the doctor stilled, eyes flickering all over the prone figure.He breathed a small sigh of relief when the arms around him relaxed again and the face smoothed out. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sherlock to wake up, of course, just that he couldn’t wake up quite yet.There were things to sort.Such as, he checked the paper, yes, such as finding out where that one particular thing was. The one that Mycroft had alluded to, without saying exactly what it was, but which John had recognised immediately, nevertheless. There weren’t that many options, honestly, and when he thought about it, he really only had the one candidate.In a sense, this was what had set off the whole debacle, or at least what had made the situation worse between them and had been a contributing factor, and a large one at that, to John storming out and…Well, there was no need to relive that part, was there? Not as though he couldn’t remember it all well without it, and in much greater detail than he wanted to, as well, honestly.Once was more than enough for him, thank you very much.That did mean, though, that he could be relatively certain, not just that he had found the right one straight off, which was something of a lucky break in itself, but that it would be what would work. If there was anything that would work, it would be this.Which of course also meant that there was only the one opportunity to get it right and if that failed, then…Then it would happen, whether John speculated on it or not, and so he should get on with it rather than going around it again and again like a cat circling something unknown and potentially dangerous. It wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all himself or the man beside him.He had done enough dawdling and it hadn’t resolved anything. That wasn’t to say that everything that had happened or that he’d thought about was something he’d categorise as ‘dawdling’ or something similar.Before he could do that which Mycroft had suggested, though – it was just as well that his brain hadn’t entirely erased that conversation from his mind because what he’d written down…needed the brain of a sleep-deprived to understand otherwise – he would have to find the damn thing first.To get the stupid possibility out of the way first, he checked his wrist. No, it wasn’t there. He hadn’t expected it to be, but he’d have taken stupid and convenient in a heartbeat.Nor did it seem to be on Sherlock’s.The consulting detective’s watch, for it was his missing own that John was searching for, gleamed almost triumphantly, or possibly accusatorily, from a bony wrist and there was nothing on the other. The doctor would know that for certain because it’d be digging into him if it were.Where, then?Oh, hadn’t he just mentally commented that he remembered things from all of this ever so well? Be careful what you claim, then, because he couldn’t remember where his watch had gone.Sherlock had it. Had very specifically taken it, with no intention of returning it, and it only assuaged the anger partially to know that the dragon nature had been at play there. That taking it had been what Mycroft had termed the first step in the courting…Honestly, John couldn’t have said whether that made it better or worse. Possibly both, really.Did it matter that Sherlock evidently hadn’t been aware he’d been doing it? That was possible, too, but then again, so much of what Sherlock did was without his own knowledge or at least a knowledge of what the consequences of his actions would be and how people’s reactions would be, too. The latter of which was the most egregious one because the lack of knowledge was more often than not deliberate.No, actually, what made it the most egregious one was because, whether deliberate or not, he failed to understand the problem or have the appropriate response, even when called out.Why did John like him so much again, let alone love him?Because…because for all of his problems, for his lack of understanding and general behaviour as though he hadn’t matured beyond five, there was a depth to him that had nothing to do with the size or capabilities of his brain nor with the mythological beast down at his core.It might be that Sherlock’s flaws were greater than most, both because of and in spite of his massive brain, but the man inside was…Was a greater man, too, not in spite of the flaws he had but because of them. Someone who had been if not the anchor then at least the weight on the other scale for John as his life spiralled ever downward and had been able to benefit from the doctor as John had from him.One who tried to be better, throughout this whole endeavour, than he had been, and that wasn’t even going into what it appeared he was willing to sacrifice in order to make sure that no harm came to John again.Of course, he had worth in himself, not just in what he was to John, but it said such a lot about him, didn’t it? It spoke of a good reason to love him if you needed one.So much for the question having been at least half-joking, eh?Watch, then. Concentrate. He had to find the watch and as soon as he could, to make sure that…That he didn’t have to sacrifice anything, let alone his life or his mind, in order for them to have a life together or John to become a living, breathing doll bereft of mind and soul.While yes, it might well be that he was worrying for nothing and everything would work out fine once they had got some proper sleep, which seemed to finally be the case for both of them. John certainly felt nowhere near as frayed as he had when he’d fallen asleep, which was now further helped by knowing he was still in one piece and in his own home.He might even say that he felt good. Not great just yet, but a marked improvement.However, Mycroft wouldn’t have made mention of this if he didn’t think it likely to be crucial, at the very least, and John believed that he was in the right to take it seriously. It was an unnecessary gamble, to say the least.So, get a move on. Sherlock wouldn’t be asleep forever, and John knew from what Mycroft had alluded to that it was crucial to find the watch before the other woke, even though it was highly unlikely he was going to stop him. His instincts might kick in, however, and he wouldn’t see it in the same light as he would if he should…Any potential risk ought to be avoided or minimised at this point. They couldn’t afford to get it wrong and therefore to take chances.Think. Where had it been? In Sherlock’s pocket? Somewhere around the…no, he knew that he had seen it after it had gone missing. After the…after they’d got back home, in fact, after the pool-incident. He remembered staring at it. Sherlock had produced it from his pocket, he believed, and had held it out to John, for him to take.As though that somehow would –He squashed the thought like someone would their cigarette stub in an argument then tried to remember what came next. Not the argument about it or the feelings associated with it, those were in context irrelevant. Had he taken it or had Sherlock pocketed it again? Both were possible, but…But neither of them seemed right.What, then? Come on, think. Think, damn you. What came next?Had he – no, he’d had it pressed into his hand, that was it! Sherlock had given it to him.What then, though? Oh, so many things had happened in such a short amount of time, it was almost impossible to keep them separated, let alone keep the timeline straight. Even the two Holmes brothers would probably struggle at least a little, and that was without adding in the state they had both been –But that was it!Sherlock had collapsed! What had come between the watch giving and the collapse, he wasn’t fully sure on but it hadn’t been that long after. Which meant that he had…had…He must’ve put the thing down. Into his pocket? But he would’ve noticed that, wouldn’t he? Would have put it back on at some point, even if only because of a reflex reaction. He felt very much certain of that.Besides, he’d had to focus on what happened fully and his hands had been occupied, so it was more likely he’d kept it in his hand or…There was nothing for it. He would have to go through the entire flat until he found it, starting in the living room and working backwards from there. It might take some time, too, which wasn’t ideal, but hopefully, he would find it before Sherlock woke up.Come to think of it, would this work if Sherlock had already given it back to him? It couldn’t mean that part of the courtship had already been taken care of as that would, or should have at least, negated a good portion of the issue they were facing in terms of becoming…well, married. That was the only word for it.Well, no, obviously it wasn’t, but he refused to classify it as something as primitive and base as ‘mating’. They were not animals, even if one was a mythical beast on top of it all, they didn’t mate. No, they had extra rituals to make it all civilised and humane, didn’t they?John had no idea whether it would work, then, but it was the only option he had and so he would go with it. He did seem to recall something about him not accepting it, and Sherlock being keen on the acceptance rather than purely dumping it back on the doctor, and so he decided to hold onto that.It was more or less all he could do, honestly.Next step was to work out how to get out of this embrace without waking Sherlock, which could potentially be a trial in itself.Much to his surprise, therefore, John found that, so long as he worked slowly and carefully, frequently but very softly touching the other’s cheek or hair or similar while he worked, he could ease the limbs off of him one by one without any protest or indication that the brunet was waking up or had awoken.Of course, that could mean Sherlock was already awake and playing along, but even that was a good sign, in a way. It meant that the dragon wasn’t the first reaction to this, neither.Still, he had to be careful if the other was awake and pretending. He wasn’t going to pretend for long, or he would’ve worked it all out even if he never so much as left the bed, which could potentially…not ruin things but bring him back to the previously considered point.It was therefore with a sigh of relief that he managed to get the last part of himself extracted without any trouble and with a still sleeping, or pretending to sleep, Sherlock being none the wiser.Right, then. Best get a move on. It would not be long before the dragon would more than likely realise that something was missing, whether he was asleep or not.The watch needed to be found before that happened; the flat could hardly stand much more dragon rage.Keeping an eye on the sleeping figure for as long as he could while doing his very best to remain as quiet as humanly possible, John made his way out of the room and then down the hallway.Coming into the living room, he was struck again with the how it looked, and how it felt as if it should be a bigger mess than it was.No time, though. Search room. Find watch. That was the priority. Everything else could come later if it were even relevant at that point. He knew he was letting himself be distracted with just about every little thing that could distract him even though he couldn’t afford to, and the knowledge annoyed him, even more so that it wasn’t even helpful to know it.Alright. The table was first priority, quite obviously, and then he would have to work outwards from there, in the hope that it was at least in the living room. It had to be somewhere in the flat, but it would be easier if it were in the living room.Provided the hadn’t smashed it either, of course.And that was another thought to steer well clear of. He couldn’t…if that were…Shaking his head and clenching his jaw somewhat, he went straight for the table, where…he found nothing. To be entirely honest, if he had found it then, he would possibly be a little bit suspicious of whether it was in fact his watch or a, a replica or something.That might sound farfetched and ridiculous and possibly at was, but at the same time, he’d dealt with far stranger things in all this. Compared to bone dust poisoning and dragons and gold sickness, a fake or replicate watch sounded positively tame, honestly. Unimaginative, even.Would it still work if it was a replica? Possibly though more likely Sherlock would know. He would know because he’d changed it and the dragon would know, too. Would it know? Could it smell the difference? Well, John had worn the real one for long enough that his scent would be embedded in it to an extent, even the metal, so probably.Not on the table and not, he checked, swept underneath it, either. So, where else could it be? Think. Think, think, think.Looking around, he couldn’t spot it on the floor. Nor had it fallen down behind the sofa when they’d laid Sherlock there, unfortunately, much as he looked, and it hadn’t been kicked to any other corner of the room, no matter where he searched. It would be a shape he recognised, too, possible replica or not, so it should’ve been easy to spot if it were indeed here. Which, by his best estimation and plunging heart, it seemed it wasn’t.Had someone been and picked it up when – but when should that have been? He had been with Sherlock almost the entire time they’d been back and when he hadn’t, the younger Holmes had been…occupied, to say the least.Nobody else had been in the flat since they’d come home, except John and the two Holmes brothers, though, of that the blond was certain.Holmes…could it be Mycroft? But when?Oh. Of course. Stupid of him. He’d gone for the gold pieces they’d used, which meant that he had to pass through the living room both times.Would he have taken it? Unlikely but he might have picked it up and put it somewhere. It would be rather pointless, all things considered, if he didn’t know the significance of the watch itself, but on the other hand, there would naturally be some sibling tendencies.Mycroft never had been a fan of the mess of the flat, had he? Things should be neat and orderly.For all that Sherlock had said his brother collected people rather than objects, John couldn’t help the fleeting thought of a proper dragon hoard but arranged as though it was a Victorian cabinet of curiosity, only somewhat more pleasant, with Mycroft counting it all at the little desk in the middle, with a pot of tea and a selection of cakes beside him.It was oddly sweet and therefore certainly not true. Still, he wasn’t going to let the image go.Out of options for where he could search and trying not to get worried, he fished out his phone and texted Mycroft. He didn’t expect an answer all that fast, given how busy the man was, but in less than two minutes, a reply ticked in.‘Slept well, Doctor?’‘Yeah, fine, thank you. Anything from Moriarty?’‘Nothing that hasn’t been contained.’Well that was…not reassuring at all and yet somehow, just a little bit reassuring still.‘But no sign of him? No sounds of wings flapping or something.’‘Not since the last time I spoke with you, I assure you. Someone spotted a great flying shape in the general area at that point in time, however, and is being detained but nothing afterwards. He has gone to ground for the moment and the area surrounding Baker Street is effectively cordoned off.’It didn’t take a lot to work out what ‘cordoned off’ in fact entailed. John wished it made him feel as safe as it should.After a moment or two, another text chimed its arrival. ‘Is Sherlock awake?’‘Not yet. That’s actually why I’m texting you.’ Honestly, why he hadn’t called him instead…and he knew why, of course, but it was a whole lot quicker to call. ‘I know which object I need for…but I can’t find it anywhere.’‘Then I should advice you to find something else to use for the purpose.’John stared at his phone, frustration pulling at the muscles in his face. Then, after taking a deep, long breath that he let out slowly and listening for any sound coming from down the hallway that would indicate the other wasn’t asleep, he began the somewhat laborious process of giving an answer to that in text form.‘Yeah, thanks, thought of that. There isn’t anything else that fits the criteria. That was what he took without my consent, that I know of, and it’s what fits in the timeline of all this, too. If it’s any object at all, it’s the watch, and so I need to find it.’There was a longer pause at that, which John took to mean that the ginger was busy with something or other. A government didn’t quite run itself, after all.‘But of course. However, I still do not quite see how I am to help with its whereabouts, as I assume that was why you contacted me.’‘I’m asking whether you’ve seen it. Not taken it, just seen it. Picked it up, put it away, that sort of thing.’He pressed send, paused, then added, ‘Or if you know where you might’ve seen it last.’Another pause, longer than before. In fact, it was long enough that John pocketed the phone and started to look again. Could it have been kicked out into the kitchen by accident? He supposed he hadn’t checked whether it had somehow, though he had no idea how or why, got itself wedged between the cushions of his own chair. Sherlock’s chair, perhaps, or more logically, that of the sofa.He checked and while it for a moment looked as though he had found it at last, not in the sofa or his own chair but that of Sherlock’s, it turned out to be the sad remains of a belt that had been used for…something before his time, as far as he knew. Bearing the whip in mind, he carried it over to the waste bin, which was overflowing with paper to say the least, and dumped it in.His pocket vibrated then vibrated again. Apprehensive given who had called before, he checked the number and was relieved to see it was Mycroft.“Yes.”“Someone will start to accuse me of having a paramour at this rate, Doctor, having to text this often.”“I thought they knew you were already happily married to the country, though I suppose extra-marital affairs are de rigueur among the upper echelons of society.”“As above, so below.”“I wouldn’t contact you unless it was important.”“As I am well aware, Doctor. However, you must understand that while my concern for both my brother is boundless and for yourself, too…I still have to be exceptionally careful.”The words came very quietly, and John could hear the faint tread of footsteps in the background. This had nothing to do with the affairs of the realm but something altogether more…personal and scaley in nature.“I get that. I do. Not like I particularly want this to come out either, is it? You’d be hounded.”“One way or the other, yes. Mostly for our longevity.”“The fountain of youth and a potential hoard of gold at the same time. Hardly an opportunity people are going to pass up. They’d do it for either, honestly, but for both?”“Exactly.”John grimaced. He was wasting time, and it wasn’t Mycroft’s precious meeting minutes he was talking about.“It’s a simple question, Mycroft. Have you seen my watch? I cannot find it anywhere, but I know it has come back to the flat after…after the pool. He tried to give it back to me and I didn’t take it but after he fell unconscious, I have no idea where it went.”“He tried to give it back?” The voice was suddenly sharp.“Yes. Is that important?”“Potentially.”“Not helpful,” John all but growled.“It depends on…but you didn’t take it back?”“No. I – he did place it in my hand a bit later and I didn’t resist, I suppose, but I didn’t take it back when he offered.”“Then it still counts as his. In his mind, it will count as part of his hoard but one that he knows he isn’t supposed to have.”“Doesn’t seem to stop him the rest of the time.”“It will when it has been taken from the one whom he intends to court. Even if he hasn’t been aware of it at the time.” There was a noise of frustrated resignation there that was mild but which John felt in his bones.“I do not recall seeing your watch on the floor or anywhere else, Doctor,” Mycroft said after a pause, presumably to let someone pass, “and I most certainly have not picked up that or anything like it. However, if it has the significance you describe, then my brother will not have let go of it.”He put it in my hand and then…well, he collapsed. Don’t think he had the presence of mind then to think of taking it back.”I think you’d be surprised at how far we will go to reclaim that which is ours.”John thought of just what Sherlock, Mycroft and even Moriarty had done to claim or otherwise secure that which they considered theirs, and an arctic chill ran through the whole of his body, settling in the base of his spine where it curled up tight.“Somehow, I sincerely doubt that.” His voice was just as tight when it came.Even through his voice, John could hear the inclination of the head when the older Holmes brother then said, “Touché. I did not mean to dismiss or devalue your experience, Doctor. My point is merely that you might have more success if you look closer.”“Can’t you just say ‘look in his pockets’ or something for once, Mycroft? Be clear and direct.”“I believe you forget my position.”“Yeah, yeah. Course, Mr. Appleby.”“Precisely.”“Hackett sounds about right, too, right now. Butchered, more like, but…” Focus. “What if it’s not there, either? What if it’s broken or it doesn’t work? What do we do, then?”“Then we will have to…ensure your safety for the time being until such a time where we have devised another solution.”“Ensure their safety? John had a series of images of just how Mycroft might ‘ensure their safety’, none of which he liked.“I can’t just let him have another object that means a lot to me? My gun, for instance?”He didn’t hesitate in mentioning it outright. Mycroft knew he had it, John knew he knew, and the ginger knew that the doctor knew, which was probably as he preferred it. It was something to dangle over him, if he wanted to, or just keep on file for later possible use. Though at this point, John would think he’d proved that he was dedicated to helping Sherlock, not just in this situation but in general, a dedication that sometimes meant he had a need for the gun.Take their first case together, for instance. If he hadn’t had the gun then, Sherlock would have done something very stupid, just because, the idiot.Come to that, John had something to dangle in turn, now, didn’t he? And so the metaphorical impasse, if such it could be called when one secret was exponentially more important and life-altering than a mere stolen firearm, was tangible enough for…well, for him to feel comfortable mentioning the gun outright.To call the noise he got then a beleaguered sigh was like calling Moriarty a bit unstable in his behaviour, and part of John couldn’t help but bristle, even though he knew he was being silly.“It is not – we are not children who can be given another toy to appease our tantrum, Doctor. That is not how it works.”“Really.” The flatness of his tone at that was evidently picked up then equally clearly ignored.“If Sherlock has selected your watch rather than any of the other possessions of yours, all of which he will have had free access to whenever he wanted it, regardless of what you might have said and where it will have been put, then that is for a reason, difficult or impossible though it may be for anyone else to comprehend. Possibly it is for Sherlock, too, given how little of what he was taught he has decided to learn, let alone keep in his mind.”“Think some of it is just getting to grips with his nature and having tried to suppress it rather than work with it or even around it,” John supplied. “I know I’m encroaching on things I’m no expert in, both in terms of dragon and idiot, but I think I’m right.”As he’d spoken with Mycroft, he had been looking around the room once more time, for the watch itself but also, although he knew where both the coat and the jacket were going to be, for any piece of clothing that might hold it, just in case.So far, there was no luck, and he could feel time bearing down on him, but he had to finish this conversation first. Otherwise, he was sure to wake Sherlock, thus if not ruining the whole thing then at least making it far more difficult for him to pull off.It would make sense that the watch would be in a pocket somewhere, especially if the younger dragon couldn’t bear to be parted from it, subconsciously or not.That he didn’t have it on his person regardless of clothes, John put down to nothing more than ‘claimed’ being recognised by other human beings within personal space rather than clutching it to your chest at all times. It would still be seen as claimed, as it was in his coat pocket.Part of his hoard within another part of his hoard.“Quite so, yes. You have…recent, somewhat extensive and quite personal experience with both subjects.”To put it mildly.So, just to be clear. It has to be the watch that I use?”For the desired reaction and solution, then yes, it will have to be that which set it off. That which he specifically selected.”So he was planning to…propose to me before I was kidnapped by Moriarty?”Another, long sigh. “Do please bear in mind that Sherlock is – ““Unaware of most of what he does in terms of dragons, or at least in terms of dragon courting,” John interrupted, feeling a little stupid that he hadn’t remembered immediately.“Precisely.”“Right.” Another pause. “Thank you, Mycroft. Again. Seems like I can’t go five minutes without – ““Would you expect a medical student to know or remember everything within their textbooks within the second day of the course?”“No, of course – ah. Yeah. Hell, I need some more sleep. That or a drink. Neither of which is a good idea right now.” He drew a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll – I know where his clothes will be and if the watch isn’t in there, then…”“Then don’t hesitate to call me.”John blinked. Softly spoken and seemingly innocuous and surface-level though that comment appeared to be, he could hear the layers that nestled underneath it, bolstering it and giving it dimensions.Oh.“Yeah…no, of course. Thanks again.”“Don’t mention it, Doctor.” With that, the elder Holmes brother ended the call.John took a deep breath to calm himself and tried not to think of how much time he had wasted. There was no knowing how much time he’d had at any point, after all, given Sherlock’s either sleeping like a prey animal or the deepest hibernating bear, with little in between.Still, he wasn’t going to waste more time than he could possibly help. Especially not when he needed to go find the watch in the very room the other was in.Well, then, time for his skills of stealth to be put to the test. It definitely wasn’t where he had expected to employ them, and not just because he hadn’t ever considered them much before now. But needs must and all that.He would say that all he could do was keep his fingers crossed, only that wasn’t true. There was more that he could do.Somehow, he was finding that watch. If it weren’t in the other’s clothing somewhere or other, then…then he would have to search the flat from top to bottom. Whatever it would take, he would do.John wasn’t about to allow Sherlock to be taken away to some…facility to be kept safe – that he’d be going, too, for abundantly obvious reasons was not the relevant point in this – from himself until they could find another way. That was, possibly indefinitely kept under lock and key for his own, unless Sherlock found a way to escape or to otherwise…And he wasn’t going to think about that, either. It wasn’t going to happen so there was no need. Simple as that.He would find the watch, wherever it had hidden itself, and everything would be…if not sorted then started on the road thereto.They would work it out.Together.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock blinked as he surfaced into wakefulness, then blinked again. It took a few more blinks to make sense of what was in front of him, not helped that his mind felt like one great piece of cotton wool.That realisation in itself, not to mention its implications and consequent horror – his mind was never in such a state, not without something else going on, something that he recognised but which filled him with dread and so he didn’t want to acknowledge it – was enough to pull him the rest of the way back to, to at least something close to a functional brain.Functional for normal people, perhaps, which was far below par for Sherlock, but still, it was quite the leap in his current state, and he would gladly take it.Current state? Why was there a ‘current’ state to contend with in the first place and what was it, precisely?As he made sense of the thing in front of him, which for one thing was a person rather than an object, things started to come back to him, not quite in a flood but nothing like in a gentle stream, either.Oh, no. Oh, fuck, no. Had he – he hadn’t done something while he had been asleep, or possibly unconscious, this time, had he? What was the last thing he remembered?Snatches of conversation. That was, snatches of conversation that was one-sided, in the sense that he could only hear the one side. Snatches that were…too fragmented to make sense of but were definitely from John.John.John in front of him a little way away, in a chair. He had come to bed, though. Sherlock knew that he had; even though the conversation had been a bit away, he could remember the bed dipping and the warmth and presence of the blond settling in beside him.Which was where the panic he was trying hard to suppress was coming from, too. What had he done while he’d been asleep? He had not meant to disobey John but at the same time, he had not intended to sleep deeply in any way.They couldn’t afford for him to. Dosing might take longer and even longer than that to get the rest that he, that they needed for him to get in order to…proceed, but it would be far safer for him.That had been the intention but despite his best efforts to stay awake – he remembered quite distinctly John’s tone changing at some point and had known it’d been him who’d been addressed – he had fallen into not only a sleep but a deep one at that.One which it seemed he hadn’t come out of for at least twenty-four hours, if not...no, it was most definitely longer than that. He had slept for that amount of time before, as deeply as it seemed he had now, and his body felt more relaxed than he would after an experience such as that. More…at ease, odd as he found that to say.No, not odd. Uncomfortable. Yes, it made sense that he would be more at ease if he’d slept for thirty-six or even forty-eight hours but was that enough to explain it? Was there something else at play here, something that explained it far better? He certainly had the distinct feeling that however well he slept, this was too strong to be explained by that.Had he lost the grip on the dragon while he had been asleep, as he had sought to avoid by intending to dose instead of full-on sleeping, and had…had done what he had promised himself and John he wouldn’t?Closing his eyes again, both to concentrate and so as not to see potential evidence of what he’d wrought, Sherlock looked within himself. He had to be careful he didn’t slip further down into his Mind Palace and then even further down.To be honest, though…he found that it was with surprising ease that he could not only slip in and down to check but could stop himself, without the sensation that something was pulling at him.Straining at the leash, as it were, bucking and fighting.That could go both ways, though, and –“Sherlock?”It took a long, suspended moment for him to register that someone had spoken and another still for him to realise it was John. Which was stupid, as it could only be the doctor – unless Moriarty had somehow managed not only to get in but had mastered shapeshifting into different human guises – though to be fair to him, Sherlock was a little distracted.“Sherlock, please…if you’re awake, would you please open your eyes and look at me?”The request was gentle and softly spoken. Curiously, it sounded as though he had said it before and was more hoping than expecting to get an answer.Sherlock’s first reaction was to ignore it. There was something here that was more important…well, at any rate, there was something he needed to deal with in his mind before he could bear to…His instinctive reaction was to get up and cross to where John was and wrap himself around him. Make sure that he was safe and whole.Never mind that the greatest threat to John right now was still very much Sherlock himself. Even though he had got himself under control, there was no saying that had lasted, and –Something touched him.No, not something. Someone. Specifically, a calloused and otherwise roughened, but warm hand laid itself gently on top of his own, which he hadn’t noticed until that point was shaking somewhat.“Open your eyes, love, please.” Again, it was a request, a gentle ask and not a demand.Sherlock tried, then, despite what he wanted to do. What he managed to open was his hand. John’s own slipped more firmly into his in the process and, with the slight squeeze his hand got, too, the younger Holmes managed to open his eyes again.John, though closer, was still in the chair, which was closer than he’d initially thought, either that or he’d moved. Far more importantly, he was smiling. A small version of that warm, lopsided smile that did strange but pleasant things to Sherlock’s insides.That was a good sign, right? Right?“John?” he asked, his voice a rasp. A strangled rasp at that. Nevertheless, he was glad it was a voice that came out. His voice, and a human voice at that.“Morning, love,” the blond said and that was another good sign, the endearment. That particular endearment especially, but any endearment would do as a positive sign, honestly.Any endearment would do, regardless, but that was an entirely different matter.“It’s…morning?” Less of a rasp, thankfully, though not yet normal.“Not really, but does that matter? The important thing is – ““That I’m awake?”“Not what I was going to say, but yeah, I suppose that, too.” John squeezed the hand in his again. “How are you feeling? And there’s no ulterior motive, no correct answer to that, by the way. Any answer is just as valid and correct, alright?”Sherlock opened his mouth to…either to say something snarky and unhelpful, mostly likely, or instead to ask a question of his own, or possibly several, about the state of John himself. Not to answer the question posed, that was for certain.Most specifically, about whether or not Sherlock had assaulted him in his sleep. Whether he had…done what he never should have. He could see no evidence of it but then again, John had evidently showered – even if he couldn’t see it, Sherlock would’ve been able to smell the difference, dragon or no dragon – and had put on a fresh set of clothes.Part of the brunet froze at that implication because John had promised to stay close by and yet, despite that, he’d been –But of course. It was unreasonable to expect him not to go to his room at any point without Sherlock following him just because he was scared of what might happen. Just as it was unreasonable of him to…and that was too long a list to even begin to contemplate, now or in the foreseeable future.That was something that should be tackled but tackled one bit at a time so that he got them all tackled. Which he would. He should, too, for the sake of, of both John and of himself and for that of their relationship.Provided they had one, of course. That he hadn’t irrevocably ruined, endearment or not – John couldn’t be unaware of it, could he?No, now he was just being stupid and panicky. If he’d been successful in, in turning John into a, a part of his hoard, then he wouldn’t be acting like this. No matter how ingrained his normal behaviour was in both himself and in Sherlock, it would still fall to the wayside in the face of a dragon’s claiming.He had best test that, though, and test it immediately.So, what he opened his mouth for in the end was to ask questions that would confirm to him, one way or another that John wasn’t under the sway of the dragon in some way.What came out of his mouth, however, was none of those things.“How long have I slept for and why are you all the way over there?”Wait, hold on. No. That wasn’t – well, they were questions he wanted answers to, but they were nowhere near the most important ones.“What I meant was – “he tried again but stopped at John’s smile. What was he smiling for? There was nothing to smile for.But then, the doctor let go of his hand and sat back in the chair. This was only so the other had a clear view of him and, as it turned out, that hand as it was brought up to his collar where it flicked open just enough buttons of the shirt, one-handed, to pull the collar aside and show off the skin on either side of the neck as well as the neck itself.The entirely unblemished skin.Sherlock’s eyes went wide even as his muscles relaxed on him and his heart rose in his chest.“How did you –?” he began but was interrupted.“Know that was what you were really asking?” John asked in turn. “Whether I feel safe around you still and if you’ve done something while you’ve slept that you cannot undo? Good question. The answer is simple, though.”“Oh? What is it, then?” So what if his still raspy voice was just a little bit snippy? By his standards, it was rather mild.“That I’ve had some time to think while I’ve watched you sleep. No, don’t – don’t interrupt me, Sherlock, please.” John held up a hand as he gave the brunet a look that brooked no argument. “It was what you were worried about before we went to sleep, after all. Part of it. That you couldn’t be trusted.”“You were worried about being a chore,” Sherlock shot back then immediately, though still too late, realised just what it was he’d said, and his eyes went even wider than before.No! No, that wasn’t – he was about to bring them straight back to where they had been before they’d slept, thus potentially negating the entire point of their getting some rest so they weren’t running on fumes, letting exhaustion set the pace and all. He even felt better and clearer now, seemingly without any influence from the dragon, and yet, he was still about to sabotage –“John, I didn’t – ““Yes, I was,” the doctor said, a little tightly, interrupting him yet again. “You’re right. I was and I am, still, in a sense. Not so much worried as I refuse to be one in this relationship, whatever shape it’s going to take, but especially concerning sex in any shape or form.”“Of course, John, I – ““However, that isn’t to say it’s something that I ought to be worried about.”“No, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to be,” Sherlock all but shouted, though his still somewhat raspy voice made it somewhat weaker. Quieter, at any rate.That made the blond blink then smile briefly, which puzzled the brunet. Even more so when John reached out again, with the same hand as before, and squeezed Sherlock’s once more.“If you don’t trust yourself, feel that you can be trusted, then we won’t even get to the point where I will feel like a chore.”“You don’t know that we won’t,” Sherlock argued back, even though he didn’t particularly want to argue. If anything, he wanted to…to have a normal afternoon of both doing small nothings in the living room. Failing that, crawling into the other’s arms and just holding would be wonderful. “I could still try to carry on as I have before. As I always have.”John gave him the benefit of pausing and pursing his lips as he gave it thought. Then he tilted his head a little and smiled softly.“You wouldn’t. Know how I know? You have come a long way in all this, and you just proved that by recognising and arguing that you would do such a thing.”“One does not preclude the other.”“No, but normally you don’t see anything wrong with it and so there’d be no need to ‘warn’ me of such an outcome, would there?”Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but then closed it again. That was a point, much as he…well, it wasn’t even that he didn’t like to admit it so much as he…hadn’t realised it himself and therefore hadn’t been quite ready to see it.John was right. He had come…they had both come a long way, even though it might not feel like it right now and definitely didn’t feel at all earned.Mostly it didn’t feel earned because he didn’t know that this was true just yet. How could he, after all? He had only just woken up. There was no saying whether he was safe to be around John yet, even though things seemed to be going alright, argument notwithstanding, between them, let alone whether he could safely move…beyond that.Move into what he so wanted, apart from what they needed to – no. It might be that they had to do this in a sense to appease the urges inside him, and he was not exactly pleased with that in any sense. Of course he wasn’t, how could he be? But although things from, from whenever he had last been awake were not as crystal clear as his memory normally was, to say the least, he did remember that John…That his doctor had made it very clear that he wanted to do this, with Sherlock, both in terms of a romantic relationship and a physical one, and that he’d wanted to do it regardless of the current situation. Of his own free will, provided that was also Sherlock’s will.Which was where the ‘chore’ had come from, too, after all, and why it had irked John so much. Not that Sherlock didn’t understand that. However he had reacted at the time, in a less wound up and strung-out frame of mind, he could more easily see and understand that viewpoint.He might even wonder how he hadn’t seen that at the time, whatever his state of mind had been, given how essential that really was to his doctor.A squeeze of his hand brought him back to the here and now. He looked up at John and squeezed back.John was still here. That was if not the important point then at least one of the most important ones. He hadn’t used the opportunity of Sherlock sleeping, and clearly sleeping very deeply, to scarper. To run as fast as he possibly could, out of the flat, out of the city. Out of the country if need be, which it likely would.Yes, so he would know that Sherlock would follow him wherever he went but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go if that was what he truly wanted to do, regardless of whether he had Mycroft’s help or not. In all honesty, the younger Holmes strongly suspected Mycroft would help John and more besides.A flare of jealousy blazed within him but died as quickly as it had risen. Mycroft had no designs on John – if he had, there would’ve been plenty of opportunity to take him while Sherlock had been unconscious from the poisoning.Something clicked for him, then; that had been the flare of jealousy, yes, but it hadn’t been one of possession. It might seem a small, insignificant distinction but it was anything but; the jealousy was that of a rival romantic interest rather than that of a dragon.How could he tell? After all, their sibling rivalry was heavily entangled with the instincts and behaviour of dragons, for very obvious reasons, and it would be difficult to know which stemmed from being siblings and which from their dragon heritage, especially without others to use for reference.Perhaps precisely because he knew both the sibling behaviour and that of dragons, faulty though his knowledge was, so well and had little experience of a romantic side, he could recognise that it felt different.Which it did. Oh, did it ever feel different.Apropos feelings, a feeling of relief and burgeoning hope put out its small but tentatively blooming bud at the knowledge that dragon instinct didn’t immediately come in and take over that feeling.That he was still enough in control for him to have that feeling entirely to himself, as it were. It was him, was the point, and not the dragon. Not even a little bit the dragon.His inability to speak was now entirely down to the lump in his throat that was only growing larger. Could you call a lump in your throat a happy one? Whether you could or not, it was to him, for what it represented.What it gave hope for.Even if he had allowed his mind to drift yet again, without his conscious consent, either, which only made it more pronounced. When he squeezed the hand in his again in apology, he got a squeeze in turn but also a gentle caress of his hand with the thumb.“John?”“Mmh?” The hum of an answer was warm and unhurried, as though John was willing to hear anything that Sherlock had to say, would listen to it with equal patience whatever it was but would also be more than okay with there never being anything else said.That was not quite the John he knew, but right now that patience was quite sincerely appreciated.“I – “It was all so clear in his mind but whether it was the lump that made it difficult to get out or more likely something else entirely, Sherlock found difficulty in phrasing what he had just discovered. He was still going to try, though. More than that, he was going to succeed. Somehow.“I’m not…I cannot feel the dragon, even when I was jealous.”Well, that wasn’t off to a good start, was it?John raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t otherwise seem to react. “No?”“I was jealous of Mycroft, just now – “Don’t mention why, it wasn’t the time to get side-lined by that kind of discussion – “but it was…I couldn’t feel the dragon when I was.”That wasn’t honestly a whole lot better, although Sherlock didn’t spot that at the time.The doctor gave him a thoughtful, frowning look. “You mean that your reaction was entirely your own, without anything else bleeding through in any way?”“Yes!” He could feel his entire face brightening in further relief and delight as John, wonderful, clever John, caught what he meant almost instantly. “Yes, exactly that!”If he expected a fanfare or John flinging himself into his arms, he was to be disappointed. Not even the smile that he had so come to look for and depend upon, in a way he would never have thought possible before he had met John.There was not even a cry of ‘brilliant’, which seemed most unfair, since if anything was brilliant, then surely, this more than qualified?“John?” he asked, therefore, trying to work out whether he’d missed something. Alright, he was still tired, and his brain had done some long skids into tangents already, but he wouldn’t have missed something crucial, would he?Would he?No. Calm down. No. It was alright. John was still holding his hand, his expression hadn’t changed, but that meant it hadn’t changed to something worse, either. Things were good, still, and even if they weren’t, it didn’t mean they were bad.John might still have something on his mind. Something that this news didn’t alter one way or another.What could that possibly be?“John?” he asked again, worried.He could probably deduce it…no, he could most definitely deduce what it was, slightly hazy from sleep though he still was. But even though he knew he could, he also knew it would be better for him to allow John to tell him instead, on his own.It was the doctor’s turn to stare then blink. He smiled at that, an echo of the smile that Sherlock had been hoping for, longing for.“Sorry about that, I was…” He stopped and shook his head. When he stopped, his smile was a little broader, a little more genuine. A little more…present, too. “That’s good. That’s properly good. Makes the next bit easier, hopefully. Or possibly unnecessary, of course, there’s always that possibility…though better that than the other way around, eh?”“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.He honestly had no idea and couldn’t deduce what was meant, either, which frustrated and worried him even further. Despite, or perhaps because of that and the earlier arguments and issues, he did his level best to keep his voice calm and his head clear. As clear as he could get it, at any rate.That John’s smile had momentarily become brittle and tight at the same time didn’t help matters.“Something I discussed with Mycroft when…but we can talk about that later. Not that I’m keeping it from you, it’s just…” He trailed off with a grimace.Sherlock, who had expected himself to bridle at the mention of Mycroft but more than that the suggestion that there was something he wasn’t to be told, apparently for stupid reasons, found himself nodding instead. Nodding and squeezing the hand still in his.For the moment, it felt as though so long as he had hold of John’s hand, then nothing could go wrong or be the matter. That everything would be alright then. It was nonsense, of course, and he knew it. However, that did not alter the feeling or diminish it in any way.“You will tell me?” he found himself asking instead, then, quietly and just a little bit uncertainly.“Of course, love,” John said, evidently meaning every word, judging by his tone and the look in his eyes. “I promise I will. Just…gotta do something else before that.”“And what is that?” Sherlock asked but in the same moment that he did, or as good as the same moment, John reached into his pocket for something with his free hand.As he started to pull it out of the pocket, with some difficulty, it seemed like, he let go of Sherlock’s hand and even evaded the attempt to grab it again. The brunet let out a noise and made another attempt.He needed his anchor.That made the blond look up and focus back on the other, though only for a moment. However, he moved himself closer and evidently tried to speed up the retrieval, even though that almost never worked out well, which was appreciated for its consideration.As Sherlock tried to quell the unhelpful and stupid noise and need, he found that it the gestures also made things a bit easier.In any case, his mind was soon focused on something else entirely as John finally managed to pull what he had been struggling to get out of his pocket out into the open.He didn’t hold it aloft or even say something to mark it. Not that he needed to; Sherlock was certain he’d recognise it just about everywhere, ridiculous and overblown as that sounded. Especially considering just how small, relatively speaking, it was. How ordinary it looked, too.It definitely didn’t seem to warrant the way John put it down on the bed in front of the still mostly recumbent Sherlock, careful and with almost a reverence. As though it was something of great worth and importance.Which it did, of course, in its way, and not merely because it was of personal, sentimental value to the doctor. In its own way, it had if not kicked off this entire thing then at least been a major contributing factor.Rather, the fact that Sherlock had taken it in the first place was…Why had he done that? Even now, after everything, he wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that it had been impossible for him to give it…No, that wasn’t true. He’d tried to give it back, hadn’t he? When he – when he’d tried to mend the bridges that he had already set merrily ablaze not only through the revelation of his nature and what had gone before with Moriarty but through his own behaviour.Only, John hadn’t taken it. Why hadn’t he taken it? It wasn’t as though it had been easy for Sherlock to –He caught himself even as he thought it.John hadn’t known that. How could he know it hadn’t been easy? Well, now, he more than likely would know, considering, but at the time? No. At the time he couldn’t have known, just as he couldn’t be expected not to be angry at Sherlock for it, not to mention the rest of it.He couldn’t remember the doctor’s precise words as to why he hadn’t taken it, if he’d even given any explanation, but he must have changed his mind at some later point, mustn’t he? After all, he had the watch now, and Sherlock seemed to, albeit vaguely and somewhat unreliably, recall that he had pressed the watch into John’s hand, insisting on giving it back.Even when his body and mind had both been screaming at him for doing so, he had done it.So why didn’t it feel right that John had it? By all rights, he should have it. If either of them should, it should be the bloody owner, shouldn’t it? Which wasn’t Sherlock.Nor was it the dragon, and that was the important point. The crucial point, in fact.Sherlock had taken it for his hoard, even if he hadn’t consciously known it at the time – though to be perfectly honest, when he had known, he had made no attempt to give it back either, now had he? – and now the dragon considered it theirs.Part of his hoard.And yet…Yet, there was something about that as well that didn’t sit quite right. Something which might have sat wrong before, too, but if it had, he wouldn’t have known one way or the other.It was…it was more than that. Or different than that?He had taken something from John. Something which he considered part of his hoard and yet, to see it in John’s hand like this didn’t immediately fill him with an urge to snatch it back as fast as he could.Was that to do with how he looked at John?As part of his hoard, too?No! No! Not that, not remotely, not ever that. Whatever it would take to remove that kind of thinking from his mind, he would…that wasn’t how he looked at John. Not how he wanted to look at him, most definitely, and not how he did look at him either, whatever his instincts and nature said.Nature…Something rang a bell, faint and hesitant, in the back of his mind at that.He almost startled as a hand enveloped his own again as best it could and looked back at John from where his gaze had…drifted. The watch was still in his other hand.“John?” he asked. There was no answer. “John, what do you need to – I gave that back to you. I…I did, didn’t I?”“You did,” the doctor confirmed, softly. Warmly, which seemed somehow incongruous even though it was the exact same approach as before. “I didn’t take it, but you did, nevertheless.”He held the hand as if to give the watch back, only the younger Holmes recognised it as mimicking him pushing the watch into the other’s hand regardless of what he’d said.Oh.“Then why do I still feel as though it’s…” He trailed off then cursed himself somewhat for it.There was no use beating around the bush at this point, was there? Not as if that normally stopped anyone, even him, but at the same time, it was no excuse not to allow it. Especially not when it wouldn’t help anyone, not even himself.
Get on with it already.
“As though it’s still mine, John?” he finished. “If I gave it back, whether you took it or not, then it shouldn’t…I shouldn’t feel as though it’s still part of my hoard.”He looked at the thing, almost unable to believe that it was there. Or perhaps more accurately, that it was still in one piece and that he still felt about it as he did. Not only in terms of the dragon and its instincts, either.Oddly enough, that comment made John sit up a little straighter. Almost as though that had piqued his interest or otherwise been of value for him to hear, though Sherlock would be hard put to understand why that was.The feeling only increased when the blond then asked, “That’s how you feel about it? As if it’s part of your hoard?”If he had any reason to ask a question like that, then he should’ve sounded annoyed. Frustrated and annoyed, at the very least, and entirely justified to boot. Strip everything else away, or even leave it in place, and Sherlock had still taken the watch and not given it back. Not really, not of his own accord. Something which was precious to John, which admittedly was the reason he’d taken it, but that was precisely why he shouldn’t have.Sherlock paused, thinking. Was that why he had taken the watch? He would’ve said so but at the same time, that didn’t feel quite right.Why did that not feel right? And was that the reason John was asking him? Why was his tone so gentle in his asking?What did he know that Sherlock didn’t?Remembering he’d been asked a question, he nodded. “Yes. It’s part of my…but it doesn’t…I don’t want to take it back immediately. Don’t want to, to take it back at all.”“Not in the slightest?”“No. Yes. I don’t – maybe I do. I don’t know. It’s – it’s swinging back and forth in my head. John, why is it…it should be easy, so why isn’t it? The dragon is easy. Too easy, that’s the problem. Not the whole problem, but part of the problem. I don’t – “The hand that had returned to his gently lifted both their hands and slotted them together for a better, firmer grip. Then he squeezed once again.This time, though, the angle of their hands trapped air between their palms and made a noise that best could be described as an aging and threadbare whoopee cushion trying for one last hurrah.Sherlock stared at John, who stared back with the same somewhat frozen expression on his face. He could hardly believe the absurd banality of the occurrence and a noise not unlike the precursor of a laugh, or possibly a giggle, snuck its way out from his mouth.Thankfully, it seemed that John felt the same way. At least, he couldn’t help his own giggle, not that the brunet was sure he even tried. He couldn’t blame him either, honestly.Of course, as is so often the case, one person snickering, giggling or similar will set off someone else and back again until the feedback loop has not only completed, but escalated gradually until they were both laughing, almost helplessly, their hands still clasped together as the laughter shook their bodies.Oh, that felt…liberating, almost.Eventually, it petered out into some gentle giggling and then silence descended between them. It was a lighter silence, somehow, than the one that went before.All that said, Sherlock had no idea where to go from there. What should he say? Should he say anything? Do something? John wanted something, of course, and something to do with the watch. That much was beyond obvious, but even so, he wasn’t sure he knew…Perhaps he ought to just ask, eh? That would be a novel experience in all this, wouldn’t it?Uncertain, he looked up into his partner’s – the very thought of that, let alone all its implications and hopes, still did strange and wonderful things to his heart – face and found…No trace of annoyance, frustration or even apprehension. Nothing at all negative, in fact, even with the watch between them, quite literally. Only a continued warmth and kindness, not to mention patience.Patience and love. Love shining clear and bright and unapologetic.“John…” he breathed.At the very same time, he felt an urge to scramble backwards, away from something so wonderful so that he didn’t want to ruin it, even possibly, and a longing to lunge forward, to kiss his doctor for all he was worth and confirm the connection, physically and otherwise.The end result was that he stayed exactly where he was, unable to find out what he was to do or even how to phrase what he wanted, needed, to say. Which was ridiculous and pathetic and beyond unhelpful.Pull yourself together, you ludicrous lump of a lizard. You’re supposed to be the clever one here, after all, not someone incapable of only broken sentences and someone’s name.“John, what do I…I don’t think I understand why you are holding your own watch out instead of just wearing it now that you’ve found it,” he said, although with a few pauses and with a slightly confused tone to it. More than that, though, there was frustration with himself over not understanding. Of needing to ask like this.That John smiled more broadly at that but more warmly, too, was simultaneously a help and no help at all.“Because I…” he began then paused as he thought about it, though only for a moment. “I don’t want to spoil our chances of this succeeding, but I don’t think we’re in danger of that if I tell you what we intend.”“We? Who are ‘we?’” Sherlock asked, even though he had a rather good idea. There weren’t a whole lot of people it could conceivably be, after all, if it had something to do with the dragon. Which it would, given that it was the watch John had taken and had decided to present to him.“Mycroft and I,” John said, confirming the other’s assumption. “I…well, maybe you heard and maybe you didn’t, couldn’t actually tell whether you were only pretending to sleep then or not, but I called your brother for advice on how to get on with this.”Sherlock’s face must’ve changed to match his hurt at the words because John’s own face contorted in a light grimace at that.“No, not get – I’m sorry, Sherlock, I did not mean it like that, but I should’ve thought about how I phrased it. I meant how we go from here. How we…how we build a relationship and a future together, as individuals and a couple, without either of us sacrificing something fundamental.”The consulting detective only realised he’d squeezed the hand in his hard when he heard a crack that might be purely the excess build-up of air in the joints or could be something else instead. He tried to pull the hand away as a result but was prevented not once but thrice.“I won’t – I promised I wouldn’t,” he said, speaking with quiet fervour. “I promised and I meant it. Whatever it takes to make sure that I don’t, don’t ever force you into something or make you sacrifice something, I’ll do it. I promise that you don’t ever – ““I know,” John interrupted, breaking through what the brunet was saying, or possibly rambling about, even with the quiet calmness of his voice. His evidently carefully calm and quiet voice.“I know that you won’t, Sherlock, and I am not doubting you in the slightest. However, I said both of us and I meant both, too.”“There’s nothing the matter with me, so long as I – ““Can keep the dragon in check, you mean?” John asked, and his smile sliced through Sherlock’s heart even as it warmed it, not helped by what he said next. “Yes. Precisely.”Sherlock sat himself up the rest of the way with a jolt. No. Please no. Not that – not after all that had occurred. He could make it right, and make John come back to…Oh, if only there weren’t bits of their conversation from between when he’d ‘come back’ and when he’d fallen asleep there had been deleted or turned unclear! Yes, so that was what exhaustion could also result in, but that was – that was unacceptable, regardless of its reason.“I can do it, John. I know I haven’t shown that very well up until now, but I can do it, I know I can. I – I didn’t feel any hint of the dragon when I woke up or even when you mentioned…when I got jealous about Mycroft, that was without even a trace of – “He cut himself off at that, sharply, feeling a .Hadn’t he just mentioned that bit about the jealousy and all? Suddenly, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought that he had. It didn’t matter, though; if John needed to hear it several times in order to properly understand that Sherlock was taking it seriously, then so be it.It was imperative that the doctor understood that he, Sherlock, wasn’t only intent on being and staying in control of the dragon, prepared to do whatever it took, though that was a major thing to understand. An even more important, crucial part to understand fully was that he had in fact been able to keep in control during not just a moment of emotion, a spike of it as jealousy provided, but also through something as otherwise difficult to control as sleep. For a long time, too, and a properly deep sleep, on top of all that.All of those counted as strong points that if Sherlock was given a chance, then he could do all that he needed to so that John didn’t need to fear for his safety or for his personhood.Didn’t have to fear Sherlock.He opened his mouth to explicate this further or whatever it else would take to get the other convinced but was prevented from saying anything beyond ‘umph’ or something similar, he wasn’t entirely sure, as John leant forward and kissed him.It was soft and it was chaste and yet, it felt like a soothing balm to his inner turmoil. An anchor even stronger, however temporary it was, than that of the hand in his. The hand still in his.When John pulled back, he…well, for one, he placed another kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose then a further on his cheek. He wasn’t smiling, though, but frowning in what could perhaps best be described as concern and compassion. Not sympathy and definitely not pity, but empathy.“Sherlock, that’s the point.”“What point?”“That it’s just as horrible and unfair that you should have to sacrifice yourself in order for me not to have to.”“I’m not – I promise, I’m not sacrificing anything, it’s all fine – ““It’s not!”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“It’s not!” John said and for just a moment, there was harsh steel in his voice. He immediately gentled it, but it had been there, nevertheless. “It’s not fine, not now nor ever. Do you understand me, love? I will not be reduced to less than human or a thing, but I won’t have you reduced to a shell of yourself, either. Or possibly just die in the attempt.”Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion that he would die from something like that. Or rather, he would have, had it not been for the look in the doctor’s eye that glued his mouth together and tightened his oesophagus.The look and the unshed tears that brimmed in the other’s eyes but didn’t show signs of falling. Possibly that was sheer willpower or tenacity on John’s part. It would fit, definitely.That they stayed caught in the eyes didn’t diminish their effect in the slightest, however. Effect made it seem calculated, though, so perhaps the better word was impact, their meaning.John truly did believe that it was possible Sherlock would die in the attempt to keep himself in check, and he would do whatever it would take to prevent that. To prevent either of the horrible outcomes instead of purely the one that the consulting detective had focused on, as not only the one could happen.No, not just possible, either. He wouldn’t look that openly hurt and vulnerable if it were only a possibility. Then he would go straight to pragmatic to prevent that ever coming close to fruition. To be this concerned, and to show that he was this concerned, meant that he believed it to be a certainty.If something wasn’t done and Sherlock carried on this way, whatever his underlying intentions were for doing so, then he would, John believed, succumb in one way or another.Sacrificing himself.The worst part was that Sherlock, much as he didn’t want to, could see the truth of that concern, that very tangible risk, and that he had scoffed automatically, as that was easier than confront what was implied. That he would somehow overextend himself or otherwise mess up and the result was…Something he couldn’t bear to think about.Had he – how had he not thought about that before? Even as a possibility, he should’ve at least considered it instead of dismissing it outright like he had.Arrogant sod.“I don’t – I won’t do that, John,” was what he ended up saying after all, but it was without dismissal or even bravura. Just quiet earnestness. “I promise you I won’t. I’ll be sensible about it and won’t overdo it in any way. I promise.”Alright, so perhaps there was some ferventness in that last bit, too, he wasn’t going to try to deny that, and not just because it would be hopeless.“Can you be sure of that, though?” John asked, the edges of his smile a jagged shard. “That’s who you are, Sherlock. That’s who you’ve always been, in all the time I’ve known you. You don’t do things by half, do you? It’s either everything and nothing. Middle ground don’t exist and neither does temperate, mellow or measured. I’m not doubting your good intentions, not in the slightest, and I know that they are good. That you’d follow them but…but then you’d overextend yourself on that, somehow. Make the middle ground into the extreme.”Sherlock wanted to argue. Wanted to dismiss it all and say that John was exaggerating his statements, and he wasn’t that bad, even though he knew that John was right. Instead, he kept quiet and listened, knowing that John wasn’t done speaking yet, in any case.However, he kept hold of the hand in his own the whole time, making sure that he had him right here. That he wasn’t going away.“Even if you somehow manage to keep the middle ground, with all the good intentions in the world, how long can you keep it up for? What will the consequences be? That you let go entirely by accident, misjudging how loose the middle ground leash needs to be? Or say that you don’t go to the middle ground at all or shift back to the initial harsh, complete control?”“John…”“Possibly it happens when you’ve fought it so much that it’s eaten all your strength and determination, not to mention all of you. Then you’re no better off than I would be if you made me part of your hoard; a shambling shell of a person, only you have to contend with a dragon who is now free to take control without anything to hinder it. Free at last to do whatever it pleases. To take or turn whoever it likes.”“John.”“Which means that London won’t just in all likelihood have a beast on their hands, but all your struggles and your sacrifice will have been for naught as well. So that means we’ll all have lost.”“John!”The doctor blinked at that, once slowly and then in rapid succession, in the process letting several tears fall at once. When he then focused on Sherlock, a look of realisation and regret slipped across his features. Then he looked down and away, grimacing.“I’m sorry, that was – that was fucking thoughtless and horrible of me. As if you aren’t aware of all that already, you don’t need me to – ““But I do.”The words stopped John in his tracks of whatever it was he’d been about to say. His head snapped back to look at Sherlock.“I do need you to say things like that, and more besides. I hadn’t considered it; you were right the first time. You were right about the rest of it, too, even if I don’t want to consider it or admit it. Which isn’t fair to you at all because you would have to live with the consequences of either action.”The doctor smiled, a soft yet painful and somehow melancholic smile. “I would hardly be the only one who would have to, would I?”“No, I…no, that’s true. I just…I can’t lose you, John, and I don’t know what else to do to make sure that I don’t lose you.”“Thank you,” John said, his voice getting a little bit strangled and his eyes shining brighter still in the light that managed to slip into the room. “Can you accept that I feel the same?”“Of course I can. It’s merely that…” He trailed off, unsure of how to phrase it. That in itself was probably one for the history books, at least in the sense that he hadn’t found an alternate phrasing within a second or two.What was the matter with his brain? This went beyond his claim that sleeping and eating and such slowed him down, this was…Perhaps it was a good indicator of just what his brain had to do in order to keep the dragon in check? After all, there was a lot of work to that, hard work that was stressful, too, and it wouldn’t come without some kind of payment demanded, that just wasn’t how it worked. There was nothing to say that toll wasn’t steep and paid with dividends immediately, either, exacerbating the matter.Which, of course, only made John’s argument that it would be a higher price than he could pay at some point, with horrible, long-lasting if not permanent consequences. For both of them.“That it’s one thing to accept, with heart and even brain, too, and another to have to implement into the actual situation at hand?”Sherlock nodded. That wasn’t quite it, but it was close enough that he wasn’t about to argue the point, not even a little. Or perhaps it was just that it was phrased differently.“I get that, love,” John said. “I do and I’m not – I’m not blaming you for your solution to the problem. It’s not that. Never that. It’s just that…that I don’t want to lose you, either. There cannot only be one solution or the other.”“Clearly there isn’t, or you wouldn’t be holding the watch as if you’re about to show me just how it’s going to save me hundreds of pounds, if only I buy this once in a lifetime opportunity timekeeper.”“I’m not holding it like that,” John protested. However, the protest was undermined by the involuntary smile spreading across his lips and the fact that he didn’t so much as shift how he held it.“You are.”“How that is something you’ve kept hold of in your brain but not the most basic of knowledge is still beyond me.”“Knowing that kind of behaviour and how to replicate it might come in useful at some point, John, don’t be tedious.” Despite his words, or perhaps because of them, Sherlock could feel a small smile tugging at the corners of his own lips.“I’ll be as tedious as I like, thank you very much.”“No, you won’t. You’re as anxious as I am to get to the explanation of what the third solution to the problem is that won’t harm either or both of us as I am.”“More so, probably, because I know what it is. What the plan is, at any rate, even if it doesn’t turn out…”“Why haven’t you told me immediately, then?”The blond gave him a long look then sighed. “Good question. I wish I had a good answer to it, other than you were distracting, which isn’t a good answer at all.”“Not in this kind of circumstance, no. In another, there might well be.”John stared at him at that, blinked a few times and then shook his head. “Not sure I’m ever going to get used to you mentioning that kind of…but you’re right. You’re very much right.”Sherlock paused, uncertain. Then, having reached a decision, he pulled the hand he held in his towards him and, still keeping their hands linked together, kissed the other’s hand, first on each of the knuckles and then in the middle of the back of it, tilting the hold for it.“I do understand why you haven’t rushed straight into an explanation, John,” he said, with quiet sincerity, looking up at the other and thinking he spotted just the smallest hint of colour high in his cheeks.“Do you? That makes one of us.” It was the brunet’s turn to give the other a long look. “Alright, yeah, I…I needed to make sure of what state you were in to begin with before I...”He trailed off, the way his face worked for a moment managing to convey at least some of the inner frustration he was trying to keep a lid on, somehow. It did the trick, admittedly, but it also highlighted that it wasn’t just the concern of how Sherlock’s self-restraint was affecting that plagued his mind.That was only to be expected, obviously, regardless of how much sleep either of them had got. Nevertheless, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel the sting of it. The guilt of…No time for that now, if ever there was a time for it.Unsure of what to say, if he could say anything that would help, Sherlock instead chose to press another kiss to the other’s hand.“Sherlock.” He looked up, questioningly, though his lips didn’t leave the skin. “No, I wasn’t…you can do it, it’s not that. Of course you can. It’s…I just thought that you might be doing it for the reassurance or something along those lines.”Reassurance. Reassurance that he wasn’t leaving, was what he meant.“For you or for me?”“Take your pick.”“It wasn’t that. I – I wanted to do it and honestly, it’s also a bit anchoring.” It was his turn to colour, though for a completely different reason.One thing he couldn’t help noticing, however, was that although the reality of the situation and thus the consequent tension was still very much present in the air, the tension hadn’t…bled, if you could say that, into their interactions as it had before they’d gone to sleep.They weren’t snapping at each other or otherwise miscommunicating, not really, which was a great relief and gave hope that they could get through this, too, even if it did still seem a tall order, to put it incredibly mildly.In fact, it almost felt…well, not quite normal but something approaching it. A point where the abovementioned hope could flourish.If nothing else, it seemed that the sleep had been good for that and so had been more than worth its time.Now they only had to clear the last few impossible hurdles in their way, somehow, and they’d be home and dry and free to live their life as a couple.Easy as anything, wasn’t it?If only it was. Of course, if it had been easy, then there would likely as not have been an issue in the first place. Then Sherlock would’ve bee more than able to keep his inner dragon, as it were, in check and he could’ve just got on with…With everything.The important thing was that it might be solvable still, no matter how much the odds were stacked against them.Improbable rather than impossible.Yes.He believed that. Believed it even though John had yet to tell him what the plan was and looked quite genuinely worried underneath that warmth, reassurance and love that emanated from not only his smile but his entire face.Whatever else was the matter, they were in a better position than they had been…the last time they’d both been awake, however long ago that’d been, and so he could believe that the odds were only improbable.“Anchoring?” John echoed. The second-long chuckle he gave at that sounded not so much incredulous as understanding. Then he added, rather quietly, “Thank you.”“What for?” the brunet asked, puzzled by the comment.“For finding it anchoring, for one thing,” the blond said in a normal tone then he quietened it a little again. “For another, for…admitting to it.”What? Oh.In response to that, separate from the way he was definitely colouring just a little right now, Sherlock kissed the hand again and squeezed it. He got a squeeze in turn.Anchoring.“Tell me what the plan is,” he said, as quietly as John had spoken.The doctor looked at him at that, long and steady, or at least it felt like a long time. It was long enough for Sherlock to feel scrutinised, which was something of a novel experience in itself. Then he cleared his throat.“You took this from me. No, don’t speak right now, please. Just let me speak without interruptions. I promise I’ll get to the point, as much as I can. You took it, without permission and added it to your hoard. We’ve been living together for a while now, too. Yes, I know you’re aware of that. What did I just say? My point with that is that it’s the only thing of mine that you’ve taken and kept.”“I’ve used plenty of your things during that time,” Sherlock couldn’t help but point out.“Yes,” John agreed and there was more than a hint of tightness there. However, it was gone when he continued, “but none of those things have been ‘yours’, have they? They’ve been objects to use, not objects to own.”Oh. Yes. Of course.“I’ve known the watch was special to you. Is special. So if there was any one thing that I would take from you, then it makes sense that it’d be your watch.”He got another look, or Look, for that, though it was tempered by the warmth in blue eyes.“Why, then, haven’t you taken it before? It’s not as though you haven’t had the time or otherwise the opportunity to do so before the point where you did it if it was only a question of having something of importance to me.”Something to add to your hoard. Though the words weren’t said they hung in the air between them, nevertheless. Astonishingly, they didn’t sour the mood or otherwise change it even the slightest.“Alright, so there is a significance to why I took that particular watch, apart from it being yours, and there’s one to the timing of it. What is that significance?”If Sherlock expected to have John look even just the tiniest bit smug at the fact that he was the one who got to explain something, something not medicine or social skill related at all, to Sherlock and the consulting detective wasn’t merely humouring him but truly didn’t know it, then…Then he was to be disappointed, though ‘disappointed’ probably wasn’t the right word for it. None of that showed on John’s face. Instead, he looked surprisingly solemn.“I believe, or rather Mycroft believes and, even with my limited and recent knowledge about dragons, I would agree with him. We believe that you picked that one item of significance to me at that specific time for a reason connected to your hoard only because some of the same basic principles applies to the general hoarding tendencies of dragons as to the courting rituals of dragons. Which, according to your brother, you have deleted in its entirety, and that has been part of the issue.”He paused to take a breath and, perhaps unwisely, Sherlock couldn’t help but commenting, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips.“You’re trying to get revenge for all the long explanations I’ve put you through in the time we’ve known each other, aren’t you?”John pulled his head back a little in obvious surprise but then huffed a small laugh, his lips pulling up into a half-smile.“It’d be tempting, I’m not going to deny that, but no. More trying to get my head around it as I formulate it, I suppose. Which is stupid, it’s not like I haven’t had time to think about it before you woke up. Had a whole plan of how I was going to tackle it and everything and…”He shook his head, and the half-smile turned somewhat sardonic. “Look how well that turned out.”Even though he had never outwardly acknowledged it before, to see John self-deprecating like that, however mild a version of that it might be, hurt something deep inside Sherlock. His doctor had so many admirable qualities and did so well – and yes, he couldn’t deny that he’d been a…something of a prick about handling and appreciating those, among other things, but he had tried, had intended to try, and he now had a chance to improve, which had to be the more important part – so to see him put himself down was…Well, it was part of the reason he had deduced John’s limp. Not the main part, admittedly, but it had been there at the time and what was more, it’d become something of a motif, even if John hadn’t known it.Even if Sherlock hadn’t consciously known it, either.Not at the time and…well, honestly, it hadn’t truly dawned on him until about thirty seconds ago.The important part to consider was that now that he knew, he should have an easier time than before of untangling what the other was weaving.How uselessly poetic.So, he took the hand in his and brought it closer to him, though in reality, seeing as John had a risk of falling over, he was the one to move himself closer. Instead of kissing the hand again or something similar, he brought it close to his chest and wrapped both hands around it, cradling it.John looked at Sherlock, then down at their hands, then back up at the brunet.“I think it turned out well,” the younger Holmes said, earnestly and still quiet. “No, I mean it. Quite seriously.”It was evident that the blond still didn’t believe him, which perhaps wasn’t surprising. Even so, Sherlock wasn’t best pleased with it, and not because it meant that he had a more difficult time of it when he thought about it compared to when it didn’t.“I am grateful, too, that you’ve taken such care to get it right, even though I know it’s not just about me.”“But I haven’t got it right. I’ve wasted time and effort checking on useless things that I should’ve been able to – I had it all prepared in my head and then it goes all ‘poof’ when I need to use it.”“John.”“I know. I am being stupid and wasting time – ““That wasn’t what I was going to say at all,” Sherlock interrupted, though he took an enormous care to keep his voice calm this time. No outbursts or other such unhelpful, potentially destructive reactions and actions.They had had enough of that already, so now they would move forward from that and would find a way around this.Which, honestly, if John hadn’t started the way he had, Sherlock wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to…no, scratch that. He knew for certain he wouldn’t have had this calm an approach to it. Had it been up to him, the tension and worry would still have laid thick and they’d…well, they would like as not be exactly where they’d been before the sleep, thus in fact rendering it all pointless.
Shouldn’t you be telling John all this, then, instead of purely thinking it?
Yes, of course he should, which was why he had been just about to do so. It was merely that he needed to –
Collect your thoughts?
Precisely. Focus.“You did get it right,” he repeated, keeping his tone and volume low and sincere. “You…without you starting in this way, this slow and gentle start, I can’t say I would’ve been in a good headspace or a headspace to cope with it all.”“That’ll be the sleep, love, not – ““How many times do I start up running?”“When you wake, you mean?” John asked, catching on immediately. “Less often than you think.”Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t seen that one coming but rallied soon enough. There was a point to prove.“But it does happen, and quite often, at that.” He saw the other nod, without caveats. “Good. I didn’t do that this time, that is true, but my brain…it was more than ready to start right back up where it’d left off, dragon or not. That I’m remotely calm and rational like this, that is your doing. Your presence, your approach.”He watched carefully then and breathed an internal sigh of relief when it seemed that John believed him, beyond merely not arguing the point with him.Pushing the hand closer to his chest, he went on, “Had you gone straight into the explanation, then it would’ve only exacerbated that action, that sense of fear and going in mental circles of increasing destruction. Like this, however, it…”He paused then, to gather his thoughts and also just a little to watch for John’s reaction. Which thankfully was not dismissive or anything similar but warm and just a little bit grateful, it seemed, too, though he could’ve got that wrong.“It feels almost normal.”That wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say, but as the doctor smiled, he couldn’t find it in himself to complain, not out loud. “Think I know what you mean. Thank you, love.”“No need to mention it.”“But there’s a wish to.”Silence for a moment, two, then, “What is the crucial part about courting that I have deleted? Something to do with the watch, quite obviously, but – ““Please don’t try to deduce it.” There was a fervour to John’s voice at that which cut something inside the consulting detective thinly but deeply.“When it’s imperative we get it right, seeing as it might be what separates either of us from succumbing to the dragon in some way or other, and I have deleted everything? How stupid do you think I am?”He was gently smiling as he spoke, though, even if it was somewhat self-deprecating, and thankfully, thankfully, it seemed that John didn’t merely see it but was receptive, still, as he smiled back equally gently.“Can I get back to you on that?” Even as he said it, he was leaning forward for a kiss. It was a soft, gentle kiss that honestly was a peck but regardless, it felt…yes, it felt anchoring.When they parted, John rested their foreheads together for a moment, too. Then he pulled back. Sherlock jerked to follow him but as that would probably be counterproductive right now, he made himself stay put.There would be time for such gestures later. Should all go right and as intended, as hoped for, then there would be plenty of time for such gestures and many more things beside. But only if they focused. There was not only Sherlock himself to account for in this particular equation, but the threat of Moriarty.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It might be that he hadn’t reared his head in some time, depending on how likely it was that he had made another phone call to John while Sherlock had been asleep, but that wasn’t to say that he was no longer interested or wasn’t watching, either.Keeping an eye on them in some fashion was something he was not only bound to do in the future, if he wasn’t stopped before that, but something he had done for a long time before now. The pool hadn’t been accidental, after all. Whether he’d had designs on John from the start as well or that had been an opportunity too good to miss when Sherlock had started to show…And that was another whole thing that he shouldn’t be thinking about right now.The important point in context was that they had a Moriarty out there, potentially stalking around them like a fox or a marten stalking a hen house. Or equally likely having retreated back to his spider’s nest, waiting for the next time to strike while keeping abreast of every ripple on the threads of the web. Possibly even shaking a thread or two himself just to have something to mess around with.Now he’d graduated from poetic to useless metaphors? Oh, good. Especially when Moriarty was precisely the reason he ought to focus. One of the reasons, at any rate.“I’m sorry,” he said, interrupting John who had only just started speaking, “I went off in my own head there, even though I shouldn’t have. Can you repeat that?”Of all things, he then watched John smile, and smile broad for a moment at that. Seeing his expression only made the doctor smile further. “Two things. You admitted that you did and that it might not have been the smartest thing to do right then. That in itself is…and for the other – “He leant forward and planted another kiss, though on the tip of Sherlock’s nose rather than his lips or even his cheek. However, as though to make up for that, he pressed their foreheads together as he continued his point.“For the other, you got lost in your own head, even if only for a little bit, and you didn’t lose control of anything. Again. That is, it wasn’t the first time you didn’t, meaning you can do it repeatedly without having, as far as I can tell, to struggle with it.”“It isn’t gone, John. It will never be gone.”As he said it, Sherlock began to realise, with an unexpected amount of growing horror, just how true that was. Of course, he’d always known that in some way but…to have it brought home like this, and in how many different aspects it was true, was…“No, I know that, and that’s why we’re doing something about it with the plan Mycroft suggested to me. But you don’t have to struggle with it while we try to sort it, is my point. You don’t have to wage war on two fronts at once.”Oh. Oh, of course. Yes. That would make it all more likely that he’d…that they’d…His clever John.“Thank you,” he said, quietly, pressing their forehead further together. Not for anchoring, though, but purely for the lovely gesture. Well, that, and reinforcing the thank you, too, of course.“No problem, love.”“Can you…please go on with the explanation again.”He felt the forehead retreat but also felt another kiss to his nose, then, just before the other straightened back up fully, he got a kiss on the lips. One which he returned.“The crucial part,” John began again once he’d sat himself back up, the watch somehow still in one hand and his other holding Sherlock’s own, “is that you started courting me by taking the watch. That wasn’t your intention, I’m well aware of that, but that was nevertheless what you did. It wasn’t merely a delayed hoard acquisition. Why? Because there are other things of mine that would be more significant to you, that you would go for if it were merely another thing to add to your collection.”“Your gun.”“No, I don’t think so. I did consider it, and I did ask your brother, but…well, perhaps for the hoard, maybe. Only, that had a use, still.” He paused and shook his head. “Honestly? Fuck if I know. You might have, but that really only proves the point that to have gone for the watch instead, there was something else at play.”“Evidently, yes, but…but I didn’t know that – “He swallowed the rest of that intended sentence and swallowed hard. Not only would that be unnecessarily hurtful – not that necessarily hurtful was exactly acceptable, either – but it wasn’t even true.It might be that he didn’t know that he was initialising a courtship ritual that was apparently instinctual to dragons, as he certainly hadn’t done it on purpose, but that wasn’t the same as saying he hadn’t known about his feelings, was it? He knew what he felt about John, whether he was ready to consciously acknowledge it or not…Had he tried to ignore it? After he’d found out, he meant.No matter. Well, no, actually, it did matter, but it could wait. Wait for when he had a brain not about to be highjacked by anything and nothing else breathing down his neck, including his own idiocy.What else could you call it when you’d deleted something so…crucial, no matter its perceived importance, that would be affecting your life, your future in such an essential way.Instead of dwelling on that, more than he already had, that was, he said, “I wasn’t aware that my action of…taking the watch meant that I’d initialised any courtship.”“No, Mycroft said as much, though honestly it makes a lot of sense on its…Anyway, he said that even trying to jolt your memory about dragon courting and how their courting claims worked before he left hadn’t seemed to make any difference at all. Which was part of the reason he’s uncertain whether it’ll work this time, either.”“When did he try – when he was leaving after I’d…I’d come back…?” John nodded. “But that was – “He couldn’t have – if he hadn’t picked up on that then, it could just as well have been that there was a lot of other things going on in his brain at the time. He had not, to put it mildly, been in a state of mind for a subtle reminder of what he ought to do, and that whether he had retained that particular information or not.“I was hardly in a position to have long discussions or for Mycroft’s usually obtuse references to work for me,” he protested. “He could have reminded me that water was wet or that gold was dangerous, and I would have been as likely to have been able to remember or draw use from his hinting as that turned out to be!”It was only by the end of the sentence that he realised his voice had risen and he closed his eyes and took a short but deep breath. Things had been going so well up until now, there was no reason to jeopardise things, not over something like this.There were plenty of opportunities to mess things up yet, there was no need to actively create them.“Apologies,” he mumbled.“None needed, it’s a good point. I’m not saying he was right, either. Merely that that’s what his worry is. Part of his worry, anyway.”“Mycroft always worry, even when there is no need to.”Now, why did he say that? It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand why Mycroft would be worried about this or that he didn’t appreciate his worry, either.“The curse of the older brother, eh?”Sherlock blinked as he frowned. “You’re the younger brother, same as me, don’t start. Even if there isn’t the same age gap between you and your sister as with me and Mycroft – ““Are we talking in human years or the dragon equivalent?”“Dragon equivalent, obviously.”John gave him a sidelong look at that, even though they were facing each other. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask just how old you are, then. Asking a lady her age is probably the safer alternative there.”Sherlock scoffed. “As though something like age bothers me.”“It might, later on.”John spoke quietly, softly then, with a bit of an edge, audible and visible even through the small smile he was sporting, that made his expression, his entire face seem a little distant.It was gone as soon as Sherlock noticed it but even for that split-second, his heart sank low enough to jostle his intestines and his entire body turned cold. He thought he felt something shift and rumble deep inside him and although that was gone in a fraction of that split-second, it was still enough to have the rest of him sit up and look around like a highly nervous dog.Why would he look like that? What reason could there possibly – oh.Oh, but of course. That made…Oh.“John…” he whispered, staring at the doctor, at a loss as to what to say and even whether he could say anything to that.He couldn’t change who or what he was or what that consequently entailed. Hence why they were here in the first place rather than at their usual downtime activities, arguing not included, or even snuggled together on this very bed after a round of John teaching about the more physical aspects of a romantic relationship.“I know,” the blond said, in that same quiet tone. “Just one of those things that occurred to me now that I had a bit of time to sit and think about things after all this began. Not that I’ve been sitting here for ages watching you sleep or anything. That’d be – “He made a face. “Creepy, to say the least. Been hunting this little thing, in fact,” and here he held up the watch, “for most of the time I’ve been awake. That and talking to your brother.”“You seem to have become fast friends in this time.” Oh, for the love of – why did his mouth seem insistent on spewing such irrelevant nonsense now? It would be stupid at the best of times but now? “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”“It was, given that we’ve had to work together that much and that closely in order to make sure you’re even here, body and mind, and not – “John’s throat closed up on him then, that much was abundantly evident, even without the bob of his throat to give a clear visual representation of it, and Sherlock’s heart twisted slightly where it had nestled.“I know,” he said, in a quiet voice that bordered on small. He could mess things up perfectly well on his own. “I know that, and I should’ve thought before that came out of my mouth in the first place. Please go on, I’ll shut up.”“It’s not that I don’t understand – “John began but Sherlock shook his head.“But I don’t. There’s no excuse. Please, go on. I promise I won’t waste any more time.”John gave him an odd, pained but ultimately also warm look.“You’re not wasting time, love. No, you’re – you’re not, okay? If we’re going to play that game, I’ve wasted time, too, by being slow in getting to the point, not waking you up immediately when I woke or at least when I found the watch. I know we’re up against time, not to mention the other factors in this,” his face tightened for a moment at that, and Sherlock couldn’t blame him, “but there are some things that need to be gone through and sorted, regardless.”“Yes, but that was hardly one of them.”“It was to you, which makes it valid on its own, even in this situation. No, also in this situation, that is,” he amended then paused for just a second. “Then there’s the fact that if you’re feeling jealous, which I’d hazard that outburst stemmed from, then we need to address that first before we proceed with this.”“If we need to spend time dealing with every single issue I have, whether large or small – and jealousy isn’t one of them, at any rate – then we are going to be here until you have grown a beard you can hide a hand in.”Despite the words, or perhaps exactly because of them, their phrasing, he did his best to keep his voice gentle and quiet. Which was possibly manipulative on its own and therefore a further step backwards. It wasn’t meant to be, however, a fact which hopefully counted for something, too.“Hardly,” John replied, thankfully not sounding or otherwise appearing angry or annoyed with the brunet, “which you know as well as I do, because otherwise you wouldn’t try to deflect in that way.”Sherlock’s eyes widened a few fractions all on their own at that.“Yeah, saw that one coming. You aren’t jealous of him romantically, that’s not what I’m saying. At least, not in the way you understand it. Romance, that is, though, come to think of it, jealousy, too.”“So you’re saying it’s the dragon, then.”“Probably a combination of a lot of things and perhaps it’s not outright jealousy, either. Look, it’s not as though I’m a psychiatrist. Not that kind of doctor, but – but I’m just concerned that if we try to go through this and you’re, somewhere deep inside, afraid that Mycroft, or someone else, is going to try and take me away, then – “He paused at that, as though he was waiting for something, but Sherlock, though he had to bite through his tongue in order to achieve it, kept his promise and didn’t interrupt or otherwise take over.“Then there’s an easy path for the dragon to surge into and take control through, one which you’re not liable to notice because getting jealous, romantically or otherwise, of anyone, let alone our brother, is just ludicrous enough not to take seriously.”Sherlock took all this in quietly. He didn’t protest or even try to argue the point. John was right. Like with quite a few other things, whether he was an expert on them or not, he managed to get it almost scarily on the money.They could ill afford to leave a backdoor, especially one so insidious and yet so glaring, open for the dragon to slip through the moment Sherlock let go of the leash. It might be that he didn’t feel jealous and had rather scoffed at the notion, but that wasn’t the same as not being jealous, was it? John made a valid point.There was one point he wanted to make, though.“Won’t it – if the courting claim is to succeed, which the watch is instrumental to achieving in some fashion, then surely, shouldn’t that be it? What does it matter if I feel jealous, or, more specifically and importantly, felt jealous, before the claim is sealed? The completion of the bond, the claim, whichever, should soothe over any feelings of jealousy thoroughly. It would have no reason to exist, then, seeing as the dragon would consider you its own.”He watched as John tensed at that and hurried on, “Its own partner, that is, not its possession. Irreversibly, too, which I know is something you don’t want to hear, either, but – ““Don’t assume what I do and don’t want to hear, please,” the blond said, his voice more than a bit tight. Then he seemed to shake himself and visibly relaxed, even though he hadn’t looked outright tense before. “Sorry, that was…you were only trying to be understanding and considerate, I know – and please don’t say I was justified in that tone of voice.”Then what was he to say? John wouldn’t want him to lie, either. He knew that from long experience, even if he often enough had pretended that he had no idea. At the very least, he didn’t want to realise he lied, but that shouldn’t give him a carte blanche, either.Thankfully, John went on speaking after another moment or two.“You’re right on the watch. Of course you are, you’re Sherlock bleeding…anyway, I think you’re right on the claim, too. Not that it’s irreversible, mind, we knew that much. And yeah, it’s not the most easily acceptable concept to get your head around when it applies to you, I’ll say that.” He pursed his lips as he stared out at nothing for a moment. “On the other hand, not that much different to what marriage was when getting a divorce was…as good as a crime, really, and compared to the rest of the dragon crap, it’s almost sensible.”He looked back at Sherlock. “That’s not really the point that worries me, not after I’ve had a chance to think on it. Not just because of the alternative, either, by the way. I want to be yours, still, even if that’s a bit more…permanent than I had initially thought.”“But the jealousy does worry you.”John made a face that was halfway between denial and confirmation.“No. Well, yeah. In a sense. Honestly, though, what worries me is that there could be cracks in the plan. Not that the plan doesn’t work…no, that’s not right. That does very much scare me as I have no idea what we’ll do if it doesn’t work, but the thought that we believe we’ve got it right, think the danger is past, and everything can proceed as before and then there’s this one thing we haven’t accounted for and it…” He trailed off.It was his turn to squeeze the hand in his in a way that told the younger Holmes it was an anchoring effort. Something which he could understand only too well. He squeezed back and got a grateful flash of a smile in return.“I do understand that concern,” Sherlock said softly, “and I should’ve thought about that the moment you mentioned it. Before that, even. Not only that but other potential pitfalls, too, and I –”“Let’s not – been enough of blaming or other recriminations through this whole mess, hasn’t there?”“Justified on your part.”John pursed his lips again at that though for an evidently far different reason. “Maybe but then, probably not. I’m…thank you for trying to counter but you don’t have to agree to everything I say or give way on every issue to keep the peace. Externally, at any rate, I don’t know whether you need to in order to internally keep the leash on...”He grimaced as he trailed off again.For a moment, Sherlock didn’t understand. Then it clicked and he felt simultaneously confused, concerned and just a little bit annoyed.“I am not trying to appease you for the sake of it, John. You know me better than that, whatever else has happened.”“You would if it would get you what you wanted.”“Well, yes, alright, but not…I haven’t…” The brunet made a face, partly because it was true, and cast about for a better way of explaining it. “It is merely that…it’s not as though I don’t understand that getting into another argument is one of the last things we want, and I am trying to prevent that.” He paused, frowning. “That and I believe you to be right. Obviously.”It seemed that it was the added comment more than anything that made the difference to the doctor.“Okay, yeah, that I can work with.”There was silence for a moment, two, three. Just long enough for Sherlock to think that John continuing to hold out the watch like that was just a tiny bit silly-looking, however much he understood the reasoning behind it.
Best get moving, then, hadn’t you? In particular if there are things you need to sort out before you even get to the starting line.
And if that wasn’t part of, if not the whole of the refrain of this entire attempt, then he didn’t know what was.“Are there other things you think we need to be aware of before we proceed?”“Other backdoors for the dragon to slip through, you mean? I don’t know. I’m not the dragon here and I don’t know which things could be employed…just about anything, given that it’s you. Your dragon – are all dragons geniuses, by the way?”“Why do you ask?”“Curiosity, mostly. That and if I’m going to be part of that world from now on, in whatever capacity, which seems uncomfortably likely even if you’re not the most…if I am, then I’d like to know if everyone is going to be…”“Playing you because of the difference in intelligence?” He got another grimace from John at the comment but also a nod. “No. That is, they will, but that’s because they’re dragons, not because they’re more intelligent than your average person.”“But they are more intelligent than the everyman.”Sherlock couldn’t help his sniff, even though he tried. A little, anyway. “You ought to know that is about as difficult an achievement as predicting that there’ll be rain due soon in England.”John grinned at that. It was only for a moment, but the consulting detective would take what he could get.“There’s the arse I know and love. No, don’t get me – I didn’t mean that – ““I know.” He tightened his grip on the other’s hand. “Still, I promise I’ll improve.”“Then I shall promise the same, is that alright?”Sherlock nodded.In a strange but not unpleasant or uncomfortable way, that felt to the admittedly entirely inexperienced in such areas younger Holmes as a wedding vow, especially with the solemnity of the voice and the way it was phrased. Which, of course, in a way was what they were doing, were intending to do once they’d…well, not in so many words and there wouldn’t be a cake to cut, but –Did he even want a cake to cut?Irrelevant. Utterly and thoroughly irrelevant, now or ever. This was an arranged – and while that was more relevant, it was something to steer away from even faster than the first thought, going dangerously fast just to get away from it. To be sure, because…So much for getting on with things.“I do not…” he began then paused. Before he made any claims, he had better make sure. Absolutely sure, that was. They could ill afford to be wrong on this. Not even a little bit, in fact.Even though it would mean he had to reach inside himself, to use a hackneyed but nevertheless true phrase, and check, something he was leery of, to say the least.It had to be done, however, so…So he closed his eyes and sank down into his own mind, keeping a tight hold of the hand still in his as he did so.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

One might have expected it to be a long journey. At least as long as the last if not longer. His Mind Palace was certainly capable of...shifts.In reality, it was not far, not far at all since he knew exactly where his feelings about John resided. It might be that he had ignored if not outright denied them ever since that particular part of his mind had started to flourish but…well, in order to do a proper job of ignoring something, you had to first know exactly where the thing you were meant to ignore and avoid were, didn’t you?That he knew where they were also meant that he knew how safe he was or wasn’t, in relation to where the dragon’s abode were.Where he had chained it, confined it, and where it still was. Even so, he tightened the grip, not just on the hand in his but the leash which he still held onto.A shiver of relief went through him as he got confirmation, inasmuch as such a relatively, deliberately small dip into his mind as this could count towards that sort of thing, that he still had hold of the leash that he had caught the dragon with.Yes, so he had known that he had a hold of it beforehand, or the dragon would’ve reared its head, metaphorically speaking, and taken violent and possibly ultimate, irreversible control the moment he faltered in any way, he knew that without a shadow of doubt. If nothing else, then as revenge for what he had done to it.It might be that he had deliberately tried to avoid having to think about or deal with his dragon over the years but that didn’t entail he was entirely ignorant of its behaviour or way of thinking. That was, after all, part of the reason he’d attempted to avoid it as much as he possibly could after…After he had come of age, in dragon terms, and had been forced to deal, in some form or another, with all the more negative or complex, complicated aspects of the dragon, something which had rather overlapped with the more emotional and mental parts. The physical, too, but only as it related to –And this was anything but the time for him to think about such things, let alone to any kind of more complex consideration!As though in confirmation, or perhaps just in mockery or even merely desperation, he could feel the leash being tugged and pulled at, again and again. None of the tugs were brutal or even hard but their quiet insistency somehow brought the situation home much clearer.Crystal clear.The dragon might have gone with brute strength before but not now. Now it was scratching and tugging at every possible strand in every conceivable direction and equal angle, so as to discover a weak spot. It had almost undoubtedly done that before this point as well, but that said, Sherlock was in no doubt that it was perfectly aware of what he was doing, even if it pretended not to be, and had redoubled its efforts.Another reason, as though he needed it, for getting this over with as soon as possible. It wasn’t as though he needed to dive deeply or search far.In fact, the moment he set out to search for it, he was there, right in the wing where John had taken up residence and consequently also his feelings about the man, and it had nothing to do with it being his mind.The place felt bigger and brighter than it had the last time he’d ventured in here, which was only to be expected. So was the feeling of precariousness as he walked around it. Not because his feelings were in doubt, mind.Rather, it was just that there was so much attached to these feelings, to John and by extension Sherlock himself that it could hardly help but be fraught and precarious. Not helped, of course, by what lurked in the depths.In the wings?The ‘joke’, such as it were, sounded like John and Sherlock couldn’t help but look around the long gallery he was now in. Sadly, there was no figment John there to greet him. Not even when he silently, trying not to feel completely stupid, asked for him would he come.Oh.Of course. He was…otherwise occupied, wasn’t he? That only made sense.All the more reason for Sherlock to in fact get a ruddy move-on already and sort this out. Not just the jealousy, though that was obviously the main factor, whether he truly believed there was any or not, but check whether there were any other emotions or other such things that showed a crack or other weakness that could be exploited.Plug all potential leaks, as it were. He had to, whatever it would take, sort this out.Right, then.Looking about him, he tried to feel out where the different parts, grown and bloomed as they had in the time between his last conscious visit here and now, of his feelings towards John were placed.Most of them were positive, as you might expect, and they tended to be quite large lumps.Oh, they might be represented by something or other associated with the feeling or situation in question – he had sneered at himself the first time he’d realised that but at the same time, it was hard to deny that it was an effective method – that looked entirely mundane and concrete. A proper piece of furniture or object, even. But their felt size was something else, something entirely its own and not necessarily any relation to that which represented them.In between all those, however, you found some other, much smaller bits of emotions and feelings that were less than wonderful. Normal people would’ve undoubtedly hidden those feelings as deep as possible, ashamed of them, but while Sherlock wasn’t proud of them, not now and he thought that hadn’t ever, he would not hide them any further.Better to know them now and be able to deal with them.Not just in this situation, either, though he would admit that it’d make locating the jealousy, should there be any, which he still wasn’t convinced of, far easier and more accurate, not to mention the rest of them.Dealing with all the other ones, large and small – that was, the ones that didn’t pose a risk of providing the dragon with a backway into his mind, into control – was something that he ought to do later, on his own, going through them and amending or eliminating the ones that were unacceptable for one reason or another.One reassuring part, if you could call it that, was that he could recognise, just about, the general emotions at a glance and therefore could go through them relatively quickly, which’d only further help the situation.Provided, of course, that there were –He didn’t even get to finish the sentence before he spotted it in a corner, small and bright and sharp. On the surface, as it were, it appeared to be nothing more than a statue. An art deco statue, made of jade, although of course Sherlock would’ve sworn he didn’t know the name for the design.The jade seemed rather on the nose but then, he supposed given its newness, perhaps he hadn’t been in the best frame of mind when –Only, it wasn’t new.Oh, it looked new, at first glance. Second and third glance, too, if you were quick and undiscerning about it. Look just a little bit closer, a little bit more perceptively, and you would find that only the outer layer was brand new, to the point that had it been paint there would’ve been a sign, which corresponded well with the feeling that had crystallised, somewhat literally, at the constant mention of Mycroft.If you looked beneath that layer, though, thee were a whole puzzle ball’s worth of layers of other instances of jealousy, of one sort or another. Even before he’d acknowledged, or started to refuse acknowledging, at any rate, that his feelings for John were…there were layers, by the look and, when he picked it up, the feel of it.Where had all that come from? He would never have believed that he was ever jealous over John’s relationships. He hadn’t even known him…well, it felt as though he’d known him always or at least for a very long time but in reality, it was comparatively short amount of time. There shouldn’t be that many layers, no matter how broad his jealousy had been.Unless, of course, that was somehow…No. No, it wouldn’t be. Nothing to do with the dragon. If it had been then there’d hardly be any need for it to try and steal it, would there? Then it’d already be in possession of all the thread to it that it could possibly need.He would simply have to acknowledge and live with the fact that he was jealous. Had been jealous of John.Afraid of losing John!Yes, quite, but that did boil down to the same thing, in his case, no matter what the motivation behind it possibly was, apart from irrelevant.As he picked it up, he could feel the foundations beneath and also around him shake and something like the whisper of noise from far below, or perhaps not that far below. There wasn’t any noise, quite obviously, but nevertheless, the sensation of noise was unmistakable.Ah.Better move fast, then, hadn’t he?It was tempting to just smash it and just have it be over and done with in one fell swoop, or smash, as it were. However, there was no saying whether that would do the trick or if it might in fact somehow make it worse.What else could he do, then? Time wasn’t exactly on his side if it had been in all of this mess. He suspected not.And he hadn’t even accounted for the other potential pitfalls or points of interest that the dragon might latch onto. Well, he said potential. Should he not think about them, given he’d already found them in their hiding places, so as not to alert the…?As though it wasn’t aware already, if not of the individual things then of the potential in general, at least. Whatever else you said about it, this was his dragon.There had to be something. He had to sort this so that there weren’t anything further that could jeopardise their bonding. That could jeopardise John’s life or personhood, or his own sanity, which would only…well, not as though he didn’t know that, although it had hardly kept him from going around in circles, had it? Stupid.But precisely therefore he ought to be able to find some sort of solution. Something which – oh.The thought came as he looked down in his ‘hands’ and noticed that for all its solid appearance, it was quite…not exactly porous but soft and malleable and it was coming away in his hand.Melting, almost.It was definitely shrinking. What had he done? Was it him or something else?He couldn’t think what that something might be, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was whether this was a one-off or he could use it on the other negative feelings. The ones that the dragon would be most likely to use.Which, given that it was the bonding with John that would bring his unstable condition, and wasn’t that a twee description, under control once and for all – he thought he heard something again and definitely felt the ground shake and he tightened his hold on the leash unconsciously – it would only make sense that it’d try to push its way back in that way.That and it was the place where there were most of the new and otherwise uncategorised and sorted emotions and reactions to sift through, which would make it the largest and also the most fertile ground.There might be other places in his mind that had weak spots, but it wasn’t…Well, it was hardly shiny, was it?Like it or not, dragons were quite the magpies of all things, not so much of what was shiny, beyond the gold, but of what was the most. The largest, the heaviest, the strongest, the strangest, the shiniest, the most expensive, the silliest. If you could manage to combine two or more categories, so much the better, even though some dragons counted that as pollution of the sample and therefore less worthy of a place in someone’s hoard.Not that they shared a definition of what constituted a hoard in the first place, of course. He could almost hear his sire mutter something along the lines of ‘utterly absurd suggestion, there must’ve been something the matter with your egg for you to develop thoughts like that’, complete with huffing, though that was meant to disguise – and he was going off-topic again. Further off-topic, that was.Sherlock had, however, learned, through being told and through his own experiences, that to have a definition of ‘hoard’ applicable to all dragons was rather impossible when it was something you decided only within the framework of parameters you weren’t in control of, and even then, there was usually very little decision in it, conscious or otherwise.It happened on a level below that. A level where…well…For all of those reasons, and probably a lot more besides that he didn’t have the time to contemplate, no matter how fast his brain, or wasn’t, right now, Sherlock was sure that he was to find the other points somewhere in the vicinity of this first one. This was the newest part of his mind, in a sense, and –His train of thought, such as it were, was halted or, more accurately, was jerked to a stop and thankfully also a focus as the foundations shook again.The dragon must’ve found out he’d not only spotted the jealousy and grabbed it but that it was melting away as he held it.That he was destroying its way in.One of them.Looking around him, he more or less lunged at the next one, the jade dripping down over his fingers. At first, he reached with his free hand, that was, the one that wasn’t holding onto the statue. Something which only occurred to him at the last second, just as the thread of the leash began to tighten and yet wobble and jerk.It was only his previous foresight of looping it around his hand several times as well as around his fingers and having a tight grip on it that prevented him from having it jerked from his grip entirely. Another, louder noise and a rumble that was more felt than heard, and he was still almost pulled to the ground.Somehow, though, he managed to stay upright and, shifting his grip on the continually melting remains of the jade statue, reached for the next piece again.It looked like…like John’s gun. Only, it wasn’t, of course, because that was safely outside in the real world. This didn’t even seem capable of working, which was a shame, as –No. He wasn’t to use things, he was meant to close gaps and cracks and contain the lizard infestation.He tried to ignore the echoing thought from somewhere down below him that in order to do that, he needed only turn the muzzle of the gun and press for a moment a little further down.Well, mostly ignore it. He couldn’t quite help sending down, or possibly out, the thought that if he did that, then it would be the end of not only him but it as well. There was no dragon yet that had survived without a host.Yet.The word seemed to hang over him, calm as an undisturbed lake surface but all the more powerful in its threat for that. Trying his best to keep calm himself, which was aided by the feeling, far-off and real, of the hand in his, he picked up the gun. The seething anger that their friendship engendered, by the looks of it, and the confusion and fear that lay behind it.He stared for a split-second, unable to believe that what he saw was in fact real and relevant to their lives. Anger? When had he been angry with John? If it was anyone who was angry with the other, it was John who –Would he make it up? In his own mind, shielded from any and all prying eyes other than his own, why would he make something like that up? It wasn’t to have a replica of the SIG-Sauer in his Mind Palace, that was for sure. What would be the point?The point was that it was here, and it was real, whether he could remember the reason for it or not. Deception and manipulation was a possibility, obviously, but as he concentrated, almost dropping both things in his hand, he could find none of it.He would have to trust his own mind, even if he didn’t trust his own nature.Wasn’t that a novel thing, having to tell himself something like that, of all things?Was he…that was, was he still angry at John?No.Truly? Not just for convenience but honestly, truthfully?He thought about it rather than immediately answering, and then nodded to himself. Yes, he was…he was no longer angry for what John had tried to do, for him and for them. No longer fearful of the truth of the matter or scared of what that might bring for him; that he might not be allowed to stay in his bubble where he knew the rules. Where he was safe and protected.
Alone is what I have.
The thought, the mantra that he had built up for himself over the years, as a reminder that became a shield and then a blanket to wrap himself up in, away from the world, a source of comfort in itself, echoed through his mind and for a moment, he grasped it, grateful for it. For its familiarity and comfort.For its truth.Only, it no longer was.He shrank back from it a fraction before he touched it then pushed it away.Alone was not what he had. That wasn’t even a question or a possibility, that was a fact. John wasn’t going anywhere, provided…but it wouldn’t be of his own free will. Which was part of the problem, but the point right now was how the doctor had turned that deeply ingrained belief on its head, not in one go but slowly and steadily, much like his typing.John had shown him that together wasn’t dangerous and unsafe, or if it was, then the benefits more than made up for it. Together had further benefits than what cancelled out alone, benefits that he would struggle to be without going forward.Alone might not even be safer, provided that together was with the right person.Not even that, honestly. Alone could prove dangerous on its own, too, couldn’t it? More than dangerous, honestly. Merely because he hadn’t been keen on acknowledging it, to others or to himself, did not make it any less true. Only less palatable and therefore less inclined to be believed.As he thought this, there was an almighty screech, as the dying screams of metal being pulled apart at the seams with force. He looked down to his tenuous grip on the statue and gun and saw that, rather than melting as the jade was still in the process of, the metal of the gun was in fact coming apart at the seams, splintering like a brittle piece of wood from the muzzle inward.Or possible like the valves of an exploded steam engine.Sherlock stared.What was he doing to it? More importantly, how was he doing it and how was he to replicate it? There was no doubt in his mind that he’d just done the same thing to the gun, the anger, as he had the jade statue, but he was still no closer to knowing how, and he would need to.He had been lucky so far, which he knew perfectly well, and he knew, too, that he couldn’t rely on going on like that. It could work just fine occasionally when he was solving a case – though of course, he would vehemently deny that he ever relied on luck or coincidence even a little bit, at least as far as the mental work went – but not for something like this.For something like this, he needed to know. To be sure. If he weren’t sure or he got it wrong, somehow, then –Then, honestly, without being melodramatic, the gun, the real or mental one, was the better option. That way, they would at least only lose one of them.Something at the very back of his mind, another buried and ignored part that was nothing to do with the dragon, whispered, the least important one.If he’d had time for it, he would’ve needed a moment for that. As it were, he gritted his teeth and helped the continued tearing and splintering of the gun’s metal, which now had a touch of metallic noodles to it. Tried to help it, that was.As it turned out, he could do more by just holding it, which was – well, for one thing, it was time-consuming. Wasteful, even, but he had little option and so had to put up with it. So long as it destroyed the object, and the way in through it, then he could live with having to stand and contemplate –Oh.Was that it? That seemed rather obvious, though, so could it…well, perhaps in hindsight it did look obvious, but that wasn’t to say it otherwise would.Would you listen to him? He was sounding disgustingly mediocre, to say the least. Was that what being in a relationship did to you? Dull your senses and your brain, your entire being brought down to mediocrity? To some simpleton that would try to justify not spotting the most obvious clues that was brought to him, something which even Anderson –He realised what was going on with a jerk and instinctively tightened his hold on the thread. However, when he looked down, he saw no indication that the thread had been pulled or slipped out of his grasp even a little, which of course wasn’t a guarantee but even so –Something moved. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted it then it was gone. Each time he turned to fix upon it, it moved out of visual range. He could feel its presence, though, and what was more, he recognised it.Recognised it as one of his own demons. The ones he’d thought under lock and key down in the basement, the ones which had clawed at him on his way up out of his mind.Sherlock couldn’t help but wish for the presence of his figment John again, as a help and anchor inside his mind. It was only for a moment, though, as he knew why he wasn’t there.Besides, Sherlock could handle this on his own. Now the beast was named, and he knew what it would throw at him, so it’d be easy enough to shake it off. He knew better, after all.If anything had dulled his mind, it was what he’d done to it himself, through neglect and self-medication, and what John had done was bring a different perspective and nuance to things. He had enhanced even when he’d complicated what used to be so simple and straightforward.Focus.He couldn’t afford to waste time with this, at least.So…where next?Sherlock looked, then looked again. By the time he only held the disintegrating gun, the jade statue having melted into nothing but waxy drops on the floor and even those were already evaporating, too, he’d just begun to question what he’d seen earlier and then he saw it.It hid underneath a table, small and almost entirely invisible. One hand clenched tight, he let go of the gun for the moment it took to reach down and under then quickly grabbed hold of it again on the way out. He heard a distinct hiss and a scraping.Felt a scraping, too.He tried not to let on his surprise, and his grip on the thread didn’t waver. That had hurt and had hurt quite significantly at that.Much as he wanted to look, either at the undoubted wound or where exactly the dragon was, he kept his focus on where it ought to be.On the fear, he knew it to be fear even before he’d got it out to see, that was a marble egg, unusually large and black and streaked. It struck him as odd, even more so than the gun and in particular the jade statue, because it seemed not only useless but exceeding boring, too.The jade statue had at least had an aesthetic appeal. Even if he couldn’t see the appeal of it himself, he could at least recognise why other people might want to have it in their homes, silly though he thought it.So why the egg? Metaphorically, it was easy enough to spot, but surely, he could’ve picked better for the actual object than a random oval shaped piece of rock. He was at a loss.That was, until he remembered Mycroft owning such an egg when they’d been younger. When they’d both – it had been given to the older Holmes by his…special friend. Or was it Uncle Rudy?  No matter. It had had pride of place on top of Mycroft’s desk when he’d been home from university, until…Sherlock couldn’t remember what had happened to it. Possibly it was the victim of some kind of experiment. That would fit, at any rate, given how prone he was to make any kind of experiment at the time, as much out of pure boredom as any kind of genuine curiosity about the subject at hand.That placed the object, which was all well and good, but it didn’t explain why it was being used here, as it belonged to Mycroft, not him. Something else that he did own could’ve surely filled the –Oh!The realisation came with a jolt that he had to check to make sure was nothing to do with the leash. It seemed not, thankfully.But that was…if it were like that, then…but it couldn’t.That was Mycroft’s egg, one which he’d been very protective towards, almost as if it’d been a real one rather than rock through and through – he suspected he’d probably mocked his brother at the time for his attachment to it and said it’d be the only way he’d ever have an egg – not anything that Sherlock had owned.Of course it could. He was being silly and unsure, second-guessing his thoughts, and while there was an explainable reason for that, it didn’t stop it being unhelpful and stupid.It might be that it was technically his brother’s egg, but it wasn’t. Nor was the gun nor the statue, for that matter. That was, they might belong to other people – the gun was John’s and the statue that of his mother or paternal gran – but they weren’t theirs. They were his.They were part of his hoard, and so for his brain to pick those out of all possible objects made a whole lot of sense.However, that meant that he…that there were things in his hoard that he hadn’t intended…Oh, crap.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He hadn’t actively chosen those objects for his hoard. If he had, he would remember, as he remembered every other stupid little thing he had ever added, from the first dead bee strung up in a frame to – to the watch that John was even now still holding onto.Every single one of them was etched into his mind, regardless of how irrelevant or insignificant they were, and none of them he’d been able to delete. He had tried. Oh, had he ever bloody well tried, just to have some more room.At the very least, he ought to have remembered John’s gun because he had specifically avoided taking that.Panic and fear welled up in him at that and it was only the knowledge that if he gave into it, then he would risk loosening the grip or otherwise paving the way into his mind for the dragon. Which was not an option. Simply not an option.It was therefore with great force and sheer tenacious determination that he forced the thought of it, and the rest of them that sprung up and shot across his mind like a falling star across the night sky the moment he had the first. He knew it to be relevant and maybe even crucial but even so, he couldn’t afford to think on it now and lose focus.Focus should be on eliminating these backdoors and do it as quickly as possible.So the next question was why it was an egg representing not so much fear in general, that was boringly easy to work out, but this fear related to John. He wasn’t about to argue that he had the fear this time, as it evidently was, but why this shape for it? John was nothing to do with his apprehension about his nature and he hadn’t intended to mix the two parts of his life anymore than couldn’t be avoid – ah.Of course.Not fear of John himself but fear of how John would react to his dragon nature. One might think that should’ve melted or otherwise disintegrated already, considering, but then…there were still a fear that once he learned everything, then…Then he would leave. Leave and never come back. Refuse to have anything to do with Sherlock, no matter what he did or what he offered. He wouldn’t expose them or anything like that, but he’d still back out completely.That was Sherlock’s fear, at any rate, and even though he now knew that John would roll with the punches, much as he always did when the chips were down, he couldn’t let go of the fear that there’d come a point where it’d be too much for the doctor.This, more than any of the others, both what he’d already handled and what he hadn’t, was the important one, then, and unfortunately, it was one that he had no idea of how to solve. Not that he’d had a whole lot of clue about the other two, admittedly, but whatever he hadn’t known how to do, it had worked.He wasn’t so lucky this time; the egg was as whole and…marbly as it had been when he’d picked it up, with not even a dent or other indications it’d begun to disintegrate on itself nor anything to suggest it was about to do that any time soon, or ever for that matter.What had he done? It had to be possible to work backwards from what he’d done and apply that to this situation. Of course it was, he merely hadn’t found the way. So, all he needed to do was think, and that was something he was good at, wasn’t it? Supposed to be, at any rate.He had…oh, fuck off, you miserable hybrid of a bat and a worm, it’s not intimidating to have you hiss or roar outside…what had he done? There must be – oh.Of course.He’d confronted them. Acknowledged them, rather, and then considered whether and why he felt as he did. It might not have been in so many words nor consciously, as evidenced at least somewhat by the way the statue had behaved, but nevertheless…But he’d worked out why the emotion no longer applied, either, and he…that didn’t apply with the fear. Not when he still believed the reason for the fear.What then? How did he solve it? He could let go of it, yes, obviously. The less obvious point was how he did that. It didn’t help to think that he had nothing to fear from John, now or ever, in relation to himself or to the dragon. He knew that and yet…There was another noise, then. It was small and at first, he wasn’t sure that he’d heard it. Only when he felt another rumble from much closer than the last one and the noise came again did he register it as the rolling wave of laughter. Malicious laughter, admittedly, but nevertheless laughter.You cannot let go of it, no matter how you try. The voice was quiet but clearly audible for that, giving away its proximity, and superiorly mocking in its tone. Look how it sticks to you like a burr, like the tar that it is. The poison that will seep in and sever whatever strings are keeping you together.
Keeping me bound.
Sherlock resisted looking down at the leash in his hand. It was still there and no matter what the dragon might try to suggest or convince him of, it would continue to be there. He was the one in control, of the thread and therefore the dragon itself.
Oh. You believe that do you? And you don’t think that the fact that I’m free enough to come up here, let alone talk to you, is proof enough that you aren’t in control anymore and haven’t been for longer than you want to admit to.
Something moved at the nearest window, which of course was rather large. Despite himself, Sherlock looked in that direction and was more startled than he wanted to admit to see a familiar icy-pale eye with slitted pupil stare in at him through it. It was a whole lot larger than he would’ve imagined, had he allowed himself to imagine that kind of thing.Than he would’ve thought possible. For a moment, just one crucial moment, the fear in his hand pulsing gently but somehow burning still, he believed, truly believed that the dragon had got out of its captive state, despite everything that he’d done, and had merely lain dormant in an attempt to fool him and lull him into a false sense of security.That it seemed to have worked was the worst of –No, the actual worst of it was the way the eye outside the window moved even closer while its pupil contracted and expanded rapidly a few times, an indication that it was laughing.Poor little human, it chuckled. Finally you understand. You might think you could escape from your own nature but…no, you know better than that, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been so afraid and have tried your best to ignore me throughout your life but especially since your little…pet came along. Why you’re still afraid and will always be afraid. So long as you’re allowed to have a mind of your own, that is.The pupil widened at that.
Which I don’t think will be very long, all things considered. Not when there’s so much to make up for and get sorted. Such as reclaiming what’s

mine

. I’m not going to have you along for that ride. Or perhaps I should, and allow you to watch, helpless to do anything. What do you think? Do what you did to me?
Sherlock found that he was drawing himself up to his full height at that, unconsciously tightening his grip on both of the things he held in his hands. At that same time, he felt the hold that his physical hand had and that knowledge, that tangible and felt anchor was enough to banish the panic and fear which had flooded him in the instance he had seen evidence of the dragon.It was not free yet, whatever it might claim, try to convince him of, and he had not…he was not alone in this. John was there and he would – if it came down to it, he would do what needed to be done. Without hesitation, he would do it, too. Sherlock knew that down in his bones.“What I think?” he echoed, as calm as he possibly could, which verged on bored or possibly just on no inflection at all.He wasn’t going to give the thing the satisfaction of any kind of reaction, least of all the one it was fishing for, and that meant he had to contain the sneer that wanted to spring out. It didn’t deserve his anger and it most definitely didn’t deserve his fear.Didn’t deserve anything from him at all, in fact. If it had ever deserved anything, it had waivered that right the moment it had tried to take him over.No, before that, even. When it had thought it had a right to John beyond what he himself gave, willing, as a human being, that was the point where it had forfeited everything from him.Sherlock was the person here, not the serpent. He might not be a man except in appearance, but he was no lower being, no beast. He was a person, through and through, and the dragon would not take that away from him, not now nor ever, neither that nor anything else. If it had wanted to be part of him, properly, that was, that was one thing, and yes, so he ought to have acknowledged it earlier in his life rather than try to suppress it, that was true. But at the same time, it had never played…and that wasn’t even the point.Regardless of whether there were justifications to be found for his actions or not, or that of the dragon’s, there was no excuse for the actions it had taken or tried to take. No excuse for its behaviour or the way it thought not even that it was nothing but a beast. Which didn’t fly in any case.But it wanted to be cunning. To intimidate him and scare him into submission. Into giving it control, like it felt it ought to have had from the start.Sherlock had no idea whether every dragon struggled with their inner self on some level or at some crucial point in their life. No idea even whether they had to go through a version of this whole issue, though he doubted it. Not all of them.Moriarty wouldn’t have. He had a demon on both shoulders, after all, and so there would be nothing to clash with the dragon and its desires. Either they would be entirely in agreement or they’d be in the kind of competition that only builds each other up further.For most others? It –Didn’t matter. Not now. What mattered was bringing the dragon down, metaphorically and literally, or, given where he was, somewhere in between the two.That and shutting down whatever backdoors was left. But, provided he could push the dragon back down, there ought to be enough time to do that, then return to John.John.He couldn’t see him, for obvious reasons, but he could feel him, which didn’t sound as utterly mad as it maybe ought to have done. Not only in the hand that he was still holding onto quite tightly, not wavering in the slightest, from either side, but in the things all around him. The feelings they represented. Which were his own, yes, but that hand and what it represented was…It emphasised, underlined and highlighted those feelings in the glow that they weren’t unrequited. That John did indeed feel about Sherlock the way he’d refused to admit to himself he’d felt about the doctor, and he had not changed his mind in all that they’d been through.Had in fact worked hard and selflessly to make sure that the knots there had been on that thread were resolved the best possible way and as fast as possible.Oh, what had he ever done to deserve John Watson? Well, short answer, he didn’t deserve him but he could damn well do his best to try to make himself worthy. Starting with…not so much banishing the dragon, not this time.“I think that I have heard better speeches from Moriarty.” He paused, pretending to think, cocking his head just a little. “No, that’s being unfair. Unfair to him, that is. At least he’s inventive when he bothers to do it. In fact, I’ve heard better than that from amateurs with their first jealousy-motivated murder.”He smiled ever so slightly. That was, his lips curled a little and the corners of his mouth pulled up. It was gone in a flash, though, as he realised his mistake. “That there? That was – I should be ashamed that something like that came from a part of me, especially one so old and ostensibly cunning as you. The least you could do was be a little bit creative or have some proper dramatics to it, but no. Of course you couldn’t manage that. How could I even expect that?”He heard the intake of breath and saw the pupil contract to a slit at the insult, though more the latter than the former.
You will not get to me, little shell. Not with that nor with any other insult. I have no need for such trivialities and that the…other dragon is so entwined with his human puppet, that is his choice. His failure.
“Failure?” Sherlock echoed. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re jealous of it.”
Why would I have need to be jealous of another dragon’s imperfect solution to a problem? That one is shackled by its human, now and forever. I shall be rid of such hindrances and nothing you or that…puppet of yours can do is going to stop me.
Sherlock didn’t believe that. He knew that he could stop it and what was more, he was going to. Now. Here. Once and for all. Not so that they would have no need of the watch or the courtship but so that nothing would or could interfere with it.However, that did not mean banishing it again or tightening its leash even further, potentially to the point of strangulation, or even both. That way, it would feel justified in retaliating and its resentment, as demonstrated just now. It might even feel in a way that it won, seeing as he had to expend so much energy on it and keeping it contained. Keeping it down. For now and forever.John was right. It would break him. Perhaps not today, or this month, or this year, if they were lucky. But sooner or later, he would slip up or he would snap under the strain and then…So, better to…rise above it. Don’t banish it but rise to a point where it might reach him but couldn’t pull him down again, ever. Where it couldn’t take control whether he had a leash on it or not, though he’d keep the leash, regardless. He wasn’t stupid, whatever else he was.Just an idiot.Yes, thank you, John. Got any ideas on how to rise above it, then, seeing as we’re exchanging one set of madness for another? Not that you aren’t the better figment to deal with, of course, but –Think ‘mental representation’ is a descriptor I’d prefer but if you want ‘figment’, then alright – and of course I have. Or haven’t, as the case happen to be, because this is still you, all the way through. John’s not really here. He’s still waiting for you out on the other side of your brain to sort this mess out so we can move on with life, together. You do have the idea, though, and therefore, so have I.Keeping it safe for you, you might say.Sherlock couldn’t help himself, despite what he’d thought earlier, despite how he’d intended to behave in front of his menace; he smiled and smiled broadly at that, teeth peeking through between his lips and the skin crinkling around his eyes, he could feel it. Insofar as it was possible to feel something like that, of course, when you were…well…What are you laughing about, human? The dragon’s question would’ve been a demand, and at least possibly a slightly impressive or effective one at that, had it not been for the thread of…not quite whine but perhaps…fear?Fear? From the dragon? Honestly?Concentrating and pushing aside all the other things for just a moment, he focused on the dragon’s eye and the rest of what he could feel emanating from it, both –His eyes didn’t outwardly widen but the surprise was still there. Both from right outside the window, tangible for the given value that it could have, and down, down where the dragon still was.This wasn’t the dragon in the first place. Not even close to the real one, again with the caveat of what counted as real. That was still chained down in the bowels of his mind, which the tightness of the leash would confirm, if he stopped to properly think about it. This was nothing more than a projection of it that was meant to fool him.If he needed any further proof of it, there was the eye itself. It was enormous, yes, and quite realistic, to boot, both in shape, size and reaction. Beyond that? Well, there was nothing beyond that, not when he looked.With the windows as tall as they were – because there was such a thing as not doing things by half measures and why not have enormous windows in what was a palace wing when you could? – there should’ve been more. More detail, more, well, quite frankly, more dragon. There was a snout and its nostrils he ought to be able to see from another window. Even foregoing that, he should be able to see what was around the eye, scales and skin and such.But there was nothing but the eye, staring him down. Trying to intimidate him.Why? Why not just take what it wanted, if it was so sure of itself? Even if it weren’t, why bother wasting time with this? Why wasn’t there more of it projected if it wanted to intimidate him into submission? Into servitude.Realisation came, not with a grand explosion or even a jolt, which he at some level was rather disappointed by, but a soft little pop. That, though, did nothing to lessen the impact of it.It was losing its grip. That was it. Yes!That was the reason it was scared and why it was trying as furiously and tenaciously as it was, with various method to find the one that worked. Not because it was fed up or angry or even plotting a greater revenge against him for what he had done to it and how he had treated it. Well, it might be, but the underlying reason for them all was that it was running out of time and consequently was losing its grip as well.Well, obviously.Yes, in hindsight, quite so.It would be…without having John as a way in, an emotional lever for Sherlock – though never a crutch or an Achilles’ heel, no matter how it might otherwise resemble that very thing – which would disappear the moment he completed the courtship ritual and bonded, for lack of a better term, with his doctor.There would still be issues, of course, same as there was in any relationship, he knew, inexperienced in maintaining those as Sherlock were. But so long as he took care of these core ones, as it were, before they went through with the courtship, watch and all, then he’d close the potential ways in.Forever.He didn’t even care that he was going around in circles a little or that the dragon might realise what he was doing.John was right. He did have the answer, after all. Not just to this, either, but to the fear that he was still holding in his hand.The gun lay in strange, curled, thin ribbons of metal on the floor around him, but the egg was only showing the slightest weathering, as if whatever had done for the gun couldn’t do more than chip the merest flakes off its outsides. It wouldn’t be affected by such as that.That was about to change.It was alright to have misgivings and fears, about his dragon nature and his relationship with John. Especially with the two of them overlapping. That was natural and he wasn’t going to escape that, no matter how hard he’d try or how vehemently he might attempt to persuade himself he was above such emotions. Which the things he’d held and had around him right now, not to mention the wing itself, amply proved he was not.However, he was, possibly stupidly belatedly, realising that it was only if he were to continue to ignore them or incubate them on his own rather than talk about them with John that it became a problem. A problem which could then still be solved with some proper communication.There was little that couldn’t solve in terms of relationship, their relationship, namely, and therefore there was nothing to fear.His silence evidently aggravated the dragon, which rumbled somewhere in the depths, the eye’s pupil contracting. It shouldn’t be possible to contract further but it did.
Answer me, human. What do you find so amusing at this time?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock couldn’t work out whether the anger in the voice was part of the fear and desperation or whether it was a separate entity. That difference mattered only in the sense of one fighting the other or instead, one would fuel the other, creating a more uncertain situation.A potentially more volatile reaction, too, if he weren’t careful.Well, then.“Hm? Oh, nothing, really. Nothing of importance, anyway. Not to you.” His smile at that only resembled the previous one in that they both stretched his lips across his face. Otherwise it might’ve looked, will, reptilian. His voice was entirely without inflection once again. “Then again, there’s nothing else that’s going to be important for you, either. Nothing that has anything to do with me, or with John, for that matter. Especially not John.”The eye moved and widened, presumably for a better look. There was something that sounded like a rumbling chuckle, but it had a nail-on-glass screechy undertone to it which rather ruined its effect.
Bravery in the face of annihilation? Or is that just stupidity? Usually you let your curiosity mask that stupidity or your need for a challenge but then, the poor little doctor has had an influence on you, hasn’t he?
“Yes, he has,” Sherlock said, openly and loud, staring back at the enormous eye. He even raised his chin a little, taking care to mimic the way John did it, just to prove a point, knowing that the dragon would see and would know, too. “A far better one than I deserve, without question, and you won’t get me to think otherwise or think less of him in general. But then, I’m not the only one to be affected by him, am I?”
As a doctor and a thoroughly ‘normal’ man, he undoubtedly has an easy time of getting people to –
“Don’t be stupid and evasive,” Sherlock said, with the thinnest thread of a snap to his voice, which nevertheless cracked like a whip. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t try to deflect. Piteous attempt, admittedly, but still. You attempted it, even knowing that I would see through it. So…why do you not want to admit that you are influenced by him, too?”For a moment, the dragon seemed startled; the eye drew back a little as it widened, and the reptilian lids, for lack of a better word, closed over it several times in rapid succession. Then it was gone, as quickly as a lightning you only halfway registered, and the eye shifted back into its previous position. However, it kept on being wider, the pupil thin.As though I would be influenced by something as pathetic and dependent as that. Look at how he’s needed you for his life, for something to give it meaning and purpose. For you to provide him with excitement and thrill, all that he had been missing in his life since he came home a cripple, while at the same time providing him with something to fuss over and take care of.Sherlock’s silence was apparently taken as acquiescence, as there was another, deeper, more confident-sounding chuckle. One which the consulting detective would have felt running down his spine earlier. Now, however, he mostly felt…nothing, quite honestly, which inwardly surprised him, at least a little.It was only then he realised another difference.He had been staring into the dragon’s eye from the very moment he’d first realised it was right outside and had turned around, and yet, he had not felt the slightest pull of it at any point. And while yes, this was only a projection…well, so was he, wasn’t he?A small sense of victory began to bubble inside him. This was even better than he could have hoped for. Of course, he was hardly out of the woods yet and it wasn’t going to be a gentle stroll through them, but he knew where the path was now and he carried a wooden stick, as it were.
You think of him that way, too, little shell, don’t deny it. Even when he’s nothing but a figment of your imagination, his primary function is still to help you. To support and bolster you and your decisions without questioning them. Be what you cannot but not hinder you in your work. Proved adequately by the fact that he isn’t even here.
No, it wasn’t a wooden stick or even a staff he carried. Rather, he held the hand of his partner, still, which was a hundred, a thousand times better. The dragon had not realised it, but it could rattle its sabre, or its chains as the case may be, all it liked and all it would do was prove to him further that he was doing the right thing.That he…no, not that he had made the right choice. This wasn’t his choice to make. But John had made a choice, he stood by that choice and Sherlock and so…So there was nothing that could change it. Not even his own fears.As he beamed, unable to help himself, there was a quiet, rasping yet dull crack as the egg in his hand split in two, almost like a geode, then softly imploded all at once into dust until only a few grains was left trickling between his fingers.
This is his room, is it not? And yet –
The dragon stopped abruptly, thrown by the beam spreading across his features. It was clear it’d not paid attention to what was going on around it, too caught up in the arrogance and confidence of its triumph. Its presumed impending triumph, that was.A cat playing with its prey. Only, it had miscalculated what the threat was. Where the threat was. It would pay for that, come the finish, one way or another.Sherlock would make sure of it. Even if he had to fight it every step of the way to do so.The fact that it now saw the threat wasn’t the same as saying it was going to back down, which was only fitting, considering. That would mean it conceded defeat, after all, and while Sherlock was an entity of his own, for the most part, his pride wasn’t wholly disconnected from that of the dragon’s.Perhaps the way to phrase it was to say that it had been born and fed by the dragon before maturing on its own.For the dragon, however, that pride had never been tempered but had, along with the rest of it, been allowed to grow and fester, for lack of a better word, for most of his life…Considering that, it was little wonder that it tried to keep going, swerving and weaving but not giving an inch.
You think otherwise, little human? Is that it? Yes, it is. I can see it in your eyes. You want me to see it, too. Want me to see as much as possible, so I can be in no doubt of…which is why you’re wearing that absolutely ludicrous smile. That he is something precious, giving you more than you give him. Providing you with something that you cannot gain on your own. Cannot take. How…quaint a notion.
“Taking doesn’t provide you with anything other than what you have taken.”How poetic. How sweet. It moved its head closer. How…pathetic.It sneered, laughingly, as though it had exposed the fatal flaw in his logic. Beneath it, barely detectable but nevertheless there was a vibrato that said otherwise, if you cared to listen. Sherlock very much cared to listen, though he hardly needed to.As far as he was concerned, it could think whatever it wanted and behave however it liked. It wouldn’t change one iota of what he intended to do. What was going to happen, which would happen, too.In fact, there was something almost comforting in the knowledge that, even when presenting it with the evidence right in front of it, without any attempt at hiding or distorting it, it was not able to see what was going on and what would happen. It was too blinded by its own arrogance and fear, which did feed into each other.Truly, for all its cunning, it was stupid.“He does give me more than what I had. What I could possibly gain on my own and far more than I have ever given him,” Sherlock said, his voice as calm as anything while his chin was still raised and his beam of a smile was still intact.If he was going to do this, he might as well lay it all out. For his own benefit as much as the dragon’s. It was good to say it out loud to himself, both for confirmation and as a reminder.Never should he take John for granted. That wasn’t only a reminder, it was a promise. A vow, solemn and true.“He gives me a stability, yes, and someone to impress, that is true, but he gives so much more than that, too. John is comfort and safety, he is a drive to excel, to strive to be better, always. Not mentally, though I’ve never quite burned as I have when he’s been with me, physically or otherwise. But he’s made me a better man in heart and emotions as well – “He called you a machine before he was kidnapped by that other dragon, little human, the dragon interrupted, still sneering. The laughter, however, was gone. Or have you conveniently deleted that? I have not. So much of what you think you’ve deleted over the years have filtered down to me. To your core.“You aren’t my core.”
I AM you!
The sudden roar had the windowpanes shaking and rattling, threatening to break, though none of them did in fact break. Icy pale colours filled the expanse of one window, the pupil nothing but a needle-thin sliver in the icy void.
You can deny it all you want, little shell, but you are me and I am you. What you do to me you ultimately do to yourself. You cannot control me. You cannot tame me. It is impossible for you to destroy me or break me yet you cannot bend me to your will and to chain me will yield you nothing but pain and your own destruction.
Sherlock stared at the eye, without a word, without moving a muscle, even as it shook the foundations beneath him. Then, slowly, deliberately, he closed his eyes and opened them again.“Thank you,” he said, quietly but without the slightest hint of vibrato.
What are you –? Oh, but that won’t do, human. I am not going to be thrown by such underhanded, ludicrous tactics as flattery.
“Oh, I wasn’t flattering you,” he said. “Not in the slightest. Why would I ever do that? I was sincerely thanking you for what you have done.”
And what is that, exactly?
“Shown me that I have made the right decision. That I am making the right decision and that it will be the permanent solution.”
Oh, it will most certainly be permanent. Of that, I can assure you. It will not, however, be a solution that you will have a say in nor –
“Are you going to repeat yourself, now?” The raised eyebrow was audible even if it weren’t visible. “Do you think that works better to intimidate me or something? You truly are an amateur. The least you might’ve done is pay attention. It’s not as though you haven’t had a plethora of opportunities to take information from and copious amounts of data off those opportunities to then draw on. Yet still, considering all of that, this is the sort of thing you come up with? Do you think I am that easily intimidated and frightened?”He scoffed and made a show of rolling his eyes but then went on before the dragon could get a word in edgeways. Not right now. Not only had he still a point to make, but he wanted the dragon to drive itself further into the corner of pride and fear if he possibly could.“For all your talk about us being different sides of the same creature, you have very little regard for me, my emotions or even my skills. Not that I expected you to but that’s not really the issue, either.”
Oh, please. Do continue prattling for as long as you like. It will not change a thing, but it is rather amusing to see your mind try to come up with ways to attempt to distance and lift yourself up from what you are, deep down.
“From you, you mean? But I am distant from you. More than you. Much more.”The chuckle sounded downright derisive, then. You wish to keep dreaming? Then go right ahead. I do not need to intimidate you, as you phrase it nor otherwise –“Then what need did you have of a backdoor?” Sherlock interrupted, judging that enough time would’ve passed now for things to have…eventuated, and so he’d had enough of this. “What could they have possibly done for you that you couldn’t have achieved on your own? If you are that powerful, I mean.”His smile now had a hint of a smirk to it, though only for a moment before he let it drop away, both the smirk and the smile. There was no need to be smug and cocky about it.At least, there was no need or call for it yet. Better to save that for when this was truly over, though honestly, there were a lot of things he’d rather do when they were out of the woods than focus on feeling self-assured.Focus on this for now. Or he would pay for it dearly, however ready or done he thought he was.Wasn’t it always when you thought things had already sorted themselves out that you were most at risk? Complacency breeds carelessness and inattention and those in combination breeds danger like nothing else.It was difficult not to allow himself at least a hint of a smirk, though, when he saw the confusion and fear grow in that enormous eye, causing it to widen. Which in turn led to outright anger, visible in the narrowing of the eye, as it almost invariably did when someone didn’t know how to handle or didn’t want to acknowledge the overwhelming, negative feelings inside.Further highlighted when the question that came then couldn’t quite manage to sound haughty and unaffected. Instead, it was demanding.
What do you mean, ‘have done’, little shell? Why do you use a tense like that, as though it’s a past possibility rather than a current one?
“Oh, as though you don’t know. Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t ask in that way. But then, does it matter whether it’s a possibility or not, current or past, when you so clearly don’t need them? When you in fact have no need of anything or anyone? Including me.”He paused, letting the moment stretch just long enough to be felt, then added, “Including John.”The split-second but rapid and extensive expansion of the pupil didn’t go unnoticed, as he was watching for it.Something relaxed inside of him.Got you.“That’s just it. You do have a need. Not of me, obviously, but of John, and not as my weak spot or point of pressure. There are so many other options for that, all of which you are well aware. It’d make more sense to press those, the ones I’m not mentally on guard for.”There was no response from the dragon, neither verbally nor facially, which was…something to keep an eye on. “You aren’t merely influenced by him, though you deny even that much.” Sherlock raised his chin a little higher and raised his eyebrows. “You are dependent on him. Without him, you have no way in, that is true, but that’s not the important bit. The important bit is that without him, you would not have a desire to do this at all.”There was dead silence for a moment, two.The noise that threatened to shatter the windows then might have been a laugh. To untrained ears, it would’ve been, a shriek of laughter uncontrollable by the person uttering, so deeply felt was it.Pay just a little bit more attention to the vibrations of it, however, and you realised it was merely a shriek attempted disguised as laughter.Why would I have any need of him let alone a desire for this that is dependent on him? A human? All he is a moving, talking object, a part of the hoard that I haven’t yet claimed. In that regard, he is no different from everything else you have collected over the years, nor will he be treated differently than that when I add him.“So you still plan to add him. Why? If he’s that insignificant, surely it doesn’t matter. Oh, he could expose you, but you know he wouldn’t and regardless, you don’t care whether you’re exposed to the world or not. In fact, you want the world to know. You plan to add the whole world to your hoard, or the best bits of it, so why do you have need of one puny army doctor of no significance?”
It is you who have a need of him, not me, and all your insistence otherwise does not make it so.
“So why is it that you’ve never done or attempted to do any of this before?” Sherlock asked. He held the hand that had held the egg, which he’d deliberately tried to keep out of the dragon’s focus, up for the other to see.To see what remained of it, that was, which wasn’t any more than a few grains that had somehow stuck to his palm and was now trickling of it. Nevertheless, the glitter of those few grains were impossible to miss and brought attention to the small pile of dust at his feet.The icy-pale iris followed the movement of those grains, certainly, and the pupil was slowly expanding. Furthermore, if there needed to be any other indicator, there was a high-pitched yet quiet keening noise in the distance.
What did you do?
“Honestly? I’m still not entirely sure I know what I did to this,” Sherlock said, blinking in something resembling innocent confusion. It was hard to fight the grin that was pushing at the corners of his mouth, attempting to get out into the open. “You can’t deny that it worked, though. Well, you can, obviously, and you might, but the evidence is still right there. All gone. Your last way in. Or out if you prefer. Result is the same. You’re stuck, now.”
Stuck? As though something like that would make a difference to me. Who says I would have need of something like that in order to get out?
“Which brings me right back to my earlier point. Why, if you don’t have any need of a way in, or out, to act as a gateway, have you waited until now? It’s not as though you haven’t had plenty of opportunities for it over the years. As I believed was pointed out to you before, too.”
Perhaps I have tried to make you see reason, little human. Merely make you see what you have been neglecting. What you could’ve had if you hadn’t blinded yourself to the dual aspects of your personality and tried to deny me as though I was nothing more than an icky worm left to squirm about in your subconscious.
For a moment, the voice was soft and gentle, its tone warm and sad. Regretful. Pained. It was rather persuasive and convincing, altogether. Or rather, it would have been, had it not been for…Well, for a lot of things, really, small but coming together to fit and show a different picture, though mainly it was because he could recognise it. Could see it for what it was and see where he had done the exact same thing to get through some kind of otherwise impenetrable barrier. It was effective, too. Usually, at least.So, it was perfectly capable and willing to learn from him, so long as it suited it, at any rate. Only when it suited it. The rest could, it seemed, take a running jump.That was…not surprising, when he thought about it, but it did prove that he had indeed made the right decision. Not just to trust John and himself and to get this over with and under control as soon as possible, crucial though that was, but to have pushed awayThe dragon was in it for itself, always and ever.How could it be anything else? It was a dragon. That was its nature. To take and to claim, anything and everything, including everyone, that it deemed worthy of its time and its claim. Then, as soon as it had it, it wanted more. Always more. Consuming and consuming.The greed of humanity given shape.An odd image surged up in his mind of minds at that, of a little boy, or it might have been a tree, who ate and ate and grew and grew, forever wanting more. Pleading its parents for more, even when it had consumed both its parents in its insatiable greed for more.It vanished in the next moment but afterwards, he couldn’t help but see, not the eye in front of him, with its size and its disembodiment, but the dragon itself, down in the depths of his mind. The depths of his person, which was so much more than his mind.Only, the dragon wasn’t.Oh, it was born and fed by emotions and many of the very worst of them at that, but it didn’t exist in his heart. In his soul, maybe, but not his heart, not truly. It was a parasite on it, for all that it was an integral part of him, and it…It needed him. Needed him far more than he needed it, and because he needed John…No. It needed him regardless of Sherlock himself. Needed either and both of them for their own reasons, even though it would deny both.But it couldn’t have him. Not because Sherlock was jealous or possessive, though he wasn’t going to deny there’d doubtlessly be parts of such things intertwined with it all, but because John hadn’t…if John wanted to have anything to do with the dragon, then that was his decision. On his own. Uninfluenced in any way.If he chose to say yes to the dragon on its own, that was his decision, and Sherlock would respect it. However, if he didn’t, then…

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And there was no doubt, not in his mind at this point, that it did want John. It wanted all that he gave them, but it had no idea of how to handle it. Perhaps it never would.For now, however, he didn’t think it was a wise idea to allow it anywhere near John, mentally, emotionally and especially not physically, and so Sherlock would make sure it didn’t touch him.Hadn’t he only just thought on how it was always in for itself, after all? How it knew nothing else but itself when it came down to it? Granted, things could change, and things could evolve and become better, become more nuanced and positive as well, and he himself was at least somewhat proof of that but…But still it was too great a risk to take for him, for them. Even if its intentions, unknown or barely known to it as it unquestionably was, were good, there was no telling whether it was able to follow through on it or its nature would take over. Whether it was motivated by good intentions, if not necessarily noble one, at all, or there was something else going on.It could still all be selfish down to its very bones and its need for John, while something potentially noble and helpful, could stem from nothing more than a twisted version of greed.Oh, for fuck’s sake, this was a bloody mess…
Don’t let the dragon see, don’t let the dragon know!
Yes, thank you. He realised that. Knew that without needing to be told, even by himself, because it was that bloody……Obvious.Oh.But of course. He had almost got himself wound up into a point, a point which unwinding from all at once without being aware would’ve –Would’ve played right into the dragon’s hands. Metaphorically speaking.But it was obvious, once he thought about it, and he couldn’t see how he’d got himself distracted. Had allowed himself to be distracted because he knew who the real culprit in this was. It might be that it wasn’t aware exactly what it had done but it had sensed an uncertainty, a point of weakness, however small and brief it might be, and had seized upon it, presumably because it was out of options otherwise.Desperation made a fool of all. Including dragons, in various guises.Regardless of good intentions or feelings buried within the dragon, which he wasn’t even all too convinced of now – and he could berate himself for letting his guard down and not spotting it immediately later, when all had been sorted and things were safe – it didn’t change the fact of its nature. The nature that it had been outright proud of, too, and had boasted about the time he’d bound it.Apropos binding…His hand closed and his heart thudded once, hard, as it calmed, in the knowledge that it hadn’t managed to get a way in and neither had it got the thread loose. He still had hold of the leash and nothing it had done, or attempted to do, had shaken it loose.It was tempting, then, to leave it all at that, and to then leave altogether. After all, he had done what he had come in here to do, hadn’t he? Entirely successfully, too, even with the dragon right here, pushing and pulling and trying to manipulate things into its favour.Trying to get a foothold or even a toehold so that it could take over. Take over Sherlock and consequently John. Whatever its intentions, that was important to keep in mind. Crucial, in fact. Intentions did not excuse actions.He paused for a second at that thought then filed it away for later use. For later reminders to himself, honestly.For now, though, there was something here that he did need to deal with before he left. He wasn’t going to allow the dragon to take control in any way or create another crack through which it could slink itself, but neither was he going to run away.There was no need to run away from things. Not now. Not when he had the leash in his hand, still, he had the control, and John was right there. Admittedly, so he had at that earlier point, but they were both much more…both he and John was in a much better frame of mind, not to mention much closer than they had been at that time.Talking about things, talking them through properly, had helped, and had made more of a difference even than he’d thought it would – which honestly made it sound as though he’d had little to no faith in it going in, and that wasn’t true, but –Focus!If he was to get out of here and…feel safe after he had done so, not to mention be sure that things were in his control, whether he had an actual, ‘physical’ hold or not, then there was one more thing he needed to do. Possibly two things, but one definitely.He had to make sure.So, he took a deep breath and moved closer to the dragon’s eye, step by confident step. In fact, the only reason it could be called walked was because it was a bit too slow, if not careful, for a stride and a bit too determined and focused to be termed a saunter.Whatever you’d call it, it did its intended job; all the way there, the eye focused on him and although it was large enough that the direction of its gaze was difficult to determine at the best of times, he had the distinct feeling that it was entirely focused on him, specifically his face.Well, that and his hand. The hand that held the thread.Such was confirmed when the dragon spoke.
I could burn it. Burn you and the thread with it. What is it, other than a puny length of thread and a representation of your perceived power over me?
Sherlock didn’t say anything in response, nor did he otherwise react. He just kept on walking. It wanted to rile him with the ‘perceived’, but it was a poor attempt if ever there was, and it wasn’t going to work.Not even if it did decide to burn it.He had been uncertain of that up until…right up until now, in fact, but as he continued to stare at the eye as he came to a stop right in front of the window. Right in front of the eye.On a human, that kind of close proximity would’ve resulted in someone going at least a little bit cross-eyed. As it stood, the pupil did the next-best thing by widening, as if that would somehow help it keep him in focus. For all that he knew, though, it might.It would not, however, intimidate or otherwise threaten him. Nothing it could do would achieve that. That might seem like boasting and perhaps it was, but that didn’t make it any less true.In fact, the more he stared, up this close, the more relaxed he felt. Not exactly more confident and definitely not cocky, but he did grow that last bit of certainty of what he was doing. Of the choice he’d made.That this would work.This was his. All his, through and through. Not in the way of a dragon taking and possessing, whatever his heritage said – and there was something to suggest, and strongly at that, that for him, something had gone wrong between he and his dragon – but in the sense of…of setting boundaries. Which was not the same thing.Every human needed some boundary to find out which parts counted as them, which did not, and which were in that grey area in between. The grey area where something that you thought belonged to you had a mind of its own, often more times than it felt as part of you, or it actively worked against you to a point where it couldn’t possibly count as yourself and yet...Yet, they seemed so integral as to incapable of being a separate entity altogether.Most people had the benefit of only the one or at the most a few grey areas, which were small in any case, but Sherlock…Well, he couldn’t ever do things by half, could he? It always had to be ostentatious, or over the top, as John had once put it about his Mind Palace.It might be that it was mostly a Sherlock Holmes thing at that, if not exclusively applicable to him, not human beings or even other dragons. Not that he wanted it to be, and he definitely hadn’t asked to have a literal representation of that grey area in the form of the dragon. On the other hand, it did mean that confronting it was a lot easier.Hopefully, the rest would follow.No, no hope. There was no need for hope, was there? Not now. He took a moment to feel the warm presence of the hand in his and the person attached to that hand. To feel the warmth in this very room, both off his own feelings and the further warmth reflected from the reciprocation.Despite its comment, the dragon remained passive, with no further comment and not a lick of flame in sight, which only furthered his belief and his resolve.It had made him afraid once before. It had made him react…stupidly, let’s not beat around the bush, though logically in the circumstances, before of that fear. No more. He would not be afraid of it anymore.That made it sound so easy. Almost too easy to have any weight or significance, but…but it was easy, and it wasn’t at the same time.To be perfectly honest, it was only easy, for a given definition of ‘easy’ at that, because of all that had gone before. Because of the lessons he had gained from…from his entire time knowing John, really, but in particular everything they had been through since Moriarty had kidnapped John and forced Sherlock to reveal his nature.In a way, without the Irishman, none of this would’ve happened, not in this way where they had somehow managed to see it in time and, all together, deal with it. Therefore, the dragon might have found its unobstructed way in while he was unaware and weak in some other sense. However, he wasn’t about to send the bastard a note of congratulations any time soon.But it did cement further, as though he needed it, that the dragon was interested in John in particular. The underlying reasons might be murkier, for several reasons, but…but that had been the start of it. The start of the trouble in earnest, as it were.When it seemed that John was going to be taken from him, by another dragon, and claimed for good, then the dragon, his dragon, you might say, finally, perhaps further pushed by his own, influenced actions, had stirred and got itself ready for, for –For whatever opportunity Moriarty would provide, consciously on his part or not. Sherlock would definitely not put that past the consulting criminal, just to see what would happen. The dragon might not have known what it would be and whether it would in fact be useful, but it was worth that risk.It wasn’t as though it hadn’t tried, either, whatever it and he had claimed, he suddenly but quietly realised. To do that been his focus when he’d regained consciousness, hadn’t it? That one thought in his mind, if you cold even call it a thought, had been to get hold of John and –The point was that its focus, its very first want was to make John part of the hoard. Whatever that took, it seemed, judging by the utter mess he’d made of this room and presumably the rest of where he’d been. It had been single-minded in its pursuit, too, and persistent and while he could remember rocketing into the driving seat, he wasn’t entirely sure how he did it.He had done it, though. That was the main point. The crucial point. Even when by all metrics, he should’ve had no chance of regaining control in that situation and the dragon ought to have reigned supreme, he had somehow pushed his way through and not only that, but he’d managedYou are me and I am you,” he began and saw the eye glint in satisfaction. In smugness, in point of fact, but that was only better. Smug meant confidence and potentially misplaced confidence at that. It meant that you didn’t pay attention as you ought to in the circumstances.Well, then. Its loss.“That does not mean we are the same, however,” he went on, “or even that we are interchangeable. Nor that you are as much or more than what I am. You are a basic and fundamental part, perhaps, but so is an ordinary human’s reptilian complex, or ‘lizard brain’. That does not mean the lizard brain is the most often used or the only important part of the brain. Far from it – and that has the benefit of an evolutionary purpose.”And I do not? The sneer reverberated around the brunet, but he ignored it.“Aside from being an anthropomorphic personification and a relic, you mean?” Sherlock shot back then pretended to consider. “Perhaps you might, in extenuating circumstances. As it is, I am struggling to see the point of you, sorry to say.”He took care to neither sound nor look sorry.Self-hatred has always been something lurking in the wings for you, little shell.“Ooh, ouch. That hurt – or it would, coming from anyone else. Just like ‘little shell’. If I am the merely the vessel you claim me to be, nothing but a way to provide you with a physical body, then tell me this – why was it me who came out on top in the end when you had control? When, by all rights, you should’ve been able to take control fully and leave me in the dust, nothing but a memory?”He paused for a moment, more to let that sink rather than needing the time to gather his own thoughts. They were all entirely, reassuringly straight and clear at this point. He had this right, and he could do it.It was telling, he thought, that the dragon didn’t say a single word, either in defence or in manipulation. Now was the perfect opportunity to come up with something, something as powerful and truthful as could be, or as nasty as it needed to be to gain the other hand, and yet…Yet, there wasn’t the slightest hint of a noise, let alone a word. Only utter silence.That was…interesting but did not mean he could relax. He would be a fool if he did.“For you clearly beat Mycroft when he tried to stop you –“ A small part of him that had a childlike sensation attached, somehow, felt a sense of relief at that thought; that it wasn’t him who’d hurt his brother that badly, but the dragon, and the dragon only “– and he’s tousled with some of the most volatile dragons in foreign governments. So why couldn’t you beat me? I was weak, then, and ostensibly in no position to fight back. Your ideal scenario for doing what you claim you want to, in fact.”Still, there was absolutely no answer. Which had to mean that it was plotting something. What, he wasn’t sure yet, but whatever it might be, he had to watch for it. Not that he wouldn’t be ready for it. That wasn’t smugness, either, or even confidence. It was simple fact.Whatever would happen, whatever the dragon would try, he would be ready for it and he would prevail. He had to.John depended on him to prevail and make it out of here, and he was not going to let him down no matter what.If he owed him anything, it was to give him his safety.It was a good thing his brain worked as fast as it did. Otherwise, he would’ve been in trouble twice over. At least.“You have always taken. Now, I am being given something, and that, you will not take away from me. The only one who can take it from me is the one who gave it. If you wish to be part of it, that is a request you must make of him – “Not as though he didn’t know exactly what the answer to that would be but, well – “but it is for him to decide, not me, and definitely not you.”The dragon stared at him, not just through the eye but through everything it had. Everything he had. He could feel it, in ways that were real, that were imaginary. That were everything in between and something beside it.It didn’t speak. Didn’t say a word or make a noise. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought it had frozen in place. It certainly wasn’t gone. Never would be.At least, that was what –He cut the thought off just as that stare, that examination in all of him turned into a battering.A multi-sensory and never-ending onslaught that barrelled down upon him with everything it had. Everything it could possibly grasp and steal.All at once, focused on one tiny speck of self.It tore him apart.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Opening his eyes was…interesting.For one thing, to say that he opened his eyes was assigning something like a physical body to him or a representation thereof. Something which he wasn’t at all sure he possessed at the current moment.To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure there was a ‘he’ to possess anything, or anything that might be called a person. There had to be a consciousness of some kind, though, or there couldn’t be an entity here wondering about it, however vague or scattered or frankly nonsensical his thoughts in fact were. They didn’t appear so to him, of course, but that was neither here nor there.Apropos that, where was here, let alone there?He might not have eyes, or be a ‘he’, but he nevertheless looked around him.Only, when he did so, what he saw was…strange and distorted and yet entirely clear and sharp at the same time. However, what was clear wasn’t very clear at all.That was to say, he could see things clearly enough and there were things to be seen, he just didn’t have the faintest idea what those things were.It didn’t help overly much that they went past him rather fast. Or did he go past them? It was difficult to tell, not least because they kept shifting. And moving. And changing, too.Maybe it was all nothing and what he was experiencing – when sound was made of colours, taste was a smell, and what you saw was tactile, it was hard to cut everything out into distinct sensations, let alone sense – was nothing but the last spasms of a dying mind.Dying? Why would it be dying?Why would it be a mind at all?Alright, enough with the existential horseshit already. This was serious. Important. Crucial, in fact.So was the existential bit, though. If only for the fact that there was nothing else. Everything else was gone. Just a thought was all he had. All that he was.Even as he thought this, he tried to look down at himself. Only problem in that regard was that there was no ‘down’. Or up. Rather, everything was down. And up. And sideways, for that matter. Sensations there were all over the place and things to cause them even as the world around him was also very much a void through and through.But that was contradictory.Yes? The point being…?Nothing. That was the point. Nothing at all except…except a consciousness that floated, or existed, in this void of a world without…anything else.The things surrounding him didn’t count. They didn’t stick around for long, they were halfway there and halfway not, they were made of disparate parts that came together too well and not at all, and – oh, yes, he wasn’t sure they weren’t simply a construct of his own mind.Did he have a mind? Was his consciousness real or a figment of something else?If he did come from someone else’s imagination, they could’ve at least had the common courtesy of providing him with a more interesting landscape to inhabit. Provided they could make him in the first place, and this mess of a place, surely their imagination could stretch that bit further than…than a disembodied figment of consciousness?Figment of imagination? Wasn’t that a tautology?Which probably made a strong case for him being only of his own making rather than that of someone else. He would’ve thought at the very least that someone with a vocabulary that included ‘tautology’, and who knew the meaning of it, would’ve come up with something better.Something more, at any rate.He was him, then, not somebody else.Tenuous as any kind of foundation, backed by only the single indicator based on simple observation without the ability to cross-check, run tests on, verify, cross-reference, rerun tests, or do any of the other things necessary to say anything remotely definitively.That was all he could do, then. Without a brain or hands or anything useful, how could he be expected to even remotely –Hold on.So…things were fuzzy. That was to say, the things that related to anything other than here and now, right this endless instant, were fuzzy. So fuzzy, in fact, that they were barely holding together enough to be described as anything at all, let alone a fuzzy example of it.But it was there. It was – that was more than there had been before. Wasn’t it? He thought there was, that there had been nothing before and now there was something, but he wasn’t entirely sure. The concept of ‘before’, of time, was even more insubstantial and abstract than the fourth dimension normally was.Again, though, there was something. It might be hard to pin down, but there was something. Someone who…who knew about fourth dimensions and a proper scientific approach. It might not seem like a lot for normal people but for a blob, or possibly not, of mere consciousness, it was not bad at all.It gave him a starting point, if nothing else, and he would very much like a starting point. Anything at all, really.To what purpose, though? Was he going to stop being a blob of consciousness? What would be the point of expending a lot of energy if it weren’t going to lead to anything productive?Says the person who analysed just how many types of tobacco ash?Between a hundred and forty and two hundred and forty-three, depending on how you –His mind, such as it were, screeched to a halt then.What was that? Question and response, yes, and a snarky question at that which doubled as a stopper to a negative, unproductive line of thought, yes, but…there was more to that than simply the way of thinking, of coping with a situation.Which was?Well, for one thing, it told him that he was the type of person who had done something so utterly tedious and time-consuming as that. For a purpose. Just what that purpose was, he didn’t know, and perhaps never would, but there had been a purpose, he could feel it.That wasn’t the interesting bit, though, much as it lined up with what he’d gathered up until now. Perhaps because it lined up.No, the interesting bit was that, although he hadn’t had much conscious thought up until now, in this state, he recognised the ‘voice’ asking the question.It wasn’t his voice.But it had to be. Whose else could it be?Fear gripped…him, for lack of a heart or nervous system to grip, or anything remotely, let alone properly physical. Yet for all that, he was in no doubt that it was fear. Lately, he had become far more closely associated with it than he had ever been used to before, and so could tell in an instant.Again, he did a mental brake though this one was considerably smaller than the other.Lately? How could there be a lately when there was barely a concept of space, never mind time? Even considering the whole…thingy. Space-time-something.What was it…had said? Who had said?Back to important things, namely, his fear.Fear of what, though? It was clear and primal and he was frankly astonished he could think about it so rationally even when it was swirling and fizzing inside of him.Was there an inside?Never mind! That was not important!Fear of…of…fear of –It clicked with the spark of something overloading and exploding.The moment it did, the fizzing exploded along with it, taking his rationality out with it. All he could do was feel the effects of it in all their amplified and yet disjointed glory if such it could be called.Was there a negative version of glory? In-glory?Even if there was, he wasn’t then in a state to think about it or about anything else for that matter.Right then, all he knew was panic, skittering, shrieking, tearing. Dragging, pulling, curling, and booming with its nothing even as it howled at the top of its lungs. Keeping everything disparate and fragmenting further. Filling every corner of his being and then pushing at all the edges and sides until everything was fit to bursting and he was ready for it to.Would welcome it to. Anything at all. So long as it meant that this would all stop!Just! Stop!He thought it never would, even as he screamed for it to, begged for it to.The most change he heard out of it was something like a roar and even that he initially mistook for the roar of his own mind.It was only after it sounded again, not weaker but stranger than before, that some small core of him, somehow insulated from the depths and breadth of the panic, noted that it wasn’t him. Or rather, it was and yet it wasn’t, and what was more important, it was the cause of all this.That single realisation, small and simple and to all intents and purposes drowned out by the dementedly cacophonic overload of his panic nevertheless somehow chimed with the smallest yet clearest of bells. At first, nothing heard, and nothing changed.Then, bit by little bit, it managed to penetrate and as it penetrated, it calmed. It cleared even if it didn’t quite soothe.It made the panic recede and even outright dissolve in places. Nothing like fully but enough that that tiny core of thought was able to exhale and as it exhaled, it expanded. It stood up and grew roots.As it grew, it grew…not so much a voice or a person as a…A presence. A kind of knowledge.Knowledge of a person?Perhaps and perhaps not. Who knew? At this point, it was almost impossible for him to tell.It was important that he could tell, though. Crucial, in fact.Something inside of him told him as much in no uncertain terms even if it didn’t bother telling him anything else before buggering off back where it’d come from. It was nothing he could identify or otherwise grasp hold of on his own either, much to his frustration.Furthermore, he could feel the panic clawing and howling at him from just outside, trying to take –No, hold on.That wasn’t – that wasn’t the panic. It resembled it, enough to be mistaken for it, but it was not the panic.What was it, then?It was familiar – the voice from before? Presence, whichever.No, that wasn’t –Come on, come on, come on! Get on with it. There’s not time for this. You’ve already wasted too much time by half by floating around this stupid, insubstantial plane where everything is mucked up and fucked up and you’re allowing your primal bits to take control.He wasn’t even anything, how could get on with it? Not to mention the teeny tiny fact that he had just been battling panic, which was prowling outside, ready to pounce and devour the moment –
That wasn’t panic. Couldn’t he hear that?
He might if he was allowed a moment to actually examine it so he could properly deduce it.
There were far more important things to be getting on with than wasting time with his ever-so-quaint little deduction game that –
Shut up, Mycroft!Everything froze or at least halted in place, which amounted to approximately the same thing.Mycroft? The name – was it a name? was…that was an important thing. A very important – had things changed?He looked up, metaphorically if not exactly physically, and tried to examine the world around him. It was still quite the interesting experience, seeing as senses were a tangle to make expert weavers weep right now, but he thought he could sense that there had been a change and a significant change at that.Only, he couldn’t detect what that change was.Something to do with ‘Mycroft’? Why? He felt sure that Mycroft was a name, extraordinarily silly though it sounded. Furthermore, he was very sure that it wasn’t his own. There were…things attached to it that, fragmented and incomplete, to say the least, though his sense of self was, he was certain didn’t belong to him.Feelings.They weren’t all bad.He just – why could he remember somebody else’s name but not his own? Where had the panic gone? And the other roar that wasn’t panic?Whoever had spoken was right in one thing, though. There wasn’t time. Not to waste, at least. There had been too much time wasted as was and he couldn’t afford to lose more.Why not, though? What was so important?It was, it was –He almost lost himself for a moment, for all that such a term even existed in this endless non-time, trying to figure it out. As he thought and thought, the small ball of consciousness drifted along without any idea of where it was or where it was going, and possibly not any concept of either.Then, in a snap that felt like someone had set off a lightning bolt inside his very tiny point of being without making allowances for dispersal of energy, it came back to him.Not all of it, insofar as he could tell what the phrase ‘all of it’ even constituted, but enough to know why time was a factor, and also what that roar was.Both the roar and the…the other noise that he’d heard but couldn’t identify, neither of which had anything to do with the panic.The panic which was…somewhere else…?It was only then he realised that he’d begun to drift and was in fact now somewhere quite far from where the panic was.A part of him piped up to let him know that that wasn’t how things worked but he told it to shut up. This was his brain, and he would do with it what he liked –His brain. This was all – was this all his brain? But what about…all this outside space? Why was there his blob of consciousness within his brain and everything else was as though someone had used the wrong pens on a whiteboard and then tried their hardest to wash them out?Wash them out…that rang a…a bell. No, not a bell. A string.You couldn’t ring a string, what the hell was he on about? Having been reduced to this was really taking a toll on him. A toll he couldn’t afford to –Yes. Yes. Repeating himself wasn’t going to solve anything, was it? There was no audience to this case, so why was he bothering with all this…this…this verbal flotsam?Because…Because – he realised this even as he thought it, because it was helping him. Not in finding the causes, perhaps, or not in the way that he expected to find them, rather. Instead, it was bringing together little bits and bobs and other debris of various kinds.Things that he would’ve…honestly, he would have dismissed them as parts of himself. Insignificant, minute. Trivial. Detritus of his life, floating out in the periphery as so much flotsam.Or perhaps jetsam, rather, seeing as they were things he would’ve happily jettisoned and been glad of the excess baggage lost.Except…Except it was not excess baggage, or detritus. It might be flotsam but that was because it had floated around him, both disregarded and overlooked, doing all the little things in his life that he never noticed.No, because you’ve refused to look up over the edge of your intellect and see what was happening all around you.That voice again. Part of him and yet…yet entirely separate as a being. How could that be? Either something were a part of you, or it wasn’t. It couldn’t be both.People couldn’t be both, at the very least.And yet…Yet they could. They were. He knew they were. From personal experience, even, impossible though that seemed to be.This, this person was their own person, fully and wholly. Complex, too. Yet they were also part of him. As fully as they were a separate creature. Entirely contradictory and yet true.A truth that he held very dear to him, he realised.No, wait, not that. It wasn’t the truth that he held – it was the person. That was why they were part of him and their own person.He felt he was on the very edge of something, straining his arm, his hand, and his fingers to their very limits – especially seeing as he had none of them in this moment – in order to grasp it, just the edge of it. If he could only reach that little bit further, he could –Another noise tore the smudgy landscape around him into pieces. Pieces that stitched themselves together almost immediately but did so jaggedly and disjointedly, rendering everything topsy-turvy and simultaneously blurry and stark.It would’ve been nauseating if he wasn’t already past that stage, or well within it, still.Was it the panic? No. It might sound like the panic, again, but not…no longer enough to be mistaken for it once he actually applied his brain and thought about it for more than half a second.Then what was –?Oh.But that was…why would that be here? Wasn’t that why he was here, nothing more than an insubstantial blob of consciousness that might or might not have something resembling limbs or even a whole body?Was it? And what was ‘it’, anyway? No, there wasn’t even one it, there were several. Hundreds, in fact, if even that was –No. Enough. That was just hurtling him down another path without rhyme or reason without actually progressing him forward in any way. Going in circles wasn’t going to help anyone, and that was without adding the time limit.Yes, yes, yes! Going on about it wasn’t going to help anyone either now, was it? When had prodding and poking ever actually managed to get anything done? Except blowing further the ego of the person prodding?The path he actually ought to be going down was…was…Was after the noise of the not-panic. The one that puzzled him. Then at least he would know for certain what it was and could work from there.Practical. Efficient. He had to be efficient.
Well, that’s going well, isn’t it?
Oh, shut up. As though snark was going to help anything at this point.
Doesn’t normally stop you.
No, but normally he wasn’t snarking himself, now, was he?
Actually, you have. Especially lately. And generally been a lot more self-critical, hard though that is to believe, too. Done you good.
Since when had he done something like that?Since…since…He was distracted, which was possibly just as well, by the noise he had heard before. Or…not quite that noise, actually. Something similar but different enough that it took him a second or two to recognise it.When he did, he pulled back. More than pulled back, in fact; he drew close to the ground, if there could be said to be a ground, and, insofar as he could, made himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Which wasn’t saying much, admittedly, but –It came again.As it did so, he felt something inside of him, which was a strange thing to say when there barely was a ‘him’, let alone an inside, to go around, strain and then kick.Physically, or perhaps not, kick him. Hard. Getting him to stand up and more than that, approach the noise and whatever was making it.That presence of before. The one that was nameless and separate-yet-part of him.But why should he?It was important.Wasn’t there something more important than this? Such as finding out where the rest of him was? Or what he was that afraid of, for that matter? As something was so keen to inform him, he didn’t have oceans of time to squander.No, and that’s why you’ll want to focus your energy on this thing.But –Trust me. This one, just trust me without question.Don’t I always?It felt as though he did. That if there was anyone he did trust, it was this person, and not because they were part of him. If anything, they were part of him because he trusted them.Not really, but I appreciate the sentiment. That’s more than I’d normally get from you without having to fight for it. Now, go and see what that something is. You will not regret it.If I do, it’s hardly as though I can charge you with it, let alone transfer the repercussions onto you, is it?There was the ghost of a bark of laughter.That was all.Nevertheless, he felt strangely cheered by the comment, not to mention the laughter. Cheered and warmed, actually. No, that was…that wasn’t quite it. What was it? What was the word? Buoyed. That was it. Uplifted and buoyed.As though he was going in the right direction and more than that, it was going to get easier going forward.Somehow, that was simultaneously hard to believe and very easy to believe in. Then he realised it depended on whether he saw it through his own eyes or not.The noise came again, fainter than before.It sounded almost pitiful, although that felt wrong in all kinds of ways.And so, he pressed forward, heeding the urgings of the voice that he trusted. That he held very dear to him. Something which was quite puzzling and at the very least novel for him to experience.That sort of thing didn’t happen to him. He was beyond such things.Except…that felt wrong. Old and settled but nevertheless twisted and wrong. He pushed it aside, discarding it as best as he could, and pushed onward.Only to almost immediately come face to…face, for lack of a better word, with the very thing that had made such a noise. A noise both frightening and plaintive. Something which fitted exactly with the thing that was before him.He felt a twinge that was not of his own doing for calling it a thing, but what else could he possible describe it as? It was not a person and, frankly, he struggled to see what else it could possibly be.Monster, perhaps, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t be received much better.A distinct feelingSo…what was this? Why was it here, and why did it continue to make such a horrendous noise? It did not belong here, it was foreign –
No more foreign than you, mate. In fact, it’s exactly as foreign as you are. As native, too, come to that.
And what precisely was meant by that? Being enigmatic was all well and good, laudable even, but there was a time and a place and without an audience, this was not the place.Pick it up. Then you’ll see.He could see just fine where he was. If need be, he could swoop closer, but there was really no – and what exactly was he going to ‘pick it up’ in? He had no arms, let alone a blanket to wrap it in. What was he supposed to do? Glow on it until it rose up into the air?It certainly looked as though it was going to need all the help it could get to even get upright let alone standing or moving. To be honest, he couldn’t even see what bits were supposed to be what, and how that folded together into a, a creature of some kind.Now you’re just stalling and being obstinate.Yes. He was. Was it working?No, Sherlock. It’s not. Stop being a petulant five-year-old and go help.This was his world. All that he had left. He could be as obstinate as he wanted, and it definitely wasn’t being –Hold on. Just a moment, hold on. That was – that bit had been significant! Why had it –?Oh.Oh?
Oh!
His name. That was his name, that was! His name, as casual and easy as that. As though it was of no real importance and no consequence, either. Just a name, same as everyone and everything else possessed.Boring.Except this was anything but boring, and not simply because his name never had been and never would be among any of the most popular names in the country.And was exactly did he know this? What possible use could he have for baby names of any time or any gender?It had been for a case, obviously, and one which was more than a little –A case? What case? He wasn’t in the police, was he?As though you’d last a week within the structures and rules of an establishment such as that, and that’s if the others in the force wouldn’t have kicked you out first. Or worse.Again that voice, and it sounded faintly amused at the thought. Why?
In good time, Sherlock. You’ll see. Trust me.
And he did, too. Implicitly. Bad idea, undoubtedly – alone is what I have, alone keeps me safe fluttered past like a frightened, desperate butterfly, gone in the next instant – but one he had neither the power nor the will to dismiss or ignore.He moved himself, if you could call what he was right now a self beyond the very basic sense, closer to the mass that might and might not have been a creature.As he hovered above its presumed face, trying to work out what it was and why it was here from what little information he could glean – deduce – he got absorbed in the task despite himself.So, when the thing suddenly opened its eyes and stared right at him, he was entirely unprepared and jolted backwards.That was to say, he shot upwards as though he really was nothing more than light catapulted out of a rocket.As he did so, he thought he felt something reach for him, which only made him wish to speed away all the faster, and so he did. Even so, he felt something brush against his leg as he hurtled skywards.Except, of course, he had no leg and there was no sky. Nor was there any indication that where he was going was particularly…upwards. For all he knew, all that the data he could gather told him, this might as well be sideways or even down.It wasn’t as though the thing was lying on anything, either. Just a bunch of nothing.Nothing with bits in it.Seemed strangely appropriate. Wrong but appropriate. Why was that?How come he had so many questions about everything and none of them led anywhere? Why couldn’t he progress? What was progress? How did he achieve it and what happened when he did?Something to do with that person he trusted? That was it, wasn’t it? It all had to do with – well, perhaps not all, he could feel something protest vehemently enough to set something aflame, but very much to do with that person, nevertheless.Mostly, even, he was prepared to claim. More so than he’d been aware of, let alone had been willing to admit, judging by the protest.When he finally made it up out of reach of the…thing, he slowed and came to a stop.It wasn’t that he wanted to slow. He wanted to keep going. And going. Further and further, as far away from that there thing as he possibly –You’re not scared, are you?That wasn’t his trusted person. Not even close. Still familiar, though. He’d heard it before, he knew, and he’d been able to place it. So why wasn’t it coming to him now?It was just on the tip of his…whatever the light-equivalent of a tongue was when another voice, strange and yet familiar in a way that he didn’t want to think about cut into his thought –You’re starting to bore everybody, Sherlock, and you know what happens when people are boring.Instinctively, though exactly which instincts were at play here, he couldn’t say, he looked down to the thing that he had struggled so hard to get away from. Looked down to see…To see…To see whether or not the thing was alright. Whether the voice that he’d heard would in fact do what it had implied that –Alright, just what had it implied?He didn’t know. Not clearly. It was too much of a haze. All he knew was that whatever it was, if it hadn’t happened yet, it was about to happen, and it would hit this little monster. This thing.But that was good, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what he wanted? To be rid of it?Something about that last sentence in that string was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong, and not because of the words.It took him a moment, as he sped back down – up? – towards the thing to put a finger on what that something was. Which was ridiculous as it ought to have been abundantly obvious the very moment that it sounded.And that was just it – the sound of it that was wrong. It was not just a screech and a wail rolled into one horrible package, which would’ve been unbearable enough on its own, but a roar, and not the roar of an angry human, either.An angry, or possibly anguished, animal. No, not animal. Well, yes, but no…not –Dragon.That was it.But no, that wasn’t right, either. It wasn’t – that wasn’t a dragon.It was two dragons, and possibly three, all clanging together inside his head and out of it, too, which ought to have been impossible but then, he shouldn’t put too much store in possible and impossible here, should he? Normal rules, whatever they were, didn’t apply to this situation and this…wherever this was.All of them creating a cacophony, and one which affected and influenced his own train of thought?How could that be?Are you deliberately trying to play the fool to distract me or put me off my guard? That same lilting, pleasant but nevertheless nasty voice asked.He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to acknowledge it at all.That voice was not part of him. Or if it were, then he had to find a way in which to exorcise it as soon as humanly possible.Inhumanly possible, you mean.He had made it down to the creature, hovering just above it, unsure of what to do. Knowing he had to protect it did not magically give him the means to –Pick it up.No, to protect it, for –
Pick it up!
The strength of the insistence, coming from not one but several parts of what he was increasingly thinking of as not just his mind but himself, combined with the presence that’d driven him down to the creature so rapidly in the first place, pushed at him hard.Hard enough that he found himself floating down to…to where it could very easily reach him if it wanted to. He still had no idea how he was supposed to pick it up, but –Its eyes turned towards him, wide and curious and it had to be said, lost and frightened. In fact, it very much resembled a baby, except a baby with a much deeper comprehension of the world around it and consequently, a deeper strength of feeling.Those eyes asked for help even if they did not know how to say it.He drew closer almost despite himself, to the point that he was gently touching its…he would presume to call it a muzzle, but he might be mistaken in that. It was only because the clues were overwhelming that he could be sure of its eyes.The moment he did touch it, though, something happened.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In fact, several things happened and happened all at once. Far more than he was able to cope with in the situation.Perhaps normally it would’ve been no trouble, but this wasn’t anything like ‘normal’, insofar as he knew what normal constituted and was consequently able to distinguish one from the other.This was…he didn’t even know what it was.Even if he had, though, he wasn’t in much of a position to think, let alone deduce and work out clues. Being brilliant, even though that was his privilege.His right.Why was it his right?One of the things that happened and happened immediately was a flash. Not a flash of light, despite the association. Instead, it was a flash of visual noise so loud and compact that it blended together into a wall that expanded outwards and kept going.Taking him with it.As it did so, all he could think was that whatever it was wouldn’t get to touch anything else, let alone harm it. So he clutched the creature, the baby, to him with all his might, curling up in a ball as tight as possible – the impossibility and subsequent irony of that was lost on him at the moment, for good reason – and trying to protect his mind as well.He had been ripped apart once before; he wasn’t going to allow it to happen again. There was so precious little left to him, and what was left was precious.Precious? Even this…thing?
Yes.
At the same time the visual noise filled the world, and his whole being to boot, the world itself dropped away.How he knew this when said visual noise was taking up every possible space of his mind – never mind how he knew anything at all – was anyone’s guess. Possibly at the edges of his consciousness, he could sense that everything that was or should have been there that wasn’t noise had…vanished.For a moment, that seemed to be it. That would be bad enough as it was, and wasn’t that putting it mildly, but at least nothing more was about to occur. It was contained to ‘only’ two things.Except…Except then the world came back and turned itself inside out and upside down at the same time.He curled himself even tighter around the baby, who, while entirely quiet, or possibly just not audible right then, clung to him as though he was the only thing that could possibly keep it alive, never mind whole.For all either of them knew, he could be.Protect.That was what mattered. To protect. Himself and everything precious to him. Including this pathetic little thing that looked at him as though he was its entire reason for being.Everything else became nothing.At some point, he didn’t know when and had not the faintest idea of how, the world must have come back, in some semblance of a real, normal world.Well, he said normal.It was more accurate to say that it was a place he recognised. Not necessarily a place that existed but one that he could identify.One where, at least for the moment, they were safe.Only then did he notice something else. Something which must’ve happened in that explosion of things occurring all at once – he’d felt a strange sense of déjà vu throughout this, as though such an explosion as that was a mere echo of something else far worse and very recent – while he was otherwise occupied.Something that had nothing to do with the surroundings and yet was far more important than they could ever be.He had arms.More than that, he had a body those arms attached to. All in the proper order, too, and fully at that, so that he might be said to be, at least superficially and for a given value of the word, whole.A whole body.Whether he was a whole person yet remained to be seen, though.Was he ever a whole person? Could you be a whole person?Why did that matter? He did not have time to get philosophical in any case. There were far more important things to consider and deal with.Except, if you don’t consider the philosophical parts of this, you are never going to be whole enough to escape this, Sherlock.…shut up, Mycroft…!…and thank you for pointing that out, too, it helped…You are welcome, little brother. Now do go and be brilliant so you can come back to us. You have people waiting for you.Waiting for –?A flash of that voice that had sent ice down his non-existent spine streaked through his mind but was gone in the instance of a lightning bolt.Not him.No, not him at –John.That was it.The moment the name clicked into place, he wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs. Wanted to whisper it in every fibre of his being. To know and to be surrounded by nothing but John, his name, his voice, his being. Everything that was him.
Shush now. Later. Right now, we still have a job to do. Remember? Do the job that’s in front of you.
Today, we are soldiers.Yes.What was the job, though? That was the problem. He couldn’t remember, and he should remember if he was to –The bundle in his arms stirred and made a thin noise. It wasn’t even a wail or a whine and yet it was a plaintive noise.A forlorn voice. The voice of something that wasn’t only lost and in need of help but which also knows somewhere deep down that in reality, no help will come. That it doesn’t deserve any help, and that it will forever more be in this pitiful state it finds itself in.He looked down and saw those large eyes staring up at him. Unblinking.Pleading.No, not even that. Just asking.Asking for help?Yes, but something else, too…something that he couldn’t put his finger on…Those eyes, though, they were…There was something familiar about them. In several different ways, in fact, even though there –His eyes.Those were his own eyes. Down to the heterochromia, even, which was something that he’d learned back when he’d been seven and then promptly deleted, or so he’d thought.Except, not…quite his own eyes. Not with the washed-out, almost icy quality to the colours and of course the slits where round pupils ought to have been.Vertical slits, though, which meant –When it finally, finally clicked fully into place, it felt as though…to be honest, it felt like a kick to the head for not having come to this very obvious conclusion a whole lot sooner, if not the very moment he had laid eyes, as it were, on the creature.
You were too busy being disgusted by it, though. How could you expect to see anything when you let your emotions cloud your –?
It wasn’t his emotions clouding his judgement. Well, it was, perhaps, but it wasn’t purely that. If anything, it was as much the fact that he was, was, wasn’t…that he was…oh, it was right there a moment –That he wasn’t whole. That was the point. The issue at hand.So, now, he was whole all of a sudden?Not…quite, no. That would be making them into different parts of a jigsaw puzzle slotted together and that wasn’t how things worked.And yes, he was aware of what context he made this observation and claim in.What he thought, what he felt was more the case was that disparate parts of a mechanism had finally come together and was now being slowly and carefully aligned, bit by bit. A fact which was underlined by the way that he’d only really…come into his own, as it were, when he had done what John asked.Started to come into his own, that was. He was far from there yet, he could tell, and neither was the…the creature.The dragon.Was it the dragon? But his…his dragon – and that was a strange concept, but not as strange as he wanted to pretend that it was, honestly – wasn’t this…this overgrown salamander blended through a group of eight-year-old girls’ imagination.It was…well, for one thing, it was bigger. Much bigger. That he definitely did remember. Hardly a strong revelation, of course, given that pocket-sized dragons were…well, for eight-year-old girls, and younger.How could it be bigger when it was always restrained within his mind? When the most he ever did was let bits and parts of it and only when he had a use for it rather than when it would be beneficial to the dragon to come out, and the rest of the time, it was contained and confined within the bowels of his brain?That was…but that was –He took a step backwards at the accusation as it slapped him across the face.That was not true nor was it the point of –And where had that even come from? Not from Mycroft or John and definitely not from himself.Where did he think, though? It wasn’t that hard a deduction to make. Ordinarily, he would’ve called it pedestrian.He glared down at the creature in his arms, tempted to drop it. Very tempted indeed. To get away from anything remotely to do with it and what it implied. What it outright stated, too.It wasn’t supposed to be sentient. Not in that state.Why not? What state had he been in when he’d first come to here? At least this had had limbs from the beginning, which was more than he could claim. Limbs and a body to go with it, and a voice. What did he have? A lump of light.Well, yes. But he was a, a person. This was, was a – a –A creature.No, not even that. A mere fluke of thought, an aspect of a mind. Nothing of its own.A parasite.No.The one word was quiet and almost soft yet fierce enough to reverberate throughout this…space, wherever it was.
It’s inside your own head, Sherlock. You haven’t moved. It’s just a part of you that you haven’t visited in a very long time. A part you don’t want to visit because it’s not somewhere you have any control over. Or rather, a place where you don’t have all the control, and so you’ve run from it.
The voice speaking most definitely belonged to John, and it was he who’d said no, too. Not surprising, perhaps, but even so, Sherlock would’ve expected, after that small tirade of a lecture, it to come from the dragon itself.As though you would listen if it were. You’ve run from it until you’d convinced yourself that it didn’t exist or that if it did, then it was a base and crass part of you. Beneath you. Literally.And this is where this creature comes from?This is where you left it, yes. Where you abandoned it.But I didn’t. It’s grown up with me all the way – I’ve not fought a, a bloody tickle-me toy for control over my own bloody mind! The creature that blasted me to smithereens wasn’t…this!No. Exactly.What the hell do you mean, ‘exactly’? And why am I arguing with you when you’re not even – you’re barely even a voice, John, let alone a mental manifestation of you!How he suddenly longed to be able to reach out and grasp hold of John in some way, regardless of whether he was real or not. Real was a concept that was as relevant as time here. So long as he was tangible in some way, Sherlock would be more than content right now.You know who I am, though.Yes, of course I know – oh.That and the rest of it didn’t come by themselves, did they?No, they came by him working hard and using his brain and –A small mewl distracted him but what properly stole his attention was the touch. Specifically, that the small thing, dragon, whichever, had turned in his grasp and was pushing its head into…the crook of his arm? It was hard to credit, for more than one reason, but it seemed that he must, simply for the fact that it was happening right now.What was still lacking was the explanation as to why it would do that. He had no immediate answer.Considering all that it had been put through, the dragon, up until this point, even if it were reduced to this, it should have absolutely no reason to want to have anything to do with him let alone seek comfort and safety from him. And that was not even mentioning the small tirade earlier.Not so small, really.Well, no, but that was – the point was that it had no reason to expect anything good from him, even less so if this was an aspect that had been abandoned here fuck only knew when, so why exactly was it trying to gain comfort and safety?Apart from the fact that there was nobody else, of course. That was an important factor.Still, it could have, should have sought it from nothing rather than him, in light of…Of what he had done to it.To himself.He looked down again and saw that he had, in fact, not merely allowed it to nuzzle into him but he had shifted his arms for a better, firmer grip. A more secure grip and one which would provide a better comfort to the small thing as well.Creature. It was nothing but a, a creature. A beast. A parasite, a –A little one who needs you. As you need it.He would have opened his mouth to protest that last statement, quite vehemently.Thankfully, something stopped him before he could. It might have been nothing but his common sense or it might have been his conscience, much as he’d liked to pretend that he wasn’t saddled with one.If he didn’t need it, why was it still here? Why hadn’t it…died, as it were? Metaphorically, yes, but all of this was abstract, so that went with the territory. Abandonment and neglect ought to have killed it off a long time ago. Provided it wasn’t essential, and his brain knew that.No, not his brain. This wasn’t…this went deeper than his brain, didn’t it?Oh, come on – what had they been fighting for all this time if not for control over his brain? His body? Without his brain, his body was quite worthless.Someone would probably like to differ.Yes, well, there was that. But he would like to think that John didn’t just like him for his body. Nor would he be…him without his brain, and so the argument still stood.You wouldn’t be you without something else, too, though.The dragon? Was that what was being got at? No, that couldn’t be – it was on an equal footing with him, and that was separate from his body and from his brain.Think, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be smart. Try to be emotionally smart, too.Of course he could be emotionally intelligent –Oh.Well, he wasn’t being so now. Or rather, he hadn’t been. Hadn’t been using much of anything so far, had he? Not truly.At this point, he seemed almost normal in his stupidity. Fascinating in its way. For a visit. But not somewhere he would want to stay.He wouldn’t be him without, for lack of a better term, a soul. Or himself, separate from his brain and body, if you preferred to put it that way. That was what had been meant.And the dragon was part of that? Well, it was part of his psyche, so he supposed that it would be part of…Of him. Of his soul.But then, he would never get rid of it.Why would he want to get rid of it?Because otherwise, he could never be the one in control. And if he wasn’t the one in control, full control at all times, then sooner or later, and almost certainly sooner, he would be forced out by the dragon, his body overtaken and he himself reduced to nothing but a passenger within his own mind, helpless and without any agency.Did that sound familiar? Just a little bit, perhaps?No, why would it –?Oh.Had he…surely, that wasn’t what he’d done to the dragon?How could he possibly be that naïve? Or was it just wilful ignorance so as to not feel guilty for what he’d done? For what he had caused?Again, he intended to argue but something stopped him. Whether that something was himself or John, or the two of them in combination – or something else entirely – he had no idea and didn’t stop to examine it in depth.There wasn’t time for that right now, was there? Or maybe there was but even so, there were things that took priority. Such as…As making amends?Strangely, or perhaps not, he couldn’t find it in himself to protest let alone outright argue. Any savage cutdowns had themselves been cut to shreds before they’d fully formed, and that was just as well.All of a sudden, he felt tired. Not in the normal way of it, if you could say that. Nor even mental exhaustion or fatigued.He felt tired and weary in his very soul. Yes, that was the only word for it.There was a snuffling, sighing noise and a squirming burrowing from the tiny dragon in his arms. It sounded almost as weary and lost as he felt.Was his exhaustion then coming from it? Could it send…?Obviously. It was part of him, wasn’t it? Not him in general, though there was also that, but – but part of this him. This right here.He hadn’t just been…missing because he had been a blob of light or consciousness or whatever it might have been. That was part of it, admittedly, but not all.No, the majority was right here in his arms.Had this been fiction, he suspected that they would’ve melded together the moment they’d touched, and then they would’ve become one again. Become whole.And yes, so he remembered more of the movies that he had seen with John than he wanted to admit to, even within his own mind. What of it?Seeing as this was not fiction, for all that it all of this was bizarre enough to fill a book and then some, no such thing happened. They were still separate entities.Perhaps they always would be.Maybe so, but that didn’t mean that was how it was supposed to be. Or that he shouldn’t work on making it otherwise.On making things right, however trite that might sound.Because they were one, for better and for worse. Two parts of a whole. Except, of course, that they hadn’t been whole in…In longer than he had any idea of, quite frankly. Judging by the size of the dragon, though – this version of it, that was – it had to have been when he was very small.When he hadn’t felt in charge of anything at all and had been so lost and frightened and –And angry. He had been angry, too. He remembered that. Searing white anger that had – had –The memory, fleeting as a butterfly trying to escape through a window, passed out of his grasp before he could get a proper hold of it. Leaving him with only the feeling that it had been important. Crucial, even, and possibly even to more than simply understanding this, that could be called ‘simply’.Hold on, though. Just – he had deleted that. He must have. It was part of his childhood and that had been thrown out almost the moment he had found out how he could delete things in his brain, along with his teenage years.Not all of it.Yes, all of –He looked down again and was met with those eyes that were so much his own and yet far from it.Ah. Of course. That was where they came from. Obvious, really.What do I do, then?” he whispered and was surprised to find he had a voice. An actual, honest to…someone voice.It was almost as though he was a real boy.Only, he wasn’t, and not because he would be a human-dragon hybrid. Or a dragon in human –No. He was not that. That much he did know. He was more than the base instincts, the greed and the –The small thing in his arms, still staring at him looking lost, let out a plaintive but penetrating noise and shifted itself in its arms. Specifically, it somehow got itself up into a more upright position that wasn’t standing but mean that it rested against one whole arm instead of both his underarms.Its head reached his shoulder, which in turn meant that it could stretch up and nudge his chin with its snout.In itself, it was a small gesture that had nothing of significance or worth. A variation of a gesture a pet might do the exact same thing and you wouldn’t think anything of it beyond a bit of adoration or possibly annoyance, depending.Here, though, it felt as though two ends of a wire had been connected and the energy flowing through crackled and spluttered as something re-joined and rejoiced.It pulled away again and the connection was broken. That wasn’t to say that it completely reset, however. Far from it. Instead, there was a feeling that…that…That the first step had been taken.He had asked what to do, and the creature, the dragon, had answered him.Had helped him.That it had thereby also helped itself was another matter. It did not alter the fact that it had helped him. Altruistic acts were inherently selfish as well, in their own way, so he saw no issue here.If anything, it was actually only beneficial to know this. It helped convince him that this was indeed part of himself and not some separate part of him.But what then of the other dragon? The real dragon? This wasn’t it in disguise, he was sure of that much. There wasn’t any point to it doing such a thing. Not at this point in time.The dragon had won, after all. It had won and he had lost, and this was what was left of him. This was a nicer prison than he’d thought he would have – he wouldn’t be subjected to looking out at what the dragon wrought on the world now it was in control, for one thing, which was a bonus – but it was still a prison.A prison for his remains.Hence why he had met this dragon, he supposed. This remnant of a dragon, a child and yet as adult as he was. For whatever that was worth.Was this the real dragon, then? Or perhaps, was it meant to have been? Before he…before it was separated out from him at some point. What was the other dragon, then? It had always felt like the real thing, and he refused to believe that an imposter, a mental construction, was capable of all that it had done.Not to mention, of course, that it would render all that he had worked for, had accomplished, entirely moot.Oh, like being reduced to nothing but a ball of light inside himself somewhere where you unable to see anything, let alone do something? That kind of moot?Well…yes. Precisely that kind of moot. Which was the point. Or the opposite of a point. There didn’t have to be a point, was the…that wasn’t how the world worked.Simply because you had achieved something, whether that was a small something or a big something, it didn’t mean that the world owed you to keep that relevant or existent. Everything and anything you did could be rendered moot at any point, for little reason, arbitrary reasons, contradictory reasons, or no reason at all.It was how the world worked.He knew this. Knew it better than anyone else around him.They still clung to the idea that there was a hope, a reason to keep struggling up the mountain they were climbing, their rocks pushed in front of them diligently. That the rock couldn’t possibly roll all the way to the bottom or if it did, there was surely some kind of explanation for it.There wasn’t. Never had been and never would be. That was the reality of the world and you might as well get used to it.Do you really believe that still, Sherlock? After all this time, you would believe that hope is a fool’s game? That all you have is yourself?He blinked, caught off-guard.John? He said the name without speaking. It felt too small and fragile on his tongue to survive being spoken. Or perhaps that was he himself that…no.I don’t think you do believe that. If you did, you wouldn’t have picked up that small creature. Wouldn’t be cradling it in your arms nor allowing it to get so close. To help you. Nor would you have done any of the other things that I know you have done throughout this.John –I’m gonna risk sounding soap-y – and yeah, I know you pretend you haven’t been watching along when I’ve had sick days – but you are not that face you present to the world. That façade. I know you’re not and so do you. Not that I don’t understand why you’re trying to pull it on again in the circumstances, but please…those points and all that work, neither of those are moot. Not unless you regress.We haven’t come this far only to regress.That sounded…he didn’t even know who that sounded like. Himself, possibly, but not the self he knew. None of the selves he knew, he might say.It seemed to be getting rather crowded in here.Somehow, while he’d been thinking, he had got himself fully upright, dragon still in his arms, hanging onto him as if it were a cat that had just been spooked by something terrifying.Except, here, there in fact was something to be frightened off. Something which was…Was simultaneously distant and worryingly close by. Something which was roaring at the top of its lungs. Except that it wasn’t so much roaring as it was bellowing in, in –In fear?That couldn’t be right. What was there left to fear for the, the…he supposed, the other dragon? It had won. He had thought he had it, and he had been wrong. Been bested, and now it was in charge. Why was it so, so adamant in continuing to scream?Only, it hadn’t screamed before. Not in that way nor anything remotely like it, not in all the time it had been chained up. Imprisoned. There it had roared. Properly roared, in defiance and anger and sheer…bestiality.This was…To be honest, thought ‘John’, it sounds as though it’s screaming in despair and powerlessness. And yeah, also in fear.Why, though? Reiterating the already stated, it had won. There was no reason…for it to…Something flashed across his mind, so starkly vivid that it almost sent him back what passed for a floor. Of realising in his school days some things about himself and about the world around him. Things that he didn’t want to know but which he had…had needed to know.No reason at all?It wasn’t the same, though. Not even close. It couldn’t be. For obvious reasons.Obvious reasons?There was no reason to make him say it. Think it. Whichever. He knew, and so would…would everything else around here, considering that…That this was all nothing but reflections in his own mind. A fair’s house of mirrors showing him aspects of himself and people that had somehow managed to worm their way into his mind and get themselves stuck there.All of this was him, distorted and mocking and –And right here where you need us to be.John’s voice was low and soft and most important of all, it was loving. Loving in the way that…that it had always been rather than in a way that had only appeared after they had…had begun this unintended journey together. A way that Sherlock simply hadn’t noticed until now.It might be a projection, still. Just another part of himself reflected back at him in order to cope with the situation at hand.That, however, was a boon rather than a bane, though. It shouldn’t have been, he knew that, but it was, for the simple reason that he knew he had it right. That was exactly what John would be like in the circumstances if this was real.Quiet, supportive, strong, and loving. But at the same time, stubborn, strong-willed, and ready to stand his ground if need be. No matter the situation.Not afraid to tell Sherlock when precisely he was being an utter cock or when he had done something truly good.That was John Watson as he knew him and wanted to know him, too.Which was precisely why the words carried weight at all and why he believed him.John had never left. He was not reduced to fragments and leftovers, just something…different than he was used to thinking of himself as inside his mind, imaginary corporeal form or not.Nor was Sherlock himself.Alright. So where did that leave him?With a ‘him’ who still possessed most if not all of what made him…him, for lack of a more apt description. Someone who was beaten and locked away and not fragmented.It was the dragon who was fragmented. Fragmenting.Pardon?Disbelief all but dripped from the word.What else could it be? Those roars weren’t roars of triumph. You only had to pay attention to the pitch, the length of them, the to put it mildly uneven quality of the noise, and the frequency of the roars to understand that.They were, in essence, the roars of someone out of their depth, scared and lost.So…not unlike Sherlock himself on his violin, then? When he felt like torturing it rather than playing it.That might as well have been Mycroft as John, and he couldn’t have said. So, he decided to ignore it.It was the very same kind of noises that this little thing in his arms, nuzzling progressively closer to him as he stood – then again, wouldn’t you move closer to the person stroking over your back repeatedly? Provided you wanted them to, of course – there had emitted until he had picked it up.A little after he had, too, but the point still stood, as it did when you factored in that this small thing was honest about its feelings. It knew what it felt and didn’t feel and wasn’t afraid of expressing it.The full-scale dragon, for lack of a better term, however…It might be a dragon in charge, but it was not a dragon in control. Nor did sound as though it knew how to get there. It had got what it wanted and now what? It had thought it knew, that much had been obvious from the start, but by the sound of it, it was finding the reality different.Different and scary.To his surprise, Sherlock found himself feeling sorry for it. The dragon out there, that was. No, not just sorry for it, nor pity. Those were emotions for someone believing themselves better. He knew that he wasn’t. Now, he realised it, just as the dragon weren’t better than him.He felt its pain. He felt sympathy and empathy for it. What was more, along with those feelings, there was a sense of loss within him. Of something missing that was supposed to be there.And then it came to him.He looked down at the, the dragon in his arms, which looked back at him with those impossibly big eyes, silent and waiting.Expectant.It seemed to have come a long way from when he had first…no, it hadn’t. Not in the sense that it had just up and got over its initial issue. It was simply that now, it could sense that it was no longer alone and if it did what it needed to, it would never be abandoned again.He could see it in those eyes, and in all the little signs it didn’t realise it gave off. Incredible, really, to be able to read such a face as that as well as he would a human one. That it was part of him was hardly relevant.So was the other dragon, and he couldn’t say he’d been able to read it. Not in that way, at least.Further proof that this little dragon was more…was more like him than…And there it was.The solution to…or part of the solution, at least. He wasn’t going to think he had everything sorted on just one thing. Not this time. It would cost a whole lot more than it normally did if he got it wrong, especially because of his arrogance.It was something which he hadn’t seen until now, whether that was because he’d been unable to or unwilling to. It could well be either or both. The important thing was that he hadIt was the link. The link that he was supposed to have with his…his dragon. It was not him nor was it the dragon, the one he had dealt with so far and who was now roaring fit to shake the foundations, and yet, it was both of them. At the same time.Fanciful? Maybe so, and perhaps even what he would in a previous time have considered quaint, but at this point, just about everything around him could be said to be fanciful. He was a dragon with a human form, for fuck’s sake, how much more fanciful did you need?The creature, dragon, link, whichever, had looked up at him as he’d stilled entirely in the realisation. It regarded him with its head cocked, more like a cat would regard something interesting yet potentially dangerous than the way a dog asked to get something explained.Not as though it had realised this alongside him, in other words.As though it had been waiting for him to understand. Patiently. Yet expectantly. Knowing he would get there sooner or later and waitingClever little bastard.The thought was tinged with quite heavy dose of fondness, which it seemed surprised them both, though obviously him more so. That said, it also simultaneously loosened and bound something inside him.Inside them, perhaps?Yes.They might not have communicated in words and might not be able to do so but nevertheless, they were communicating and the more they did, the more that he understood, the…the firmer and yet more flexible that bond, that link became.And what was he supposed to do about it, then? Having an answer was all well and good but it didn’t mean there was a solution to go along with it.An easy enough question to answer, really, he discovered, to his surprise and the little creature’s satisfaction.The small dragon wasn’t quite smug and for the most part, it still looked and felt small and lost and in need of his closeness. Yet, it was truly not the dragon he had picked up…who knew how long ago.“Don’t worry,” he said to it, looking it straight in the eye and receiving an unwavering, yet comforting rather than disconcerting gaze in return.Astonishing just how great a difference there was between this and the dragon, or he and it, for that matter, and yet...yet this felt almost like an amalgamation of the two. Perhaps further proving that it was the link.And there was the solution.What was a link supposed to do?He looked up towards the noise he heard intermittently yet regularly. It was getting despairing. Not entirely so, not quite to the point of utterly hopelessness but…But it didn’t take a genius to work out which direction this was headed. Nor that it was escalating in timeframe.Just how much time had passed in the world? Hopefully not as much as he thought it had. As he feared it had, considering. If it had, then he would likely either wake in a hospital bed or a cell of some kind, and either way, he would be heavily tied down so that moving his throat was probably going to be a genuine struggle for him.If it looked as though it was the dragon who won the battle, then that was what would happen to him. John might fight and be stubborn, but that did not mean he was in any way stupid. He would do what needed to be done.Which meant securing Sherlock in such a way that he would never escape from capture again.Mycroft would do that for him.Hopefully, though, not too much time had passed just yet. It would merely seem that way because time was an odd and fluctuating concept in here. More so than it usually was.All he needed was a little bit more time, then he would have this fixed.At least he got no indication that the dragon was trying to control his body and go on the expected rampage. Which, while not necessarily a good thing in itself, might prove just the moment of respite and thought he needed.If it could also provide the pathway in…but that would probably be too much to expect. He shouldn’t push his luck.No, he should make his own. Wasn’t that what he normally did? A bit of audacity to smooth the way.Something that he had read somewhere which somehow had evaded the deletion process floated up to him there and then; ‘an arrogant bastard always has the edge’. It was fairly apt, though, so he supposed he could live with it.
Well, yeah, but it’s not arrogance on its own that does, now, is it?
Of course not, John. Arrogance and understanding, and he did believe he understood this time.“Don’t you worry,” he said, still looking upwards, his voice quiet but earnest and intent in a way that would’ve surprised most that knew him. “We’ll sort this out. I promise that we will, and soon. For both our sakes.”The bundle in his arms made a quiet noise that might almost have been called chirping. Not that he knew what chirping was. Even so, he looked down at it and snorted softly."All our sakes,” he amended, with the barest of smiles.Not just what he might call his three aspects, if he was that way inclined, either. All the people on the outside.John. For John.
No. Don’t do it for anyone but yourself, Sherlock. This is for you.
But Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t. Nor should it be. He wasn’t alone and that meant letting people in to help.Time to help, and hopefully sort this mess out.Once and for all.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Saying that you were going to sort out a mess was all well and good. Actually going to sort something out was something else entirely.Especially when you had no idea how to do it.Well, no, that was just being negative and dramatic. What he didn’t know was not how to do it but how he was to ensure that it worked. He could not test it and going through it in his mind – mind within a mind within a mind? – only yielded the same answer.As far as he knew, it had never been done before, by anyone. Of course, no dragon was likely to go broadcast that sort of thing if it happened, no matter how dire the situation was. They were proud creatures and solitary ones, too.You were on your own and that was how it was supposed to be. If you lived close by another dragon or interacted with them a lot, there was always the risk they would try to take your hoard for a start, quite apart from the social issues.Which made it even stranger than Mycroft and he had continued to…associate, for lack of a better term that wasn’t horrible once they had grown up enough to have a choice about it. Mycroft especially – he could have moved away and refused to have anything to do with Sherlock.There was a shiver down his spine at that thought. Not a shiver of fear or nervousness, mind, but one of cold realisation.Possible realisation, he should say, of a catalyst.The creature, the dragon, in his arms stirred at the shiver, trembling minutely for half a moment before pressing in closer to him.Right. Yes. There was something that needed doing, and it needed doing fast and soon. He had already delayed long as it was, potentially too long.If it didn’t work, then it didn’t work, and he would have to live with the consequences. But those consequences would happen regardless so…really, he couldn’t do anything wrong, could he?It might be a cold comfort, but it was nevertheless a comfort knowing that this was rock bottom or as near it as to make no difference and that consequently, from here the only way was up.The only thing was improvement.Something inside him wanted to protest at that. He squashed it and settled the small bundle in his arms better.Part of him was going to miss having it once he returned to the real world. That was, having it in his arms like this, because he knew it would be in his mind regardless.Always. From now on, a part of him as much as the rest of him was, if not more so. Never again separated.Which meant that while they would be more closely connected than they were now, they wouldn’t be separate entities any longer, either. That was rather the point. But it meant that he would have to go through some changes of his own, in order to make room, as it were, and be prepared to…to compromise in a way that…It meant a whole new way of thinking, essentially.At this point, though, that was almost run of the mill stuff.Well, perhaps not quite but…but it didn’t seem quite as impossible as it might have once upon a time, although it was still daunting.Daunting, he could work with. Especially now that he was no longer alone.How precisely they got from one place to the other, he wouldn’t have been able to say if anyone asked. Not that they would, of course, but –John might.Yes. He might just, should the mood take him, but he would also understand if Sherlock was unable to explain adequately. Would it amuse him that Sherlock of all people would struggle to explain? Obviously, but he couldn’t really be blamed for that, could he? If the shoe was on the other foot, he knew he would be amused.If not more.The point was that abstract as this whole place was, even by the standards of someone who’d thought it a reasonable idea to construct an entire palace in order to compartmentalise and organise his mind, the means by which they travelled was to the abstract he’d experienced before as a rough sketch was to a line art or perhaps a fully rendered picture.He could not say how they travelled or whether they in point of fact did travel, by the standards of a mental landscape. All he knew was that one moment they were where he’d first encountered the little creature – he knew he ought to call it a dragon but that brought it closer to the…the other version than he was prepared to handle just yet – and the next they were…It wasn’t his Mind Palace. If he’d expected anything, it was likely that which he’d assumed to be transported to. After all, it had seemed that which the dragon had sought to claim. To possess, as the most tangible part of his brain that it could seize, not to mention, of course, the most used and closest to the outside world.The apparently strongest and most complete part of him.Apparently but not truly. There was more and other to him than his Mind Palace and what it contained.Sherlock would have to admit, he was as surprised as the dragon had undoubtedly been when it had found out. Or perhaps he would be when he had a chance to think about it properly. It had been a rather busy time recently.If he had a chance. That depended very much on how this all went, didn’t it?Yes. Still, it was only sensible to orientate himself. Get his bearings. Find out what he was up against so that he didn’t charge headlong into it and came out the worse for wear.Or didn’t come out at all.Which wasn’t an option. There were people out there that depended on him. Waited for him. Trusted in him. He couldn’t let them down.A small noise, almost more felt than heard, made him slide his fingers over the ridge of the little one’s spine.Couldn’t let the ones depending on him in here down, either.That included the still roaring and, it had to be said, wailing creature that he could hear but still couldn’t see.Which was rather impressive in this void lacking any kind of marker to judge distance or place entirely, let alone any debris that could identify where exactly this was or where it had been. What it had been.A thought flashed past him, shrieking, but he let it pass on.No, this was not the remains of the Mind Palace. It could not be. While he admittedly had little notion of just how much time had passed, inside his mind let alone outside it, he could not in any way believe that the dragon could manage to so utterly remove it that there would be nothing left in so short an amount of time.No matter how strong, how vengeful, or how desperate it was, it couldn’t have achieved that much. Not in such a short amount of time.Another small sound came from the little one and he looked down to see it regard him with its eyes, questioning.Worried? Perhaps.He smiled as best he could to reassure it that it was alright. Nothing was the matter. Even if this was the remains of his Mind Palace, it did not mean that everything was lost or that he, when he got out of here, would be nothing but a drooling moron.Wouldn’t that be a fucking over that Moriarty couldn’t have foreseen?Or had he?No. He wasn’t going to consider that the other dragon could – he wouldn’t give him that pleasure!Even though he would never know?Yes. Even so. He did not deserve space inside his head.Not even when it comes to what he wants to do to John?That was a separate issue and one he was going to tackle at the time it would be relevant.The time wasn’t now, and if he didn’t get this sorted out first, then it hardly mattered what Moriarty thought of him or what he had planned.If he didn’t get it sorted, then he wouldn’t care about anything. Nor would he be of interest to the consulting criminal for that –Enough already. Focus.He had been walking towards the sound as he had thought, which was at least helpful. As helpful as moving within a landscape that wasn’t only metaphorical but didn’t have the decency to have some dimension or space to it, at that. Not beyond a hundred shades of mist, fog, and damp, that was.It wasn’t even dramatic – and his brain could do dramatic just fine. Even dramatic fog. He remembered that –That he’d imagined himself to be, when he wasn’t a pirate sailing the seas and being a scourge of just about everyone, being a hero of some kind going through the foggy streets.Which was ridiculous, of course. London was more likely to be smog-infested than anything and even that had been cleared in…whenever.Did children’s fantasies have to be logical, though? No, of course not. Even he would recognise that sort of thing, despite how much of his childhood had either been deleted or had been spent differently than most children.You might well say that it was part of childhood to have those illogical thoughts, to give them free and let them fly.Perhaps he was feeling a little pricklier than he otherwise would have because he’d not remembered that until now. Not as anything he could get his hands on, to the point that he thought he had in fact properly deleted everything about his childhood altogether.Until he carried his…whatever might be the appropriate term for the little one in his arm.Further proof, then, wasn’t it, that it was what he thought it was.As though he needed further proof. Or memories of a time where he’d been –Where he had allowed his mind to roam and enjoy itself. To take flight and not care about how to come down or even come down at all if you didn’t want to. Physically and metaphorically.When he had not been scared of his dragon.Of losing control.One would think that it would need no effort at all to get to where the dragon was. If he couldn’t pop up right next to it, then he would at least have no trouble walking to it.So long as he put his mind to it.Really? That was what he went with? Of all things?Then again, one would think a lot of things, and they would all be nothing more than assumptions, possibly donning fancy dress to get past. They didn’t have to be true or even to be interesting, which was just possibly the worse crime.Still, he did have to hurry up, for lack of a better term. Not because his time was running out or he had someone waiting for him outside. Alright, perhaps somewhat that, but –But no.For the simple fact that there was somebody here who was in agony, and it was his fault.He hadn’t meant to and hadn’t even been aware of it when it had happened. Very much the opposite, in point of fact, but the fact remained.This was his dragon. He was…not responsible for it, that made it sound like a piece of luggage. Which it wasn’t. It was his to protect and take care of, though, just as it was supposed to be part of him. They were not supposed to be opposites and he had no right to try to control it.A stab of fear pierced him then, old and gnarled like a completely withered piece of wood.Who was to say this was safe? That he hadn’t been well justified to put the dragon into its…its confinement for so many years? Just look at what it had done to him when he had gone down there earlier, with John at his side, to wrest control back from it! There was his answer, surely.What more could he possibly want?Only, that was not the whole of the answer. Not the real answer, the one that had any kind of worth. It was only – it was the level of Anderson, was what it was, really, at best, and he wasn’t going to tolerate that. No matter what else happened, or had happened, he wouldn’t allow himself a cheap or obvious solution.He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, wasn’t he?The dragon had done all of that, yeah, there was no use denying that. He should know, he’d been there for them all, and more besides. It was not as though it was blameless or innocent. At the same time, in a way, it very much was. None of this would’ve happened if there hadn’t been that – if he hadn’t –Something surprisingly soft nudged that spot on his jaw, only for a moment, but it did the job it was almost certainly intended to do.Right. Face it. There was nothing else to do.If he hadn’t cut it off in the first place, denied it and shoved it away as far as possible and done it again and again.He did that with everything else, too, though.Yes, but later on. Not then. And even if he had pushed everything, and everyone, aside at the same time, that wasn’t…what kind of excuse was that? Egalitarianism couldn’t be applied to everything like a band-aid, but even if it could, who had said that it excused anything?He had only been a child.So? What did that have to do with anything?Now he was being unfair.He felt the jolt of it and didn’t know whether it was himself or John making that assessment. Suppose it didn’t matter, really, so long as it was there.Long fingers stroked over the little one’s head in a manner that could only really be called apologetic.What did it have to do with anything? Nothing, really, except just about everything.If he hadn’t been a child, scared of what he could do, and what he couldn’t do, what that meant and what it would mean going forward, would he have acted as he had? Hard to say, of course, but he would think not. He would most certainly not have acted as rashly and as…as fully as he had.Children were capable of some quite astonishingly definite and decisive, not to mention far-reaching, resolutions when they put their mind to it. Everything was…more.Everything was either one or the other, never something in between.And that was what he was. Or had been. An in between. Nothing but a nothing. But he could be something. He really could. If he could just get rid of one side, then he would be normal, wouldn’t he? Then he’d be like everyone else.Oh, yes. Being like everyone else. He couldn’t think of a worse thing to be now, not if you put a provocative finger to a very sensitive and crucial experiment, but that’s not how you think of it when you’re a small child, is it? All you want is to be accepted and for that, you need to be like everyone else.Even he did. It is always easier to say that you don’t need anyone when it seems like everyone have already left. Rationalising after the fact, really.He shuddered as the memories, with all their accompanying feelings came. They came in ones and twos, quiet and even gentle with more than one of them, and yet each and every one gave him the same experience as the original had, and they were only slightly muffled and dulled by time.Preserved and stored away in a part of his mind he hadn’t even been aware of, kept safe by this little one.An urge to hate the little one, not just for bringing this to him in the first place but for having the audacity and gall to keep these memories alive and intact somewhere where he couldn’t reach them – where had thought they had been deleted for eternity – rose up in him like a sewer eruption.It died away as quickly as a flash shower, leaving the faintest trace behind, which would fade almost immediately.He could not hate it. These memories were not something he wanted, not by the longest of shots, but they were memories and feelings that he needed.If he did not have them, he was…he would be forever incomplete, really, flowery and dramatic though that sounded. Par for the course, move on. It not only went into making him…him, for better and most definitely for worse, but without them, he…He wouldn’t understand why he had done what he had done, and he needed that. Needed to show that, to accept and confront that, and to bring it to the dragon.To show it, to make it see.Not to take blame away from himself, mind. If there was anyone to blame, it was him because he had made the decision, without consulting anyone, least of all himself, the parts that would be affected.Wasn’t that always the way, really?But if he showed it what had happened, whether it remembered or not, and did all he conceivably could to show remorse – he felt the remorse, mind, it was just that his face wasn’t always the best suited to convey truthful sincerity – and an interest in making things right, for all of them, then just possibly it would listen.Just possibly, it would agree to cooperate.If it did not, then…then he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t force it because that would bring them right back to the original problem.This wasn’t a battle of wills or a fight for dominance. In that race, neither of them won. They had demonstrated that with the clarity of a crystal prism. Both of them.The bundle in his arms made a small trilling noise that were meant to go on by the tone of it. He shushed it gently, jigging it in his arms with a care and tenderness that those who knew him would’ve been astounded to witness. Even more so in light of his initial reaction to it and behaviour towards it, really.There was nothing to apologise for, with this or anything else, and he wouldn’t allow it to do so. Especially not now. He didn’t blame it for showing him those memories, much as he despised them and wanted them to go away and never come back.No. To be perfectly honest, he wanted them to never have existed in the first place.But that was just it. The fact that he didn’t want them to exist was part of the reason they did exist, and most decidedly part of why they were needed now.It had…no, it had not quite come from there but without them, what came next couldn’t have happened.What had prompted it?Prompted what? The memories?No, you idiot. Think. He had just thought about them. What had been the catalyst that had set him off?That had been the proverbial stick or whatever it was that had broken it all and sent him on this journey. It couldn’t have been simply the bullying and other alienating from his peers that had done it. No matter how horrible they had been or how long it had gone on, he didn’t quite think that would’ve been enough on its own to do it.If it had taken no more than that, then…then he would’ve done it when he’d been barely past the first year or so of primary school and that…no, the memories were…were of a boy older than that. Precisely how old, he wasn’t sure, having never been good with keeping track of his own age or stage of development.What, then?Just as he began to think he was wasting his time, and in the process hurting all those around him to boot, a thought which still shocked him a little to think, he hit upon it with a jolt that stopped him in his tracks.Was that – yes, of course it was, it would be tremendously stupid to have held onto that particular memory if it didn’t –It all came flooding back to him in the detail that he simultaneously expected even of memories that old and untouched and dreaded with a passion that surprised him.He felt as though he was again no more than three feet seven inches, at most – he had done most of his shooting up when he’d hit puberty – holding onto the doorhandle with effort and peering through the crack between the door and the door jamb.Despite it being only a crack, he felt as though he could see a whole lot but then, what he did see took up most if not all his mental landscape so that wasn’t necessarily accurate. He didn’t dare to open it any further, however, in case he was spotted.Exactly what would happen if he was spotted, he didn’t know, and didn’t dare find out, either. And yet, he couldn’t have pried his eyes away if you gave him a whole, real pirate ship to command.That wasn’t to say he wanted to see what was happening. In fact, part of the very reason he couldn’t look away was tied in with that horror sense of being unable to take in what you see because it was just too harrowing and needing to look in order to be sure.If you looked away, maybe the image went away, and then where would you be? You would still have seen what you had seen, after all, that wasn’t going to go away. All you’d done by looking away was depriving yourself of certainty, of details that you would need later in order to understand.Not that he knew of this when he saw it, of course. He might’ve been clever even as a child but there were still many things about the grown-up world that he didn’t understand or hadn’t thought about in clear and precise terms.All he knew then was that his stomach was a roiling mass of sea monsters, cold as the depths they spawned from, and a swarm of bees. That his hand around the handle throbbed as his body desperately tried to bypass the deathgrip he had and get some blood circulating through his hand.That his throat was dry and his eyeballs even more so.He might not have the words and might not know what he was doing, but he did know enough not to look away. To watch it all the way through so that he would know. Know wasn’t the same as understand, but that was a lesson for later.It didn’t help that it was the first time he’d seen his brother since he had been sent away to boarding school. That was to say, a boarding school where he had to stay instead of being a day student.When people go away, they tend to crystallise in our minds at the stage we last saw them, regardless of how illogical that it. How illogical we know it to be. Perhaps it is even more true of children whose concept of time is at best a little elastic and mosaic and to whom people older, whether adults or just a significant number of years older, seem permanent in their old age.Seven years there were between Sherlock and Mycroft. It was a long time between siblings, to say the least, and the fact that they were dragons only mitigated so much. At times, the elder brother had been more of a mother than a sibling to the younger, which only made the wrench of him going away all the harder when it happened.Possibly, the rift had started there, when Mycroft had first gone away and couldn’t take Sherlock with him. Refused to, said his memories. Stupid Croftie wouldn’t allow him to go because he’d spoil everything and he wouldn’t, really, he’d be –But no, this was not the cause. The cause was right here, in this unintended peek through the door when he had found out that Mycroft had finally come home, earlier than expected which only was a retroactive warning sign, and he had come running to berate him for being away so long and not writing or calling or anything.Nobody had said that he couldn’t.In fact, nobody had said anything at all. He’d only found out because he’d seen something of Mycroft’s that he knew he’d taken with him to school on the kitchen table and had gone to look. To give it back to him, he told himself, because it was precious to his brother and he would never leave it behind.If he did, then there was something seriously wrong.Irony really could lay it on with a cleaver when it wanted to, couldn’t it?The item was in his other hand, the one not gripping the doorhandle tight enough that something ought to rupture, or bend, or crack altogether. It was a small wonder that it was still in his fingers, as he had forgotten about it entirely.Then again, he had forgotten in that moment about everything other than what he saw.His brother had come home alright. Or at least, something that resembled his brother had.On the outside, you might in fact be easily fooled. It wasn’t as though there were tentacles coming out of his mouth or even a tail and wings sprouting from his body. If there had been, then Sherlock might not have been quite as frightened. He had seen those things before, after all.To the casual onlooker, he might in fact pass for a teenage boy. Perhaps not a typical one but nevertheless, a relatively common one.If you looked but didn’t see, in other words.Should you bother to use your brain and actually see, you would find that in point of fact, there were quite a few things that were wrong, and that was without knowing Mycroft. If you knew Mycroft, then…then just about everything was wrong.He was sitting in a chair, pulled in on himself, his feet still on the floor but his elbows resting on his knees and his hands held in front of him as though he was waiting for them to any minute now turn into monstrosities that would strangle him.Mycroft never sat like that. That was bad posture, for a start, far beneath a proper boy, and it would rumple his uniform, too.Which he wasn’t wearing. Not apart from his blazer and even that was…it sat wrong. Sherlock only knew a little about such things yet, but he did know enough to be able to tell that.Their mother was kneeling on the floor beside the chair, and that was wrong, too. So was the hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, moving back and forth in a soothing gesture.Father wasn’t home yet. It was too early. Then again, Mummy wasn’t supposed to be home yet, either, come to that, and Mycroft definitely wasn’t.Everything was wrong, somehow.Right down to the fact that they were in Father’s study. Nobody went into their father’s study if Father wasn’t there himself. That was a rule that had been ironclad for as long as Sherlock could remember, and it was ironclad too when it was enforced.Hindsight and grown understanding realised just why this had been so; it was in his study, the one room in the house that was unequivocally and permanently his, that he kept all that was precious to him.It was where he kept his hoard, essentially.Come to think of it, he never knew where Mummy’s hoard was. There had to be one, because his, their parents were both dragons – Mycroft had given that as an explanation for why Mummy and Father often had to sleep in separate bedrooms, another thing which only made sense in hindsight – and she wouldn’t have been the first dragon to escape the curse of the hoarding.If she had, then she would’ve been sure to let them know. And she would’ve taught Sherlock and Mycroft, too, you had to be fair.Still, he had never found where Mummy’s hoard was. Not ever, as a child or the times he’d been home since. Why was that?He knew what he was doing. Trying to dive into a detail so entirely irrelevant to the situation, and possibly every situation out there, but one which he could immerse himself in fully. That way, he didn’t have to think about what was happening in front of him.Which wasn’t even happening in front of him, of course. It was all nothing but a memory. The mind’s own film screening, sans popcorn.He wasn’t really standing there, holding onto the door as if he would come apart, dissolve if he let go. As if he would cease to be Sherlock. There was no Mycroft on the other side, no Mummy beside him. None of this was happening.But it had. It had and no amount of telling himself otherwise was going to make it disappear. Or perhaps it might, but he didn’t want that. If it went away, then he might not be able to find it again.Good!Good? Perhaps. But then he would never know what it was that had caused it. Then he could never fix what had been wrought. What had been broken.Then he would always remain a fragmented doll of a person rather than a real one.This here was the turning point. Not all on its own, and perhaps not if…but the pivotal point was seeing what he shouldn’t have seen.Seeing what had happened to Mycroft.He was shaking like a leaf in the wind, only the wind was a hurricane and he didn’t know how to breathe in it let alone to navigate or get out of it.Something wrapped around him. Around his neck. Choking him. He instinctively brought his hands up, to pull at it, to rip and tear and get it away from him. It was suffocating him, he couldn’t –A soft vibration that had nothing to do with the shaking of the leaf echoed through his chest.The little one.He needed to see this. It hurt and he didn’t want to, but he had to. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.The little one’s emotions emanated from it as clear as if they had come from inside himself. Inside this part of him, at any rate.Well, so did the memory, didn’t it? Wasn’t that the whole point?Yes. It was. And he should follow through. No matter how well stored and vividly detailed this memory was. In fact, especially so. All the details mattered, after all.Inside the memory, child Sherlock opened eyes he had squeezed shut when he heard a noise he had never thought he would hear in his life, no matter how long he lived.Mycroft wailed.Perhaps it would be fairer to call it a keen or a howl. Kinder, certainly, but whatever label you might use, there was no denying that it was a drawn-out ululation of noise, one that was laden to the brim with confusion and pain, grief and regret. With horror.The kind of noise that Mycroft had never made in his life. That seemed utterly incongruous with the person, even at the age he was currently. No matter what age he was, it didn’t seem possible. Not like that.Mummy knelt beside her oldest boy, caught in immobility. In indecision, perhaps.It was not Mummy that took Sherlock’s attention, though. Nor was it entirely Mycroft. Not on his own, anyway.Behind him, above him, all around him where he sat, except where Mummy was, there was a shadow. A shadow which shifted and changed. It was wings, yes, or perhaps it was a lashing tail. Sometimes it was nothing at all, just a undulating shape that seemed as insubstantial as the shadow one moment and solid enough to wrap around both the humans in the room and strange them.To reach out and get to Sherlock.Not even that was the worst bit, though, even though it frightened the child something fierce. In that fright was fascination, the kind of combination that only little children can truly know.The very worst bit was Mycroft’s face when it lifted from his knees.His noise was terrible and terrifying, so much so that the memory turned Sherlock white and green simultaneously. But his face…It wasn’t a face. Or rather, it was two faces, each trying to occupy the same space and shifting in terms of who was in control of that space. Which meant that in one moment, you might see one face and then in the next, the other would appear like a flash of lightning.Mostly, it was the face that Sherlock knew, white as a sheet and blotchily red in spots, which was oddly reassuring in a strange way. It was the kind of face that Sherlock could go up to and stare into before he wrapped his arms around his brother and called him an idiot or whatever equivalent he’d come across in the dictionary lately.In those lightning flashes, however, which seemed to come more and more frequent as Sherlock watched, was the face of a dragon.The dragon.Mycroft’s dragon.The face then was…It was not a slavering beast. Nor was it a face of pure evil. If it had been, that might somehow have been easier. Much easier. He would have known that it had nothing to do with Mycroft, then. That it was a separate creature, or that someone…Perhaps someone had foisted – he felt proud of knowing that word even then – another dragon onto Mycroft and this was why he was so upset.As he watched it flicker through, though, he saw it wasn’t so. He wished it not to be but each iteration, each glimpse, only served to make it clearer still.This was Mycroft. This was Mycroft’s dragon, and it was pleased with itself. There was no evil grin, no baring of teeth, and he got the impression that there wouldn’t be even if the face had actually transformed. Still, there was no mistaking the glint in the one eye he could see.Smugness and accomplishment, pleasure and triumph.He hadn’t understood it at the time, but he had understood that it was nothing good. That it was in fact something profoundly wrong, whatever else it was. That it wasn’t supposed to be there at all, and that it had got out on its own.Had got out and had…had caused this. Had done this to Mycroft and to…to someone else. Someone else at his school. The latter part was adult understanding and after-rationalising of the events, both then and the immediate aftermath, too, where his brother had been kept at home for a year, holed up in his room and taking classes there.This was the dragon’s fault. It had got out. Because…because Mycroft had lost control of it. It had seized hold of him and taken over and hurt people.Had hurt Mycroft. Hurt him beyond recovery.How could you ever recover when you were so clearly broken to little pieces, your eyes seeing nothing, your mouth repeating the same broken sentences and noises over and over again?Sherlock could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks and had no idea whether they were remembered tears or present tears. Perhaps it didn’t matter.Broken. That was what happened to you. If you let your dragon out, then it took over and you weren’t in control. Could never be in control again.If you let your dragon out, it would break you to pieces and then break everything you held dear.Sherlock definitely felt broken then and there, and he sobbed.In his memories, he sobbed, too, a small pitiful noise that shouldn’t have been audible. Not in the mess of sound that the elder Holmes brother made.Only, he didn’t then. He’d fallen silent. Deathly silent.Their mother’s arms were around him, then. But even as they folded around his pudgy body, you could clearly see the shape of the dragon billow and shift, solid and insubstantial in measures. You could see that it wasn’t Mycroft who looked out now, the flashes having settled.It was the dragon who stared out at the world, pleased and ready.Stared out at Sherlock, hidden in that crack between the door and the frame that had grown larger without his knowledge.The dragon heard his sob and its eye glinted.It started to turn its head towards him.Mycroft’s head was now buried in his hands and in Mummy’s sensible jumper. Nevertheless, the dragon’s head turned more fully towards Sherlock, not as hidden as he’d thought.Turned its head and opened its mouth.To say or do what, he didn’t know. Had never known, not to this day.  There weren’t even any fragments of memory to snatch at and try to get a picture from, however scattered and disjointed it might consequently be.Even the little one could not help him there. It was blank. Just a void of space, utterly deleted from his memory and with no way to recover it. Not this time.The next thing the little one remembered was being back in his own room. In his own bedding, sobbing fit to fill a flood or at least Alice’s room. He had wished he’d been able to find something that would turn him as small as that. That way, he might drown and come to nothing.That way, he might be spared having to face that himself.Because it would happen. He knew it would happen. It had happened to Mycroft and if it had happened to his brother, then it would happen to him. There was nothing to doubt there. It was a simple fact of life. Sherlock was so like his brother, it was inevitable.No. It wasn’t that. It was inevitable because – because they were dragons.Then why hadn’t it happened to Mummy and Father?Who said that it hadn’t? Why wouldn’t it have happened to them? Mummy looked so understanding, so sympathetic when she looked at Mycroft, didn’t she? Wasn’t that because she’d known exactly why it was this had happened?He rocked back and forth on the bed even as he curled up tighter. The Sherlock who watched, detached, noticed that he’d wrapped his arms around his shins in a pose almost identical to Mycroft’s, and something twitched at his lip.Mimicking him yet again.But then their parents would’ve helped him. Given him advice of some kind. Told him not to do things or what to do to get through it better. They wouldn’t just have – no, they wouldn’t have left him to deal with it on his own. Would they? Let someone else pay for Mycroft’s actions like that?At that point, there was no doubt in his mind that Mycroft had harmed someone. Badly. That he, the dragon, had killed someone, even.Mummy wouldn’t do that. Nor would Father. He couldn’t believe that. It was…it was just impossible that they might not –Who said they’d known about it?If it happened to everyone, then –But it might’ve happened before they thought. Mycroft was always ahead of everyone around him, wasn’t he? That was one of the things that were so great about him, just how clever he was, how good at understanding how things worked, and how willing he was to help Sherlock understand things, too.Not physically.But the dragon wasn’t physical, was it? Even then, he’d known it was more of a thing inside your head. You could manifest in either shape, as Father put it, but most of the time, it was a mental thing. Something you shared your consciousness with, the space inside your head.Once upon a time, Sherlock had been proud of that. Grateful for it. It had meant that there was always someone to play with when nobody wanted to play with him because he understood things that the other kids didn’t and could use long words without stumbling. Could explain the long words.Now? Now, he shuddered and sobbed, howled silently into his pillow.Without his knowledge, his wings had sprouted from his back and his hands were tipped by nails that looked suspiciously much like claws. His teeth, too, had grown a little longer and caught on the fabric covering his pillow. The tail hadn’t manifested, which might’ve been just as well.It was bad enough as it was; the wings beat once, stretched, folded up tight only to then stretch and beat, in synch and out of it. His claws gouged into his shins, neat little rows of holes in scrawny child flesh.Oh. So that was where those scars had come from. He’d never been able to work those out and he’d thought about it long and hard.The Sherlock watching, the ostensible adult looking back, shook and trembled almost as much as the child on the bed, and he held onto the little one in his grasp as though he’d be flung to the furthest reaches of space if he didn’t. He wanted to go to the child, to pick him up and wrap him tight. Still his tears and tell him that it would all be alright.Which would be nothing more than a lie, of course, and he knew it. Knew it as only someone who was there for the aftermath and everything that came after that could know it.It would not be alright. He would think that it would be, that he had got it under control and was in charge, was safe. But it wouldn’t and he hadn’t been. He wasn’t.Nor would he ever be if this was not sorted and sorted soon.Still, the desire tugged at him something fierce. Like nothing he could ever remember feeling before.He cried, too, though that was a given at that point. For that little boy and for his loss and how lost and alone he had felt then. How scared, how utterly frightened. Of everything around him but most importantly, of himself.That was why the fingers, the claws, dug deeper and deeper into his flesh and he did nothing to stop it. Did not even seem to notice, although Sherlock knew he did. He had not remembered any of this before now, and perhaps that was why the pain he remembered now was as vivid as it had been on the day.But the pain was good. The physical pain was much easier to deal with than what raged inside of him.There wasn’t even a word for it. Or rather, if there was, it were grown-up thoughts, adult feelings that he hadn’t known how to quantify let alone process and so, what was left in the memory was a jumbled, tangled, knotted mess of a monster that would make the most creative monster-mashing artist of a boy cry out, either in jealousy or disgust. Knowing little boys, probably both.Untangling it was not merely a job he didn’t want; it seemed an impossibility. Now or ever.And so, he was left with nothing but the experience of it, and he wept. Wept for himself.Wept for what he knew came next.It wasn’t that he remembered it. All of this had been shoved away, had been wrapped into the heart of the little one when it had been…and he hadn’t known it existed before today.Yet, he knew perfectly well what was coming. Knew it with the inevitability of a story drawing to its logical conclusion. With the certainty of the one mounting the steps to the scaffold, hands tied, their fate awaiting them.What came next was…almost worse than a beheading though. It was a severing but not of the kind, clean way that the executioners came to pride themselves on later.No, this was something much more visceral and bestial. Something that…That only a child could bring to bear.He watched as the small figure on the bed sobbed himself dry, then sat up, still in that position, his fingers still buried in his legs. When he pulled them out, he didn’t wince, but merely stared at them as though he’d never seen such a thing before in his life.The pale eyes had grown glassy but the glass of a flawed bottle, dull and impenetrable. They weren’t lifeless but there was something…distant in them.A cool calm that was far more frightening than anything he’d witnessed in that room. At least, so it was to the Sherlock watching.Strange that he was to see all this from the outside rather than from the inside looking out, considering that this was…Oh. Of course. Stupid of him. He wasn’t watching from his perspective. Not entirely. This was from the little one’s perspective, which had already been shut out somewhat after that blackout. It was no longer quite part of Sherlock and so had…He had already begun the process, even if he hadn’t known it at that point.Impressive, the things a person would do in order to stay alive, wasn’t it? To protect itself in whatever way and to whichever degree was needed.His wings closed about him and when they parted, his eyes were squeezed tight, and his teeth were bared. He held the edges of the wings, delicately and yet, punishingly.There was something simultaneously coolly detached and despairing, lost and pitiful about the small boy as he sat there, blood flowing down his bare legs, tears staining his cheeks, his skin a sickly colour and yet, somehow, shifting and sparkling.For an impossibly long moment, nothing happened.Then the boy opened his eyes.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

What happened next, the little one couldn’t recall. More accurately, it couldn’t remember because everything from then on was confusion, panic and then pain.Pain.Searing, burning, all-consuming pain, tearing through its consciousness bit by agonisingly slow bit. It wasn’t a clean edge, either. Nor was it wielded swiftly or even steadily, not even remotely close. If anything, it was the action of a hand gripping a butcher’s knife much too large for it and sawing through rather than cutting.And yet, cut it through it did. Just how, the little one didn’t know. Nor did it want to know.It didn’t want to know anything. Didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to…to exist if it meant having to go through that kind of pain again.Once was enough. Once was too much to bear, it couldn’t – it couldn’t take it, it would happen again, it would. It knew it would, and it wasn’t ready for it. Would never be ready, never be able to –Please. Please.
PLEASE!
All of this came through to Sherlock without a single word being spoken or any noise from the little one apart from a scream too high to be heard by anyone except as an after-echo of a ringing sensation.And yet, it came through as clearly as if it had been shouted into his ear, scream and everything else.It brought him to his knees, not just the scream or pain of it, visceral though it was to feel in his every fibre. As much as anything it was how his body remembered, things that he had thought had been forgotten by everything except the little one.Most of all, it was the cold, searing knowledge of just what he had done. No, not just the knowledge – he had known, or highly suspected just what it was he’d done in order to sever them.It was the reality, the full and complete awareness of that action and all that it entailed. Or if not all, then as much as it was possible for him to have, then or ever.He didn’t just know, now, he was…he was connected to it. To the little one. Not as he ought to be and as he had been before the…the incident – stupid as he knew it was to name it so vaguely, he couldn’t quite cope with it any other way right then – but far more than he had been up until now.Far more than he had thought himself capable of.He remembered now. All of it.All that which he had sought to sever himself from, so that he wouldn’t be pained like that ever again.So that he would not end up the monster.Neither had Mycroft.No, but he…he didn’t know what Mycroft had done. How he had suffered through. There was no doubt that he had control now, control like nobody else Sherlock knew.Had he done the…? No, he hadn’t done the same. He couldn’t have. If he had, then…then he would’ve broken down and become the scourge of London a decade ago. At the very latest.Clinging to the speculations more for something to hang onto so as not to be swept under entirely, holding on tight to the thrashing and wailing little one with everything that he had, he tried to focus on that.On why Mycroft would’ve been able to escape the fate that Sherlock had suffered.Resentment bubbled up from the depths, thick like lava, toxic like an acid pool.This was all Mycroft’s fault, wasn’t it? If it hadn’t been for him and his – his dragon, then Sherlock wouldn’t have seen and he wouldn’t have done something as…as devastating, as destructive as that.Was that why his brother had always taken care of him? Provided for him when…was it guilt? That was what drove –No.The word, though quiet, was fierce and heavy. More surprising, it was his own voice rather than that of Mycroft’s, which he would’ve expected in the circumstances.No, that wasn’t the reason. He knew that wasn’t it. The reasl reason was far more likely to be the mere fact that his family hadn’t known. That was to say, they had in fact known about Mycroft and had been able to give him the support and care that he needed. Whereas they hadn’t known about Sherlock and what he had done, what he had suffered as a result.How could they know? It wasn’t as though he’d told him. He had, in fact, made a point of concealing it entirely from everyone.Even himself.There was still a life to be led, and if he had seemed a little quieter, a little more distant, they had put it down to him growing up.Oh, he had grown up. All in one night, you might say. In certain aspects, at any rate.And now look how grown-up and put together he was!There was another thrashing lunge from the little one. He clung on, only realising he was murmuring soothing nothings to it, the same kind of words he would’ve wanted to say to the little boy on the bed, so utterly lost and desperate.Well! Who knew he’d had that kind of thing in him?There was a bump underneath his chin. One which was different from the thrashing and flailing bumps and collisions he’d had before now, but which was much like the ones he remembered from before.He looked down and saw large eyes staring back up at him, so very similar to the way they had looked when he’d first seen it.His hand brushed across the top of its head, gently and, to be honest, gingerly, too, and it allowed it.“I am so sorry,” he found himself whispering. To whose benefit this was, he honestly couldn’t have said. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much as getting it said. Getting it out there.It probably helped that he was sincere as ever he had been. Which could be taken the wrong way, but for once, he neither noticed nor would’ve cared if he had noticed.Now he knew, though. That was perhaps the most important thing of all. He knew, inasmuch as it was at all possible to know this, what had happened.Not what had…well, yes, what had caused this but not in the way that…that you would see in some…or perhaps it was just like a tawdry drama, one of those soaps they seemed so keen on filling daytime TV with, and he simply wouldn’t admit to it.Didn’t want to admit to it.Admit that even though he was a dragon, let alone all the other things that set him aside, he was just like everybody else. That he had reacted harshly and rashly, entirely out of proportion and yet the only way he possibly could have, and that it was oh so pedestrian.So very…human.Did he not want to be human after all, then? For all that he had touted about being so and how that was better than being an animal, a beast ruled by base emotions, he was in the end nothing more than a different kind of beast?The two-headed monster. As willing to go for each other as to attack any who dare approach it.For a moment, he couldn’t have said. Then it felt very much like the dragon had the right idea. He couldn’t even manage to be a proper human, or a proper inhuman. At best, he was an approximation, a kid play-acting being an adult and a fully grown person. Nothing that was worth anything on its own.Without the dragon, he was simply a shell of a person, wasn’t he? Oh, he had his intellect and so what? What had that ever done him of good?It wasn’t because of his dragon that the other children had shunned him, was it? No. That was all Sherlock. All to do with how he failed to be an ordinary human being.But he couldn’t even master being an extraordinary human being, whether for good or for ill. Which should’ve been the easiest thing in the world – Moriarty had managed it, hadn’t he? With flying colours, too, aha.What was Sherlock without his intellect? Just a junkie. A clean druggie who couldn’t manage to hold onto any kind of relationship for any length of –And just what is self-pity going to achieve?The voice, and he didn’t know where it came from or what it sounded like, rang like a bell through his mind, or at least the part of his mind he currently occupied.He stilled and so did the little one. Both of them looked up and around them, as though that would somehow reveal the speaker. Which, of course, quite obviously, it wouldn’t. There was no speaker apart from himself.Voices. In his head. It would be funny in its cliché if it weren’t so…discouraging.And yet…yet the voice had a point.Mediocre or not, worth more or less than a normal human being, he was still a person. A person that needed saving.Saving from himself.Quite literally but not in the way he’d ever thought.How could you ever expect something like that? You couldn’t, was the short answer.The question of whether or not he deserved saving was another one altogether. One which he wasn’t qualified to answer. Nor was he sure that anyone could truly answer that.It wasn’t as though all that he had thought about had gone away in that one realisation. That would’ve been nice and convenient, which was probably exactly why that wasn’t how it turned out. No, instead, it curled back up like a flower at night, ready to bloom again at the first sign of morning light.Worthy or not, though, he couldn’t…he had come too far to give up now. To let go.He owed John not to.No, Sherlock. You don’t.No…no. No, he didn’t. The one he owed, above all, was himself. And by extension, he owed the little one and his dragon.It might be that he wasn’t worthy. But if he gave up now, that was all he would ever be, wasn’t it? All he could ever have said to have amounted to. Even after all that he had done, all that he had fought to retain and give, to build, that would be the only epitaph he’d amount to.Unworthy.Only, he could change that. If he was still there, he could change it. He could do more. Could do better.He could be more. Be what he…what he had been so scared to be.Himself. With all the foibles that it entailed, yes, but also all the strengths. Whether they were strengths in the eyes of others or not.That included his dragon.Which needed him still.Now, though…now, he knew how to reach it. Physically, yes, inasmuch as this was physical – metaphysical? – but also emotionally.He understood where it had gone wrong. When they had been split and although the little one had no recollection of it apart from the pain, and therefore no clue as to how he’d done it, there were tendrils and shadows attached to that pain, to that life-shattering memory, that he thought he might be able to read.Thought? He had to be sure of that. Damn sure if he was going to meld them together into one again.There would be no second chances. He had to get it right the first time or they would all fall apart, individually and as a whole.A whole.He had to admit, the thought both soothed and terrified him in equal measures. You knew what you had, after all, but not what you would get. Even if what you had was not worth having, it was yours, in a strange way, and you knew where you had it.Comfort in misery. What a fascinating concept, really.Shame he –The little one chirped ever so softly as it pressed tight against him, pulling him from his thoughts, his worries. His fears. It wasn’t doing so in a panic, though. There was an audible difference between the two, one which he still had faint echoes of ringing in his head.Instead, it felt almost as if…Looking down, he saw it stare back up at him, eyes wide and intent, even though they were in as sorry a state as the rest of the small body, and he felt something settle within him. It wasn’t that everything would be alright now, or anything as sweet and sentimental as that.If things did work like that, they most certainly didn’t work that way for him. But that wasn’t the point, really. No, the point was…was that it’d made it through all of that and had come out on the other side. It was still here.Through not just reliving the whole thing all over again but doing so after so many years of utter neglect, where there had been nothing for it, nothing at all, one way or the other – and having lived through those years, too. That shouldn’t be forgotten.It had made it through it all. In one piece, at that, insofar as it went. How many others could say that?“Not me,” he said, pride the dominant emotion audible in his voice. “Not anyone I know.”It chirped again, a long, soft noise, as though it was apologising for being boastful.No, not that. This was still…it was still him, wasn’t it? Even if he had changed a lot since he had been…that age. An age the little one had in a sense never left. It was, in a way, a fossil of the past, for better and for worse.His lost childhood, was it?No. His lost essence. If you wanted to put labels on it. Which he frankly didn’t.What was it, then? Apart from steel and pride, there was…There was hope. Determination and hope. Belief that if it could brave that all over again, knowing what was to come, and he could brave it and live through it without knowing, then…Then so could the dragon itself.Furthermore, if they could go through that, they could handle the rest of it, too.Together.That word again.
Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.
He shook his head minutely, though not at the little one.No. Alone might be what he had had but the only way in which it protected him was the fact that nothing could touch him from where he’d been. A wall around you, blocking out everything, including yourself, might keep you protected, but did it keep you safe?Alone was no longer what he had, and that was all to the better.Was it, though?Than tearing himself apart sooner or later? Disintegrating one way or another? Did he even have to answer the question?In any case, it was a stupid question. He knew that it was. Had proved to himself that it was.And so had the world around him. He might not have appreciated it at the time but it was nevertheless true.If he’d been truly alone then…then he wouldn’t have had anyone to help him through his coma or his actions later on.
Neither would you have had ended up in that situation in the first place.
Yes, he would. Moriarty would simply have found another way to get under his skin if it hadn’t been for John. That wasn’t the point here. Not even close.Moriarty…he –Was irrelevant right now. If he couldn’t get this sorted, the Irishman would hardly matter any longer, no matter what he did.Right, then. What precisely are you waiting for? A written permission?Something like that, yes, probably. A sign, perhaps, that he was ready to go face it. That he’d gathered himself enough that he didn’t have to fear coming apart at the seams on the way or when he got there. Coming apart or otherwise making a complete and utter shambles of the thing.Well, tough luck, mate, you aren’t getting any. Rise and shine and get on with it. You’ve come apart at the seams already, and sewing is not my jurisdiction.Of all the things he’d expected to hear - !Something about it, perhaps the unexpectedness, perhaps the sheer absurdity of it, not only made him get up from where he’d curled up – carefully bringing the tired little one with him who was snuggled up against his throat and collar – but made him smile.Grin, in fact.A slightly mad grin, he knew without having so much as seen it, but nevertheless a grin. He needed a grin right now. Even if it were mad or it only lasted for a few moments.It didn’t matter, so long as it helped.Help.That was the word of the day.Lestrade was right, even if he would never know it.This was nobody’s responsibility but Sherlock’s own and now he knew how to fix it. Now, he also felt…if not sure as he might’ve done once upon a not long ago, then a lot surer than he had been.The little one was right, too. If they could weather the storm that was the memory, if he was still determined to make this work, to overcome his fear and whatever else stood in their way, then…then there should be no reason as to why they couldn’t do it, should there?Any voices, tiny as a spider’s death cry, were firmly ignored.What did they know?He began to move again, walking as swiftly as he could without disturbing the little one. It needed the break.All going well, it…well, it’d have the biggest role of all of them.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

At this point, so close to his target, he was all but running, out of time and filling up the difference with sheer force of will and determination, the void of the landscape at least assisting him in moving more swiftly than he would’ve otherwise been able to. And yet, he didn’t seem to be able to move forward.If anything, he felt as though he was getting further away from the roars, which had in any case become something more like a pained, despairing ululation of sound. As if there was no more strength to do anything more and, in any case, there was little point in doing more.Was that because he had been caught up in his memory rather than focusing? Or hadn’t he been caught up enough?Enough of this. Just – enough already!He bared his teeth then opened his mouth and –And screamed.It came out as silent as the clap of a butterfly’s wing and yet, the world around him shook and trembled.For a moment, it felt as if the bottom of the world had dropped out beneath his feet, quite literally if you could talk about literal in a mental landscape, rather than metaphorically as it had when what his relived memory had actually happened. He clutched the little one closer to him instinctively and it wrapped its tail around his wrist.Securing him.No, them securing each other. It was a small but crucial difference.Everything went a kaleidoscope of greys which then bled to white and then –Then there they were.Right beside it. As though it had just been on the floor beneath them or behind a curtain that had now been pulled away.He wouldn’t be surprised if it was something like that, to be honest, though he would’ve thought his brain could’ve at least come up with something a little more…breath-taking than that. A curtain was so…pedestrian, really. So humdrum, so lacking all-around.
So you admit you’re a drama queen?
He was a king if he was anything, thank you very much, John, or possibly an emperor.
Of course, you bloody well are. Why would you be anything less?
Exactly.Knowing he was stalling didn’t make it any easier to break from, as it happened. Nor did the knowledge that he was trying to wrap himself in the protection that John offered. That which he always offered, really, and which Sherlock always took, even when he pretended that he didn’t.When he pretended that he didn’t need it.And yet, John offered it. It might not always have been conscious and it definitely didn’t negate when he was pissed off or just fed up with him, but it was offered, and Sherlock took it.Had he ever taken it when it hadn’t been offered?It was difficult to remember, and not made easier by how his heart seized in his chest.
Nor the fact that you’re currently split into three and had your mind sort of, you know, sundered and everything. That kind of thing. You know, the thing you in fact ought to be focusing on? That which is right in front of you, in fact. The one that is in pain.
And there was no question that it was in pain, at that. Not mere physical pain, either, insofar as you could say that a part of your mind – calling the dragon a mental construct was lending too much credence to psychologists and not enough to reality – or perhaps rather your conscious could experience physical pain. This was…All kinds of things, really, all muddled together into a mass that seemed impossible to untangle. It was as though the dragon had…had been…Had been attacked by Lilliputians who had then forgotten about it entirely.He ignored the little one, who was responsible for that reference. It had held onto a whole lot of things he had thought deleted, and he wasn’t sure he could see the benefit of all. Nor did he quite want to give it the satisfaction of acknowledging it.Little it might be and a different part of him. One which he’d…well…Even so, it was still him, and he did know himself. Not as well as he’d thought, he could admit to that, but…but some things were immutable, and that was one of them.As he watched, the bindings seemed to vanish and he breathed a silent sigh of relief even as his brow furrowed deeply. That couldn’t be right. For one thing, the dragon would’ve raised its head or stretched if it were no longer bound. It wouldn’t have just –The bonds were back, more numerous than before, and tighter still. Within a few blinks, though, they were gone once again, and –Oh.Of course. That was – idiot.They weren’t there. Or rather, they were but they weren’t, not in the sense that…it all depended on your perspective, that was all.Except, of course, that ‘all’ was as multifaceted and hard to comprehend as a prism put too close.To the dragon, they were there, and that was the important part. That wasn’t to say that it was all in its head or otherwise imaginary, mind, not in the slightest. If anything, the fact that it believed in it made it all the more real, all the more tangled.He wished he didn’t know that quite as…intimately as he did.Before he quite knew what he was doing, he had slipped down onto his knees beside it, close enough that he could feel the heat, or was it cold, of it emanating onto him. One hand had reached out on its own but stopped before it could make contact with the scales of the body.For one thing, that wasn’t his to decide, and for another, the dragon’s decision might well be that it would rather die than have him touch it.Shouldn’t that be that it would rather devour him than let him try to touch it? Than try to take control of it?No. He didn’t think so. Despite all that he had thought, all that he had feared and fought against as hard as he conceivably could, no matter how justified he had been or felt, and despite all that it had done, he didn’t think that that was what went through its mind right now. Of course, that was insofar as any coherent thought was capable of coming through, which might not be much.Not at this junction in time, it wouldn’t be that.It had gone beyond that. For both of them. At least, he thought so.The dragon would be able to sense his presence even if it wasn’t otherwise conscious. He knew that for certain because even when he’d pretended not to, the presence of the dragon had always been there in the depths of his mind, like that grain in your sock that you cannot find, cannot shake, and cannot for the life of you forget.Even if it couldn’t, he wasn’t going to force it to anything. Not a single thing. Which was part of the reason he held onto the little one, preventing it from moving from his grip or getting at the chains for itself. It would not be a good solution even if it were technically a solution, and so it could not be used.If this was going to work, then…then it had to be unanimous. For several different reasons, but most important for the equal presence of them all.They had to be unanimous. A whole. United. If they couldn’t be that, then…then he was going to tear himself apart, bit by bit until there was nothing of him left.Even though he thought it, something must’ve filtered through to the dragon. At this point, that was the least unlikely bit of all.Even so, it unsettled him just a little bit.Or perhaps it was that eye, great even at this relatively reduced size, and made greater still by his proximity and the alienness of it.That wasn’t fair. It was his own eye, for better and for worse, even if it were more…no, not alien. It wasn’t alien, it was simply…more. More through being less.Himself diluted, perhaps. Or distilled.That might well explain just why he was so very frightened of it; looking into a mirror could be hard enough if you saw yourself, to but to look into one where you saw yourself stripped down to so many of the qualities that you didn’t like, even when you thought you did…?If that wasn’t nightmare-inducing, then he wasn’t sure what was.Now, though? Now the one eye he could see was not merely half the size of him or more, rather than as tall as the stately front window of a palace, but was staring back at him with…Well, not with malice, for a start. Not with much if anything of what he had, consciously or not, come to associate with the dragon.Come to pit himself against to show that he was other and more than the dragon. Better than the dragon, in all the ways that mattered.So that he that way could have a claim on being the one in charge. The best one was in charge, weren’t they? That was how things worked. Ought to work, anyway.Was that child’s thinking? Obviously, but was it stupid to think like that? Again, obviously, but…but it also made sense in a more adult sort of way. Not in terms of government or stuff like that – that was Mycroft’s headache, not his.Mycroft…He felt tears well up in his eyes at that, warm and burning with their salt. They shouldn’t be burning when they were figments of his imagination. Then again, neither should he feel anything, given that this was all…all just in his head.Doesn’t make it unreal, though, does it? Not in any way that matters, at least.
Thank you as always, John.

My pleasure, Sherlock.
What looked back at him was a creature who was lost and in pain, pain in such a kaleidoscope of shapes that it didn’t know how to take it let alone how to work with it, old and new and everything in between. All that it hadn’t felt in such a long time, it now felt a hundred-, a thousandfold compared to what he had.It had no way of dealing with it. No defence and no real understanding.Greed.No, it wasn’t…he didn’t think it was the greed that had done this. Not in this sense, at any rate.It kept on looking at him, steadily. Entirely immobile, in fact, and for a moment, a spike of fear that it had died with that last opening of the eye pierced through him.He reached out then only to pull back immediately, just before he made contact. It might sound silly, but he still hadn’t been granted permission.The little one nudged him, gently but insistently.“Hello?” he said and his voice came out as lost and raw as the expression in the dragon’s eye. Which made sense, of course, but it shouldn’t.He should be the one who guided the other. The other two, rather. Not commanded or ordered, but guided. Helped. Provided the support.You could hardly do that when you were as lost and uncertain as the person you were supposed to help. That would be the blind leading the blind, wouldn’t it? What good would that do?More good than one with eyes telling them about what it was like to be blind, or leading them without thought for their blindness, that was for sure.What?Even as he asked the question, though, he found he understood. Began to understand, at any rate, and yes, it was right, too. You couldn’t understand unless you had been there yourself, not truly, and perhaps…perhaps it was easier to reach for the hand that was as bruised and battered as your own?That was certainly how he felt, kneeling there and staring at the dragon. Wishing that it hadn’t come to this, that he hadn’t been such a stubborn fool unable to see what was the right thing to do, no, what he must do, until he was pushed to it.Until he was already falling and there was no way to gain height or reach the ledge.Until it was already too late.Tears made silent streams down his cheeks, smooth and entirely unheeded.Then he shook his head, vigorously, vehemently.It wasn’t too late. He had to believe that.Had to? Of course, he believed that. If he didn’t believe that, then what was the bloody point in being here? Why had he bothered with all this?It might not be his place to guide but…but – but he could nevertheless be the hand that reached out, the one that offered. Whether the dragon would then take it was another matter altogether. If it didn’t, he couldn’t say that he’d blame it. Not even in the knowledge that they would come apart, then, all three of them.He wouldn’t –
Hello.
The pupil of the dragon’s eye contract into the merest pencil line, which froze Sherlock in place in turn, then blew out to almost un-serpentine proportions. They grew hazy and painfilled as they did so but nevertheless, they moved not a fraction from Sherlock.Even with the size of them, he could tell that much.He opened his mouth to speak, though he wasn’t quite sure what he ought to say. It got there before him.You came. It was a statement not a question. Despite that, there was a wonder and disbelief in it that almost made it into query after all.Sherlock nodded. What could he say? He had. Of course, he had. How could he not?But he couldn’t say that to the dragon. Not like that. Not after all they had been through, all that they had paid and shed. Both of them, but the dragon in particular. Of the two of them, he hadn’t been the one who’d suffered most.Still, he tried to say what he meant with his eyes, with his smile, his closeness. The little one in his arms. With anything but words, hoping that it would understand, somehow.Then again, if you couldn’t understand yourself without words, who could you understand?A nice sentiment. At least until you remembered that the lack of understanding between them was exactly the issue here. Calling it an ‘issue’ made it sound so quaintly therapeutic, as though it could all be sorted with just a good cry, a cup of tea, and possibly a biscuit.
You came.
It continued to stare at him, unblinking, and he didn’t feel frightened or intimidated in the slightest. All he felt was…was compassion, honestly. He didn’t understand but he might…he might begin to. With time.With help.Only when the dragon’s breath wafted over him did he realise just how close it had moved itself, and furthermore, that the breath, powerful, long, ululating if that could be used about a soundless thing, was the silent version of the roaring wail they had heard up until now.It was still in pain, it was still screaming for…for something.For help? For guidance?For deliverance?No. No, they were…they were going to make it out. Together.Because otherwise, he’d perish?Well…yes, alright, there was that part, he wasn’t going to deny it. Would be foolish to do so. But there was more to it than that. He might not be able to quite articulate it yet, and wasn’t that a novelty, but it was there.At the same time – and the fact that it could roar while doing other things might be a good thing or a very depressing one, he wasn’t sure – the still quite huge eye flickered about him. Searching.For what? Not for the little one. It was plain to see in his arms, studying the dragon with the greatest of interest, for obvious reasons. But what, then?John?He opened his mouth to say John wasn’t here when it clicked.Of course. Obvious.“I don’t have it,” he said. Shifting the little one, who clung to his shoulder and shirt, he spread his hands then his arms wide, careful not to touch anything. “I promise you; I do not have it. Nor do I intend to make it.”He didn’t need words to feel the disbelief emanating. Alright. That was deserved and more than deserved, he’d freely admit that.It was only disbelief, though. Not anger, not defence. Just a weary and wary disbelief.“I am sorry,” Sherlock said, and he had to force the words out. Not because he didn’t mean them but precisely because he did and they got caught in the lump of emotion in his throat as a result. “For all that I have caused. To both of you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”He had started to cry again, and there was not an ounce of shame or self-consciousness left in him to care at this point in time, and the little one made a small series of chirrups, of distress and concern, pressing against his jaw and nuzzling it.Strange that it never seemed to move any further up. It could, easily, and he was not about to stop it or otherwise prevent it but still, it never moved any further than that.Almost as if it couldn’t.That was ridiculous, though, even by the standards of his current reality.
I do not give pity.
A trace of the old arrogance? Possibly. Then again, if it wasn’t there, even for a split second, he would begin to wonder whether this was in fact his dragon.“I do not ask for it. Nor for forgiveness.”
Then what do you ask for, Sherlock?
For a moment, he thought it was John that had spoken. Or the little one, even though it had never communicated with him in words. There had to be a first for everything, didn’t there?Then he realised and if circumstances had been different, or he had, he might’ve gaped at what he heard. At what that meant.It was the first time, as far as he could recall, that the dragon had called him by his name. The first time, at least, that it had done so in a non-mocking way.This was exhausted and weary, but sincere in its asking. It wanted to know.More than that, it was listening to him. Waiting for him to explain. That in itself was greater than he could’ve –Don’t rush. There might be a hundred different reasons for this, and you’ve only grasped a half. That’s not to say you shouldn’t trust, merely that you should…trust with care.Care of all kinds.This was crucial to all of them.Does it become truer the more you say it?No, but it would be nice if it did. Shut up.“I want to…to be honest, I want to go back. I want to come back to John. To live…live life.” He’d almost said ‘my life’ there, which would…not be the smart choice of words. “I want not to rot within this shell of a mental construct while our body deteriorates on that bed, John watching on helplessly.”He paused and waited for a reaction to that. Precisely what expression he waited for, what reaction he expected, he couldn’t have said clearly. He knew what he hoped for, though that was hardly the same thing.Not even close.So, when the dragon slowly closed its eye and opened it again, in what he realised was as close to a nod as he could get, he was truth be told more than a little startled.Joyous, too, of course, that went without saying. But still, startled. He’d expected more hostility. It might still come but…no, he didn’t think so. It was highly improbable at this state, and not just because of the dragon’s sorry condition.Could he rectify that? Without touching it, that was.You might argue, and well argue at that, that it wouldn’t matter. Once they were fused, to use a horrible term in so many ways, whatever was the matter with it would be gone, absorbed into the amalgamation they would become. It would all be perfectly fine.Rubbish. For a start, this wasn’t an amalgamation, as though he was three disparate people being grafted together with the mental equivalent of a needle and thread or a welding or soldering iron. He might not yet have a full grasp of how this worked, to put it politely, but he was sure it wasn’t that. Even if it were, they were not…It was more separate parts of a whole finally coming together, and each of those parts were important. As important as the other and that included their state.How was he to heal it, though? This wasn’t his doing. Apart from the notion that everything was, of course, which was all very noble but hardly useful.Useful had to trump chivalric.“What can I do? What would you want me to do?” he asked, only half-aware that he’d spoken.With effort, the dragon opened its eye and focused.
You say this isn’t your doing? That you don’t hold the chain any longer?
“Not since you…that is, since I – “Careful. For fuck’s sake, whatever you do, tread carefully.
Since I broke free. I see. Makes sense, really. Is that why it hurts so much? Do I need the chain in order to exist at this point? The prisoner who comes to love its chains, perhaps?
It was nothing more than speculation, Sherlock knew, and yet, part of him winced as though he’d been jabbed.“For what it’s worth, I don’t think so. Not mainly, anyway.”
You always were the brains of the operation.
Was that mocking or merely an observation? Difficult to tell. He decided to ignore the tone.“But you cannot work on brains alone.”The dragon stared, its pupil going wide then narrow then wide again as it did so. Almost as if it were trying to find a focus that would make him make sense again.
Of all the people in the world, I would never have thought that I should hear that from you.
“No. To be honest, neither would I, a few days ago. But things change, and so must we.”There was another small chirrup. It wasn’t impatient so much as it was imploring and…yes, perhaps just a little bit impatient. Who could blame it?Almost instinctively, Sherlock brushed a hand down it from its snout to the base of its tail, as if it were a kitten. It pushed up into his hand all the way down.The dragon’s eye shifted, insofar as it could, down to focus on it.What is this? Is that…have you tried to make another me? Tried to make a me that is smaller and easier to control?Not surprisingly, there was panic in the voice even though it was evidently trying to control it as hard as it possibly could in its state. Just hearing the dragon, of all things, panic, let alone sound so lost and betrayed as it did so rather than roaring with anger or indignation, tore Sherlock’s heart into shreds.Damn inconvenient things, hearts, when you came to think about it. Inconvenient but crucial.He had to calm the dragon if it were to listen but how could he calm it when he wasn’t even sure he could get through to it? That it would listen to him? Panic wasn’t exactly rational, so how –?Calm. That was it. He needed calm.And so, he breathed. Just breathed, long and steady breaths, as though he was nothing but a set of lungs. It shouldn’t have had much of an effect, considering and yet…Yet he felt not only the world around him, such as it were, calm, but the dragon seemed to…not quite collapse or deflate but smooth out. Relax. Not fully – how could it while still in pain? – but enough that he dared to speak.“This is no replacement for you, I promise,” he said, softly. “I don’t want to control you. I said I didn’t and I truly don’t. Not anymore. I have learned my lesson, impossible as that might seem. No good can come of it if I try, and all kinds of horrible things has and will come instead. We’ve seen that, haven’t we? Both of them.”
But I can’t be in control, either.
“Do you feel in control right now?” asked Sherlock, as gentle as he possibly could.  “Because I am definitely not the one in control and nor is our little companion.”He shifted and brought the little one closer to the dragon. Not close enough to touch and thankfully, nobody seemed intent on trying, either.Big eyes met one huge eye, studying each other as though they were each the most fascinating, unsettling, and yet disturbingly, achingly familiar thing in the universe. Their movements were small and rapid as each gathered information and assessed their findings.“Do you recognise it?” the human part asked, after a few moments.
To whom do you speak?
Sherlock merely lifted both eyebrows. Not one, haughtily, but two, surprised and encouraging.It seemed to work.
Do I recognise it? Apart from how it is me all over again, albeit in a very fragile…no, it is not me, is it? Not when you take a moment to look, to observe rather than see, as you so often say. It is you. A little boy, clutched in your arms as if you might protect him from anything and everything.
There wasn’t any humour or even any mockery in the voice, which was possibly was surprised Sherlock most of all. Surprised and soothed him.How far we’ve come. All of us, it seems.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He wasn’t at all as startled as he might’ve thought he’d be had he thought about it, considering, to know that the dragon saw the little one as him rather than as itself. As a human child, that was. It made as much sense as how he saw it. They might well both be right or neither of them were.It was meant to be the link, after all. The point where they’d been severed or rather, what they had left behind them when they had been severed.No, it was both, and they were indeed both right. Just like the dragon saw him and he saw the dragon in the little one, it was both at the same time. The symbolism couldn’t have been more obvious it had smacked him in the face.Instead, it had its head tucked underneath his chin, indeed as if it could somehow escape any and all dangers by staying there. They both knew it couldn’t and that it shouldn’t even if it could, but the sentiment was there, nevertheless. What was more, it was a sentiment that was appreciated.“I couldn’t protect either of you from what was most important of all,” he said, and he could hear the guilt in his voice and the strains of self-pity like a discordant half-note underneath it. “I know that I’m the one who has hurt you both and I’m not asking for you to forgive me.”But you are asking for something.“Yes. For…for all our sakes. Mine included. I’m not going to deny that.”Good. That’s a start.Acknowledge who and what you are.
I do not recognise it further than that yet you appear to think that I should. Why?
Sherlock told the dragon. That was to say, he made the very roughest of sketches for it to understand. The experience itself, the memory, he left out of it. It wasn’t for him to share that. If anyone was going to, then it was the little one, and it would have to do it directly, as it did for him.Just what that experience might be like for the dragon, Sherlock could only guess at. It would be markedly different from his own, although perhaps not, and it would most definitely be painful in some way.But then, the dragon was in pain already. He had to stop several times as it let out another roaring howl that grew weaker and weaker with each iteration.It had to be done, though, and the rest of it. The dragon had to understand what they were doing and why. To deceive it or conceal things from it was only going to hurt them all in the end. Nor was it any way to build a relationship, come to that.Which was essentially what they were doing.The little one shared a memory of trying to make friends when he was little, and he grimaced despite himself. Despite the importance of the situation.That was…not something he would’ve wanted to remember ever again. It had been a depressing and confusing enough experience the first time around.And it had, by steps and in drips and drabs, led him along to the decision he had made and which they were now all suffering from and for.
So you…think that we can…come back together like…the broken halves of an egg?
Sherlock nodded. He ignored the hint of sarcasm and the incredulity. It wasn’t as though he didn’t get the reasoning. It was just that…well, the whole thing was preposterous in the first place, wasn’t it? What was one thing more?A point, yes. And it’s not as though…as though I have better solutions for you. I have no solutions at all, in fact. I don’t even…It trailed off and its eye glazed over completely for a moment. There was a very long way from the sneering, superior grimace on its face from when first he’d sunk down into the catacombs of his minds, further down, and had bound it.Now, all it engendered in him was sorrow and guilt, and an urge to comfort it. To tell it would be alright. Which it might not be, ever again, even if they did come together, as it were, and he didn’t know how to fix that.How could he say that, though? How could he tell them any of his doubts? This was his problem. He had caused it; he was meant to fix it. Him alone.
As though we are of no real importance except as damsels.
The snort startled him, and he stared at the eye. It was still glazed but there was a small twinkle of sharpness in it.A small hope.Still, how had it – could it hear all he –?
About as much as you can hear mine. It’s written all over your bloody face, idiot.
The fondness of that one word was about the last thing he had expected.He had thought, had hoped, that they might be able to come to a status quo, an acceptance of the situation and what needed to be done in order for them both to survive. A peace offering and a truce but nothing more than that.Never would he have thought the dragon capable of fondness. He even said as much out loud before he could stop the words.Another, pained snort. You’re not the only one who can change, and this hell is more than enough to make you re-evaluate things. Just about everything you’ve held to be self-evident and rock-solid.“Tell me about it,” Sherlock murmured.He still wasn’t entirely sure why the dragon had fared this badly when it had gained control of the system, as it were, let alone in this short amount of time. That was, he assumed that it was a relatively short amount of time though if he was entirely honest, he had no idea. Time was something that happened outside, at least in an understandable, linear fashion.But provided that a month or a year hadn’t passed with him essentially dead to the world – he knew that the dragon hadn’t gained access to control of the body or anything else because he would’ve ceased to exist…perhaps – it did seem a strange and quick loss.After all, by comparison, he had been in control for decades at this point and while he hadn’t precisely done the best job of it, in recent light, he wouldn’t have said he –Oh.But he hadn’t been bifurcated then, hadn’t he? They might have been separated and everything, which was underselling it immensely, but they had still shared the brain and body. That was how he could still access the dragon parts of him and why he was still afflicted by the troubles of dragons, too.It was how he’d been able to go into the very depths of his mind and find it and have a conversation with it. The connection was there, for better and for worse.Up until now, they’d been a dragon man, you might say – precisely how you would describe it, he’d never thought to consider or ask or if he had, he’d deleted it – instead of a dragon and a man, separately. It wasn’t that they had been one or even properly linked, as they ought to be, mind, not even close.Co-dependent was perhaps the more accurate if not the better word for it. At each end of the tether.Now, the tether was gone. They were each there own, cast adrift in this sea of uncertainty, or perhaps in the air, going into space.That was enough of an issue for Sherlock himself, and he at least had an idea of how to function. He might not be doing particularly well, of course, he wasn’t going to claim he was, but he made this work and he knew how it was meant to work.In a strange sort of way, how he had shut out and shunned the dragon at times and having been the one in the driver seat for most of their life, had helped him get through this, which in turn meant he was in a better condition to handle this than the other.
Plus, the small fact that you haven’t been alone during all this, either.
Of course. He wasn’t…he hadn’t meant to forget that.The dragon, on the other hand, had been alone once it had cut itself free from him, had wrestled control from him and been set free.Had it ever been set free. To continue the metaphor, possibly past where it ought to be taken, whereas he had gone up into the air, the dragon might well be said to have risen into space.Entirely outside its sphere of experience or perhaps even understanding.On its own.It had always been on its own but it…it had been on its own surrounded by people, you might say. There was an enormous difference between the two.Sherlock knew that. Better than most.There was also a great difference between loneliness that you chose yourself and loneliness that was thrust upon you, regardless of your opinion. It hadn’t been thrown loose just from him but from just about everything it had known and instead, it had most likely been filled with the other side.All that he had known. Had grown to know bit by bit, over years and decades, and he had still struggled with it. The dragon had been a mere passenger, if you could ever call it that, who had been allowed outside only blindfolded at certain times.He was a little surprised at himself with not so much how much it needed explaining to himself but with the metaphors. Perhaps he should’ve expected more than that.This was…Honestly, it was more a wonder it was still a whole being.Not for long, though.No. He could see that. It was…“Hold on,” he whispered. “Please. Just hold on a little longer.”
You don’t…want to die?
Was there amusement lurking in the pit of that voice? Could he blame it if there were?“Of course not,” he said. “But I don’t want you to die, either. You aren’t just greed or a beast. Not just something to be controlled or repressed. You’re not something lesser or just a manifestation of physical instincts, you’re…my imagination, my spirit. My wild energy.”As he spoke each word, he knew them to be true. He had thought he was much better off without them, and that he had simply grown up when he had left them behind. Not remembering that he’d left them long before it was ever time for him to grow up.Arrested development had nothing on this.“You’re you,” he said simply, as no other word could encompass it sufficiently. “My dragon.”He almost reached out then and there, almost brushed his hand across the dragon’s skin in much the same way as he’d brushed his fingers over the little one’s head, and for much the same reason.The dragon’s one eye stared at him as though it had never seen him before, or if what he had said had been the most bewildering thing ever uttered. Perhaps it had been, for all that.Didn’t make it a bit less true, though.
You…truly want me to be…not just because you need to have…me there or you’ll…die?
“I do,” said Sherlock, and the firmness, the conviction in his voice was unmistakable. “You’re not the only one who has learned.”
Will I be…back where I…was?
Sherlock shook his head the moment he understood. “No. I promise you. I’ve no idea how this whole sharing is supposed to work, and I can’t remember what it was like. This one can – “He shifted the little one – “but that might not help us afterwards. Or it might. I don’t know. I’ve been sort of caught in the fact that I don’t even know if this will work or not. It had better, of course, but that’s – “Not the same thing at all.The ice-white eye turned to the little one again, studying it for an abstractly long moment.
And what do you need me to do?
“First of all, you need to remember what happened. You might think that doesn’t matter but if you know how it was done and what it felt like, from your end, you’ll know where the cut and crack is for certain and then we stand a much better chance of…of fitting the pieces back together.”An image of the vase, or the mental construction of it, from their battle of wills flitted through then, and Sherlock almost smiled despite himself.It was a good thing he didn’t, though, as it would’ve come out a twisted mess. “It’s going to hurt, no matter which way we go about it to show you, and I’m sorry, but…it has to be done.”
I understand.
Do you? Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder. He had thought he had, and he hadn’t been prepared – and he was the one who was used to sift through memories and bits in his Mind Palace, too. The dragon, on the other hand, had no experience of that.Then again, it was not the one who’d held the knife, so to speak. It had not made the decision and had merely been made to suffer the consequences, for better and for worse. Or rather, for worse and a different kind of worse.How lovely.He could only hope that that would make it easier for it. Not easy, he knew it wouldn’t be that, but it might just be a bit easier for it to cope with.And as he’d said, there was no other choice.Like it or not, they had to be on the same page in order for this to work. Even then, it might not work, of course, but he couldn’t think of another way. And it was up to him.You break it, you fix it, isn’t that how it goes?Not in the real world.Good thing they were in his, then. His as it was now rather than his as it’d been once upon a time.As he’d thought on it, the little one had begun to wriggle. It wanted out. More importantly, it needed out. Out so that it could touch the dragon, without touching him.That couldn’t be allowed to happen. Not yet.Not until they were ready. All of them.He watched the little one touch the ground, if you could call it ground, and in the moment that it touched down, he thought he indeed saw what the dragon saw; a little boy with pale eyes, dimpled cheeks, and a mop of curls fit for a stock frame photograph.He had never looked like that. It was too…too…Too idyllic and perfect an image. Exactly something that you only found in commercials and ads.Oh.Yes, of course. That made sense, really.He watched as the little one, now back to being dragon-shaped in his eyes, reached out and touched the dragon, who watched it impassively.Impassively? No. Apprehensively but also fascinatedly, like you might look as if you had just met a brother you hadn’t seen since you were little and had forgotten about entirely as a result.Which, in a sense, was precisely the right description for them. Three parts of a whole, most certainly.Mycroft and he were two parts of a whole, too, for better and for worse, it just…Family was strange.Something happened when the little one touched the dragon and for a moment, he had no idea what it was. Was scared to even think about it, let alone check.Then he realised; its eye had dimmed, almost to the point of deadness. No, to that dull sheen that was the mark of –No. No, it wasn’t. He was merely projecting; it was not anything to do with – look there!His heart hammered in his chest, in his throat, as his eyes, which had darted back and forth like a desperate bird in a conservatory, was now caught by the way the dragon’s pupil…well, essentially did the very same thing.Well, not quite, but close enough. Behind that dead dullness, the pupil was contracting and expanding and making aborted little gestures that never amounted to anything like proper movement.Fascinated almost despite himself, Sherlock thought he could see just when the little one reached certain points in its narrative. If you could call it something as controlled, as calculated as that.This was not a rehearsed movie script, far from it, and yet, the little one must’ve gone over that part in its head so many times since it had happened, that in a sense, it must’ve indeed become something along those lines for it.Did that then mean it wasn’t reliable? The more someone had rehearsed something, the further it got from the truth, in his experience. And it was only little, too. A child, to all intents and purposes.How could you trust that?Except…Except it was…it was child and adult. Something left behind and arrested but also…also something ageless. Something that was fundamental.Their essence, indeed. Ever-changing and yet eternal.Not to mention, of course, that something rehearsed would hardly give that strong and visceral reaction when relived as it had when he had been made to see. To remember.Could that be faked? Yes, but he could tell the difference between a true visceral reaction and a feigned one. He was still a consulting detective, whatever else he was, and he was good at his job. There might always be something, but still, he was good.As he watched the dragon live through the memory – just how much of it was related to it and how much would it be able to remember itself? – Sherlock’s heart tore apart in one long, painful tear to watch it. His hand twitched in his lap where he knelt, desperate to close the distance.To provide the comfort to the dragon that he had always denied it. Denied them both, but that was hardly a mitigating circumstance, now, was it?How far they had come, indeed.All you could hope for now, of course, was that the whole thing stuck, as it were, and this would remain the case after they’d all got out of here. When reality beckoned, for good and for ill.To say that he had his fingers crossed was accurate but in the same way that saying London was congested, especially at rush hour.After what seemed the length of a universe, as it was winding down, readying for the return journey, the little one at last stepped back from the body in front of them. The dragon didn’t react to it. Not in the slightest.In point of fact, there was no reaction from it whatsoever. Even less so than there had been before. If Sherlock hadn’t known better, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he did, really, he would’ve said that the dragon was altogether gone. Dead but not in the sense that anyone else would understand the concept.Had it been dead in that sense, then…Then so would the rest of them.It wasn’t a lesson that he’d liked to learn but it was nevertheless one he’d learned. Which he now knew within the very bones of him. Metaphorically speaking.So what precisely ailed it?He wished he knew, quite honestly. It would be lovely to be the place where he normally was, where he normally strutted and danced. Where he excelled.This was not a crime scene, though, or at any rate, it wasn’t one where he could easily assemble the bits that…Well, who said he couldn’t? Precisely what prevented him from doing just that here?But there was no point to it! All he would find were outwards signs and what had happened had taken place inside the dragon. Somewhere he couldn’t go.Since when had that stopped him?A point, but – but what would he do with the information if he did find out what it was? He couldn’t touch it, could he? Nor did he think it a good idea if the little one did it, considering –Worry about that when you get there. You might even get an idea by the time you’ve assembled the points. Or, if you’re very, very lucky, then it will have come to its senses long before you get that far, saving you the bother of failure.Yes, alright, he got it.Did he? Good. About time.Very well, then, what could he see? The dragon hadn’t changed or even shifted. Not in the time that the little one had touched it and shared the memory with it. There hadn’t been so much as a twitch of a muscle or a movement of the claw.Then again, it had been more than used to filtering through all information while immobilised by the mind above it, so it would like –Later. For now, just observe.It hadn’t made any noise in that time either, including the laboured breathing or the almost inaudible keening howl. In fact, there had been nothing from the dragon at all. Not even the twitch of its closed eyelid.Almost as though it hadn’t been there. As if it had left its shell, as you might call it, behind for the time being.Right.What else? The little one. It had touched its forehead to the other. Where? What had been significant? What had been different from the touch that it had given him.Its forehead, not its paw or hand. Same as with him. Not the same place, though. His had been underneath the jaw whereas here it was on the snout. Good luck getting underneath the jaw, though.Was there something different in its stand? In the length of the touch? Hard to tell but it might prove important. What had it said to it? Had it said anything?Why hadn’t there been any reaction from either of them, not even now?No, still going too far forward.He was supposed to excel at this, why was he struggling with something as…as – as bloody banal as this? Come on, Sherlock, you know how –His hand was touched by something.He startled out of the concentrated lull he’d sunk into in order to pick up on what he needed. In which he had failed to notice what was in fact in front of him; the little one, its paw on his hand and an expression on its face that he couldn’t decipher.Not now. He had a job to do and couldn’t afford to be distracted. It was all very kind of it but this was…he had to make this right, to ensure that they didn’t lose the dragon. He’d promised to protect the dragon, hadn’t he? If not out loud, then that had been what he’d meant.This was his dragon. His own. The other half of him that was within him.His other half on the outside was sitting waiting, patiently, for him. For Sherlock to come back to him.Provided he still was.Of course, he was. John wasn’t that kind of –Provided he still was, considering the time that might’ve elapsed.Oh.Another reason not to let himself get distracted further.As he tried to gently shake the paw, or hand, off, it made a soft chirrup and looked intently at him. It was still all but impossible to interpret its gaze, but he gave it a good try, knowing the importance of this.Was it apologising? Reassuring him? Asking for help?Then something blew across his face, strong enough for him to squeeze his eyes shut as it did so. Or perhaps that was simple the startled reaction to the action that did it.When he opened his eyes, he stared into an eye – an eye which was alive and alert, and much bigger than it had been before.No, wait, it wasn’t. It was merely that he was…was he closer to it? Closer and yet, it seemed further away, somehow.But it was there, and it was clearly moving. Alive. In whichever you might define such a term within the mind of a person like this, a mind that was more layered than a pancake cake.Was sarcasm strengthened or diminished by being proved right? Or was that the entirely wrong question to be asking?I remember now, the dragon said.Sherlock hadn’t known it until this point, but he had in fact, at least in some part of his mind, been dreading the reaction that would come from the dragon after this.So far it had all gone well, and he had believed its reactions and its predicaments. All of it. He truly, genuinely had, and now he had to pause before he protested too much.Regardless of how it had gone, however, there was no way of knowing just how it would go once it knew all the details, so to speak. Once it had the whole truth in front of it, both what the little one remembered and what it itself recalled, who was to say it would be the same?Sherlock certainly didn’t feel the same now as he had before he’d known.On the other hand, he didn’t exactly feel different, either. That was to say, if anything, he felt more like himself than he had in…in far longer than he could even recall, quite frankly. Perhaps forever or if not that, then from the point when he had…Well, when he had cut himself off, quite literally in its way, from part of himself.Whether that entailed the dragon felt the same, though, wasn’t at all certain, not by a long shot.Not least, of course, because in that little equation, Sherlock hadn’t only been the divider, he’d been the instigator and the equals sign, to extend the metaphor perhaps a bit too far.In short, if the dragon bore resentment towards him, or had its resentment rekindled, then he could well understand it.He would also be quite royally buggered if that were the case.Would he deserve it? Probably. Almost certainly, in fact. That did not alter the fact that he very much didn’t want to be. Not in that way.For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t even been buggered in the traditional way yet!He blinked at himself.Had he thought that?Apparently so, and he might even have said it out loud, too. Judging by the infinitesimal shift in the eye that he understood, somehow, to denote amusement, he had in fact done just that.It was not the time to be embarrassed, though, or even really to consider it much.There were other things to consider.Such as the fact that the dragon had the presence of mind, and most importantly, the generosity of spirit, as it were, to be amused at his expense.Amuse rather than, say, stare at him with disgust and malice.With a desire to obliterate him entirely.Well, it had seen where having to deal with this on its own led it, hadn’t it?Yes, it had, that was true enough. Somehow, though, he didn’t really think that it was that which held it back from its murderous intentions.That wasn’t merely a hope, either, although it was also that. It was an honest knowledge.A knowledge which he could see reflected, or perhaps simply projected, from the dragon’s eye. From what of its face he could see but in particular its eye.Strange how much of his communication with the dragon he had done through its eye, and for more than the obvious reason.A motif, you might say.Save him.The appendage on top of his pressed down in what might’ve been intended as a squeeze.He hadn’t said that out loud, he knew that much. Nevertheless, he looked down at the little one – who began to clamber onto him the very moment that he did so.I understand, the dragon repeated. This time, rather than entirely blank as the first time had been, which had set off Sherlock’s warning bells and sent his train of thought hurtling out of the station, it had a note of…Of too many parts to be dissected, really.No. Not too many, not even close. And even if there was – he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, was he not? Wasn’t he supposed to be the clever one who solved all the crimes he bothered with? Who was able to pick up on points and pointers that others overlooked?In light of all that, was he to allow a little complex bundle of feelings defeat him?No.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There was…well, there was pain, of course, and confusion. Deprivation, no, loss, both of having lost something and the feeling of being so, and there was hurt, which was different from pain. Anger was there, too, but not anger directed at anyone. Regret and guilt and an almost depthless sadness. One which it evidently didn’t understand.Sherlock was entirely with it on that last score, both in feeling it and not understanding it.Once again, he felt an urge, and a strong urge it was at that, to wrap his arms around it and tell it somehow or other, it would be okay.John would be proud of him.Brushing that thought aside – with a small part sounding suspiciously like John reminding him that he should be proud of himself and for himself – he instead grappled with settling the little one.“I’m sorry it had to come about that way,” he said, “and if there had been another way, then – “
I know that.
One more thing; there was understanding in that gaze, too, and something that might, in another light, be called compassion, perhaps even empathy.Was that unfair of him? Perhaps, but you had to start somewhere.Besides, it wasn’t as though there was much room for any emotion to make its mark right there.The dragon bent its head to him, to the point that it almost touched him. Almost but carefully not so.Thank you, Sherlock, and…whatever you might be called. Strange that…I don’t seem to…perhaps that is not important. I am grateful to…to at least know what happened that night…when I…I suffered so. The eye shifted, in direction but also in hue, somehow. To know what we all suffered.Sherlock, quite honestly, was at a loss as to what to say. Had John been there, he might’ve found something amusing in the fact and made some kind of comment. As it was, Sherlock was left to fend for himself, and he couldn’t really be bothered.“You are not…angry,” he said. It came out as a statement rather than a question, but a statement so flat as to almost loop back around to being if not outright disbelieving then at least incredulous.
Angry? Why should I be…oh, is that why? You are…the villain here?
“You have been angry with me before. Most of our existence, as it happens,” Sherlock pointed out. To put it mildly.Perhaps this was not wise but on the other hand, things needed to be cleared out before they attempted it, at least inasmuch as they could be. This was one of those things that would hang between them and might indeed end up fouling the whole thing.The dragon stared then made a noise, the breath of which blew a curl into Sherlock’s eye. He brushed it irritably.Not so much anger…as resentment, that’s not…the same, the dragon said. Not quite. You cannot blame me for that.Sherlock shook his head. He wasn’t going to blame anyone for anything. Except himself, but that was different.“I’m not. I’m just pointing out why I might be surprised, considering. Not to mention wary.”Ah. Yes. I see. That’s…understandable. The dragon paused, thinking. It is considerably harder to feel resentment towards someone whose reasoning you understand and even sympathise with, and not just because you would’ve done a similar thing in the circumstances.It pulled back a little at that, only to lay its head back down where it had been before, the eye fluttering with exhaustion, though it still turned towards the little one.
When you know…it’s the work of a child…out of options and…frightened out of his mind…his whole world falling…apart, how can you…resent him for…taking the one option he…think he has to make things right?
The words hit Sherlock like a ton of the most benevolent bricks in the world. Tears trickled from his eyes in a silent and steady stream and a smile tried to settle on his face.Before it could gain a foothold, however, something else drove it off.“Thank you. That’s kind of you to – but that doesn’t excuse the rest of it. I should’ve done something before now. I shouldn’t have – I could’ve made things right long before now, instead of pulling further and further away from you. Telling myself that I knew better, that you should be controlled, that you weren’t – “
Yes.
That single word was enough to shut him up. To twist his throat together entirely and the rest of his intestines, too.He started to bow his head, thinking that he had just buggered it. The dragon had been ready to – and of course he had to go and poke at the point where –Yes, but that is in the past. It is past…gone…and nobody ever got…anywhere by holding onto that. A waft of air that might’ve been amusement. Besides, it takes two to…tango, doesn’t it? I never came up…and tried to talk to…you either, did I?“You couldn’t. I’d shoved you down into the deepest parts of – “
And I stayed there. Brooding. Growing bigger and bigger and…less and less at the same…time. Didn’t I? John was right…I could’ve gone and…taken over when you were drugged to…high heaven but I never did. I could’ve talked to you but I…never did.
It paused again and sighed.The sigh was a strange kind of sigh, being sort of stitched together from so many parts and times that it was difficult to discern anything real. Perhaps that was the whole point of it. If there was a point to it, of course, which wasn’t a given.
I do not say that…you did no wrong, Sherlock. I merely…say that I understand the first…instance of why, and that we’ve then…both been idiots about it. Idiots unwilling…to admit we’d chosen the…wrong path and continuing down it.
The little one chirped quietly, several times in succession.
True. I suppose that does…underline that we are indeed…of the same stock. Takes one to know one…doesn’t it?
It looked at Sherlock again, with that strange tenderness and fondness that he didn’t know quite what to do with.No, scratch that. He had no bloody clue what to do with it. It felt so…so…so topsy-turvy and confusing. And yet, somehow, right.As though things had turned on their heads in order to come out right in the end.
You have come a long way to be able…to ask this, and I think I’ve come a long…way to be here, like this, too.
It smiled. With its eye only, thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could’ve dealt with seeing the teeth up that close right now, even if they were smaller than normal.
Thank you for getting me here and not…abandoning me.
“Never. I promise.” Never again. Things would be different from now on. For all of them. Better.Careful on promising more than you can keep. You don’t want to end up with –No, he knew that perfectly well. There was no need to stress the point.Well, that would be a first, wouldn’t it?And I believe you, the dragon answered, softly. It lifted its head, pushed forward then stopped. Though there was hardly room to do so, it somehow managed to tilt its head or at least give the impression of such as it regarded him for a long moment.
Shall we take the last few steps together, then?
“Yes.”Both Sherlock and the dragon looked to the little one. It was, after all, that which called the shots, as it were. The little one who made the connection.If it could be made, of course. Provided that it wasn’t too late or they hadn’t done enough or it simply had the power to undo what had been wrought. What Sherlock had brought upon them.Yet he knew that he wasn’t able to put right that which he had destroyed. How precisely he knew this, he couldn’t have said. Perhaps that was for the –The little one reached out a hand, or paw, and stretched it toward the dragon. Even at this small distance, it should’ve had trouble making it, especially as it no longer held onto the man with its other hand or paw, had it not been for the fact that both Sherlock and the dragon moved closer then.At precisely the same time.Which meant that when its hands or paws made contact, it touched them both equally at the same time.It was a soft touch, quite literally, to the point that Sherlock wasn’t sure that he’d felt it. Only the fact that it was right within his field of vision where it had to be touching him convinced him.Insofar as he had the time and presence of mind to think about such things.Insofar as he had a mind at all.The longer it touched him, and he honestly couldn’t have said how long that was – it might’ve been no more than a second if not half a second and it might’ve been half a day – the more he seemed to feel as though his mind was melting.No, not melting. Coming apart not just at the seams but just about everywhere that he could conceivably come apart, that was far closer to the mark, and yet it was not at all the feeling that he had of it.The real feeling was…beyond his description, really. Which was saying something, either about the experience or the state he was in. though it had to be said, he wasn’t in much of a state to be thinking of anything.There was increasingly little to think with, however you’d describe the experience that was taking it away from him.At least he could say that it wasn’t painful. Whether that was a good sign or a worrying one, he had no idea. All he knew right then and there was that he wasn’t alone. He could feel that he wasn’t alone, and that the other he shared this with was as confused and scared and entirely out of their depth as he was.Right then and there, he couldn’t have told you who they were or why this was happening, even in the few, increasingly dwindling, moments of clarity, such as they were, that he had.Still, the moment they found each other, they clung to the other, as if the other could somehow prevent them from coming apart altogether.So long as they had each other, then everything had a chance of being alright. How that made the remotest bit of sense, he had no idea. It was just something he knew.One of the few things left that he did in fact now.Even as they came apart, though, dissolving as they did so, things floated into his consciousness or possibly the space around him, insofar as there was still a ‘him’ to have a space around.Things that…that seemed familiar.All too familiar and yet somehow, distant. Distant and confusing, the kind of confusion that you aren’t too sure you want to have resolved, in fear of what might occur then.And yet, there seemed to be little choice in the matter. The more he struggled to somehow get away, together with the one he was so strongly clinging onto, from that which floated around him, the closer they seemed to get, whirling, shifting, fluttering, and swooping.Swooping like birds. Getting ever closer and closer, still moving. Fast now, too fast to get a proper glimpse of and yet, he knew them. Didn’t know and yet knew. All in a tangle.No, he had to get away. If he didn’t get away, something terrible would happen. Would happen to all of them. This was wrong, wrong, all gone to pieces.It would never work, could never work. All their plans, their hopes, it was nothing more than a castle in the air, and even if it were possible, this wasn’t the way to go about it, no. It was all wrong.They would never be…it was too late. Too late in life, too late in the world, there was no way that it could work. They were too separate, too at odds, nothing alike. Nothing in common, nothing to work towards.Ready to devour one another at the slightest provocation. Just waiting. That was all they were there for.One or the other, it had to be one or the other!But it couldn’t be one or the other. He didn’t want – there should be peace. Peace between them. It was wrong to be apart, too, and it had been wrong for too long, and that was why this was going wrong. There was too much of the old still there, too much history, too much resentment, old hurts, they weren’t ready – their needed to be talk.Talk about what? Who had too much history? What hurts? Who were apart?The thoughts, fragmenting further and further even as they formed and flew, grew to be the only part of him that existed. Insofar as you could say there was – had he thought that before?Who was he? Was he?You’ll help me, won’t you? Was it him who asked or someone else? Did it matter?No. It didn’t matter.Of course it didn’t matter. None of it mattered because nothing mattered.He wasn’t real and had never been real, and so, there really was nothing to care about, nothing to make you worry.It was all fine. Just fine.Then the pain hit him. Searing pain that took everything that was left, large, small, or tattered fragments, away.Away into the nothingness that lay behind it.When Sherlock…well, to be perfect honest, he had no idea whether he opened his eyes or not. It felt as though he did but that wasn’t the same as saying that he in fact had. What he could say for certain was that he returned to the outside world, ostensibly the real one, and when he did that, he was relieved to see John right in front of him.Which was silly, he knew, because he’d been able to feel the hand in his throughout this entire endeavour…no, ordeal. That was the proper word for it. For the whole thing, honestly, but this one, in particular, and he had to admit, he didn’t feel much like someone who had slept for possibly days right now.Still, whether silly or not, he was grateful to know that John was still there and what was more, hadn’t moved an inch.Well, not entirely. He had moved a little bit closer, that was true, and he’d also put the watch down on the bed, which made a whole lot of sense. Sherlock had no idea how long he’d been ‘out’ for, even less so than when he usually went into his Mind palace to work out connections and suchlike, but it would make sense if it’d been long enough for the watch to feel uncomfortable holding. For no good reason, either.That was, there was no reason to keep holding the watch while he waited.A voice inside Sherlock’s mind, which was nothing to do with…anything, really, other than just his brain, piped up to question whether there was any need for the watch at all now, but he shot that one down quickly and mercilessly.Yes, there very much was.Even if there had been no practical reason, John had found it for them, had searched and evidently struggled to find it and find it in a hurry. That in itself gave it meaning and purpose, which was further enhanced by the fact that this had been, and presumably still was, something of value and importance, to John on its own, without any involvement from the brunet.However, even though things were safe now, from the inside, at least, as there was no telling what Moriarty might have planned, there was very much a practical and immediate use for it.They were to have the courtship sealed. No matter how much he’d bound and beaten, figuratively speaking, the dragon inside his mind into submission and stillness, had made sure it couldn’t take over, it was still…Well, he wasn’t a man. He was, for better and for worse, a dragon yet, with the instincts that entailed.One might think that was contradictory, at the very least, to all that had gone before. All that he had just fought to achieve and perhaps in a sense, that was true enough.Either they were entirely separate from him or a part that he could push away and either control or completely ignore, or they were something he had to accommodate for and allow to be part of him. Part of not just his mind but his emotions and beings as well.They couldn’t be both at the same time, no matter how much they meowed or scratched at the lid.And yet…Yet, the dragon as a separate entity, a part of his mind that had a mind of its own, with designs and schemes that he was not privy to, was quite different from the instincts and reactions that came to Sherlock himself as a person in his own right.No, not ‘quite different’. Very much different, in fact, if not entirely so. It might not be that that made a lot of sense to anyone else, but it made sense to him. As he was the only, as far as he knew, who had to deal with this particular situation, it did only need to make sense to him, too.He was not the dragon but he was a dragon. The mind was not his but the instincts were. That was the closest he could get to any kind of explanation.His attempt to settle that in his mind must’ve taken more of him than he thought, as John leaned forward, a slight frown creasing his brow, blue eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face.“Sherlock? Did you dive back in, love? It’s fine if you did, I’d just like to know, okay?”The words were so calm, so almost nonchalant and untouched, that it was hard to believe that something, anything at all had happened. That John had even thought to be worried, let alone have any reason to be.If you didn’t notice the vibrato lurking at the corners of the words.“No, of course – “he began then stopped himself, abruptly and sharply. That was hardly a helpful way to answer or tackle it, now, was it? Especially not considering all that he, they, had just gone through in order to improve communication between them. “I didn’t. I’m right here.”He squeezed the hand that was in his – still in his, after all this time! – as though to emphasise it. Which it hardly would, given how he’d used that physical connection several times while he’d been inside, as it were. Nevertheless, he hoped it would get the point across.Whether it did or not, he wasn’t sure. As he got the other squeezing back, he wasn’t sure whether it mattered too much, either. Not right now, at any rate.“And it’s…?” John didn’t seem able to finish the sentence.Sherlock couldn’t exactly blame him.His voice was also soft when he said, “Me rather than the dragon? Yes. Fully and wholly me. Only me, too. That I can promise you.”Not strictly speaking true, but for the purposes of the comment, yes.Well, it was true. Just not in the way John would think of it. It would be something to have to explain. Later.He hoped that John could see it in his eyes, his expression, too. If he couldn’t or if there was any suggestion that the dragon as it had been was still in there, lurking through the windows, as it were, then…Then John would leave. It might sound melodramatic, but Sherlock was sure of it. Absolutely and utterly sure. If he couldn’t feel safe, then –“I know,” John said, with a confidence that made the claim sound not just plausible but almost certain, something which, along with the words themselves, filled Sherlock with warmth and affection for his doctor, more than was the base level for him. “I know that it’s you.”“Why did you ask, then?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he mentally kicked himself for their thoughtlessness.Thankfully for him, the former soldier didn’t seem to take offense. Not at this point, at any rate, and that was all that mattered. Well, no, obviously not all, but it was an important component, nevertheless.“If you recall, I didn’t actually finish the ruddy sentence. You just assumed what I was going to say and this time, you were wrong.” There was challenge in the tone but also a faint hint of amusement.“What were you going to say, then?”“I was going to ask whether it was done – and that’s not the same thing.”“Never said it was.”Despite the words, he kept holding on tight to that hand in his. Very tight indeed, as if letting go meant drifting away into nothingness, to the point that something ought to have cracked, if not outright broken. He was suddenly reminded of, despite all his resilience and strength, both inside and out, how frail John’s human body truly was.How much he had to protect it, not just from their lifestyle but from the simple ravages of time, too.There had to be some way to impart the healing aspects of a dragon to a dragon’s mate, though. That and the longevity that dragons enjoyed, for a given value of ‘enjoyed’, which –And that was not something to think about now. Preferably not ever but given how unrealistic that was, it was something to put away for later. For when he could take it up with Mycroft. His brother would know a way or if he didn’t already, then they could work out one together.He hadn’t lost John to the dragon, despite all it’d thrown at him, or to Moriarty, despite him catching Sherlock off-guard and had tried to do to John, and he wasn’t going to lose him to something as mundane as old age, either, nor death. Not if he could possibly help it, and he could.He knew he could. When it came to this, to them, he would find a way.“Sherlock? Hello?”“I’m here!”The fact that it came out as the kind of exclamation someone else might use when they’re dragged out of sleep and do not know it or else don’t want to admit it did nothing to make it sound as reassuring or confident as he wanted and needed it to.“I’m here,” he tried again, opening eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed. “I’m sorry, I merely got…wrapped up in my thoughts, and that’s not a good thing right now, because how could you know whether I am in fact merely getting caught up in a thought like I normally do or if it’s something to do with the dragon? You can’t, not without me keeping you informed and even then, how can you know that what I say is something trustworthy and safe? That it’s not the dragon who has – ““It’s not the dragon.”It was the firmness of the voice, the confidence and the finality of it that did it as much as if not more so than the words themselves that did it. That and the look in those blue eyes.Sherlock blinked and stared, his mouth clicking shut quite hard and just a little bit painfully.Before he could think to question how John could be so sure, the blond smiled, a little tightly, and answered it himself.“I know it’s not because – because your eyes are still yours.”“What?”Of all the things he’d…well, that he might’ve expected had he thought about it, which he hadn’t at this point, that would not be the indicator that he would’ve expected John to go with.That was to say, he wouldn’t have thought that was an indicator, which perhaps said quite a lot about either his knowledge about his own body or his awareness of John’s knowledge and familiarity with said body, regardless of their level of physical intimacy.Which, considering how Sherlock normally thought boundaries a fine print thing that he had no reason to bother with and John in any case had spent a lot of time already manhandling the consulting detective to get at various scrapes, wounds and other injuries, was rather puzzling. Or saddening, considering.He shook himself quickly and focused on what John gave as explanation.“When your – when the dragon breaks through, has broken through, it has been visible in your eyes. They become, well, for one thing, the pupils contract and they become pale like…like old ice when it’s mostly white but there’s just this hint of palest mint-green to – yeah, I know, it’s a flowery description, no need for that look. It’s the only way I can describe it, you berk.”He gave Sherlock an odd look. “I thought you knew that happened.”“How would I ever know something like that? It’s hardly as though I look myself in the mirror at such times.”“You might’ve been able to feel it though I suppose that’s a bit like expecting someone to notice when their pupils dilate on their own.”“That and I tend to be otherwise occupied at the time.”John nodded. “Fair enough. I just – well, now you know. Wait, really? You didn’t see it on – suppose again, your focus was on something else when you saw Moriarty.”“Quite,” Sherlock said, sniffing slightly, not realising just how much he resembled his brother at that moment. Nor did he notice the unbidden quirk of John’s lips. “And there’s no guarantee that it’ll be the same indicator across the board, either. But I am glad to know that you have a useful and reliable way of telling whether I am…”“You?” John suggested, but gently.“Well, yes. Exactly. Which I am. Just to be clear.”He thought he could feel something like a rumble inside of him then. It wasn’t quite a rumble of protest, but it was not…not one either.But it was true. They were now – he was – this was him.Dragon and all.He was the dragon, and the dragon was him. That was…that was the whole point of it. There was no separate dragon now, sleeping or otherwise. It was all him.All him, through and through.Alright, so he could feel that it wasn’t a perfect job. That there were rough edges like anything, and that there were more than one place that wasn’t stitched together properly. But on the whole, they were one now.What was more and more important, was that they were both – that insofar as the two sides still existed, they were both more than prepared and willing to affect the repairs.To join themselves together wholly and fully.Permanently.John smiled, then. Soft and warm, both of which Sherlock got to experience as the blond leant forward and connected their lips. It was more than a peck and less than a kiss, and lasted for hardly any time at all before John pulled back again.Nevertheless, it was anything but insignificant or run of the mill.It was a reconnection and a bond all on its own, soppy though that sounded. As it didn’t go outside Sherlock’s mind, it was safe enough to think it. He even found himself wishing that it would be something of a regular occurrence in the future, at least, and knew that it would be as treasured each time. Even if it became an everyday habit for them, then –And he was letting himself be distracted again.Why did that keep happening? It wasn’t as though he was particularly tired or anything. Alright, so perhaps it had been something of a tiring…ordeal, but that was no reason for –His eyes widened as he sought around, rather fervently, on the point of desperate, in his mind for a clue as to whether the dragon had somehow found a way in after all. It shouldn’t be possible, not after everything he’d done to make sure, but how else would you explain –?Something stung. It took him a disorientating moment to work out that something was two fingers pinching at the skin just on the edge of the sensitive skin under the eye. In reality, it was hardly more than the two digits pressing ever so lightly together. Barely enough to hurt but it did sting, and therefore it could bring Sherlock’s attention firmly back on the here and now.“Ow!” he cried, just about managing not to reach up and rub at the abused skin. “There was no need for that.”“The other ways haven’t seemed to work as I need them to.”“You could’ve just called my name.”“I have, Sherlock. Several times. It doesn’t seem to last very long if it does work.”Shit. That had to mean –“No, I don’t think the dragon is back,” John said, as though reading his thoughts, though he’d more likely just seen the look in the brunet’s face – and misinterpreted it somewhat, too. But never mind that right now. It could wait.“Nor that it’s about to come back, either. You can breathe. I think you’re merely tired out from all that you’ve been going through and consequently, your brain is going a bit all over the place in order to keep you conscious, which counterintuitively is pulling you out of the reality of here and now.”“I’ve just had several days’ worth of sleep all in one go, I cannot possibly be tired. I should have energy to spare for the next three cases, at least, so something like…this,” he waved a hand between them and up towards his head, “shouldn’t take enough energy to warrant a reaction like that. Not if nothing else is the matter.”“But you haven’t – Sherlock, you haven’t only been inside your mind for your normal stroll through it. This has been something that’s drained you.”“That is still no excuse for this!”John was thrown by another outburst. He tried to hide it but it was clearly visible if you knew where and how to look, which Sherlock did, so long as he kept his mind focused. Which he could and which he would. For John’s sake. Both their sakes, but mainly the doctor’s.Apropos of that, he ought to rein in exactly those kind of reactions. Not because of the surprise but for how it might escalate. The last…no, not the last but one of the things he most definitely didn’t want to happen was a repeat of the arguing from…So, he had to be vigilant. Which meant that he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander off on tangents, no matter the reason behind it nor could he – and he had just done it again, hadn’t he? Started, at any rate.Focus, for fuck’s sake, you bloody idiot!“I can’t afford to – that is, I don’t want to make you doubt your safety ever again,” he said, the honesty of that bringing forth the vulnerability of it and as a consequence, his voice got quiet all on its own. “Not around me.”That statement, quiet and simple and honest as it was, made John stop. That shouldn’t be clear when he hadn’t said anything and was sitting on a chair, fairly immobile already but regardless of what it should and shouldn’t, it was.To Sherlock, it was, and he held his breath in turn.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed after what seemed an eternity, and in that one sentence seemed to be a whole lot of thoughts and emotions, all tangled up and getting in the way of each other.Getting in the way of Sherlock understanding what was meant.Rather than asking, though, and not just because he didn’t want to risk demanding, he sat waiting for John to continue. He wouldn’t know what to say further, in any case, though that was hardly the point.It seemed that John didn’t know what to say himself but nevertheless, the consulting detective waited. He would wait for as long as it took for an explication or anything at all, really, to come.When a comment came after another seemingly interminable wait, it was not what he would’ve expected it to be. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have been able to say what he had expected, only that this wasn’t it.“I, in turn, never want you to have to think about whether I feel safe in your presence again. Not to even begin to question it and – ““You won’t,” Sherlock said, not realising he was interrupting in his urgency. His fervour. “I promise you that you won’t, and I’ll repeat it however many times you might need to hear it. Whatever happens, I’ll make sure that – “He stopped, then, though he did so only because his attention was caught by something that took the words right out of his mouth. Something important, that was; John had reached down and picked up the watch, which had lain abandoned between them up until this point.Oh.But that was – did that mean that –? Surely, it couldn’t mean that –?Pale, multicoloured but human eyes flickered all over the familiar, slightly worn face, searching for an explanation. “John, why –? Are you afraid I won’t be able to keep my promise unless you, unless we –?”“No,” the blond said, quickly and firmly, shaking his head for further emphasis. He frowned as he then looked down on the watch in his hand. “That wasn’t my intent with picking this thing up. I merely – oh fucking hell!”He looked away as he cursed, grimacing in the same instant. However, the hand still in Sherlock’s after everything didn’t move an inch.“John?” Sherlock queried, despite his promise to himself that he would wait for the other to, to be ready.“Just a moment.”“Of course.” He squeezed the hand in his, a little warm and a little sweaty at this point, for what had to be the umpteenth time. Not that he cared. If it helped, then that was all that mattered.It helped him and it also seemed to help John as he, after only another moment or two, looked back.“Sorry, that was a stupid thing to do.”“It wasn’t.”“It very much was, given how you reacted. Justifiably, I’m not saying it wasn’t. I should’ve explained as I picked it up, not waited and let your mind run off with you. Should’ve known better than that.” He paused and managed a small smile. “I do trust you, Sherlock, and I do feel safe in your presence. Yes, I’ve been afraid through parts of this, you can’t blame me for that – ““I don’t.”He never would, no matter what happened. Anyone would...to be perfectly honest, anyone else would’ve been varying degrees of panic-stricken and terrified at all times throughout this experience rather than at a few points, as had been the case for John. Not surprising, really, considering who he was, but…Sherlock remembered with surprising clarity those moments of genuine fear he had seen on those familiar blue eyes, despite the rest of the incidents being so blurry and disconnected still, and he knew with that very same clarity that he never wanted to see them again. Not for as long as he lived.“– but on the whole, I am not afraid of you. Not of you. Any part of you. Of what might happen to you, or to me, yes, but not you. I’m not, Sherlock, believe me. Please. I know it might look as if I’m saying that to condescend to or placate you, and I undoubtedly ought to have found a better way of conveying all this, but I swear that’s not the case. I am not afraid of you and I never will be. That wasn’t the reason I picked up the watch.”He paused, presumably to take a deep breath though Sherlock got the distinct impression there was something else going on there.In any case, there was something he needed to say, and he needed to say it before –John was somehow faster than him, perhaps he’d got his thoughts in order beforehand or wasn’t as tired and drained as Sherlock was.“I trust you to have come back to me here, now, because it’s done. Because you have done what you set out to do, if not more than that, and therefore, you’ve felt safe to return to me.”“You cannot know that.”And he couldn’t. That wasn’t a slight on – on either of them, neither. It was just a fact that it was indeed impossible for John to know. He didn’t even know about the extra aspect Sherlock hadn’t been aware of himself until just recently. Which was understandable, obviously, but…it was a point.“That’s why I said ‘trust’, idiot.” Despite the words, there was the hint of a soft smile to John’s lips. “I trust that if that wasn’t the case, you would’ve said something, too. Immediately – and no, I don’t believe that the dragon is playing tricks on me. Or both of us. In short, I trust you, and therefore, I am not afraid of you on a fundamental level.”“Just a specific one?”There had to be some reason words that he would and should keep well inside of his mind kept flying out of his mouth without his prior approval like that, but if it weren’t the dragon wreaking havoc then what was it?Luckily for him, John seemed to take it relatively well, the hint of a smile becoming almost a full smile. “Yeah. You can be rather…intense when you haven’t had a case for a while. That’s fairly scary.”“Oh, do shut up.”The almost-smile bloomed into a full-blown grin in only half a moment and Sherlock found his own lips stretching in a matching grin.Then his gaze shifted and got caught by the watch. Such an unseeming thing it was, chosen for sturdiness and practicality more than aesthetic appeal, and worn and weathered by the experiences its owner had been through.Its actual owner, that was to say. He may have taken it and so by dragon thoughts and conventions, it was his, part of his hoard, but in reality, it was still John’s and so it should be.More so than every other valuable object and gimcrackery he had acquired for said hoard over the years. The decades. Even more so than the skull, though returning that to its rightful owner was…something of a moot point.John noticed him looking and followed his gaze.“Yeah. Sorry. Got distracted myself. See? Tired. Not draconian shenanigans or whatever you want to term it.”“I definitely wouldn’t term it that.”“No, of course you wouldn’t, swallowed a thesaurus off Eton and a dictionary off Wodehouse that you are.”“What?”“Never mind. Just a – my point is…” He paused, blinked, then tried again. “My point is that I picked up the watch, not because I am or was afraid of you, but because I could see you getting worried about me feeling safe in your presence. Which I do, regardless of who and what you are.”He smiled again but it was a very different smile from the previous one. “I don’t think I told you but more or less everyone warned me off from you when we first me. Not just Donovan, either, but Lestrade and Mycroft. Can’t remember if my psychiatrist did, too, but – ““You’ve never valued your psychiatrist.”“No, true, but that’s not the point right now. The point is that – ““I knew that they all did. Mycroft even texted me to say that he had, just so he could lord it over me.”“Or perhaps ask you take more care. Consider what’s come your way.”Sherlock blinked, thoroughly thrown by the comment.“Think I’ve learned a bit more about Mycroft throughout all of this,” the doctor said, “and – yeah, alright, that made me sound as if I’m a puppy not to be scared away – don’t you dare say a word. What I meant was that he probably saw potential, or compatibility or whatever, and therefore warned us off each other in a way that’d be sure to make us both be contrary little buggers to spite him.”Sherlock blinked again, his eyes widened, and his lips pursed. He…had not thought of it that way but that made a lot of sense. A whole lot of sense, in fact. Especially considering this was his brother’s work…used to help him, in such a roundabout, brotherly manner. Something which John had worked out from the behaviour displayed while the two of them had worked together to help Sherlock.Of course he would.Then he had to blink again as something else rattled along that line of realisation, with some speed, almost ramming into him; he had not just thought of his brother but of his collaborating with John to…and there hadn’t been the smallest hint of jealousy. Obviously, there shouldn’t be, considering what he’d just gone through, but nevertheless, he couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief.It had worked.What he had set out to do, he had accomplished. Not in the way he had thought he would, that was true, and you might say that he had done something else altogether, but that didn’t detract from the fact that he had, in his own strange way, accomplished it.He had succeeded, and in more ways than he would’ve ever thought possible.To be sure, though really it was as much if not moreso to check in and reassure as anything else, he went back to where it ought to be, staying nicely and carefully on the outside, as it were, and prodded at it, much like you would a bad tooth or possibly one that had just stopped throbbing.Only perhaps a little bit more considerately.It didn’t hurt. No matter how much he prodded it, or twisted, or pulled, it didn’t come loose, and it didn’t hurt. Not in the slightest, almost as though there had never been a problem in the first place.Well, there was the slight glare and harrumph to be felt somewhere at the continued prodding, disturbing the peace, but there was also something like a laugh, which manifested as a tingle, so that was just fine as it was.Point was that things were settled. Things were secure.If he had managed that, then – then it might not be a hundred percent certain he’d managed the rest, considering everything that entailed, but it was a damn good bet, and he had to believe that it applied to all of them.Had to believe? Believe? Shouldn’t he know? Be utterly certain before he went and sealed the thing?Was he scared to go and check? If he were, could he then really claim that the dragon was defeated, or whatever equivalent phrasing that’d be appropriate to use, and he had been able to let go of the leash? That they could now go through with the, what amounted to a courtship ritual, without having to worry.How could he think about that when he wasn’t sure and didn’t have the guts to go and check –?Hold on, though. Hold on just a bleeding minute. Why the hell was he panicking like this? Over something like that. Not because it wasn’t important but that was precisely why there was no reason to panic.He had gone to check.Several times while he’d been facing the dragon, and before, as surreptitiously as he could, and a few more times afterwards as well, to be on the safe side. On the safe side of safe, even, to be entirely sure, precisely because he, they – all of them were included in that ‘they’, not just he and John – couldn’t afford to be wrong.Which they weren’t. Everything was either destroyed or so fractured as to be no use to the dragon – had there been any danger from it to begin with. Which he felt sure there wasn’t. It would be rebuilt, but not in the way that it had been.Point was that it was safe. He knew it to be safe, knew it to be handled.Rather, to be in safe hands and in saw paws. Claws?Why, then, if he was so certain of it all, had he been so surprised to feel the jealousy or rather, the lack of it? If he’d known, it could hardly come as a surprise.No, not a surprise but still a relief. Confirmation was always a comfort and because he had been as thorough, if not more so, with the rest of the potential ways in as he had with the jealousy, he could be allowed to believe in the rest, too.Besides, he had trusted himself enough to let go of the leash and he had yet to feel –Don’t tempt it!Alright, so he was still scared, and he couldn’t blame himself for being so, however wholly illogical it was. Well, not too harshly, at any rate.However, if the dragon had any fight left in it, any hint of duplicity, which he doubted more highly than he did Moriarty taking up crocheting but had to acknowledge as a possibility, however irrational, then it wouldn’t be biding its time. Not when it had the best possible opportunity available to it now, possibly barring the others it’d had during all…this.Point was that it wasn’t going to have another one, at all, never mind one as good as this. It wouldn’t fail to recognise that, Sherlock knew, especially not when the leash had deliberately been taken off and let go of, and yet…Yet there wasn’t a trace. Not a single trace.Oh, the dragon was still there. Not just there, but present. Consciously. He could feel its presence in his mind much like you would a cat or a small dog sleeping on your foot but one which had been there for a long time.However, that was all. There was, unlike with an actual dog or cat, no feeling that it was asleep and therefore no indication that it would wake up.What was there, right now, wasn’t a stasis or a coma, not even a regular sleep. It wasn’t frozen or playing dead, it just…was.That sounded…tame, for one thing. Anticlimactic, even, and unbelievable. After all this, it was content to just…be?Oh, it would be. It would exist in his mind along with everything else but no, it wouldn’t…wouldn’t be able to reach him and take over. Not now. Not when he had made it out and not been followed. As for biding its time? What would be the point?Biding its time for what, precisely, was the question.After all, the best time to attack is always when your opponent thinks they have beaten you or are otherwise feeling safe. Which was now, yes, but it had been the case as he’d surfaced and before that as well. Yet still, there had been no dragon in any way, and there was no dragon now.It had no reason to bide its time and everything to gain by acting fast and yet…Yet there was nothing. The agreement held.There was no duplicity. Nothing to fear.However irrationally.They were in this together.He was safe, and so was John.So were they all.Sherlock didn’t realise he’d started to pitch forward until there was a soft thump and the hand in his let go. Instinctively, he tried to get that hand back but was prevented by the simple fact that it landed on his shoulder and, along with the other hand, held him in place.He blinked rapidly, looked down and then up.“Sorry, I don’t know what – it wasn’t the dragon,” he began then quickly amended so as to bring the right thing in focus.“I know it wasn’t,” John said, as calm as anything. Well, not entirely, but the worry on his face was that which Sherlock was familiar with. The doctor-and-friend worry rather than the soldier-stranger concern mixed with a trace of fear.It was Sherlock he was worried for, not the dragon he was worried about.“You’re just tired,” the blond went on, shifting his grip and pushing Sherlock back to an upright position. He almost pushed too far, which would’ve sent the brunet toppling over backwards, and his fingers dug into flesh as he tried to steer counter. “Deny it all you want but this kind of thing takes a lot out of you. It would for anyone.”“I’m not ‘anyone’.” Ah, yes. Always good to fall back on the good old staples, eh?“No, you’re not, and thank someone for that.” The look in John’s eyes said quite clearly that he meant it sincerely rather than sarcastically. “You’ve still got a body that works roughly the same as any other human, and so you get drained by something like this.”“It’s only in my head.”The look he got then was warm, long-suffering, fond exasperation. Mostly.“Exactly. Which happens to have a whole lot more component parts than for most of us, and that’s not even mentioning the dragon mess. Not only is it more complex, but it runs on a higher speed than most of us can even think of and in several directions at once, without getting entirely tangled up in trains of thoughts.”“Think you’re overextending a metaphor quite heavily.”“My point, clever clogs, is that if that isn’t enough to tire a machine out, I don’t know what is, and that’s not even getting into the ways in which you push, bully and otherwise overextend your brain to get it to do what you want. Such as you did just now – and don’t tell me that wasn’t a whole lot of work, in several different ways at once, because I know it was.”Sherlock didn’t try to argue the point this time, and not purely because of what he’d been told. If anything, that was as likely to make him argue the point more, just because, and – and sometimes he really could see why John called him an overgrown child.Not that he saw it as a problem, mind, it was purely that he could see what was meant when it was mentioned now. Well, one of them, at any rate.“Doesn’t matter if I’m tired,” Sherlock found himself saying as he struggled to get himself past the position from previously and up into a full upright one, sitting up with his legs dangling off the bed and facing John head on.Less risk of being pushed into a horizontal position that way – he knew John meant it for the best but that didn’t mean he had to agree with it – and he could reach John better this way, too. A win all around, really.So he thought, at least.“It does, Sherlock,” John said, and there was an odd harmonic to his tone that was difficult to pinpoint. Somewhere between concerned, surprised, tired, angry, and…disappointed? That couldn’t be right, could it? “It very much does.”“No, it – “He stopped as he somehow, he knew not how but he was grateful that it was so, managed to catch himself in what he was doing. That wasn’t to say he thought he was wrong, per se, but that John wasn’t wrong, either, and that they both weren’t right. It all depended on which angle you looked at it from and no matter which angle, it was all a bit of a mess.So, par for the course for this, and for them.“Well, yes. It does. I’m sorry. You’re right. At the same time, you’re wrong. No, listen. Please, listen to me first. Yes, you’re right, it has taken a lot out of me. I admit that. Yes, I ought to sleep, especially because neither of us want a repeat of what happened last time we were running on too little sleep by half. I know that.”“Well, then – ““Listen.” The word had a sharpness and yet a rumble that somehow cut through without any apparent cut. “Please.”John gave him a look for about half a second then nodded. “Alright. Sorry, that was…Go on. I’m listening.”“Nor am I, whatever you might think, pushing for us to go through with it because I am scared of not having control of the dragon. We don’t need to hurry this along because of that. Truly, we do not.”The blond restricted himself to nodding but kept looking at Sherlock intently, the question in his eyes clear.“Why not wait, then? Considering all that, it seems the best possible solution – and I could show you that I am indeed in control much better after I’d had some sleep.”“Which is the point where you tell me that in point of fact there is a time limit on courtship rituals, isn’t it?”Sherlock blinked rapidly as head pulled back in surprised bafflement, a minute double chin forming in the process. “How on earth should I know something like that? You’re the one who knows about dragon courtship rituals.”“I only know what I learned off Mycroft.”“That’s still more than I know!” Don’t shout, don’t shout. Calm down. “Everything anyone’s tried to tell me about that sort of thing has been deleted, deliberately and harshly. There is absolutely nothing left so Mycroft’s hints couldn’t connect to anything.”It was John’s turn to pause and blink. “Well, there’s a turn up for the books, eh?”“To say the least, yes.”“Don’t worry, I’m not going to gloat about it. Much, at any rate.” He smiled. Silence for a moment, then, “So, if it’s not because of any knowledge, good or bad, about the courtship ritual and the dragon isn’t a factor, why does it have to be now? Why can’t it wait another few hours?”“Who says it’ll only be a few hours?”“Me. I can come in and shout in your ear until you wake up after those hours are up, if need be.”“That has not worked yet to this date.”“Those have always been a shout down the hall in some way, that’s not the same thing.”Sherlock opened his mouth for a counter, even if he weren’t quite clear on what the argument would be. Then something caught his attention and changed the question entirely. “Why are you smiling like that?”“Because either you bluffed about that not working since you wouldn’t remember either way and just took a shot in the dark to further your argument. Which is a likely possibility, considering. Or something entirely irrelevant about our life together has got stuck in that brain and have not been deleted, somehow, whatever the reason.”“And that’s something to smile about, is it?” Sherlock could see how it would be but right now, his mouth seemed determined to run on its own steam, without any supervision. From anyone.To see John smile was always a treat, no matter the occasion, of course, but now, it lifted something inside him.“Alright,” John said, seeming to come to some kind of conclusion, and a firm, decisive one at that, judging by his expression and the nod. “What about this for a deal, then? If you will lie down and sleep for…let’s say two hours, then by the time they’re done, I’ll have something sorted for us?”The consulting detective’s brow creased immediately as his mind started to pick apart the meaning of that phrasing. “Sorted? How do you mean, ‘sorted’? What needs to be sorted? Is there –?”“No, it wasn’t – Sherlock, I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I meant or was getting at. There’s nothing wrong that needs to be sorted, I promise. Or if there is, then it’s not something that we can do anything about it and so there’s…not that that’s seemed to stop us so far, but the point remains. I’m sorry for my word choice.”“There’s no need – ““Yes, there is,” the doctor interrupted, but gently, “because it made you worry, for no good reason, and it…that wasn’t my intention. I wanted to come up with something surprising for you, is what I meant by sorted, but right now, ‘surprising’ isn’t necessarily a good thing.”“Not particularly, no.”“Right. But if I – what I meant was that I wanted to do this properly. If there’s not a time pressure on us, at least not in the way there was previously, then you can afford to get some rest.”“So can you.”“I haven’t been wrestling with my own psyche for the last,” and here he checked the very watch that they were more or less arguing about, “hour and a half, closing in on two hours. You have, Sherlock, and you’ve continued fighting it until you won. Then there’s all the stuff I mentioned before, but my point is that you’re in need of more rest.”“You’ve clearly been awake and up for longer than me, too, seeing as you’ve been hunting around for the watch while I’ve been asleep, and that’s ignoring the fact that I had a snooze while you and Mycroft were arguing.”“Which of the times that happened are you referring to? Oh.” The other’s face darkened as it clicked. “The – stop being a pedantic arse, that’s not even remotely funny, bringing up the poisoning.”“But it’s accurate.”“No, it’s not, don’t even – are you trying to get us into an argument that we can’t get out of? Because if you are, then I’m going into the living room and staying there until – I don’t even know when but – ““I’m not. I’m – sorry, John, that wasn’t…”Sherlock shook his head as he trailed off, worried that he had in fact been trying just that and merely hadn’t known it. He was over, that was, out of the influence of the dragon, but was he free? Or was this just his own stupidity and failures as a human being that had been given free rein to spread and grow now that there was nothing else to hinder it?It hadn’t been this bad earlier, though.When he had just woken up, he didn’t think, at least, that it had been that bad. Their miscommunication had been less, at least, which was the most important point. Both had made a great effort to be understood and while they were backtracking immediately now, they couldn’t be said to outright…Well, it’d gone downhill, that was safe to say. So, it seemed that John had a good point in arguing for Sherlock getting some sleep. More sleep – and he firmly ignored the part of his brain that groaned and growled about whether that would have to be a permanent thing from now on.Rather, he tried to shut it up with the reminder that it wouldn’t just be sleeping now. If he played his cards right, when he slept, it could be with John in his arms.That closed any argument entirely.He didn’t even have any good argument against why he shouldn’t sleep. Not really.Nothing that didn’t boil down to ‘I know I’ve beaten the dragon, and it truly is gone, but I don’t trust myself particularly much, either, without the courtship ritual to seal it’, at any rate, and that wasn’t going to go over all that well, and for good reason, too.How had he imagined he would convince John, again? Without alluding to that, that was. He had no idea.“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” came John’s voice, quiet and reassuring. Warm. Always so wonderfully warm.Which, admittedly, could flare up into flames of anger, yes, but that was still alright. It was when John turned cold you were scared. Or ought to be, at any rate. Cold and pleasant. That was when he had either tipped over into tranquil fury or he had, and this was one Sherlock had extrapolated rather than seen but it was still one he was dead certain of, given up on you. Entirely.It was one of the things that Sherlock was very scared of and explained why his mind had just gone off on a tangent about it. So long as John didn’t reach that level, he was…“Thank you,” the brunet said, instead of perhaps the more obvious ‘I know’. More obvious for Sherlock, at any rate. “That’s not what I’m worried about, though.”“Is it then that…” John paused but not for long enough to have just come to this realisation then and there, “…that you are scared of…of yourself? Not the dragon, that is, but…but that now the dragon is gone, or tamed or whatever the correct term for it is, you’re going to find that it was you all along?”Sherlock stared at the blond, his mind whirring. Or rather, it was clacking and clanking as it tried to whir and could only manage it in spurts.Was it that obvious? Not that that mattered, as such, but was that – did that mean that he came off as not in control? Not something that could be trusted, seeing as…This time, he managed to catch and stop himself before he went out on a tangent, panicked or not, or otherwise buried himself in his thoughts.John had got it right. That was…apart from anything else, that was in a way reassuring. It meant that, apart from the doctor being clever, which wasn’t surprising no matter how bad at acknowledging it Sherlock could be, that there was no need to try and pretend otherwise.Of course, that wasn’t the same as saying it wouldn’t happen still, regardless. Or rather, it would have, had not the brunet decided then and there that it wouldn’t, no matter what happened.Enough was enough. He had come this far, hadn’t he? And what had brought him the farthest in it all? It wasn’t to withhold or deny information, that was for sure, nor was it trying to do it on his own.Best all around if he admitted to it and took it from there.“Yes…” he finally said, and his voice came out quiet enough to border on small. It was definitely and clearly ashamed, too. “Yes, I am.”For a moment after that, it was quiet enough that the ticking of the watch wasn’t merely clear, it was bordering on loud. At least to Sherlock’s ears, though admittedly, it might be skewed.Then, in one swift motion that was almost dizzying to watch, John stood up. He kept his hands on the bony shoulders and kept eye contact but moved closer. Close enough, in fact, that he came in between the other’s legs, which closed around them. Not for long, though, as one leg almost immediately pushed up and over it, to settle itself instead on the outside, the knee and shin resting on the mattress.Boxing the consulting detective in as much as Sherlock did the doctor.At the same time, John lowered his head. Sherlock expected a kiss but before their lips met, the blond instead said, “I understand that, love. I honestly do, and I’m proud of you for admitting it. I know it doesn’t help to say this but I…you’re not alone in feeling like that. Not at all.”Sherlock frowned. “It doesn’t help overly much, no, but apart from that, you have not had any issues with your disconnect between what you ought to be as a soldier and army doctor and what you in fact are as a civilian doctor in at least a month, if not two.”Blue eyes narrowed on him and it looked as if the other was ready to make a sharp comment on that, at the very least. Justified, too, as Sherlock had once again managed to put his foot right in it, and when there was no need to but plenty of opportunity to steer clear of it.What did he need a dragon for? He was perfectly capable of messing things up on his own.Then, something small but extraordinary happened. Possibly, it shouldn’t count as extraordinary, given all that had gone before, but still, to see the frown dissipate into a softer, gentler expression was…honestly, it wasn’t just extraordinary but immensely relieving as well.Undeserved, too.“Idiot,” John said, quietly, but fondly. He shifted and it really did look as though Sherlock was about to be kissed. That was undeserved, too, but he wasn’t about to protest any time soon.So, he was more than a little surprised when the hands on his shoulders pushed, not hard but with enough force to send him backwards. Onto the mattress, which was thankfully wide enough that his head didn’t dangle off it.He made a noise of protest at that and what it lacked in words, it made up for in indignation and volume. Not that he was justified in doing so, mind, but when had that ever stopped anyone? It should’ve stopped him, yes, most definitely, but...John looked down at him, hands on his hips, one leg still up on one side of the lanky body.“Now there’s a sight for hungry eyes,” the blond said, evidently more to himself than anything, even though Sherlock heard him quite clearly.“John, you can’t just – I’m sorry I – “he began as he started to struggle himself upright as fast as he possibly could.Only to almost bang his head into the other’s as he met him coming the other way, as it were. They missed each other by inches, or less, and honestly, that was probably as much because both pulled back the moment that they realised they were about to crash.Sherlock heard John say something under his breath that he couldn’t make out. Then he felt arms come around him as the blond somehow folded himself around him, still with that leg in place.“If anyone’s to say sorry, it’s me. I keep making ill-thought-out decisions and you suffer for it – and don’t you dare say otherwise. You aren’t to blame here. I just…I don’t even know what I was aiming for, honestly, but whatever it was, I botched it, and I’m sorry. I really am.”He tightened his grip, enough to be felt but not enough to hurt, and Sherlock’s own arms came up to wrap around the doctor in turn. To make up for his hesitation so the blond didn’t think he was reluctant to hold him, offer support and comfort as he could, or otherwise had second thoughts, he perhaps tightened his own grip a bit too much.There came no comment to indicate such but as soon as he realised, he gentled his grip, though not so much as to negate the hold in the first place.In all of that, he almost missed what John said next. Only almost, though, as his ears and mind were tuned in to listen for any noise, let alone words, that the other might make, knowing that they were almost dead certain to be important in some way, shape or form.“It really is amazing how we keep managing to make a mess of this,” John said, his voice soft and wry, but laced quite strongly with regret and apology, “even when we’re actively trying not to. Perhaps especially when we actively try not to.”“You must admit that is a skill on its own,” Sherlock said, more for something to say that might cheer John up a little than any genuine belief in what he said.He felt as much as heard the light huff of laughter at that. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. A destructive skill but a skill nevertheless, yeah.”Sherlock contemplated pulling back to look the other in the eye for a moment but decided against it. Instead, he slipped one arm down to loop around a waist while the other slid upward so that his hand supported the back of the other’s neck. Given the size of his hand, it practically enveloped the neck but that was alright, as it gave him a greater feeling of protecting John.Sat like this, so close, with so much of them touching though in no sense in a sexual way, he felt instantly but truly calmer than before. It was further helped by the realisation, the confirmation, gentle and not all that surprising but relieving nevertheless, that he still had no urges. None whatsoever.Not of that…well, no, not of that kind, either, but he knew those would be back. He wanted them to be back. To have a full relationship with John, lust, arousal and sex very much included, but for right now, he was happy enough that they weren’t back. It allowed him to focus on the important bits here rather than get distracted at the most inopportune moments. Which he would.Given their current track record, he would be likely to get an erection while John tried to persuade him, bodily, to go back to sleep.The important point was that he felt no stirring from the dragon. Not even remotely, even when it would be so easy to latch out and seal it all, not in the courtship ritual but simply claiming. Such a golden opportunity and it didn’t take it.It couldn’t take it.“Sherlock?”Oh. Of course. He’d felt his muscles relax in relief and wondered, worried, about the cause.“Sorry. Just an…an instance of confirmation that I’m safe.”There was an intake of breath but then there were no words. At least not for another long moment. “Of course you are safe, but I’m glad you get these confirmations.”Another pause, then, “I would only want you to go to sleep so that…oh, this is probably stupid, really.”Sherlock did pull his head back then so that he could look the other in the eye. This was too important to rely solely on tone of voice, though of course they had plenty of evidence they could still muck it all up. He would do his very best not to, however, and hope that it’d be enough to make it through.Perhaps it truly was a skill. But then, they had an equal skill, it seemed, of coming out on the other side somehow, mostly if not exclusively when they actually sat down and talked it through rather than assuming things.“Kindly refrain from calling things stupid before even explaining what it is.”“That’s reserved for you, you mean?”“Obviously. That is part of the consulting detective contract. Without it, you are not allowed to employ it.”“Not even when you’re an honorary detective?”“Oh, you’re much better than that, John.”“I’m your assistant?”“Precisely.” By this point, a smile had wormed its way onto Sherlock’s lips, which had then morphed and expanded into a grin that might not be fully grown yet but was making a spirited go at it. It was helped by the fact that an answering if not identical grin was on John’s face.Oh, fuck, how he loved this. Loved him. Loved them, together. When it felt like just the two of them and it didn’t matter what they did, not even if it was time-wasting or idiotic, so long as it was the two of them doing it, together.He hoped he would never have to be without that. Not truly without it.That wasn’t to say he would cling to John like a limpet, of course, as that would negate the effort and the point of what he’d just been through, but he could be apart from his doctor without being without that feeling of being together. He knew he could, as he’d experienced it before.Would it be different when they were a couple? Possibly, but he doubted it.Slowly, the grin faded from the brunet’s face though it didn’t disappear entirely as he asked, “What is it, then, that you deem so very stupid that you can’t say it?”“Can’t you work it out?”“Yes.”He didn’t say anything more but watched as John came to the implication and conclusion thereof himself. Then he startled a little at the kiss he got for that.“Thank you.”Another small pause, then, “You aren’t going to say it?”