Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A/N: This story is dedicated to Borderlinecrazy for helping me work out my frustrations with the first version so I could focus on the second. Originally when I wrote Dragon Blood I had meant for it to be a harem fic, but my muse was not so willing to go there. Then she randomly threw in some poly and several of my readers nearly had coronaries. So, I did something I never should have done. I changed the way I was writing my story to please others. That's on me. The result was a whiny, needy, clingy John that I just couldn't love much anymore and WAY more angst than would have happened if erebody had just made love instead of war. I did eventually finish Dragon Blood in a rush and the story ended rather abruptly. This story has the potential to go on for ages much as my Perfect Match story did/has. I hope you all like it, but this time I won't be altering anything if you don't. ;)

CHAPTER 1 

 Encyclopedia Britannica: Dragon
Dragon’s today are descendents of royalty from ages past who conquered their territories using their immense abilities (for more on dragon abilities see page 32). Almost every race has a dragon form in its past, though some of the lines are extinct today. Even the smallest drop of dragon blood can produce an heir capable of transformation generations after the last known descendent with the ability. Most countries will honor that re-emerged trait and treat the newly emerged individual as royalty. (For example see: Duke Albert the Vain) and give them a title and some small allowances.

John was peddling his bike at a leisurely pace, knowing this race would be won by stamina, not speed. It was the third such race he had attempted since graduating from Med school and he was proud of his third place status in the last one; the fact that it was to benefit Cystic Fibrosis* and sponsored by the hospital he worked for only made him that much more enthused to be a part of it.

The path started in Hyde Park, went to the Thames, traversed alongside the Thames up till Millwall Park, before turning around and following the same route back. It was 18.6 miles and required a good deal of traffic to be detoured, though a crossing guard was simply monitoring some roads where a major bridge was concerned. He was just rounding the first curve of the Thames – past Waterloo Bridge – when he saw one of the bikers shout and point up. He was soon joining the gaggle of rubber-neckers as a huge battle waged in the sky.

It was a pair of dragons, one significantly larger than the other; the larger was an English dragon and the smaller a Chinese dragon. The two were apparently at it to the death and blood had been drawn on the English dragon, which everyone was naturally cheering on based on patriotism alone. The poor Chinese sod was suddenly dealt a rather harsh blow to the head and plummeted from the sky at an alarming rate. He landed in the Thames. While several of his colleagues were cheering the English dragon on – who was flying off back towards Buckingham palace – John fled down towards the bridge as fast as his pedals would take him. There he pushed through the pedestrians leaning over the side and glanced below to see a shape below the surface of the water. It was the pale green Chinese dragon, and he wasn’t surfacing. John pushed off and hit the water at a dive not far from the creature. He swam quickly towards it, snatched it around its large head, and tried to haul it up.

Damn all those people! Why isn’t anyone helping!

His burden suddenly became lighter as the creature transformed back into human shape and John surfaced quickly with the pale person’s head on his shoulder. He could hear people cheering from the embankment and bridge, but still no one moved to help. John started a backstroke towards the shore. He attempted to check the young man’s breathing while he did so, and upon turning his head was rewarded when the poor thing coughed up some water and took a shuddering gasp.

“Don’t move! I’ve got you!” John called out, hoping he spoke English, “You’re hurt. Just let me get you to shore!”

He was apparently quite dazed because he didn’t fight at all, not even when John dragged him ashore and laid him out to check him over properly. It was a young man, pale of skin and dark of hair, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He was bleeding rather badly from a gash on his head and John was certain of both concussion and a need for stitches. After a dip in the Thames with an open wound a good round of antibiotics was in order, as well.

“I’m a doctor,” John explained, when the creature gave him a narrow eyed look for pawing his person, “I’m going to get you some help.”

John stood and glanced about, waving to a few people nearby and shouting for someone to call an ambulance. A few people he recognized were heading down the nearest embankment and one carried an emergency kit. The dragon lad had declined to move from his spot on the ground, so John knelt beside him and accepted someone’s sweater as a cushion for his head.

“He doesn’t look Chinese, are you sure you grabbed the right fellow from the water?” Stamford asked, “Looks English to me.”

“Only person I saw down there, you think he’s a fellow rescuer?” John wondered, glancing back out to see if the dragon were still visible.

“Maybe a suicide victim,” Dr. Hooper pointed out the track marks on his arm.

The young man had enough presence of mind to scowl at her and jerk his arm back.

“Oh! Sorry!” Molly stammered.

“What’s your name?” John asked, smiling kindly, “You can trust us, we’re all doctors. If you’re in some kind of trouble, we’ll help.”

Molly was technically still a med student, but John didn’t think that required correction. Stamford had broken open the kit and was pouring alcohol onto a pad to dab at his head wound, which had finally stopped bleeding on its own. The young man didn’t even wince when it touched him; he just focused his pale-green eyed stare on John and seemed intent not to break it. John found he couldn’t look away.

“I think he is the dragon,” John whispered, unsure why he was doing so.

“What makes you say that?” Molly asked. She was looking him over for any other injuries.

“Aside from the fact he’s naked as the day he was born, his eyes are the same color as the scales,” John muttered, unable to get his voice louder.

“Oh, so they are,” Molly agreed amicably, “Are you hurting anywhere besides your head? Can you tell us your name?”

“Anyone who we can contact for you?” John asked.

The dragon-lad remained unresponsive and limp, allowing them to move him any way they wished and otherwise staring John down.

“Look, the ambulance has arrived. John, would you go meet them? They could probably use a hand down that embankment,” Stamford asked, his voice coming from a long tunnel.

Wait, what?

“John?” Stamford asked again, and the voice sounded even more distant.

Molly spoke, but she was so far off he couldn’t even hear much more than her tone of voice, which was concerned.

Stamford broke John’s eye contact with the dragon, by turning him physically to the side and holding his face level with his own.

“I… what?” John asked, blinking dry eyes rapidly and feeling disoriented.

“You alright, mate?” Stamford asked in concern.

“I… I think, so, yeah,” John replied, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t let the dragon catch his eye again, though he could feel that stare continuing to burn into him.

“I think you’d better go with the ambulance, John,” Stamford counseled, and John didn’t argue.

John rode beside the paramedic, his eyes locked on the head wound and still dodging the dragon’s eyes. They reached the hospital and the two were separated into different rooms.

John thought that was the last he would see of the enigmatic young man, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

*A little girl I know has Cystic Fibrosis. I’d like to invite anyone who is willing and/or able to donate or participate in a walk for this cause during the month of May. When she was born her parents were told she wouldn’t live to see 5 years old. She’s almost a teenager now, with a life expectancy of 35 years old, because of the medical advances that have been made. She has to have a stomach tube and is easily injured (she just ended up in the hospital coughing up blood because a friend hugged her and bumped her neck!) but she is happy and beautiful because of the research done since the day she was born. This is a wonderful example of how we can all change the world for the better!

CHAPTER 2

Italics = thought

<Italics> = telepathy

Encyclopedia Britannica: Dragon Abilities
In order to be classified as a dragon one must first and foremost have the ability to transform into one completely (for examples of incomplete transformations see: The Dragon Lady Soong May-ling). Other dragon abilities vary, but most often include flight, ability to breathe an element (fire, water, lighting, or ice) changing size, thrall, and bonding (see also: Effects of Thrall). 

See also: Rare Dragon Abilities

John was certain he’d heard his door open and close. It had awakened him from the depths of sleep and he was on instant high alert. He reached beneath his bed and pulled out a cricket bat, intending on defending himself, before debating the merits of turning on a light. The idea that it was a past lover sneaking in was ludicrous – he hadn’t had a girlfriend since early med school and none of them had ever been given keys to this flat. So that left burglar.

John’s bedroom door opened and the outline of a shoulder appeared before it was shut silently behind the individual. John didn’t think they could see him in the darkness since his window was quite securely hidden behind blackout curtains. He had the advantage at the moment, especially since his eyes were adjusted to the dark. John watched the outline move towards the bed and swung the moment it was close enough to hit.

Two things happened at once: The outline changed from tall man to gigantic something and his bat hit something hard enough to make the bones in his arms vibrate and ache all the way to his shoulders. John yelped in pain and then froze, waiting for death or the resolution of this bazaar dream. When neither came he turned on his bedside light.

A twelve foot long pale green Chinese dragon stood in his room; hind legs, tail, and one curve of belly planted on the ground beside his bed and front legs extended in front of it as though to grab the bat should he swing it again. It was quite tall as it arched over his bed, a head the size of his torso was looking down on him from above. The long ‘whiskers’ of its moustache appeared to be flesh as opposed to hair, and it’s ‘beard’ were in fact scaled ridges extending along its jaw. Four ivory horns, two small in front of two large, pointed out from its massive square head and extended behind it. Its ears were small and pointed enough to resemble another set of horns until it flicked them. The teeth were hidden with the exception of two long upper canines. The tail, just visible as it lashed at the foot of his bed where the dragon curled sideways, was covered in thin ridges resembling fish fins but artfully arranged to look like black flames. It had no ridges along its spine, giving it a more serpentine look. Its eyes…

Its obsidian orbs devoured him and John slowly lay back in the bed, eventually going limp. The bat clattered to the floor and the creature transformed back into that pale man with a mop of now-dry dark curls and pale-green eyes. John blinked as the eye contact was broken and the man walked to the foot of his bed before climbing up onto it with the grace of a serpent. Every movement was like silk gliding across a woman’s bare skin. He was agility personified and John couldn’t breath until he stopped moving and lay stretched out on his side beside him.

Once John got a stuttering breath in he turned his head to look at the beautiful man. He had no idea what he wanted, and though his presence in John’s bed might have been a huge hint he got no sexual vibes from him aside from the sensual movements that seemed to be his own natural grace. As John slowly rolled onto his side to face the man he watched as he shifted a bit, one leg smoothly gliding from straight to bent and back to straight again. It seemed to have no purpose other than so he could enjoy the glide of one hairless leg against the other. His hips had rotated seductively as he’d done so, but again the man made no overt movements and a glance between those supple thighs revealed a flaccid member demurely nestled in a thatch of tight dark curls.

John cleared his throat.

He failed to make a sound other than that so he tried again.

John turned over completely, fetched the glass of water from his nightstand, gave several big gulps, faced the dragon-man once more, and tried out his voice for a third time.

“Hello.”

Well. That was pathetic. A creature out of legend appears in your bed, undoubtedly a member of some royal family, and you say ‘hello’. Then again what am I supposed to say? ‘Greetings oh great and powerful dragon from the Eastern World, I offer my humblest service to you?’

The dragon man snorted and raised an eyebrow.

<That would do nicely, yes.>

“Oh my gods.”

<That will do as well.>

“Are you talking inside my head?”

The dragon rolled his eyes and then turned over- the movement appeared to be accomplished without him actually using his limbs to do so- and grew still. John didn’t try to disturb him again; he merely lay there and stared at that bare expanse of back. Eventually gooseflesh appeared, and it was so utterly human that John relaxed a great deal and gently pulled up the blankets to cover them both. Once he’d done that he saw no reason to leave the light on so he clicked it off and fell asleep remarkably fast.

John awoke to an empty bed and the firm idea that he’d had a very odd and quite possibly homosexual dream.

Or would it count as bestiality since I dreamt I slept next to a dragon? Or not since he was in human form?

John staggered into the living room/kitchen of his efficiency and proceeded to make an extremely strong cup of coffee.

<Tea for me, thanks.>

“Mhm,” John replied automatically, and then jumped. He turned around to find the pale naked figure sprawled out on his couch, his fingertips touching in an apparently deep state of thought and one leg toppled off the side. John had the oddest urge to go over and fix his leg, so he did, only wondering after what had level of insanity had goaded him to touch the man.

<Two sugars.>

“Sure. Yeah. Okay. Will you be staying long?”

No answer.

John headed into the kitchen to make the tea, added a breakfast scone out of courtesy, and delivered both to the coffee table. He then fetched his cup of coffee, poured in enough cream to cool it, and downed the entire mug despite the protests of his stomach. After taking a couple of breaths he glanced back to see the dragon-man sipping his tea with his legs crossed at the ankles underneath the coffee table and a bored look on his face.

John grabbed himself a breakfast scone and dropped into his comfortable old chair. He pulled the blanket off the back and offered it to the young man, but he was ignored so he draped it back over the chair again.

“Would you like a robe? A shirt? … Some pants?”

No answer.

A knock on John’s door startled him and he excused himself to answer it. A posh gentleman holding a brolly and smirking down his nose at him stared John down until he backed up a pace and let him enter unannounced.

“Well, isn’t this humble, will you be staying long?” The auburn gentleman asked the room at large.

“Ah, sorry? Do I know you?”

The man turned smartly on his heels and gave John a studying look before smirking once more and extending a hand.

“Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother to your uninvited house guest. Unless you did invite him?” The raised eyebrow seemed to imply he damned well better not have.

“Look, I’m not sure what you think is going on here,” John started, refusing the offered hand, “but I don’t know your brother and I didn’t invite either of you in.”

“Oh? You aren’t the young doctor who pulled him from the Thames after our cousin gave him a thrashing?”

“I… yes, that was me, but…”

“Yet you did not invite him here?”

“Well, I… I didn’t know who he was to invite him. I still don’t, other than that he’s a Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft supplied, “And the first Holmes in three hundred years to show dragon traits. We’re quite proud, though his presenting as a Chinese dragon is a surprise. Apparently a very great grandmother on our mother’s side had an affair with a Chinese emperor while on an ambassadorial mission with her husband; it was all quite hushed up and the child never showed traits or even looked Chinese; my several times great grandfather was inclined to believe the offspring his own and so did not disinherit her. My parents were unaware of this potential inheritance when marrying, or they might have made some efforts to prepare us for the possibility. So you see, the trait is descended from both distant English monarchy and Chinese dynasty, but presents as a rather plain looking Chinese dragon. His own children, or even mine or my brother’s, may present as English, Chinese, or no kind of dragon at all. Sometimes these things skip generations, you know.”

“Yes, apparently.”

“You don’t know why he’s here, do you?” Mycroft asked with a smug grin.

“Coffee? Tea?” John offered, deciding he’d rather follow courtesy than answer that arrogant question.

“Tea, thank you. Has he spoken to you?”

“Not so much,” John replied, turning to put the kettle on again.

“Has he communicated with you?” Mycroft amended, his voice oily with intent.

John paused at that, wondering if he should reply. Something told him no.

“Sorry, but I don’t understand your question. He hasn’t said a word.”

“Sherlock hasn’t done since he first transformed a month ago. We’ve tried everything, even professional counsel. He appears to be in some state of shock.”

“Why was he fighting with an English dragon?”

“They don’t like him,” Mycroft replied, “Most people don’t once they get to know him, but the dragons we’ve encountered take particular offense to him. We presented him to the Queen, of course, but she will have nothing to do with him. He’s a member of Chinese royalty, not English, and there hasn’t been a Chinese monarchy since 1912. While there are descendents, they live largely ordinary lives and do not publicly display traits when they inherit them. Some believe they no longer carry them at all, but this has been proven untrue.”

“So he’s got no official title or anything?”

“Nothing besides that which my family carries. He’s the third son of a country squire, so you can imagine what that amounts to. Our eldest brother holds the family seat. Sherlock was attending University, but has since dropped out. I dabble in politics, myself.”

Sherlock snorted and John glanced sideways at him, but the kettle began to sing so he turned his attention to that.

“Milk, sugar?”

“None thank you.”

Mycroft accepted is tea and placed himself in John’s chair, leaving John to rescue his scone from the wrong end of the table and sit down beside Sherlock. This placed Sherlock in between the two of them and the lad evidently decided to show his favoritism by putting his now empty teacup down in it’s saucer and lying down with his head in John’s lap. John chose to pretend this was normal and held up his plate to make sure he didn’t drop crumbs on the dragon-man.

“You are certain he hasn’t communicated with you in any way?”

“Other than rolling his eyes and snorting at me like I’m a fool? No, none at all,” John lied, though he still didn’t know why.

The man’s face became cold and forbidding of a sudden, “If you have taken advantage of him, I assure you your death will be swift and quite painful.”

A chill went up John’s spine, but he merely placed his food down on the table and laid a suddenly possessive hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

“Sherlock, have I taken advantage?” John asked with mock concern while meeting the intense gaze of Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock snorted again.

Mycroft frowned down at him animatedly, but there was hardly anything either could do about the immovable creature. Mycroft placed his unfinished tea in it’s dish and stood.

“I’ll be checking up on you from time to time,” Mycroft stated firmly, “You will inform me of any… changes that occur.”

“No, I’m afraid I won’t,” John stated firmly, carding his hand through Sherlock’s hair just to aggravate the gentleman.

“I can provide you with monetary compensation…”

“No.”

<Are you thick?>

“I could make it worth your while,” Mycroft continued.

“You really couldn’t.”

<You could buy me better tea.>

“I only seek information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to,” Though Mycroft was clearly negotiating with him, there was no pleading tone in the inscrutable man’s voice.

<And edible scones.>

“Why?” John asked, directing his question to both without making that obvious.

<Because we can split it.>

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you,” John replied, again speaking to both without indicating he was doing so.

“We have what you might call a difficult relationship, but I am concerned for him.”

“No.”

<Stubborn fool.>

“You’re very loyal very quickly,” Mycroft scowled.

“No, I’m not,” John told them both, “I’m just not interested.”

Mycroft frowned and pulled a book from his pocket, “’Trust issues’, it says here.”

<What’s that?>

“What’s that?” John asked, echoing Sherlock.

“Could it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes? A wayward dragon?”

“Who says I trust him?”

“You come from an abusive home, your parents both alcoholics and your young sister showing signs of the same. You’ve made your way in the world so far, but your own supervisors are concerned you won’t stay long despite your success. They feel you have a wandering soul,” Mycroft read, and showed signs of continuing, but John cut him off.

“Are we done?” John asked coldly.

“You tell me,” Mycroft Holmes calmly shut his book of secrets and left the flat without further conversation.

John sat still and stiff, waiting for Sherlock to get up and leave as well. He didn’t move. John reached down and stroked those silken curls again, but eventually he had to rise to get dressed for his shift at the hospital. Sherlock seemed to sense this and simply shifted off of him, gliding to his feet and stretching gorgeously. John had never had a reason to find the male form attractive, but if this continued he could see himself drooling after one Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis.

John stepped back out of his bedroom to a dragon-less living room, but still felt Sherlock’s presence. He glanced around curiously, but even the ajar bathroom door revealed no naked young man or serpentine dragon.

Deciding he’d seek him out later, John headed for the doorway and felt a sudden weight on his shoulder. He glanced over; expecting to find Sherlock’s hand holding him back, and instead came face to face with a small dragon’s… face.

John jumped and yelped, dodging uselessly, and distinctly heard laughter in his head. Sherlock had shrunk himself down and was perched on his shoulder.

“Well, joining me for a day of blood and feces, are you?” John warned.

No answer.

Typical, John thought in annoyance, and headed downstairs.

John unchained his bike from the storage in the basement, carried it up to the first floor, and ducked out the door. He thought the dragon might fly once he started peddling, but the lazy thing just wrapped himself around John’s neck like a scarf. The weight was negligible so John just ignored him – and the resulting stares – and hurried the three blocks to work.

John entered the A&E with some trepidation, but while he got numerous looks, no one seemed comfortable actually asking him what a small dragon was doing on his shoulder all day. The patients all stared at him in awe and were oddly subdued. John found himself working fast and efficiently all day, an odd sort of energy thrumming through him, and his patients seemed to perk up in his presence. At one point a man was seizing and his entrance into the room stopped it entirely. The staff parted for him as though he had attained godhood and he quickly stabilized the man before rushing off to the next catastrophe.

John ended his double shift by collapsing onto his sofa and staring in wonder at the dragon perched on his belly. He blinked, the weight changed, and a very naked, very human looking Sherlock sat astride him. He stared down at him blankly before hopping off his hips and heading into the kitchen to rummage around. John’s stomach protested loudly at the single break he’d taken and the sub he’d inhaled a good six hours ago. Sherlock hadn’t eaten all day.

“Do you want me to make something?” John asked, but the lad returned with a menu for Thai in hand, “Oh, perfect! I could eat a dozen pints.”

John ordered, his eyes automatically traveling to what he assumed Sherlock wanted, and happily pulled a beer out of the fridge to start with. He probably shouldn’t have downed even a few sips on an empty stomach, but after the odd day he’d had he needed a bit of liquid courage. He dug out his computer and keyed up some educational material he’d been reading on dragons since yesterday, but it felt rude to read it in front of Sherlock so he looked up some medical references instead.

There it was, plain as day. His fingers seemed to have led him there. He was still gaping at the information when the buzzer went off and Sherlock nudged him with his foot to go answer the door. He accepted the food, paid the man by card, and returned to collapse on his chair and stare at the long limbed creature once more stretched out on his sofa. He put Sherlock’s food down on the table and dove into his own while thinking over what he’d read.

Web MD
Dragons have been known to aid the healing process of both mental and physical afflictions merely by being present. While the exact cause of this effect is not known, it has been observed enough to push it from the realm of science fiction and into scientific theory. Most believe that the dragon’s breath is the cause, and that it is related to the same chemical process that allows them to breathe out elements. Since dragons revert to their human state at death and no living dragon has ever allowed itself to be studied, we may never know the exact cause of either phenomenon.

Chapter 3: Tour of Duty

Encyclopedia Britannica: Rare Abilities of Dragons
Some dragons have the ability to use telepathy with those they have enthralled (See also: Effects of Thrall). The most notable of rare abilities is hypnotism, which appears to be unrelated to thrall; the victim will perform a set task and then go about their lives without ever knowing they had done something out of the ordinary. Queen Victoria outlawed the use of hypnotism by members not actively ruling the country during the end of her reign (see also: Dragon Laws and Restrictions).

Other noteworthy rare abilities are the ability to camouflage itself to look like its surroundings, ability to go without sleep, food or drink for extended periods of time, and the ability to teleport. The last ability has not appeared for many centuries and some believe it to be myth.

The requests started the next morning when he was called into his supervisor’s office and asked to take more shifts. They wanted him to tour the cancer ward, as well. Not work it, just walk around it: same with the children’s ward. It was all phrased quite politely in an ‘if you wouldn’t mind terribly’ sort of way. John stammered that he didn’t think he could work more hours (he left the ‘legally’ out of it) but that he’d try to take time to walk the wards if they wanted him to.

Sherlock remained uncommunicative on his shoulder.

A man in military uniform walking up, introducing himself as Major Dartmoor, and asking if he could join John and ‘his companion’ interrupted their lunch at a nearby restaurant the next day. They were eating outside in order to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather and Sherlock had uncharacteristically had John order a sandwich for him as well. He wasn’t eating it, but he was wrapped around it as though to guard it, which was garnering some amused looks.

“I’ll be happy to pick up the tab, as well,” Major Dartmoor smiled from ear to ear.

“I’m sorry, why?” John stammered.

<Free food, John. What is wrong with you?>

“I’d be delighted,” John corrected.

The uniformed man sat with a grin and a nod towards Sherlock as though he knew he’d been the cause of the accepted invitation.

“Will you be joining us as well?” Major Dartmoor asked, but Sherlock didn’t even lift his head.

“He doesn’t talk much… well… at all,” John stammered, recalling the odd Holmes brother and his inquisition.

“No, but he speaks through you, doesn’t he?”

John decided to poke at his salad instead of respond. Sherlock took that moment to drop into the chair beside him, transform back into his human form, and pick up his sandwich to take a healthy bite. John glanced around in consternation, but aside from a few admiring glances no one made a fuss about his nude companion. He hoped a constable didn’t pass by. Dragons were known to be law unto themselves, but he wasn’t sure how it would be treated since Sherlock wasn’t technically royalty. Prince William could sit at a café butt-ass naked and eat lunch, but Sherlock might be a different story all together.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve joined you,” The Major stated after ordering a salad for himself.

“A bit, yes,” John replied nervously. Sherlock continued to eat enthusiastically.

“It’s because of your companion here, of course.”

“Yes, I’d guessed that part.”

“You see I’m aware you’re a doctor-“

<You’re wearing a doctor’s coat, of course he’s aware you’re a doctor.>

John did his best not to grin.

“-And as it happens the Queens Army is in need of doctors to aid in her efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“Oh. I… I’m being drafted?” John asked aghast.

“No! Goodness, no, we’re looking for volunteers!” The man consoled immediately.

“Oh, well, that’s good, I suppose, but what’s Sherlock got to do with this? You want to recruit him, too?”

“In a way. We’ve found members of the lesser nobility often want to make themselves useful. Some of the Queens more distant cousins have served this way as well, and still do today.”

“I see, you want his healing ability on the battlefield.”

“Never in direct combat, but yes. We want you and – Sherlock was it? – to be a part of the largest MASH unit in Afghanistan. You’d get a chance to serve our country, afterwards you’ll tour other countries and see a bit of the world, and you’ll be making an honest difference in this man’s war.”

John felt that wandering streak in him stir, the same one that had sparked up whenever his father had gotten drunk and chased him out of the house. The one that said ‘leave and don’t come back, just start walking’. He glanced aside at Sherlock, but the man was no help. He’d finished his sandwich and was stealing bits of John’s salad.

“We’ll pay off your college loans,” Major Dartmoor stated firmly.

“Done,” John stuck out his hand and the man shook it firmly.

“Welcome to the Army, son.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Promises, John found, were something the army only occasionally kept. They paid off his debt as promised, but after a few years he found himself being placed in more and more dangerous situations. He might have worried, especially where Sherlock was concerned, but his dragon friend defended him effortlessly. Bullets could not pierce dragon skin and John and his comrades found themselves hiding behind him more than once. Sherlock never grew larger than twelve feet and was no thicker than his human chest span, so there wasn’t much to hide behind, but in war you made due.  Bombs, poison, and gasses could harm a dragon if set off closely enough, so John was still paranoid enough about Sherlock’s safety to take his training seriously and ask for more whenever possible. He soon became the best shot in his troop and was much praised despite being ‘only a medic’.

It was during one rather endless feeling assignment that John’s relationship with Sherlock took a sudden odd turn. They were part of an all male squad, how it had fallen that way John had no idea since the army wasn’t short on female recruits, but there they were without a soft voice to speak to. They were on an assignment that required they escort a caravan carrying major supplies from one city to the next back and forth over and again. The caravan had no women in it, and they never entered either of the cities; they were to walk the caravan to the gates and stop there. In short, they saw absolutely no women for the entire several months that this assignment lasted. Just glaring desert, dusty jeeps, sweaty men, sweaty animals, and sweaty naked Sherlock. Sherlock had been assigned a uniform. John had it stowed in a backpack. John couldn’t wear it because it was Sherlock’s measurements and the man was tall and thin. Sherlock didn’t wear it because he was Sherlock.

By day Sherlock was in his dragon form, which garnered much respect from the locals and his confederates at large. At night, when they made camp and the fires and talk sprang up, Sherlock would stroll about in his birthday suit with absolutely no cares in the world. John was aware of his own reactions first, but when he started seeing others leering at Sherlock, he pulled him aside.

They were inside their own tent, a larger one they had traded in for their two smaller tents when it became obvious Sherlock would not sleep on his own, and sitting side by side on their single sleeping roll. Sherlock still slept naked and pressed quite securely against John’s backside, which of late had become an exercise in torture.

“Listen, I know you’re some sort of free and natural thing, but there’s not a lick of woman flesh around and… well not to inflate your head more than it already is, but you’re very pretty.”

Sherlock smirked and John felt himself blush.

“Damn it, you know what I mean! You’re going to get raped.”

Sherlock gave him a rather naughty look, glanced him up and down, and shifted his bare hips and shoulders in an inviting gesture. His plump pink tongue slowly moistened his full lips and John was on him before rationality could tell him to stop. Sherlock was instantly in dragon form, though only a six foot long one this time, and John found himself lips to scaly shoulder instead of plump lips. John leaned back and scowled at him. Sherlock dripped his head and curled his dragon lips into a sneer.

“That was rotten of you, you know that? This is exactly what I mean. It isn’t right mucking about with soldier’s heads. We’re bloody lonely out here.”

Sherlock transformed back and John tossed himself down on the bedroll with his back to him. Sherlock’s fingers danced along his shoulder and he shivered despite his indignation. John’s mind flew to the few of his mates who he knew swung both ways. It wasn’t much talked about, but their tents had been visited often of late. He knew one of them had a girlfriend and wouldn’t do anything on the side, but the other two had been known to offer a hand job in exchange for snacks. That was, of course, if the rumors were true. John was just wondering if he was willing to part with the cookies his mother had sent him when he felt an odd fluttering of panic in the back of his mind. He had long started to associate this with Sherlock’s thoughts, and while it was usually closed off to him, at moments like this it was wide open. John sat up in concern, well aware that the last time he’d felt this Sherlock had seen someone sneaking up on him from behind. The feelings had come before even the telepathic warning had.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked, but Sherlock gave him a blank stare and raised an eyebrow as though he didn’t know what he was talking about, “I felt that, Sherlock. Quit being a berk. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock lay down, stretching in that fluid way he had, and displaying his body like a bloody whore. John wanted to pin him down and lick every inch of his body before fucking him raw. It was the first time he’d let his mind wander quite that far and the primal desire alarmed him. He immediately scurried out of the tent in search of Private Higgins.

Private Higgins was surprised to see him and even more surprised by his fumbling request.

“Look, I’ve heard rumors, and if they’re wrong I’m really sorry, but if they’re right then I’d like to… ah… trade, if you don’t mind… and it’s not an order,” John amended quickly, fully aware that the differences in their rank could bring him stronger punishment then engaging in what amounted to prostitution.

“Well… they’re true, but… I mean… what about… I don’t want to piss off your dragon friend, you know?” Private Higgins looked ready to flee his own tent at the idea.

“Oh, what, Sherlock?” John blinked in surprise, “Oh, no, we’re not a couple.”

“Oh!” The Private looked suitably surprised.

“Do people think that?”

“Well, he does sleep in your tent, you’ve only been seen carrying one bedroll, and he’s always naked.”

“You do pose a convincing argument,” John sighed and rubbed his hands across his face, “Would it help any if I explained that he’s an utter arsehole and won’t let me near his?”

<John, come at once, if convenient.>

“Damn, that’s… I think I’d go mental,” Higgins stated with wide, sympathetic eyes.

“Sounds about right,” John laughed lightly.

“I mean… he’s gorgeous! Not that you’re not… well… I mean… he’s really bloody beautiful.”

“Yeah, he is,” John snorted, rolling his eyes a bit.

<If inconvenient, come anyway.>

Coming is exactly what I have in mind, John thought hungrily.

“So… you’re willing to settle for me?” Higgins laughed lightly, but gave him a flirtatious smile anyway.

“Very willing, and ‘settle’ isn’t the word I’d use for it.”

Higgins leaned forward with half lidded eyes and his own set of full moist lips.

<John. Don’t.>

John was out of the tent and back in his own before he quite knew what was happening. Sherlock hadn’t moved. He was still face down on their bedroll looking for the entire world like a model in a porno waiting for the scene to start.

“If I touch you, will you let me this time?” John asked, his voice tense with anger.

No answer.

“Damn you to hell, Sherlock, I was trying to get off.”

No answer.

“You just waltz into my life, settle down like you belong, and what the fuck do I get out of it?!” John demanded, unaware that he was shouting now, “I get fucking shot at, is what I get. I get to tour the same bloody stretch of desert over and over again. I get your pale naked arse pressed up against me all bloody night with nothing to show for it but blue balls and a morning stiffy I could probably open a tin with!”

Sherlock snorted and that was about the last straw for John, who thrashed his way out of his tent with the intention of walking off his frustration. A few lads were standing about, obviously listening, and John flushed in embarrassment at how loud he must have been. He hurried off, ignoring the chuckles, and passed a confused Higgins who gave him a sympathetic look whenever they spoke again for the rest of the time John knew him.

Chapter 4: The Effects of Thrall

Encyclopedia Britannica: Effects of Thrall
Thrall can be a complex issue simply because of the effects it has. Since most dragons are controlling they can be considered the decision maker, but often they give the human(s) in their thrall free reign, preferring to be worshiped from a distance. This has made them excellent leaders over the years, because the human(s) in their thrall are important to them in a familial way. However, the human(s) under thrall may be completely unaware and become emotionally or mentally distressed when they find their behavior has changed after contact with a dragon. Some dragons have the ability to communicate telepathically with their thrall victims, and may use it to control every aspect of their lives obsessively. Since obsessive-compulsive behavior is a norm for descendents of dragons – including those not displaying outward traits – this can become a sort of co-dependent neurosis for both parties.

Bonding is possible for victims of a thrall, which includes a more intense relationship with the dragon, occasionally related to sex but always related to a deep emotional attachment. While dragons almost exclusively breed with humans due to their low gene pool options, some choose never to mate at all and have displayed asexual tendencies. This behavior is believed to be the reason they are rare today. It also causes distress for the bond victims as they occasionally find themselves unable to be sexually attracted to someone else.

John had given up hiding his wanking from Sherlock and sneaking it when the bastard wasn’t awake (rare) or around (even more rare). In fact he had given up on the idea he was ever going to get a leg over with anyone ever again and was now masturbating, not only in front of him, but while staring at him openly as he lay stretched out naked and lounging somewhere. Instead of being repulsed by this behavior as John had expected, the dragon preened and displayed himself for John’s fantasies. If John moaned his name he smiled encouragingly and would run his hands over himself in imitation of the thoughts flashing through John’s mind. It was almost sex, but he was never allowed to touch Sherlock and Sherlock had no interest in touching him.

Today had been an awful one. Their caravan had been attacked and several people had died, though even more had ended up in John and Sherlock’s care. The Dragon had taken to transforming to human and helping when needed, even picking up a scalpel and performing surgery, though John had no idea if his knowledge of such were from John or his own life.

After patching up the survivors, decontaminating his hands and arms, and listening to his CO call in their defeat and request evac, he staggered into his tent to wash himself the only way possible outside of the OR – with a damp flannel and a good deal of no-rinse soap. He hated the stuff – it stank and left him feeling gritty and miserable even after the damp flannel. Sherlock, as usual, sat down and watched his every movement from the moment he stripped to the moment he drew on a (sort of) clean shirt and pants. John slipped outside the tent and rinsed off the flannel as best he could while trying to conserve water, and then he slipped back in and handed it to Sherlock to do the same. The dragon’s face said it all – he wasn’t going to put that bit of cloth anywhere on his body.

“Well, unless you can teleport you’d better get over yourself. You stink and you’re not sleeping next to me like that. Wash. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes looked mutinous, but he did as told and John devoured the sight of him stroking hands and flannel over his body as though he were the water John was frantic for.

“When we get back to civilization,” John started, as he often did, “I’m going to take the longest fucking shower of my life. Alone. Then I’m going to take the second longest with you.”

Sherlock smiled his approval, tossed John’s last (relatively) clean flannel out into the desert despite the man’s scolding, and curled up to sleep. John paused a moment, then pulled out his cock for a wank. He didn’t care how gritty he felt – he needed to relieve some tension. As usual, Sherlock knew without being told and rolled over, an enthusiastic look on his face.

He nearly drooled as the dragon-man started his pretty little peacock dance. Sherlock started by stretching his body, arching off the sleep roll as every muscle bunched and pulled taut. Then he rolled over and arched like a cat – arse in the air and arms extended above his body. From his position at the bottom of the sleep roll John could see between his lush cheeks to his dusky, hairless pucker. He groaned, licking the palm of his hand despite the taste and stroking his cock faster.

I’d give anything to bury my face between those perfect orbs and eat your arse out.

Sherlock jumped.

Well. That was unusual.

Sherlock rolled over with a surprised look on his face and stared down between his own splayed legs with a look of complete confusion on his face. John followed his eyes and moaned at the sight of Sherlock’s half erection. He’d never seen the dragon even partially aroused before and he hungrily reached out to touch. Sherlock transformed into a tiny dragon and fled the tent.

“Damn!” John snarled, and pounded his fist on the ground. He knew better than to touch! “Damn it all to hell!”

John threw himself down on his back and fisted himself frantically, but his erection was wilting despite the tightness in his bollocks. It was as if…

Sherlock, are you willing my hard on away?!

<Go to sleep, John.>

I’m tense and I need to get off!

<Go to sleep, John.>

Damn you to hell!

<Do I need to tell you again?>

John’s eyes grew heavy and his legs went lax, he sensed more than saw Sherlock slipping back into the tent and tucking him into their bedroll. His dragon’s warmth stretched out beside him in the growing chill of the night and he wrapped himself around him eagerly. He nuzzled his hair, breathing in his natural scent instead of the powdery shampoo he’d refused to use on it. It was surprisingly soft and not a greasy at all. He must have used the sand to wash it again. He’d seen him do that on occasion and knew some of the locals did so as well.

“Love you,” John muttered as his limbs became too much of a burden to lift.

Sherlock turned to face him and pressed close, entwining their limbs and pressing John’s face to his neck. John sighed in contentment – all thoughts of lust gone – and simply drifted in this oddly euphoric state. Sherlock sighed and gave him a gentle squeeze. The last thing John recalled was hearing his name whispered by a voice that rasped as though rarely used.

Chapter 5: Shell Shocked

Websters Dictionary:
asex·u·al - adjective
Definition of ASEXUAL

1a : lacking sex or functional sex organs <asexual plants>

2a : involving or reproducing by reproductive processes (as cell division, spore formation, fission, or budding) that do not involve the union of individuals or gametes <asexual reproduction> <an asexual generation>

b : produced by asexual reproduction <asexual spores>

3a : devoid of sexuality <an asexual relationship>

“Sherlock?” John called, and watched the lazy dragon’s head pivot towards him, “How do asexual dragons reproduce?”

No answer.

“See, it doesn’t make much sense. Why would a species evolve to be asexual at all? It’s detrimental to the survival of said species. It doesn’t add up. You’d have to have a way to reproduce asexually if some of you are going to be asexual. I mean… can you just… divide yourself? Or is the definition ‘asexual’ wrong? Could it be that dragons aren’t getting what they need from humans? Or is that the problem in the first place? Is the breeding with humans producing unviable mutations? Like a mule?”

Sherlock’s obsidian orbs narrowed dangerously and John knew he’d insulted the fickle creature.

“Well, if you answer me, I won’t have to go around assuming you’re related to the ass you behave like,” John snarked.

Sherlock left. He simply pushed off the rock he was sunbathing on (who sunbathes in the bloody desert?) flapped up a veritable sandstorm with those wings, and took off. John glared up at his retreating form once he’d gone and sighed in frustration.

I’m only trying to understand so I can make you happy.

No answer.

John stood and headed towards the camp again, sniffing the air and hoping the beans being cooked were edible this time. They were supposed to have been pulled out two days ago. They were trapped where they were; their vehicles had been destroyed in the raid, their food supplies were low, they had only the water they were finding, and John had buried three more men in shallow graves that morning before the sun rose. Sherlock had helped, thankfully, because John couldn’t afford to break a sweat. They had too little water to replenish it.

The mortar landed first; something resembling a pipe flew out of the sky towards John and he barely made it behind a damaged truck before the damn thing went off. His shouts of warning were basically useless. The gunfire came after and there was absolutely nowhere defensible. They were swarming down the dunes towards them from all angles. He knew instinctively that Sherlock was on his way back, but in the same thought he knew he wouldn’t get there in time. Half his remaining unit was already dead around him and his weapon was empty. He didn’t even remember firing it, but that wasn’t unusual for him; the body count told him he’d been accurate enough.

John was pressed against the same damn jeep, as three men slowly approached him. He heard one of them say dragon in Dari – he’d heard it enough to recognize it now. There seemed to be a debate going over whether or not he should be killed. John didn’t see anyone on his side moving. Finally one of the men raised his gun. Several things happened at once; John decided to go down fighting and rushed the man, one of the would-be shooter’s compatriots tackled him, and Sherlock came screaming out of the sky like a bomb himself. The gun went off, John was thrown backwards, and boiling water rained down from the sky on the three men. John lay on his side, feeling heat drain out of his body as his spilling blood left him cold despite the desert heat, and stared in horror at the three Middle Eastern men. They were dead- and thank gods for it- their eyes popped like grapes, their skin blistered and cracked, and their mouths open in soundless screams that revealed their swollen tongues.

Sherlock stood over them, hissing in outrage with steam billowing from the corners of his mouth. He stepped closer to inspect John’s wound, transforming effortlessly in the blink of an eye. John had never seen him look so worried, and justifiably so since he was wounded alone in the middle of the desert. Just before John passed out he thought to himself that with an ability like that, at least Sherlock could make him a decent cup of tea no matter where they were.

XXXXXXXXXXX

When John opened his eyes it was to find the stars above him. He blinked in confusion, pain lancing through his body. He was covered with a blanket, but he could tell just by blinking that his face was badly sun burnt. Turning his head – a painful experience in and of itself – resulted in a blacked out blur that he instinctively knew was Sherlock.

Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just that he was injured and still not rescued. Something was wrong with Sherlock. He knew it. He could feel it. John pushed himself up using the arm that didn’t feel as though it had been ripped off and glanced down in the poor light to see his wound had been fucking cauterized.

Gods. Well. That’s a bit not good. Third degree burns inside and out…

John dragged himself up; arm hanging useless as his broken shoulder blades ground together and his vision momentarily went white. He had to stabilize it or he’d faint before he got them both help. John managed to tug his belt off, sat back down so if he fainted he wouldn’t fall far, and wrapped his belt around his arm and torso. He looped it and pulled it to, but couldn’t manage to buckle it. He didn’t realize he was crying until the sob shook him hard enough to make his vision blur again.

Deep breath.

Another deep breath.

Sherlock needs you.

John pushed himself back up again, arm less of a disaster now it was somewhat immobile, and staggered the few feet to Sherlock’s side. He knelt down and peered at his friend, but got no reaction from him. He was breathing but still, and a touch to his face let John know his scales felt all wrong.

Dry. Papery. Peeling. He’s dehydrated? He spat boiling water! Of course he’s dehydrated! Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!

John tried to call to him verbally since he wasn’t responding to John’s thoughts, but his voice was nonexistent. His mouth tasted like desert and felt just as dry. John pulled himself upwards and staggered around. He found a canteen and downed the water, needing to keep himself going first, and called out uselessly for survivors. He didn’t fear the enemy returning. He could still smell their cooked flesh. John found another few canteens and headed back over to Sherlock, but couldn’t find a way to get him to drink it. He opened one and poured a bit on his snout, hoping it would revive him, but got no reaction. Instead he looked for the radio. The CO’s tent was still up and John crawled inside to start up the radio. It fizzled and sparked, but he got through. His voice scratched and cracked as badly as the radio as he delivered another distress call.

Apparently their rescue was already supposed to have been there to get them and returned by now; they were MIA. John resisted the urge to beg for help and instead asked when a helicopter could be sent.

“There’s only two of us left, as near as I can tell, over,” John croaked.

“What do you mean, as near as you can tell? I thought you were the squad’s surgeon? Over.”

“It’s dark and I’m badly wounded. I searched for survivors, but most of our gear is gone and I’m barely conscious. My mate here is out, and I don’t think he’ll make it through the night. Over.”

“We don’t have a copter to spare. I’m truly sorry Captain. You’re on your own until we can get someone out there. Over.”

John let go the button and let himself weep for a moment. No tears. That wasn’t good. He was badly dehydrated. For all he knew he wasn’t even having this conversation; it might be a hallucination.

<Mycroft Holmes.>

“Mycroft H-Holmes, over,” John choked into the talkie.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. Say again? Over.”

“Mycroft Holmes. Contact Mycroft Holmes. Tell him…”

<His brother won’t survive the night without rescue.>

“His brother won’t survive the night without rescue. Over.”

“His rank?” Dispatch asked.

<Fucking Queen of England.>

I can’t tell them that.

<Ambassador.>

“Ambassador,” John sobbed.

Silence. So much silence that John wondered if he’d died. He lay down in the tent, too weak to crawl back to Sherlock, and thought of him around and around in circles. Sherlock laughing. Sherlock moping. Sherlock taking off in a strop. Sherlock writhing on the floor of his tent as though aroused when his dick remained utterly limp. For him, because it made John excited.

Gods, I love you, you mad thing.

Silence. John sobbed into the darkness and waited for something, anything to happen. Another assault. A rescue. The sunrise. A fucking cricket to churp.

Anything but silence.

<We’re not supposed to be asexual. For some of us, if we don’t meet the right person our bodies don’t work right. Sometimes we never meet the right person.>

How do you know if you do?

<I suppose we respond sexually.>

That’s never happened between us. I suppose I’m not the right one for you. John thought sadly.

<I don’t like not knowing something.>

We’ll find your person together. We’ll go looking for him or her.

<No. I don’t like not knowing how to kiss you. How to touch you.>

You don’t know how?

<I’m… inexperienced.>

I’ll teach you.

<I’ll disappoint you. I’ve never disappointed you before.>

You couldn’t if you tried, though you have managed to frustrate, enrage, offend, dismay, and arouse me. Does that take the pressure off a bit?

<Not really.>  Sherlock sounded amused.

I love you.

<I don’t know how to love. I don’t think I can. I just know how to own you.>

That’s fine. I’ll love you enough for both of us. It’s all fine.

They lay in silence for some time. John dozed, though he had no idea for how long. He was awoken by the sound of a helicopter. The tent he lay in fluttered in the gale the machine raised and collapsed on top of him. He couldn’t move. Stiffness had settled in and he was utterly spent; he thought he might be in shock. Voices shouted and called for him. John tried to shout back, but he wasn’t heard over the sound of the helicopter motor; his throat was too dry and his body too weak.

<John! JOHN! They’re leaving without you! JOHN! JOHN!>

Tell them where I am.

<I can’t! John! Shout!>

I can’t.

<JOHN!!>

Goodbye, Sherlock.

Darkness. Complete darkness. The helicopter’s sound faded away. Cold. Alone.

The smell of rotting flesh as the sun rose and baked English and Afghani alike; death was the eternal equalizer. No man was above being devoured by sun, insect, or scavenger… all would become dust in the end. John could literally feel his lips cracking as the last of his body’s moister was sweated out. He thought the polyester of the tent might be melting against his flesh. He wondered if he would be mummified. The conditions seemed right. Would archeologists in the future dig him up and wonder at his wounds? Would they know a dragon had melted the skin around his wound to close it and keep him from bleeding to death, only to have him bake to death in the unforgiving Afghanistan desert?

Wind. It was nice. It cooled him even through the collapsed tent. Noise. A rushing, humming sound. Someone was shouting. The tent was being pulled off of him. More shouting. John tried to scream when they touched him – the pain was blinding – but all that came out was a dry hiss like two sheets of paper rubbing together.

Cold. No. Cool. Comfortable. He tried to move his head, but he was too weak. His eyes blinked open and a real actual ceiling stared down at him. He was in a building- a cool, air conditioned building. He could feel stickiness on his face and the steady droopy feel of medicine in his veins. His shoulder ached, but it was a distant ache – likely held at bay by the same medicine that made him feel as if he was floating at sea.

<I’ll get a doctor’s attention.>

I’m fine. I don’t need anything.

<You’ve been out for two days, probably longer if you count your stint under the tent. I’ll get a doctor.>

John heard the scrape of a chair and was comforted by the fact Sherlock was mobile; it meant he wasn’t in terrible condition. A door opened and closed and someone leaned into John’s range of vision. His eyes were too tired to focus, so he just closed them.

“Good evening, can you tell me your name?”

John’s throat made a horrible dry croak. The bed was being raised and the room’s occupants came into view. Sherlock was hovering at the foot of the bed looking concerned. A pudgy doctor stood beside him looking the same, but smiling more.

“I can’t give you any liquids straight off, but we’ll just run this around your mouth.”

The doctor extended a sponge on a stick and John opened his mouth gratefully as the moisture gave him instant relief. It tasted vaguely minty. John licked his chapped lips, swallowed a few times and tried again.

“Chawn Wasson,” John croaked.

“Very good,” The doctor commended.

Sherlock snorted. The git.

The doctor asked him if he thought he could manage an ice chip and John nodded that he could. Sherlock took the cup of ice and hovered by him to slip them into his mouth whenever they melted. The doctor calmly pulled up a chair and explained the extent of his injuries. They weren’t catastrophic; it was really the dehydration and sunstroke that had truly harmed him. Sherlock’s solution of boiling his wound shut had worked to a degree, but infection had set in soon after. John would be getting a skin graft once the infection cleared up.

A week later John was finally allowed to stand for the first time. He slipped to the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock shift into a six-foot dragon form and crouch at the foot of the bed. Two nurses were on hand in case he toppled. John smiled cheerily at them, gave the prettier one a wink, and then pushed himself to his feet.

Pain. Instantaneous pain, shot up his left leg and with a yelp he staggered forward. The two nurses caught him and gently guided him back to the bed. John’s hand was shaking again - he’d noticed it but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone- in combination with the pain in his leg he was now terrified.

“Something’s happened to my back. Something that wasn’t caught before,” John insisted, as every bit of his medical degree screamed ‘nerve damage’.

“We’ll talk to the doctor,” The pretty nurse reassured him, giving him a pitying glance. They both urged him to lie back down and he stared down at Sherlock in horror as they left.

“I can’t walk.”

<You’ll be fine.>

“Sherlock. I. Can’t. Walk.”

<The wound was in your shoulder. You’re probably just achy from too much bed rest.>

John nodded, but didn’t respond. He was staring at his hand where it lay trembling on the sheet beside him. Loosing the ability to walk was nothing compared to loosing the ability to perform surgery, and a doctor’s steady hands were his entire life.

Sherlock walked around the bed to his left side and gripped his shaking hand hard enough to cause pain. John smiled up at him gratefully and was rewarded with a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips.

“Have you been bored?” John asked worriedly, and just for a chance to change the subject away from his recent injuries.

<No. There’s a mousy mortician who keeps me entertained. She lets me use her lab.>

“Should I be jealous?” John laughed.

<You know I prefer men, if any gender at all. She’s a good thrall, though.>

“Oh, another thrall? Do you have others besides she and I?” John asked nervously.

<Not yet.> Sherlock shrugged.

It wasn’t for another few days before he found out Sherlock was talking about his acquaintance Molly Hooper.

Chapter 6: Political Allies

When John woke up the next day it was to find Sherlock oddly missing and Mycroft sitting quietly in his usual chair. He didn’t look happy. John struggled to sit up before sighing in frustration.

“I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sure you’re here about something important, but I’m not exactly in prime condition. You’ll probably want to leave for a few while a nurse takes care of me.”

“On the contrary, I am quite comfortable where I’m seated, but by all means: call in a nurse.”

So. That was the game of it. Humiliate John Watson. Very well. John was a doctor, he knew the procedures inside and out and he’d had to perform them himself in med school. John rang the call button and a nurse stepped in.

“I need to use the toilet and wash up,” John informed her calmly. She smiled, nodded, and left to get assistance.

“You’ll be here about Sherlock, then?” John asked.

“Oh, this can wait until you’re more comfortable,” Mycroft smiled benevolently.

John really wasn’t comfortable. His bladder was full and so were his bowels. Unfortunately, he was considered a fall risk, so that meant they’d be bringing a tray and a male urinal for him. Two nurses entered, one with the required aids and the other with a basin and wash materials. John was at least given the dignity of using the urinal himself, but the bedpan they had to lever under him without his assistance as he’d been told not to put his weight on anything until the problem was determined.

While John relieved himself- awkwardly- Mycroft took the time to get up and stand at the foot of the bed where John would have an unbroken view of him. The bastard made eye contact with him whenever John nervously glanced up, and damn it all if he didn’t do that far too often.

Mycroft 1, John 0.

The second nurse meanwhile had started scrubbing John down. This was at least welcome since it had been a couple of days since this was last done and he was feeling repulsive. He still wanted a real bloody shower, though, and he was annoyingly stuck with powder and sponge baths instead. To John’s horror he still couldn’t bend enough to wipe his own arse, a state owed to his shoulder and the damage around it, so the nurse had to do that for him, too. Mycroft didn’t laugh, but it was in his eyes. The smell in the room was horrible, owed to the cramped state of his bowels from being on his back for so long, but rather than cover his nose or leave the room the bastard simply made a face at John as though he’d produced a foul odor on purpose.

Thank god Sherlock isn’t here.

<I’m not that much of an arse.>

Thank you for not being that much of an arse. I take back most of the times I’ve called you one.

<Do you want me to route him out?>

Nope. I’ll handle this on my own.

<Suit yourself.>

Once John was settled and the nurse had turned the bathroom fan on to help get the stench out of the room, John sat up a bit straighter and gave Mycroft his undivided attention.

“I thought I made myself clear. I thought I was quite kind, in fact, in allowing you to take Sherlock into battle with you.”

“We weren’t even supposed to be in battle. We were supposed to be in a mobile hospital away from the front lines,” John snapped irritably, “Where were you and your ridiculous influence then?”

“If you had not requested…”

“I didn’t request anything! And I know Sherlock hasn’t! He can’t even speak!”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, his head turned to the side.

“You made no request to be transferred to the front lines?”

“No. Of course not. Why would I risk Sherlock like that? I’m a doctor. Do you know how long I spent doing extra training? Hoping it would be enough? How many hours of sleep I lost? In the end, the only thing I could bloody do was call for you!”

John knew he was spitting venom at the wrong person, but it he was angry, hurt – quite possibly broken- and so very lonely. He wanted Sherlock, here in his arms, and not off someplace hiding from his brother. He wanted to hold him, talk to him, and perhaps even make love to him.

Mycroft stood and paced partway across John’s room, his phone to his ear and his voice soft.

“No,” Mycroft snapped into the phone, “Find out more. Something isn’t right here. He isn’t lying, of that I am certain.”

Mycroft ended the call and turned to give John another analyzing look.

Mycroft 1, John 1.

“You really spent your nights training to protect my brother?”

“Yes. Of course. How could you… You do know I’m under his thrall don’t you? I might as well be his slave!”

“I was aware, but I didn’t realize you were. In fact, it wouldn’t shock me to find you were a dragon as well and had him under thrall. Sherlock’s behavior of late has been… unusual.”

“Well, I assure you I’m not responsible for it,” John snapped.

Mycroft was studying him again, looking down his nose as though John were an insect pinned to a wall. John wanted out of that bed. Instantly. His mind was screaming in cold rage at all of the circumstances that he couldn’t control. Everything from his trembling hand to Sherlock’s lacking libido.

An ear piercing scream rent the air and Mycroft jumped in alarm, rushing to the window faster than John had ever seen him move. Outside the hospital window, performing loops and intricate turns that would have been beautiful if it were not for his agonizing cries, was John’s very own dragon. Sherlock screamed and twisted as though in pain. Mycroft looked back at John, fear and worry in his eyes and his brow glistened with sweat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mycroft asked, his voice filled with fera.

“He’s upset.”

“Clearly, but why? Is he in pain?”

“Not the physical kind, no,” John was calmer now, his anguish draining out of him with what little energy he had. He felt himself relaxing into the bed beneath him, his eyes growing heavy.

“What do you mean? What’s happened to him?”

Mycroft turned and fled the room, probably to go outside and try to speak directly to Sherlock, but he was wasting his time. John sighed in relief, his limbs too weak to raise even when a small dragon skittered up them and curled himself around John’s neck. His scales chaffed painfully, but John took comfort in his presence and dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

John woke to find the bed was being moved. Several nurses were hurrying around him, raising the bars and wrapping cords up so they wouldn’t pull. His IV bag was laid down beside him and he felt something cold flood his veins.

This isn’t proper procedure… John wondered as the entire bed was rolled out the door and down the hall.

He fought sleep for several seconds, but whatever they’d shot into him was potent. John dropped into oblivion; his last thought was that Sherlock was still wrapped around his neck.

John woke in the same bed, but an entirely different location. The room was bare white, like hospitals, but the smells were all off. It smelled dank and underground. John felt panic curl through him, but immediately tried to pretend he was still asleep.

Sherlock! Sherlock wake up and run! We’ve been abducted!

John felt Sherlock sigh beneath him, <Oh, shut up.>

Don’t make me use that corny ‘save yourself’ line.

Sherlock chuckled, but before John could tell him off the door opened quite loudly.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here?” A lilting Irish voice called out, “If it isn’t a boy and his dragon.”

John gave up his pretense at sleep and carefully pushed himself upright to face his enemy. A small man in a very sharp suit smiled at him from the doorway. Sherlock slipped down from his shoulder and transformed into a human; he was perched on the edge of John’s bed with one possessive hand on his thigh.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi! Don’t you have anything to say, Sherlock?” The man asked, “Any question’s to ask? Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

<A system of bribes and threats, no doubt.>

“A system of bribes and threats, no doubt,” John echoed without even thinking, his voice taking on Sherlock’s tone automatically.

“Oh, did you figure that out all by yourself, Johnny boy, or is Sherlock feeding you information? You know,” Moriarty continued without letting John answer, “You are a very difficult man to kill, John Watson. I nearly lost Sherlock just trying to get rid of you. So now I’m going to do it the easy way. Meet Colonel Sebastian Moran of the 1^st Bangalore Pioneers. Aren't you going to salute him?"

A taller man stepped into the room, Irish as well but his skin was tanned and weathered to look more like leather - like John’s was from regular exposure to harsh sun. John’s mind scrambled to recall and… yes. This man had been at several of his deployment areas.

“You recognize me?” Moran asked, sneering at John, “That’s fine. You won’t be living long enough to tell anyone about it.”

Moran raised his gun and Sherlock reared up, screaming in anger as he transformed from a tiny twelve-inch lizard to a whopping 12 feet of angry, clawed, fanged, bulletproof, dragon. John scrambled out of the wreck of the bed and pressed close to Sherlock’s body, knowing it was his only chance for survival. He didn’t even think about his leg.

“Oh, good!” Moriarty laughed, “But, aren’t you curious, Sherlock? Don’t you want to know who I am and how I got you and your friend into so much trouble?”

Sherlock stilled. John listened for all he was worth. If he were Moran he’d be…

John ducked to one side, around Sherlock’s torso, and kicked high and fast. Moran took his sadly bare foot to the face and stumbled back. John tackled him, but he proved faster and stronger than him and soon had John pinned beneath him. He slammed the butt of his gun into John’s head and the world spun and bucked like a bull. He heard a scream and Moran was knocked off of him, but it wasn’t by Sherlock.

It was the same dragon from above the Thames. That thin suited Moriarty man was an English (Irish?) dragon, and he was struggling violently with Sherlock. Sherlock had wrapped himself twice around the thicker dark green dragon’s torso and was squeezing him like a boa constrictor. Moriarty’s tail was ridged, almost like a fin, and it lashed back and forth, sluicing away the drywall away like an apple peel. Moriarty’s claws where trapped down by his side, but his teeth were free and once he realized his air was being cut off he leaned forward and sank his teeth into Sherlock’s body. They writhed on the floor as though it were a frying pan, their bodies barely touching it as each tried to get the other to let them go.

Moran was looking battered off to John’s left and had taken to pressing himself against the wall. He threw a terrified look to John, whom he mirrored, and they both tried to make themselves as small as possible as two gigantic legends fought in a far too small room. A tail lashed out and nearly crushed John’s scull. Sherlock’s paw took a chunk out of the wall to Moran’s left. Sherlock’s blood rained down on John and he screamed as it burned his skin- though it wasn’t boiling like his spit. John ducked and rolled out of the way. Moran had inched his way to a safer area and John dodged a tail and a leg before joining him.

“Stop them! They’ll kill each other!” John shouted, grabbing Moran’s vest and shaking him.

“What makes you think I can?” He snapped shoving John off.

Sherlock took notice and tried to hit Moran with his tail but missed, then he opened his mouth and John screamed in fear, throwing Moran in front of himself as a shield. The room filled with steam, so thick John choked on it, and inhuman screams rent the air. When it cleared both Moriarty and Moran were gone and the ground was a puddle of steaming hot water. John watched it inch towards him and backed away in fear, but Sherlock knocked the crumpled hospital bed towards him and he climbed on top of it. There was blood in the water, but how much of it was Sherlock’s and how much (if any) was Moriarty’s he had no idea.

“How badly are you hurt?”

<I’m going to require medical attention, but it can wait until we get out of here.>

Sherlock shrunk down and crossed to him. He was about the size of a horse and John climbed onto his back as quickly as he could. In the hall a trail of blood led in one direction. Sherlock sniffed the air and headed in the opposite.

“Are either of them dead?”

<Unfortunetly, no. Moriarty got a shoulder-full of boiling water, but in his dragon form it probably didn’t do too much damage. Moran was burnt as well, but on his feet. I doubt he’ll be able to use them. He’s probably crawling away.>

“Moriarty wouldn’t carry him?”

<I get the impression he doesn’t take care of his thralls.>

John didn’t know what to say to that, and since Sherlock had grown bigger and was now traveling very quickly down the hall he decided to keep his mouth shut. Sherlock made a few sharp turns, had to shrink down and double back at one point, and then was inching his way carefully around a corner. He kept sniffing the air and looking about suspiciously.

That man was in Afghanistan with us, but a Colonel can’t possibly have the authority to change our orders above Mycroft, so what's going on?

Sherlock didn’t reply to him.

I should have disobeyed. Mycroft is right. I put you in danger. I should have let them dishonorably discharge me.

No answer.

Shouting erupted somewhere off to the right and Sherlock took off to the left as quickly as he could. The sound of gunfire soon echoed through the labyrinthine halls and John groaned in defeat as they ended up back outside the busted doorway to the room they’d woken up in.

<My head hurts. What the hell did they dose me with?>

“You’re still loosing blood,” John informed as his hand suddenly touched a spot that burned and came away sticky from Sherlock’s shoulder, “I should walk. You don’t need an extra burden.”

Sherlock didn’t argue, which from Sherlock was never a good thing, and John slipped down to his bare feet. He felt shaky, but that might have been from the adrenalin. Several armed men rounded the corner and Sherlock reared back, his mouth opening wide to drench them in boiling water, when he paused and dropped into human form. John let out a cry of relief as he saw Sherlock heading towards them in peaceful acceptance. They had to be Mycroft’s men. They were saved.

John sank to the ground in exhaustion, his shoulder throbbing as though it were on fire, and Sherlock doubled back to crouch beside him. His torso was covered in small puncture wounds, smaller than John had expected since his thick hide had protected him.

How sharp are dragon teeth that they can pierce bullet proof hide?

<Very.>

That was rhetorical.

Sherlock snorted and accepted a blanket being thrown around his shoulders. The man who had done so leaned down and helped Sherlock to his feet while another did so with John. John’s arm was dragged around a pair of strong shoulders and he leaned against them gratefully. Sherlock shrunk down to a tiny dragon and pointed at John. A soldier obediently lifted him and placed him on John’s shoulders. John sighed contentedly. It took them no more than ten minutes to get back outside and when they did John gaped in shock. They weren’t in Britain anymore; mountains surrounded them.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft’s men got them out of Iran and evacuated them to the nearest base in Iraq where they were both seen by a medic. Mycroft joined them some hours later and he looked drawn and pale.

“You’ve no idea how close you both came to being dead,” Mycroft told them, “Moriarty and Moran got away, of course, and I doubt it’s the last we’ve seen of them.”

“Why Iran,” John asked in confusion.

“Because Sebastian Moran’s father is Sir Augustus Moran, CB, the British Minister to Persia. It was he who arranged your assignments to become increasingly more dangerous, stopped your relief from coming, and even arranged the raid that landed you two in hospital. In fact, I believe we’ll find he was the one who ordered you two recruited in the first place.”

“But why,” John asked again, still utterly baffled by the whole line of events.

“Because they wanted you dead. A thrall can’t be broken; it’s permanent until one of the party’s dies. Moran wasn’t willing to shoot you in the streets and risk his freedom so they used subterfuge instead. He’ll be far more dangerous now that he’s being listed as dishonorably discharged. He won’t hesitate to go at you directly once more. As for this Moriarty character, he’s a complete mystery. We don’t have a single file on him and no records otherwise. Jim Moriarty is without a doubt an alias, but who he really is we have no idea.”

<It must drive you mad being so in the dark, Mycroft.>

“It must drive you mad being so in the dark, Mycroft,” John smirked, and then turned on Sherlock angrily, “Stop doing that! It’s rude!”

“Honestly, Sherlock, I don’t know why you don’t just speak. Your throat is perfectly fine,” Mycroft snapped.

<My voice changed. I don’t like it.>

“He… he says his voice changed and he doesn’t like it,” John frowned at him.

Is that why you refused to help me in the desert?! You don’t like the sound of your voice?!

<Don’t be ridiculous. I was so dehydrated I couldn’t speak when I tried. You try spitting up boiling water and see what it does for your constitution!>

Right, yes, sorry. Sorry.

<Honestly.> Sherlock groused, but slipped an arm around John’s shoulders and leaned against him nonetheless.

“Would you two like to be alone,” Mycroft sneered.

<Yes, please.>

“That would be lovely, yes,” John decided.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed for the doorway, his umbrella tapping on the floor, but he paused at the door:

“It isn’t like you can do much with him,” Mycroft laughed, “He’s utterly impotent, and I doubt your high moral codes will allow you to take advantage of him; those very morals that cause me to allow your association, by the way. Do keep that in mind, doctor.”

“Why don’t you buy him a chastity belt and get it over with?” John growled.

“Because I don’t need to. It’s much more fun this way, watching you deny yourself. Quite entertaining,” Mycroft chortled.

<He obviously doesn’t know what we did in Afghanistan.>

We didn’t do much. John sighed, grateful when the door shut behind the man.

<We had sex.>

Is that what you call it? I want to touch you, Sherlock. Not just look at you.

<I’ll… think about it.>

Can I at least see you like you were then? All stretched out and posing for me? John asked with a smirk.

<Not if you don’t appreciate it.> Sherlock stated with a sniff.

The door opened again and Mycroft leaned back in for one final parting shot: “Oh, and Sherlock, do reconsider the talking issue. We can’t all sound like choir boys.”

John gaped and Sherlock growled angrily, but refused to answer his questions or even respond to his jibes. John finally gave up and curled up in their bed.

John was a good deal more comfortable than he had been before. Getting out of bed and moving around seemed to have sorted him almost miraculously. The doctors who had examined him here thought his leg and hand might be psychosomatic rather than actual injuries. That would explain his sudden turn around. In the danger he’d forgotten his ‘limp’ and it had simply vanished. The tremor kept creeping up, but it didn’t start again until several hours later. John was hopeful that it would stop soon, too.

John lay down on his good side in the bed and waited for Sherlock to finish sulking, but he was apparently restless and John ended up watching his naked body pace the floor of their tiny hospital room until he fell asleep.

Chapter 7: Rolling in the Deep

Mental Disorders » Py-Z » Selective mutism

Causes

When the disorder was first studied, and for many years thereafter, it was thought to be caused by severe trauma in early childhood. Some of these causative traumas were thought to include rape, molestation, incest, severe physical or emotional abuse , and similar experiences. In addition, many researchers attributed selective mutism to family dynamics that included an overprotective mother and an abnormally strict or very distant father. As of 2002, these factors have not been completely eliminated as causes of selective mutism in most cases, but it is generally agreed that they are not the most common causes.

Children with selective mutism have been found to be more timid and shy than most children in social situations, and to exhibit signs of depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and anxiety disorders. Some children have been reported to dislike speaking because they are uncomfortable with the sound of their own voice or because they think their voice sounds abnormal.

Read more: http://www.minddisorders.com/Py-Z/Selective-mutism.html#ixzz2Sk4pak1O

Two days after they’d returned to the Continent John had been released from hospital and the two of them had gotten a cheap motel. John had immediately decided it was time to make good on his promise of two showers – one with Sherlock – and informed him of such. The results were disastrous to their relationship.

John jumped in the shower solo first, scrubbing himself down with efficiency while remaining half hard at the idea of wet!Sherlock. Then he thought hard about the dragon entering the shower with him and the young man happily complied, slipping into the shower with a nervous smile.

What are you nervous about?

<You mentioned wanting to touch me.>

Gods, yes, will you let me this time?

<You promised to shower with me. You can wash me.> Sherlock replied with a shrug and a frown.

John had certainly washed the prat before when he’d insisted he didn’t feel like doing it himself, so the implication remained that this would be a sexy shower as opposed to a washing shower. John grabbed a fresh bar of soap, slicked up his hands, and started on the proffered back. He made it into a massage, and the dragon-man groaned appreciatively as John pressed into his shoulder muscles. The second John’s cock accidentally (mostly) bumped his thigh, Sherlock recoiled, slipping and almost falling. John caught him- thankfully with his good arm- and straightened him out, with much consoling as he did so.

“Easy, Sherlock. It doesn’t bite, I promise, and I wouldn’t just shove it into you unannounced and unprepared. Honestly I wouldn’t.”

Sherlock stood there, staring at John with wide innocent eyes, and he suddenly felt like an absolute pervert.

“I’m sorry, Sher, lets just wash up, yeah? You’ve been enjoying showers for a bit, but this is my first in nearly a year! Maybe… you could wash my back?”

Sherlock dove for the soap, a look of relief on his face, and John turned his back and tried to enjoy the creature’s touch. Within seconds his erection was back, but he was stubbornly telling himself he wouldn’t be getting any action. Then Sherlock dipped his hands low and cupped John’s arse. John gasped and pushed back, surprised by his sudden willingness to bottom, as the thought had never crossed his mind before. He’d always pictured Sherlock bottoming for him.

“Well that’s…” John panted, and Sherlock slipped his hands around John’s waist to wash his front.

Sherlock’s hands smoothed over John’s chest and abs first before dipping down to wrap around his aching cock. John moaned, thrusting eagerly into the soapy hands that were just barely wrapping themselves around his prick, one in front of the other.

Hasn’t he ever done this before? Even with himself?

“T-tighter,” John pleaded, and Sherlock complied by tightening both hands and giving John the friction he’d been longing for.

John could feel Sherlock growing hard against his backside and he rubbed it against the man’s growing desire shamelessly. Sherlock gasped in surprise, thrusted against him a moment, and then pulled back and bolted out of the shower. John was left standing there, drenched in soap and aching with need, completely unable to decide whether to follow him or stay and finish what he’d started. His erection won out as it throbbed mercilessly and John fisted himself fast and hard. He came after only a few tugs and nearly fell to his knees with the force of his long-denied orgasm.

Once John had regained proper thought processes he rinsed himself off, dried off quickly, and followed the wet trail to the bed. Sherlock was sprawled – naked and still soapy – across the bedspread. John opened his mouth to tease him and then noticed the shaking shoulders.

Fuck! He’s crying!

“Sherlock, it’s alright, love. Come on, now. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” John soothed, but when he put his hand on the dragon’s shoulder to comfort him he transformed into a tiny dragon and bolted for the shower.

John checked the door and found it locked, but he could hear water running from inside. He tried pleading with him through the door before giving up and sitting down on the (damp) bed to watch TV. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later and raided John’s suitcase. Since he had never had a concern for John’s personal possessions John paid his actions no mind, though he did try to ask if Sherlock were feeling better.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to dress in a rather ill fitting set of John’s pajamas. John sat there on the bed, a mixture of self-loathing and fear for his friend curling in his belly. He’d pushed Sherlock too far. The young man had never worn clothes in front of John. With the exception of a navy pea coat he’d taken preference to, when it was chilly he’d only ever wrapped himself up in sheets or blankets. The men in the service had joked that he should have been a Roman dragon since he was so good at turning any old blanket into a perfectly serviceable toga.

“Sherlock… Sherlock I’d never force you to do anything, you know that don’t you?”

No answer.

“Damn it, Sherlock please answer me! I mean it. I’ll call Mycroft. This is bloody important.”

<I know you wouldn’t, John. It’s myself I don’t trust.>

“Why? How? I’m willing, what makes you not trust yourself?”

<I don’t want that with you, John. Or, at least, my body doesn’t. I can’t get more than half aroused and it’s maddening. It disgusts me. You were right before, it’s wrong of me to taunt you with a body you can never have.>

John didn’t know whether or not he should be grateful or angry at Sherlock’s withdrawal from him. Yet the dragon didn’t retreat completely. He curled up beside John and pulled his head to rest on his bony shoulder while they watched the news. John took a deep breath of his familiar scent, nuzzled into his clothed shoulder to adjust to the unusual feel of it, and tried to make himself accept this as it.

He couldn’t.

The next day Mycroft had found them a lovely flat in Surrey, but Sherlock immediately retaliated by finding them a nice flat in Westminster. John took a long look around 221B Baker Street and assured the landlady that, yes; they’d need two rooms. Sherlock pouted but John stubbornly refused to share a room with the lizard any longer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once they’d settled into 221B John found out that his separation from Sherlock was straining the dragon more than he’d thought when he suddenly burst into his room – stark naked – and jumped onto his bed.

“Make it go away, John! Make it stop!” a deep voice called out in the darkened room.

John had been half asleep but he was instantly awake when the dragon-man straddled his hips and pressed a very large, very painful looking erection into his stomach. His first instinct was to wrap his hands around it – which evoked a groan from Sherlock – and his next was to kiss him soundly. Sherlock pulled away from his kiss in favor of bracing himself with his hands against the headboard and frantically thrusting into John’s fist.

“Oh, gods,” John groaned, and slid down the bed so he could use his mouth on the frantic creature as well, wisely holding his hand in front to guard against choking.

John wanted to make this good – needed to make this good – because he had no doubt whatsoever that his response tonight would dictate Sherlock’s behavior for the rest of their relationship. So he ignored the twinge in his jaw and the larger pain in his shoulder and made himself a willing hole for the dragon kneeling over his head. One of Sherlock’s hands gripped his hair, holding his head at the perfect angle, and John moaned eagerly. Sherlock echoed his moan and fucked John’s fist and mouth fast and hard, John grateful for being included in any kind of pleasure for Sherlock as he braced himself for what would undoubtedly be his first taste of come. It didn’t happen. Sherlock tired long before John got the mouthful he’d expected. Throwing himself down on the bed beside John, Sherlock tried wanking himself. He was swearing and writhing in apparent pain. John struggled to sit up, thinking of the lube in his drawer, when he noticed the truly agonized look on the dragon’s face.

“Just hold still a moment, let me look at you,” John insisted, his doctor self emerging.

Sherlock gave up, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes and the other above his head, and John examined his swollen, red prick. It was clearly not supposed to be red. Sherlock had chaffed himself, either before or after he’d come to see John, he wasn’t sure which. It looked very painful. His bollocks were relaxed, though, and that made John a bit suspicious.

“Have you ejaculated already?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock panted.

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Sherlock… did you take something?”

“He told me it would help,” Sherlock whinged.

“Who did?”

“A drug dealer,” He admitted, still hiding behind his arm.

“Fucking hell! We’re going to hospital. Now! No arguments.”

“Well, you won’t get any from me.”

John bundled Sherlock in his pea coat, a pair of shoes that had just appeared in the flat the other day, and a scarf for good measure since it was threatening snow. They hailed a cab, which John was surprised stopped for them considering their appearance, and headed over to St. Barts.

One exam, a blood test, and an injection later, and Sherlock was stretched out on his bed in the A&E looking miserable, but flaccid, when a pair of Police Constables walked in.

“Morning, gentlemen, I’m PC Lestrade and this is PC Gregson. I understand we decided to try a bit of illegally obtained prescription meds out?”

John groaned- more from the fact he now knew it was morning than that an officer was here to talk to Sherlock. He pointed to his companion who raised an imperious eyebrow and frowned at the policemen. Sherlock hadn’t spoken two words since they’d made it to the A&E, but John remembered the rich, baritone of his voice nonetheless. He was sure he hadn’t imagined it, even if the first hour of waking had seemed rather like a wet dream.

“He’s your culprit,” John sighed, “But he’s a dragon, you’ll be unable to prosecute him. He’s basically a law unto himself.”

“What’s a nice dragon like you doing taking pills some wanker sold you off a street corner?” The shorter of the two – Gregson – cooed at Sherlock.

<John, make him leave. I don’t like him.>

“Gregson has to leave, Sherlock doesn’t like him. Bloody hell! Don’t start that again! You spoke earlier, you can do it again,” John argued. Lestrade gave them both a confused look, but nodded for Gregson to leave.

<I was in pain earlier. This is entirely different.>

“No. Absolutely not. I’ve had it up to here,” John indicated a space over his head, “With being your mouth. Talk for yourself.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re short,” Sherlock stated with the same haughty look he’d given Lestrade, “Otherwise that might actually be an alarming amount of irritation.”

Lestrade barked a laugh out and shook his head while John fumed off to the side.

“Listen, boys,” Lestrade smiled, “I don’t think you realize this, but I actually can charge you for this. Queen’s kind aren’t above the law – they’ve just got lots of lovely privileges the rest of us poor lot aren’t entitled to…”

John interrupted him by snorting: “He’s still a law unto himself.”

“But I’m not going to throw the book at you,” Lestrade continued undeterred, “for what looks to me like an experiment gone wrong. Besides, I think you’ve more than learned your lesson, eh?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the officer’s tone and opened his mouth to reply. John had a moment of dread and regret as he realized that now Sherlock was unleashed on the world around him – no more censoring the dragon’s barbed tongue.

“Sherlock…” John cautioned.

“If I wanted the opinion of a bootlicking, sore footed, chimp then I’d have marched down to the Yard and told you what it was first. I highly suggest you take your patronizing tone, shove it up your arse, shove that back into your bacon sambo, and find someone actually committing a crime to harass. May I suggest you start with the man poisoning people I saw on yesterday’s news.”

“Those were suicides,” Lestrade replied, his half grin never leaving his face.

“Wrong.”

“Oh, what were they then?”

“Serial killings, officer Bluebottle.”

“Full of old slang for Yarders, are you? Let me help you out. Bobby, Cozzer, Filth, Force (my favorite, because it sounds like Star Wars) Lilly, Plodder, Nazi Stormtrooper, Peeler, Squealer, Stench, Tit, Woodentop. Have I missed any?”

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look: “Several, but they are less appropriate, so I will overlook your failing just this once.”

John gaped; Lestrade gave Sherlock a courtly bow and still hadn’t lost his half-grin.

“Kind of you! You know what I think?” Lestrade asked.

“I can hardly deign to guess as my brain has evolved above the level of yours.”

“I think you’re spitting mad and embarrassed as hell, but you know what? I’ve seen worse. In fact, I’ve seen ten times more stupid than you were today,” Lestrade gave them both a nod and turned towards the door, “Have a nice day, gents.”

Lestrade strolled out, but John didn’t get a chance to heave a sigh of relief, because Sherlock suddenly looked frantic and squirmed into an upright position.

“John! Get him back! Get him back now!”

Sherlock’s panicked shout was verbal – cracking a bit from disuse – and mental. John was out the door and the few steps down the hall before he knew what had hit him. He grabbed the PC’s arm and bodily dragged him back, apologizing the whole way.

“Something you wanted, my Lord?” Lestrade asked, his tone respectful despite the obviously mocking phrase.

“You’re too clever to be a PC,” Sherlock stated, his eyes narrowing in a funny way that had John’s hackles raised.

“Oh, well, glad someone else thinks so,” Lestrade agreed amicably.

“I’m going to do you a favor and see to it that changes,” Sherlock informed him.

“And what will this favor cost me?”

“Not much, considering your partner is sleeping with your girlfriend… no, fiancé,” Sherlock pointed towards the hall where Gregson was on his mobile, clearing talking as quietly as possible, and casting nervous glances at Lestrade.

Lestrade let out a nervous laugh, looking rumpled for the first time that morning, and shook his head.

“Cheryl would never do me like that, she’s a good girl… wait, how did you know we’re engaged?”

Sherlock didn’t answer; he merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Sherlock,” John started, but the PC cut him off.

“What is this some sort of mind reading?”

“No, merely an observation. A deduction if you will,” Sherlock explained, “If you think I’m wrong feel free to check for yourself.”

Lestrade squared his jaw, jerked his arm out of John’s loosened grip, and pivoted smartly on his heel. He marched over to Gregson and snatched the mobile out of his hand before he could back away. Then he raised it to his ear while all the color drained out of his partner’s face.

“Cheryl?” Lestrade asked, and then calmly handed the phone back to Gregson, “Do me a favor and pass on a message, yeah? Tell her the weddings off.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a nod over his shoulder and then calmly left the building. John stood there in shock; trying to figure out if the poor man was all right or not.

“Sherlock, that was cruel,” John scolded.

“I ended it before he could become further attached, isn’t that kinder?”

“No, no, that was not kind.”

Sherlock looked confused and John wondered just how much the man had socialized before he’d gone mute and then attached himself to John like a leech. The entrance of the urologist, who had a soothing smile plastered to his face, interrupted John’s thoughts. John’s gut immediately clenched in horror; he knew that look – he’d used that look on patients before.

“Oh, gods,” John breathed, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

The doctor’s false smile faltered, but then resumed with purposeful enthusiasm. John thought he might be sick.

Chapter 8: Pick-Me-Up

Erectile Dysfunction Definition

By Mayo Clinic staff

Erectile dysfunction (impotence) occurs when a man can no longer get or keep an erection firm enough for sexual intercourse. Having erection trouble from time to time isn't necessarily a cause for concern. But if erectile dysfunction is an ongoing problem, it may cause stress, cause relationship problems or affect your self-confidence.

Even though it may seem awkward to talk with your doctor about erectile dysfunction, go in for an evaluation. Problems getting or keeping an erection can be a sign of a health condition that needs treatment, such as heart disease or poorly controlled diabetes. Treating an underlying problem may be enough to reverse your erectile dysfunction.

If treating an underlying condition doesn't help your erectile dysfunction, medications or other direct treatments may work.

“Mr. Holmes,” The urologist stated calmly, “I’m going to need to examine you again now that you’re no longer erect. Would that be acceptable?”

<No.>

“No,” John echoed, not even questioning Sherlock’s unwillingness to talk to the doctor.

“Sorry, and you would be?” The man asked dismissively.

“His thrall,” John snapped.

“Oh… Mr. Holmes is a…”

“Dragon, yes, do you lot even look at your charts?” John snapped. This was the third doctor he’d had to point that out to.

“Very well, Mr…?” The urologist continued unperturbed.

“Doctor Watson,” John snipped.

“Dr. Watson – I would urge you to allow us to examine your companion. We noticed something during the first examination. It might be nothing, especially considering the cocktail he’d absorbed, but it also might be a serious condition. It might even be the reason he was unable to achieve an erection in the first place, though knowing now that he is a dragon, that may not be the case…”

<Tell him to get it over with.>

“He says to get it over with,” John nodded back to Sherlock who had obediently pulled up his hospital gown.

The urologist poked and prodded at Sherlock until he looked like he wanted to climb backwards over the bed.

<John, make him stop! I hate being touched there!>

Does it hurt?

<No! Yes! Damn it, make him stop!>

“Are you done yet?”

“What branch of medicine did you study, Dr. Watson?” The urologist asked, stepping back and removing his gloves.

Sherlock jerked his gown down and motioned for John to come closer. John found himself sitting on the bed with a lapful of tiny, trembling dragon. He petted Sherlock soothingly and tucked the blanket around him to put him out of sight.

“Both general medicine and surgery.”

“That’s a broad range.”

“I’ve a high IQ and insomnia. Never a good combination,” It was an old joke, but his heart wasn’t into it.

“Would he allow another examination? This time by a colleague of mine? I’d like a second opinion.”

“What sort of specialist?” John asked, dreading the answer.

The doctor paused a moment, then nodded and replied: “An oncologist.”

“Cancer? You think he has cancer?”

“If you examine him, I think you’ll find a small lump on the underside of the head of his penis. It’s about the size of a pea. It’s actually a wonder you didn’t find it yourself,” The man’s voice was caustic and accusatory.

“He doesn’t let me touch him there. He doesn’t like to be touched.”

“It’s no wonder, he’s probably in pain on a regular basis.”

John pulled Sherlock off of his lap and held him tightly to his chest. Sherlock was trembling as John stood up to pace the room. He hadn’t refused the visit from an oncologist, but John wasn’t sure he could handle it.

It’s important to make sure that you’re well, Sherlock.

<Just get it over with.>

John told them to send in the oncologist and he arrived a few minutes later. It took a bit of coaxing to get Sherlock to transform again, and when he finally did he refused to leave John’s lap. John thought that perhaps the transformations into a dragon weren’t quite as voluntary as he’d originally assumed. He felt like a fool sitting in the A&E with a naked man on his lap, but Sherlock clung to him tightly and hid his face against the top of his head; he could hardly push the nervous man aside at a time like this. The oncologist was perhaps a bit more rough in the examination and Sherlock actually yelped at one point.

When he’d finished, John reached a curious hand out himself and very gently examined Sherlock’s bits. It felt like a sub dermal piercing and he recalled them asking early on if Sherlock had piercings down there. In fact, there were several of them, though smaller, further down the shaft.

“There’s more than one here,” John called to the oncologist, who was talking quietly with the urologist.

“Yes, I noticed them. We’ll need to do a full body scan to check for more masses. I’ll be honest; the chances of it being cancer are about midrange due to his age and overall health. How treatable it is depends on the location. The ones on his genitals that we’ve found so far are operable; we can simply remove them. If they prove to be cancerous we’ll start chemotherapy or radiation as necessary. If we find others during the body scan we’ll discuss them as well.”

<What about functionality? Will it work afterwards?>

“Will the surgery disrupt urination?”

“No, it’s off to one side of the urethra. He’ll most likely feel less pain during that process as well.”

<It never really hurt per se, however, I was asking about erections, not urination.>

Oh.

“Ah, he’d like to know about erections as well. He’s never been able to maintain one before,” John felt himself turn scarlet.

“We believe the lowest mass,” The urologist replied, “near his testicles, is cutting off part of his blood flow by putting pressure on the largest vein on the underside of his penis. If removed it may alleviate his erectile dysfunction, but that’s assuming he isn’t asexual. Since he’s shown sexual attraction and developed partial erections then it’s entirely likely that the cause was medical all along, but you’d need to consult with a dragonologist to be certain. If you two hadn’t come in with this particular problem then it may have never been noticed until it was untreatable simply because dragons are known for low libidos.”

John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist supportively and felt an answering kiss on the top of his head. The doctors hurried away to schedule his body scan and the biopsy they wanted done.

Four hours later and the body scan revealed no more masses. The biopsy ended up being canceled in favor of removing the masses – since they clearly needed to be removed no matter what– and analyzing their contents later. The surgery was scheduled for the next day and John and Sherlock were sent home to relax until then.

John helped Sherlock apply the medicinal cream to his injured privates, pull on a pair of John’s pants, and tucked a drained Sherlock into his own bed, but promised to stay with the quiet young man. Sherlock silently nodded and John promised to return as soon as he got some food for them all.

<Don’t bother. I’ve sent for some takeaway. Just listen for the door.>

John blinked down at Sherlock, wondering when and how he’d managed to send away for takeaway, then shrugged out of his jumper and shoes and curled up beside him. About twenty minutes later the bell rang and John went down to answer it.

PC Lestrade stood on the other side, looking bewildered and holding a bag full of small boxes that smelled of Thai food. He gave John a positively alarmed look.

“You’re that bloke from the hospital! The one with the dragon!”

“Yes, yes, I am. This is my flat – our flat – are you moonlighting as a deliver boy?”

“What?” Lestrade glanced down at his hands and the parcel therein and gave it an equally alarmed look, “What is this stuff, it smells horrid.”

“Thai food, Sherlock’s favorite besides Italian. Where’d you get it from if you weren’t delivering it?” John asked, wondering if he’d paid the delivery boy.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Lestrade replied, looking even more alarmed, “I was headed home when… I just ended up here. With these.”

Oh my gods.

“I think you’d better come in, officer,” John sighed.

Lestrade followed him up the stairs and into the flat where he placed the food down on a table. John fetched plates and started serving the food up while his mind worked in overdrive. Clearly Sherlock had a new thrall, but what did that mean for John? Out with the old, in with the new? John was damaged goods- the excitement gone as he resigned himself to a life of working in a surgery. While he was perfectly willing to support Sherlock financially, he also wanted something from Sherlock the man was unwilling to give. It made sense for him to trade out for someone knew.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on?” Lestrade asked.

“You’re going to need this,“ John sighed as he handed him a beer from the fridge.

Lestrade cracked it open without question, downed several gulps, belched loudly, and pulled up a stool. He raised an eyebrow and John decided he was as braced as he’d get.

“Sherlock’s put you under his thrall. It’s permanent. He’ll be able to talk to you mentally, take control of you on occasion for short periods of time, influence your behavior to a certain degree, and did I mentioned talk to you telepathically. A lot. He rather likes that part.”

“So that whole ‘I’ll get you a better job’ was in exchange for what? My free will?” Lestrade looked furious, and hurried to his feet.

John couldn’t blame him, but he still cut him off from going to search for Sherlock.

“Look, it’s not so bad. You’ll come to love him, practically worship him really, and he’ll... well, he won’t love you back, but he’ll give you what you need to a certain extent.”

“I’d have advanced eventually on my own! I need my free will back! I’m not some blooming errand boy, and I prefer the opposite gender, thank you very much!”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock informed as he stepped into the kitchen with a yawn and headed for the food John had laid out.

Sherlock picked up a plate and dropped into his favorite armchair to eat. Lestrade seemed frozen, his face incredulous and a muscle in his cheek twitching angrily. John was a bit concerned he’d attack the dragon and moved to stand between them. His leg was aching again. He wanted his cane back but he couldn’t recall where he’d put it.

“So that’s it then? You know what’s best for me and I’d better just accept it as gospel?” Lestrade snarled.

“It would go easier for you, yes.”

“You’re a real presuming arsehole, you know that?”

“John’s said as much.”

Lestrade glanced at John, looking a bit confused.

“He doesn’t control your every thought and move, just when he needs you to do something.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that spiffy! At least I’ll be able to keep on fucking hating him!” Lestrade turned and stormed out of the flat.

John watched him go in confusion, glancing at a completely unconcerned Sherlock, while wondering what had gone wrong. When Sherlock had turned up he’d gratefully accepted the dragon’s presence in his life. Why hadn’t Lestrade done the same? He was clearly under thrall; he’d shown up with Sherlock’s food without meaning to. Unless it was hypnotism? John hoped not, that was still illegal.

“Sherlock? He is under thrall, yeah?”

<Obviously> Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Why do you only talk around him?”

No answer.

“I like the sound of your voice. It’s quite lovely.”

No answer.

“Mycroft mentioned you being in a choir? Would you sing for me?”

Sherlock gave John a disparaging glance: <Mycroft was referring to the fact I was still a soprano before I transformed for the first time. While I do have musical talent, I do not sing.>

“You had to be… what? Your early twenties? How old are you?”

<Twenty-four, now. Twenty-three at the time.>

“Still soprano… geez, didn’t you get mocked. I’d think you’d prefer the new deeper voice.”

<It was my voice and now it’s gone and I grew fucking scales instead! I went from a weirdo to a FREAK. Can you imagine that, John? I’m not even accepted by other dragons!>

“That’s a rubbish deal, Sherlock,” John sighed, sitting on the edge of his chair and carding his fingers through the young man’s curly hair, “but you’re brilliant the way you are. Smart, beautiful, strong… you can fly, that’s got to be something.”

Sherlock harrumphed, swallowed his last bite of food, and then stood and walked back into his bedroom. John sighed, grabbed a pint and a fork, and followed the miserable creature. He sat by his side as Sherlock drifted off to sleep. Once he’d finished eating he brushed his teeth and curled up with him in bed. He was careful not to cuddle too closely, just in case he became aroused again.

“Does it hurt you?” Sherlock whispered, giving John a start.

“Does what hurt? You being sick?”

“No, not that; I can feel your emotions. It’s your physiological feelings that elude me.”

“Oh, you mean… when I’m aroused?”

“Yes. Does it hurt?”

“Not… exactly. It’s uncomfortable, but also exciting. It can be stressful at times, but it’s also a relief when I’m able to… ah… orgasm. See… what you went through isn’t normal Sherlock. Did you even enjoy it when you came?”

“Not really, no. The first time felt spectacular, but then I was still uncomfortable – as you so succinctly put it – because the erection hadn’t abated. After the second time I climaxed I was in pain from both the swelling and the chaffing.”

“Well, once your willy heals up I’ll buy you some lube and you won’t have to worry about any more chaffing.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock sighed and snuggled back a bit.

John was instantly erect. It was utterly cruel how aroused he was by this young man. Sherlock reached around behind himself as John leaned back to avoid brushing his hard-on against his companion. He explored the shape from that odd angle, then rolled over and faced John with a curious look on his face in the half-light of the full moon outside the window.

“You don’t… have to…” John breathed, his excitement settling heavily in his bollocks.

“I want to,” Sherlock sighed, leaning in and pressing those unbelievably pouty lips against his.

John moaned into the kiss, practically trembling with desire, and Sherlock awkwardly tugged his sleep pants down and wrapped his long fingers around his shaft. John was grasping at Sherlock’s shoulders, his arms completely in the way. He couldn’t press close to Sherlock the way he wanted to, not with the man’s bits in so much pain, but he also couldn’t just not touch him during such an intimate moment. He settled for pressing their foreheads together and running one hand through his hair. The motions were clearly unfamiliar to the dragon-man and John gently clasped his wrist to guide him. He could see Sherlock staring at him in wide-eyed fascination.

“You’re pulsing.”

“Oh, gods, I’m so close,” John panted, humiliated at how quickly he was brought to the edge by this gorgeous man. He couldn’t decide whether the deciding factor was his sexy voice or his persistent innocence.

Sherlock sped up his movements without being urged and leaned forward to kiss John’s neck. When he ran a stripe up his neck with his tongue and flicked his earlobe, John let out a strangled cry and came hard. He panted through his orgasm, thrusting sharply into Sherlock’s fist, and then simply clutched at him as he pressed kisses to his sharp cheekbones.

Sherlock smiled shyly, looking proud of himself, and John babbled praises like a fool before staggering out of bed to get a flannel to clean them both up. He returned to find Sherlock sampling his essence with a curious look on his face. John groaned at the sight and sat down before his knees gave out.

“Odd taste, but not entirely unpleasant. Why are you making those noises? Are you erect again?”

“N-no just… a bit excited. I’m not quite young enough to be getting off every five minutes.”

Sherlock extended his hand like a lady asking for a kiss and John wiped it clean with an amused smile. Sherlock yawned and rolled onto his back, arms thrown above his head. He looked like he’d been the one ravaged. John chuckled to himself and settled in beside the dragon-man to keep him company for the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade tossed himself into his creaky desk chair and thumbed his computer on. It would take about five minutes to boot up- seven in the summer. He debated packing up his shit and making a real stand – demanding a different partner- but as usual he wimped out and stared at his desk until Gregson arrived.

Where’s that miracle you promised me, dragon boy? Lestrade thought to himself miserably.

<Patience. I’m heading for surgery at the moment and it’s delayed your reward.>

Lestrade jumped and looked around himself in alarm. Gregson gave him a wary look, but was otherwise unimpressed with his presence. How had he missed what an unbelievable wanker this guy was for four months?

<He’s jealous of you. It’s a bit pathetic, really.>

Lestrade grinned despite himself, and of course he was looking at Gregson when he did it.

“What?” Gregson demanded with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Did you do something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… some sort of prank?”

<Oh, that’s brilliant. He steals your female and you do what? Put glue on his chair?>

Lestrade’s grinned wider, he probably looked mad by now but he could hardly care. He’d slept in his bed alone last night for the first time in six years.

“You think that’s how this works? You steal my woman out from behind my back and I put glue in your chair or something?”

“What are you planning, then?”

<He’ll never see it coming.>

“You’ll never see it coming,” Lestrade chortled.

Gregson looked alarmed, but covered it by pushing out of his chair and checking their phone for messages. The only one on it was a sobbing call from Cheryl begging Lestrade to take her back.

<Oh, poor Gregson having to hear that.> The voice in his head crooned sarcastically.

“Sorry about that, Gregson,” Lestrade replied with false remorse, “I’ll text her and let her know not to call the work line again.”

Gregson stomped off in a tiff to get some coffee while Lestrade laughed out loud.

You’re not half as bad as I thought, but I’m still pissed at you.

<Can’t talk now. Tired. Potatoes.>

Sorry, what?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John held Sherlock’s hand as they put the needle in his arm to knock him out. They’d given him the option to be awake for the surgery, but he’d had John tell them to put him under. John was allowed to stay in the surgery with Sherlock because of his medical background and the allowances made for thralls. Oddly enough, Sherlock’s nerves seemed to have disappeared on their way into the surgery. He’d held John’s hand and stared off into the distance as they’d rolled him in, smirking to himself, without the manic energy he’d displayed that morning that had made John worried he’d have to drag him in.

“Now, count back from 100,” The anesthesiologist asked him.

“100, 99, Can’t talk now. Tired. Potatoes.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, laughing along with the other doctors.

“They say the craziest shite on that stuff,” The head surgeon laughed.

Chapter 10: Scare

Because of specific events of which some of you are aware, this chapter turned out to be completely different than was originally planned. I want to thank Lockdownwatz who suggested I make something out of the 'potatoes' line. Too funny! This story was also affected by a different reader (who will remain unmentioned) in a rather negative way, but I think I've managed to turn it to the good.

I'd also like to thank everyone who gave me suggestions on how to keep my cool when faced with ignorant remarks. I've employed more than one technique.

Enjoy! 

Penile Cancer

There are three ways that cancer spreads in the body.

The three ways that cancer spreads in the body are:

-Through tissue. Cancer invades the surrounding normal tissue.

-Through the lymph system. Cancer invades the lymph system and travels through the lymph vessels to other places in the body.

-Through the blood. Cancer invades the veins and capillaries and travels through the blood to other places in the body.

When cancer cells break away from the primary (original) tumor and travel through the lymph or blood to other places in the body, another (secondary) tumor may form. This process is called metastasis. The secondary (metastatic) tumor is the same type of cancer as the primary tumor. For example, if breast cancer spreads to the bones, the cancer cells in the bones are actually breast cancer cells. The disease is metastatic breast cancer, not bone cancer .

The following stages are used for penile cancer:

-Stage 0 (carcinoma in situ)

In stage 0, abnormal cells are found on the surface of the skin of the penis. These abnormal cells may become cancer and spread into nearby normal tissue. Stage 0 is also called carcinoma in situ.

-Stage I

In stage I, cancer has formed and spread to connective tissue just under the skin of the penis.

-Stage II

In stage II, cancer has spread to:

connective tissue just under the skin of the penis and to one lymph node in the groin; or

erectile tissue (spongy tissue that fills with blood to make an erection) and may have spread to one lymph node in the groin.

-Stage III

In stage III, cancer has spread to:

connective tissue or erectile tissue of the penis and to more than one lymph node on one or both sides of the groin; or

the urethra or prostate, and may have spread to one or more lymph nodes on one or both sides of the groin.

-Stage IV

In stage IV, cancer has spread:

to tissues near the penis and may have spread to lymph nodes in the groin or pelvis; or

anywhere in or near the penis and to one or more lymph nodes deep in the pelvis or groin; or to distant parts of the body.

“An article you read?” John asked, chuckling a bit.

“Yes, of course. You don’t think I’d just blurt out random nonsense just because someone had injected me with propofol, do you?” Sherlock snipped.

“Yes, actually, I do.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock scoffed.

“What exactly did this article say?” John asked, trying to fight back his smile.

“As we all know, sweet potato is rich in nutrition. However, what's more valuable is, among the 20 kinds of anti-cancer vegetables which are released recently by the Japanese National Cancer Research Center, sweet potato ranks the first. Cancer cells come from the epithelial cells of human body, while the sweet potato is rich in starch, carotenes as well as ten kinds of trace elements such as potassium, iron and so on. These nutrients have a variety of…”

“Sorry, are you quoting it directly?”

“Yes, why? You did say ‘exactly’.”

“Never mind, Sherlock, just… never mind… although,” John smirked once more, “You said ‘potatoes’ in surgery, not ‘sweet potatoes’.”

“Your point being?”

“Just… trying to be exact.”

Sherlock scowled at John and he lost the ability to hold back his laughter.

“Quite a bit of laughter going on for a hospital room,” Lestrade teased as he knocked on the door.

“Sherlock was just telling me about how potatoes can help prevent cancer, weren’t you Sherlock?” John snickered.

“That’s funny, he said something about potatoes in my head yesterday,” Lestrade said, scratching at the side of his head, “What was it now?”

“He did?” John asked, laughter dying out instantly as he glanced back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade, not sure if the dragon was putting him up to it or not.

“You see, John? Perfectly rational explanation; nothing funny about it at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade grinned, “He said he was tired, couldn’t talk, and then just said ‘potatoes’. Didn’t answer me after that. What was that all about?”

John burst out laughing again and Sherlock scowled at them more before compelling John to go out into hall and get him more apple juice. John staggered out, still laughing, and Lestrade shut the door behind him. When he returned with the apple juice it was to find that Lestrade had snuck some biscuits in to Sherlock.

“Give me those! You’re on a restricted diet, you git!” John snapped, taking them from the pouting dragon man, “Lestrade, you have to learn how to turn him down. He won’t force you all the time. You can tell him no.”

“Sure,” Lestrade scowled, “Easy for you to say, you’ve been at this longer than I have.”

An attractive female doctor entered the room interrupted their discussion. Lestrade and John both perked up and smiled at her warmly, but she was scowling so severely their smiles quickly disappeared. She stepped forward, ignoring John and Lestrade completely and held out her hand to Sherlock. She seemed unperturbed when he raised an eyebrow instead of his hand.

<Oh, gods, a dragonologist.> Sherlock mentally groaned.

“I’m Dr. Pria, the resident dragonologist. I’m afraid I was away visiting family in India when you first came in. I feel I should apologize for my colleagues’ actions. You never should have been subjected to an unnecessary surgery.”

“I don’t understand,” John wondered, “I thought the lumps had to be removed?”

“I take it you’re his thrall? A biopsy should have been done first rather than risk infection by removing the lumps before we determined if they were cancerous or not.”

“That… That would still make it two procedures instead of one,” John argued, glancing at Sherlock to see if he were following her logic, “They had to be removed anyway. They were cutting off his blood flow. Why put him through that twice?”

<This is the part where she tells you she knows more about dragons than all of us put together.>

“What you fail to understand, thrall-“

“Thrall? I have a name,” John snapped irritably.

“Kindly calm your thralls, Mr. Holmes. It isn’t good for them to feel your agitation,” The dragonologist snapped, glaring accusingly at Sherlock.

<Oh, I assure you. I’m quite calm.>

“Oh, I assure you. I’m quite calm,” John and Lestrade both pantomimed, their facial expressions coinciding with Sherlock’s precisely as he used them as his puppets.

The doctor was unimpressed.

“Mr. Holmes, while I certainly sympathize with your concern to remain unaltered, the fact remains that this is most assuredly penile cancer and a full penectomy is the recommended course of action.”

“You want to cut his penis off for what appears to be Stage I penile cancer with no proof that it even is?” John argued, raising his voice this time.

“As I said, a biopsy should have been performed first. Dragons are often asexual. Mr. Holmes being unable to get or maintain an erection is our last concern. Not our first. I would have recommended the masses remain if he did not have cancer.”

“Even if your logic were sound- which it is not- you’re still arguing cutting off a body part in full when the lumps could have just been – have just been – removed! Why? Because he’s a dragon?”

“Sorry, your name was...?”

“Dr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson, his life is more important than his ability to become aroused,” Dr. Pria snapped, “While I’m sure you are quite concerned about the matter, I think you will find that he is not. There’s a reason dragons are so rare. Breeding is not their primary concern.”

Don’t listen to her, Sherlock, that’s not why I’m concerned, John thought forcefully.

<I’m aware of that. No need to shout. I’m right beside you, you know.>

“We still aren’t even sure it’s cancer!” John shouted back at her, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder tightly, “The oncologist gave us a 50/50 shot because Sherlock’s so young. It could be something else! They could be moles, cysts, bloody fucking spider bites!”

“You and I both know that’s unlikely, Dr. Watson,” The dragonologist replied softy, and John fell silent, his breath coming fast.

Is it unlikely? Sherlock, how often to dragons get cancer?

<At the same rate humans do, roughly. My lymph nodes were unaffected according to the scans they did. While it does appear to be metastatic, the chances of me having anything above Stage I are still virtually nil unless this cancer is so aggressive that it spread overnight. Since the masses have seemingly been there a while, this is unlikely. I concur with the first doctor; cancer is only a medium threat. Most likely these are cysts of some kind. They are unpleasant and painful, but only harmful if they’re doing damage to something else, like cutting off circulation to my penis. In that regard their removal was important to ensure I didn’t loose that portion of my body; not truly life threatening, but threatening to my way of life.>

“His lymph nodes are clear,” John replied, deciding on the direct route, “We’ll wait for the results of the lab test to find out if he’s got cancer or not, thank you very much.”

“The risk is too great…”

“The treatment wouldn’t change,” John argued, “The doctors have been in twice to explain it. If it’s cancer he gets chemo. If not, he doesn’t. A biopsy would have just been an extra step, especially since the lumps needed to be removed, and removing his entire penis for a few small bumps is completely over the top!”

“Mr. Holmes, kindly contain your thralls!” Dr. Pria snapped.

“Get out,” Lestrade growled, stepping towards her angrily.

“I am an expert in dragon physiology and-”

“-And you’re leaving,” Lestrade snapped, flashing his badge.

Dr. Pria gave them all a haughty glare and left the room with her head held high, but just before the door closed sent back one parting remark:

“I hope you’re happy risking his life over a painful erection!”

John stormed for the door but she’d vanished into the bustle of the hallway.

<Well that was silly. The erection was painful from the drugs I consumed, not the lumps.>

“Are they all like that?” John demanded of Sherlock, throwing himself down in a chair.

“For the most part. Experts usually are,” Sherlock sighed, “I know I am.”

“What are you an expert in?” Lestrade asked.

“It would be shorter to list what I am not an expert in: classic literature, philosophy, astronomy, politics, and the useless forms of botany.”

“So you’re an expert in everything else?” Lestrade chuckled, disbelieving.

“You should have seen him in Afghanistan,” John sighed, flopping down in the chair, “We were trying to cross the desert, he was trying to analyze it. He categorized exactly which elements composed the desert sand, how long it took them to go from rock to stone to sand, and therefore how long the desert had been there in comparison to the people warring on top of it.”

“How long?” Lestrade wondered.

“It was officially a desert one million and...”

“I’m going to see what’s keeping the doctors,” John stated, jumping back to his feet, “They promised they’d put it right under the scope in the lab downstairs and it’s been half a day.”

John headed out, half hoping to see Dr. Pria again so he could ream her out, but instead walked into a different discussion about Sherlock.

“He could have just been awake, but no,” a male nurse insisted to a female one, “he had to be a baby about it and ask to be put under! What a waste, and all because he’s a dragon he gets preferential treatment. We bumped two surgeries out to make room for him. Two people whose lives we put at risk just because he grows scales. Now what? Apparently they heal ridiculously fast. He’ll be fine by tomorrow, I’m told. Not just feeling better, either: completely healed. Damn lizards have the life, you know?”

“Ahem,” John interrupted the two nurses, who both gave him guilty looks, “I take it then his results were clear?”

“Er, I’ll fetch the doctor for you Dr. Watson,” The male nurse scurried off and the female gave him a weak smile before bolting.

John made a mental note to discuss professional behavior with their head of medicine.

The oncologist met up with him and they both hurried into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was mid-rant about the age of the sand and simply cut himself off verbally, but continued gesturing as if talking. John realized he was talking telepathically only to Lestrade. He hadn’t realized he could do that.

“Sherlock?” John called, “The oncologist has your results.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration and turned his irritable expression on the oncologist.

“Oh, it’s good news, Mr. Holmes. They were, in fact, harmless cysts. Does your family have a history of cysts?”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

“Well,” The doctor continued, “You may want to find out. If they do then there’s a good chance you’ll develop more, though not necessarily there. You’ll want to keep an eye out for them and get them biopsied regularly just in case, but cysts don’t mean you’ll ever develop cancer. If you have one that’s painful again then just make an appointment with your usual doctor to have it removed. It need not be as invasive next time, either. Some of can be removed via laser surgery depending on the size.”

“Thank you, doctor,” John smiled, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Lestrade stepped forward to do the same. Sherlock blinked at him and turned back to Lestrade to continue his monologue.

Sources:

http://www.lookchem.com/Chempedia/Health-and-Chemical/8701.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyst

http://www.medicinenet.com/penis_cancer/page2.htm

Chapter 11: Miscommunication

John fussed over Sherlock relentlessly when they got back to the flat. Lestrade stood nearby and chuckled at his antics, though if Sherlock was commenting to him mentally John had no idea. After a few hours of John waiting on him hand and foot Lestrade told John to take a pill and relax a bit.

“You’ve been tense since this whole thing started. He’s fine. Take a load off. I’ll order takeaway – my treat - and we can watch a movie or something. Got any beers?”

Lestrade helped himself to the kitchen and John stood there fuming for a moment. Sherlock was giving him a confused look but he just shook his head to tell the dragon to let it go.

“I hate that I can’t transform,” Sherlock pouted.

“It could tear something loose,” John parroted the doctors, “Be glad you only had surface work done. If they’d had to cut through muscle you’d have been waiting a week or more to transform again.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” Sherlock’s deep voice took on that scathing tone John both loved and hated, “How do you humans manage this form for so long? It’s completely inconvenient.”

“You heal almost 89% faster than the average human being. Shut up.”

“You’re still cross about your shoulder.”

“I’m not cross about my shoulder.”

“You are. You’re cross about it. I only did what I had to in order to ensure you survived.”

“I’m cross because I got shot, not because you boiled it afterwards. Can’t you tell the difference?”

Sherlock thought on that a moment and then shook his head: “When I read your mind it’s usually indistinct. I can hear your thoughts clearly when they’re directed at me, but only as whispers when they are not. I can feel your emotions to a certain degree, but it’s like reading the emotions on someone’s face; open for interpretation and varied based on situations, upbringing, and other various aspects.”

John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and gave him a surprised look.

“You’ve always responded with such accuracy I just assumed I was an open book to you.”

“You mostly are, but that’s in no small part because I’m a genius and your mind is only average.”

John sighed and rolled his eyes: bonding time over.

Lestrade flopped down on the couch and passed a beer to John and a glass of merlot to Sherlock. John narrowed his eyes at the wine, mentally calculated the danger levels of mixing it with Sherlock’s medication, and then dismissed it as a pointless fight.

“So, what sort of movies do you lot have?” Lestrade asked cheerfully.

“None, we really don’t watch a lot. Also, we only just moved here. Sherlock and I were in Afghanistan for a while,” John replied.

“Yeah, he mentioned,” Lestrade frowned, “Terrible business, that.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Oh, I ordered your favorite Thai food, John. Sherlock told me what it was. Hope that’s okay?”

“Fantastic, thanks.”

Maybe I should move so they can sit closer together?

Sherlock gave John an odd look and shifted a bit in his spot. He had his feet up on the table with a pillow under them to make him more comfortable. He didn’t look comfortable though, he looked distressed and was becoming increasingly so.

“Are you in pain, Sherlock?” John asked outright.

“No.”

“Are you just saying no so I’ll leave you alone?” John asked, feeling a bit irritated.

“No, I’m not in pain. I had my pain pill already. John?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you in pain?”

“I… I’m not in pain.”

Sherlock studied John in confusion for a while, his eyes narrowed, and then shook his head a bit: “Yes, you are.”

“Okay, no more wine,” John snatched the glass from Sherlock’s fingers and walked it to the kitchen to dump it. He found himself standing in front of Sherlock handing it back instead.

“Thanks,” Sherlock smirked, taking the glass from John’s unresponsive fingers and sipping it cheerfully.

“You are an ass,” John stated as a matter of fact.

“Yes, but you love the sight of my ass.”

John sighed and flopped down on the sofa, not planning on denying a truth that had him twitching in his trousers despite his frustration.

Lestrade chuckled, “What was that about giving into his whims?”

“He compelled me. You can’t stop him when he compels you,” John snapped, “Where the hell is that takeaway?”

“Ease up, mate,” Lestrade frowned, “I only called it in a few minutes ago.”

“You know what,” John stood in a huff, “I’m not your mate and I’m not particularly hungry. I’m going to bed. Don’t let Sherlock have anymore wine. Night.”

“Something I said?” John heard Lestrade ask Sherlock as he stomped upstairs.

<What’s wrong with you? Lestrade thinks you’re mad at him.>

Well then, tell him I’m not.

<Why don’t you come downstairs and tell him yourself? I’m not your mouthpiece.>

Oh, but I’m yours? Or am I anymore?

<Since you keep telling me NOT to use you to talk to people, I suppose you aren’t.>

Good. Fine. It’s better this way. Answer this for me, is he the one? The one you’re searching for?

<It’s too early to form a hypothesis. Need more data.>

Great, well, just don’t leave him chopped up on the kitchen table, yeah?

Sherlock chuckled mentally, <I’m not going to study him like that, John, but it’s good to hear you joking again. Now will you tell me why you’re upset?>

I’m not upset.

<You clearly are. Even Lestrade can tell.>

Bugger Lestrade!

<Ah, I see now John. Don’t worry. This will be fine.>

Sherlock’s presence lifted from his mind and John flopped down on his bed. He’d changed into his nightclothes during the conversation, doing everything on autopilot. He curled up on his side and hugged his pillow to his chest, wondering how Sherlock was going to make every thing fine. On one hand he trusted the dragon to do just that; on the other he was tired, sad, and missed his dragon’s warm presence beside him. He ached to go downstairs and curl up on his bed, if only to breathe in his scent, but he didn’t want to get between Sherlock and Lestrade while they formed their new bond. By tomorrow morning Sherlock’s small special-grade dragon stitches would have dissolved and his penis would be fully healed. Would Lestrade stay the night? Would he sleep in Sherlock’s arms the way John often had? Would Sherlock wake up with his first natural erection? Would Lestrade…

John stuffed his pillow over his face and breathed into it fast and hard to make himself lightheaded enough to distract from the torturous thoughts in his head.

I’m being ridiculous, John decided as he pulled the pillow away, Sherlock never promised me anything. I’ve got no right to be jealous. He might avoid us both the way he’s always avoided me. He might seek me out alone. He might seek him out alone. He might decide we’re one big family and share his bed with us both.

John stuffed his pillow back under his head and then jumped as someone knocked on his door. He was across the room and flinging it open with a grin on his face before he remembered Sherlock was likely in too much discomfort (and too medicated) to climb the stairs. Lestrade grinned at him sheepishly.

“Ah…” Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes?” John asked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He knew he looked uninviting, but he wanted to. He’d liked Lestrade at first, but he just wasn’t ready to share Sherlock, no matter what logic dictated.

“Can I come in? I need a word with you. Preferably in private… if that’s even possible.”

“It might be. Depends on his mood. Is he asleep?”

“Yeah, passed out on the couch.”

“Probably likely, then.”

John stepped aside and Lestrade stood there a moment looking around the practically bare room.

“Army, remember? I haven’t got a lot of things.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean… Listen, I’m not sure how to say this, and I’m really sorry but…”

Lestrade’s eyes suddenly glazed over and John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Then the man stepped forward into his personal space, backing John into his bedside table, grabbed him against himself, and kissed him.

It couldn’t have been more obvious that Lestrade wasn’t doing the kissing. The lips that touched his were inexperienced and nearly stiff. The hands that clutched his upper arms had Sherlock’s demanding grip. Also, the body that pressed close to his was utterly uninterested, despite the vigorous (and also naive) frotting it was doing against him. Lestrade’s body was not his own and John had never been more furious in his life.

First he extricated himself from Lestrade’s grip, then he bolted downstairs, so angry the blood was pounding in his ears. Sherlock was sitting on the couch with a container of Thai food in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other. He looked utterly confused and it was the only thing that stopped John from hitting him, because he’d completely forgotten the dragon-man was healing from surgery.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” John screamed at him.

“I don’t think so.”

“That was rape, Sherlock. You can’t force him to throw himself at me!”

“You were lonely and aroused, you were thinking of Lestrade, he was lonely, sad, and wondering where he was going to sleep tonight. It seemed a decent solution.”

“I am not interested in him! He’s not interested in me! He might not even be interested in men at all, did you ever think of that?”

Sherlock blinked. Apparently he hadn’t.

“You weren’t interested in men at first, that changed after you became my thrall. Logic implies that is due to my own attraction to the male form. Theoretically Lestrade should respond in kind.”

“That’s… That’s balmy even for you,” John argued, “And since when do you judge the results of an ‘experiment’ based on only one test subject?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I wasn’t done experimenting. That’s why I sent him up there. I wouldn’t have forced him to copulate with you. I just forced him to kiss you to ‘break the ice’.”

“Your lucky I didn’t break his arm! I’m not gay Sherlock. I’m only interested in you. Your entire theory is flawed!”

“Clearly you don’t know your own mind, because you’ve been obsessing over Lestrade since I first put him under thrall.”

“Clearly you don’t know how normal minds work, because I’ve been obsessing over you since the day I met you, and him taking you from me since you put him under thrall!”

John flushed in shame once he realized what he’d said and Sherlock looked alarmed.

“I can’t remove the thrall,” He stated, with something close to worry... for Sherlock.

“I know that.”

“He’s going to crave my company as you do.”

“I know that, too.”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you want, John.”

“I know, I know!”

“I may still be unable to be aroused. We won’t know until tomorrow. Perhaps even a few days after as my body might not be completely healed just because the stitches are.”

“You said a minute ago that you have an attraction to the male form?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I find it more aesthetically pleasing. If I were to have a sexuality, I assume it would be homosexual.”

“You assume?”

“I have sufficient evidence to theorize as such.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“I enjoy watching you whether naked or clothed, I enjoy it when you pleasure yourself, and I have achieved partial erections only when viewing men in various sexual scenarios.”

“How many sexual scenarios have you toyed with?” John asked, wondering how far off his view of ‘virgin Sherlock’ really was.

“I found various types of porn on your laptop and watched it. You do realize that makes your claim to heterosexuality rather void? You are, at the very least, bisexual.”

“I only watched it to see if I reacted to anyone besides you.”

Sherlock looked oddly relieved, “Did you?”

“No! I like tits, girl bits, and you, you colossal wanker! And frankly, even the girl bits aren’t doing it for me anymore!”

Sherlock smiled like sunlight and put up his hands to ask for John to help him up. John grasped his hands and helped him rise; he wobbled a bit from the medication but leaned on him for more than stability. John gently held Sherlock close in his arms, petting his curls and breathing in his aroma.

“What about Lestrade?” John asked gently into Sherlock’s bony shoulder.

“Yeah? What about Lestrade?” Lestrade demanded from behind John, his voice filled with rather justifiable anger.

John leaned away from Sherlock and glanced at Lestrade to make sure he wasn’t planning any violence, but the man was leaning against the doorway to 221B with a scowl on his face and no weapon in hand.

“Sherlock, you owe him an apology,” John scolded, “You can’t manipulate people for the sake of experiments… or to play matchmaker.”

Sherlock sniffed, “I was just trying to take care of you both. I’m responsible for your happiness.”

“Clearly that backfired. Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Lestrade, I won’t force you to kiss someone again.”

Lestrade scoffed in disgust and stormed down the stairs.

Chapter 12: Meeting

http://www.asexuality.org/wiki/index.php?title=Demisexual

Demisexual

A demisexual is a person who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a strong emotional connection with someone. It's more commonly seen in but by no means confined to romantic relationships. The term demisexual comes from the orientation being "halfway between" sexual and asexual. Nevertheless, this term does not mean that demisexuals have an incomplete or half-sexuality, nor does it mean that sexual attraction without emotional connection is required for a complete sexuality. In general, demisexuals are not sexually attracted to anyone of any gender; however, when a demisexual is emotionally connected to someone else (whether the feelings are romantic love or deep friendship), the demisexual experiences sexual attraction and desire, but only towards the specific partner or partners.

When describing demisexuality as an orientation to sexuals, sexuals often mistake it as an admirable choice rather than an innate orientation . Demisexuals are not choosing to abstain; they simply lack sexual attraction until a close relationship is formed.

John awoke and reached for Sherlock instinctively only to find the bed empty and cold. He’d been up for some time. Sighing at the silly fantasy he’d had about settling their morning wood together like a couple of curious mates at Uni, he dragged himself up out of bed, saw to his morning ablutions, and then staggered out into the kitchen to make coffee. Sherlock didn’t mentally call out to him like he usually did with his breakfast requirements, though, and it gave John pause. He checked the living room and found it empty – no sulking dragon-man to be seen.

Sherlock? Where are you? Are you all right?

<We were out of milk so I took your wallet and went to the store.>

You… you went shopping. On your own. To get milk.

<Yes.>

Are you all right?

<Of course. I CAN set foot outside the flat without you, you know.>

I’m aware of that, hell you vanished for three solid days without explanation just before we shipped out. What I meant was, are you okay otherwise?

<Otherwise being?>

Are you… I don’t know… upset? Avoiding me? Regretting something?

<If this is regarding the incident with you and Lestrade last night, I have already apologized for that.> The dragon’s scowl could practically be heard it was so intense.

I didn’t mean… just answer my question.

<I. Am. Fine.>

Good. Pick up some eggs while you’re at it.

No answer. Git.

John set about using the last of the eggs, making coffee, and headed down to get the paper since Sherlock would likely tear it apart once he got his hands on it. John preferred to read it first since the man seemed to enjoy pulling out the relevant pages and making stacks of them according to some odd system only he understood. At this rate they would eventually fill up the flat, though John had no idea what he was doing besides being a packrat. He’d noted the dragon got peculiar attachments to items. He had brought no material possessions into their union besides a creepy human skull and a riding crop. Both had alarmed John, though for different reasons. Now he occasionally thought back to the riding crop and how lovely it would be to tan the stubborn man’s hide with it.

The door banged and Sherlock slipped up into the flat, stark naked with a bag in one hand and a second newspaper in the other. He was scowling until he saw the newspaper in John’s hand, then he grinned.

“Ah! Good. I’ll start on this one then take that one when you’re through.”

John noted that it was a different paper than his just before Sherlock dropped the bag on the floor and threw himself on the couch to read his, a look of barely restrained excitement on his face. John headed over to salvage the groceries, frowning as he tossed out three broken eggs. Luckily the milk carton hadn’t ruptured.

“What has you so bothered?” John asked.

“A serial killer, apparently. Three people have been found dead under suspicion of suicide.”

“If its suicide then doesn’t serial killer sort of not work for the description?”

“The police are wrong; they are not suicides. They’re murders.”

“You know this in that weird way you know everything about someone when you first meet them?”

“It is not,” Sherlock snapped, lowering the paper, “weird. I know things about people because I see instead of just looking. I deduce based on evidence in my surroundings. Lestrade is essential in this. I just need Mycroft to get a move on it and get him promoted to a position I can utilize.”

“Wait… wait…” John put his coffee down and moved from his chair to the sofa beside Sherlock, “You enthralled Lestrade so you could have a man in the police force?”

“Yes.”

“But… why?”

“Because I’m bored, John. Shooting and ripping things apart in Afghanistan was one thing, it at least kept me physically distracted protecting you, and once my body ran down to nothing my mind could rest, but now I have nothing. Just like before we joined up. My brain is going to rot.”

“So you’re telling me… what? You’re going to help him solve cases?”

“No. I’m going to solve cases for him.”

“Sherlock, the police don’t hire amateur detectives. They won’t work with you.”

“I knew everything about Lestrade from one glance, what makes you think I’m an amateur. I’ve been solving things like this since University.”

“Really?” John asked, truly interested. Sherlock rarely talked about himself.

“Yes, you see there was this fellow – as close to a friend as I’ve ever had before you – and his name was Victor Trevor…”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was getting settled into his new office with hands that nearly shook with anticipation. He didn’t care that he hadn’t technically earned this promotion; he’d given years of good service to the Yard and he fucking deserved it. Now he was in a position to make a difference, to actually do something about all those poor souls who were raped and killed every day. He was well aware Sherlock had something planned for him, but all the dragon had been doing so far was muttering ‘wrong’ in his ear all morning with no obvious connection as to what it was.

A sharp rap startled Lestrade and he looked up to see a smartly dressed, auburn haired young man smiling a crocodile smile from the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Lestrade asked, giving the handsome man a once over.

“Oh, I most certainly hope so. I’m Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. I’d like to discuss your… living arrangements with him.”

“Ah, that bit hasn’t even been discussed with me yet, I’m afraid,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Mycroft stated with a wry grin and a cold glare. Lestrade had a feeling Mycroft wasn’t thrilled with him being Sherlock’s thrall.

Hey, Sherlock, am I moving in with you?

<I don’t know, ask John.>

I don’t think I have his number.

<Judging by his scowl, the answer is no.>

You two boned yet?

<Don’t be crude.>

Didn’t think so.

“Looks like I’m in the market for an apartment,” Lestrade smiled, “Don’t suppose you arranged that for me, too?”

“I suppose suitable living arrangements could be found,” Mycroft stated, and Lestrade watched as the ginger looked him over appreciatively now that he had been booted from 221B.

“Yeah, well, anything has to be better than the hotel room I’ve got now, eh?”

“I imagine it would be,” Mycroft smirked again.

<That’s disgusting, he’s a complete wanker.>

Oh, and what would you know about wanking? At least give the poor man head.

<That is none of your business.>

Neither is this any of yours. I suggest you figure out how to tune me out.

<Moron.>

Ponce.

<You do realize the hypocrisy in your taunt seeing as how my brother is /ahem/ male?>

I’m okay with that.

<Moron.>

“So, Mycroft, are you free for dinner tonight?” Lestrade asked leaning against his desk and trying to show off the muscles in his arms from beneath his dress shirt.

“Ah, no,” Mycroft stated in a mocking tone, “You will be hearing from me about the flat. Good day, Detective. Keep Sherlock entertained and I’ll see you promoted again.”

With that the man turned and strolled slowly and elegantly from his office, down the hall, and into the nearest set of elevators. A lanky, attractive black woman – barely out of academy – was just getting off of them and she hurried to his office to salute him smartly.

“Police Constable Sally Donovan reporting for duty, sir.”

“You’re new here?”

“Er, yes sir, I was told I’d be expected.”

“I’m sure you were, it’s me who wasn’t. The promotion came through today so the fellow who was expecting you left me with a desk full of files and… well, that’s about it. I think he left a coffee cup, too; Styrofoam one.”

Sally tried and failed to hold back a smile and Greg grinned warmly until she let it crack.

“What can I help with, Sir?”

“You can find your bloody file in this mess,” Lestrade laughed, and she started digging with gusto.

Ah, new recruits. So eager to please and so bloody stupid. He’d break her in a bit and then send her out with someone experienced. That was the usual method. She seemed smart enough; she’d do just fine.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John was sitting quietly in contemplation of the blog he’d started per his therapist in order to cope with life outside the military. The thing was, nothing happened to him anymore; at least nothing that he felt was blog worthy. Well, except his dragon issues.

Today I woke up hoping to finally have the chance to fuck Sherlock Holmes, dragon-man and bastard extraordinaire.

Delete, delete, delete.

“John?” Sherlock called softly.

“Mmm?”

“If I am still unable to get and maintain a suitable level of arousal, will you seek satisfaction elsewhere?”

John sighed and put the laptop aside, “No, Sherlock, you made it perfectly clear in Afghanistan that I’m not to touch or be touched by anyone else… with Lestrade as a possible exception, apparently.”

“I would be comfortable with sharing you with another thrall, yes, but only because you’d both be mine.”

“Well, can I pick the next one?”

“No.”

John waited until it was obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to explain his reasoning.

“Why?” He asked in frustration.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“It doesn’t… Fine. Fine, just… let me know who I’m allowed to have sex with, yeah?” John snapped irritably.

“Mmm.”

“Out of vague curiosity, are you on that list?” John asked in frustration.

“Difficult to tell,” Sherlock sighed from his spot draped over ‘his’ chair.

“Well, it would probably be easier to deduce if you weren’t on the other side of the room!”

Sherlock sat up and watched John carefully from his seat. John shifted a bit on the sofa and wondered if he’d gone too far.

“Explain,” Sherlock stated.

“Explain what?” John asked in bewilderment.

“Explain how this occurs. I realize most pornos start with cheesy lines, but I assume that is inaccurate to life – as are basically most features about their penises including the length of time remaining erect.”

“Ah, well… we could date?”

“We know each other intimately in every way except for intercrural or anal sex. That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s a good point. After dating most people start with kissing.”

“Also something we’ve already done.”

“Yes, but that’s something you can do over and again, Sherlock. It’s a great way to get things…er… started between two people.”

“Very well, you may begin,” Sherlock stated, and waited right where he was.

John felt a pang of irritation followed by one of desire. Sherlock was giving him permission to touch him! John swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth and crossed the room to tug Sherlock’s stiff figure to the couch where they’d have more room.

“Try relaxing a bit,” John suggested, rubbing his shoulders gently.

Sherlock shrugged him off and scowled: “I am not a pet, do not stroke me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stroke you?” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, and cupped a hand over his groin.

“Ah, apparently the pornography was more accurate than I originally surmised,” Sherlock stated dryly.

“Sherlock!” John groaned, “I need you to work with me here!”

“I’m still not entirely certain I want to do this, John. Why don’t you try seducing me?”

“Because I’ve never seduced a cactus before,” John sighed, “Listen, why don’t we try being a bit more… natural about it. Let’s shower together. You used to love me washing you.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, looking cheered.

They headed for their shower, John stripping along the way. He was already half hard and hoped a bit of soap and water would do it for Sherlock. Sherlock was testing the water and humming eagerly. He loved to be pampered and he especially loved it when John pampered him.

John soaped up his hands and stroked them in circles around the dragon’s shoulders where his tension tended to accumulate due to the wings he sprouted in dragon form. His dragon leaned back and moaned appreciatively, his moan turning into something of a groaning purr. Sherlock loved to be washed and have his hair stroked, no matter what he said about being a pet. John slipped his hands around to wash the man’s chest, pressing his erection lengthwise between his arsecheeks as he did so. Sherlock gasped in surprise, became tense a moment, and then relaxed just before John thought he was about to flee him again. John worked his way down and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s quickly stiffening member.

“I thought… I thought it wouldn’t be so awful this time,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Are you in pain?” John asked in alarm, his hands releasing Sherlock’s cock to turn him around.

Sherlock shook his head quickly, drops of water showering down on John who looked up into a flushed and confused face. He was worrying his bottom lip and his eyebrows were drawn together.

“No pain?” John asked again, still concerned.

“Not… pain, just… uncomfortable. My… penis aches in a… non-painful way… and I feel tense everywhere… I believe I may feel some sort of pressure building.”

“Here?” John asked, reaching down and cupping the man’s bollocks gently.

Sherlock gasped and gripped John’s biceps with both hands. John was so hard he was sure he was leaking precum by the gallon. He wanted… needed to satisfy this man. Sherlock had to feel pleasure tonight and John needed to be the one to give it to him.

“Sherlock, will you let me?” John whispered, knowing full well the dragon would know what he meant.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment, and then nodded his approval. John pressed close to the beautiful man. He wanted to take both their members in hand, but the height difference was too extreme and he didn’t fancy standing on tiptoe in a shower. He thought if he coaxed Sherlock into moving to a different location the mood would pass and the dragon would avoid him. So he would take care of Sherlock’s needs first, and if the brilliant man let him satisfy himself by frotting against him or (Christmas!) reciprocated, then he would count it as a bonus.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s long shaft and stroked it while he watched those pale green eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. John moved slowly, his hand stroking along the length and tugging the foreskin over the head before running his thumb over the tip and then gliding it down his frenulum. Sherlock was soon a panting mess, his hips pumping for more friction while his head fell back to collide with the wall.

John wanted to bring his other hand into play, but he couldn’t bring himself to release the tight hold he had on him. He kept his arm wrapped around that lithe hip and resisted the urge to cup his buttocks. It wasn’t the time or the mood for such things; he was pleasuring Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

“John!” Sherlock cried, his voice tense, “I need… I need more… please!”

John groaned at the sound of that aristocratic dragon begging him, and quickly sped up his strokes to a speed that would bring him off quickly. He pressed a thigh between Sherlock’s legs and rubbed his bollocks with it. Sherlock dropped down a bit and shamelessly rutted against his hip and thigh; his grip had left John’s upper arms and moved to wrap around him tightly. Sherlock’s breath was hot on John’s ear as the man panted and whimpered. John’s own aching prick was trapped between them now and the feel of the genius’ flesh pressed against his own was almost unbearably stimulating.

John felt Sherlock’s cock swell just that bit more that meant orgasm was around the corner and added a twist to his wrist that tugged the man’s climax from him as effectively as releasing the plug in a dam. Sherlock threw his head back and let out a strangled cry, his hips jerking without rhythm as his hands clutched John wantonly. He was the personification of beauty and John was surprised by his own orgasm as it tore through him a few seconds after Sherlock’s.

“Ah! Ah! Oh, gods, Sherlock! Yes!!”

“Ohhhhh!” Sherlock breathed, as though he had just realized something utterly wonderful.

Perhaps he had because he caught John’s lips with a passionate kiss.

Chapter 13: Bonding Time

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bonding

bond·ing

n.

1. a. The formation of a close human relationship, as between friends: "He says he has rediscovered the comforts of male bonding in a Washington men's group" (Marilyn Chase).

b. The emotional and physical attachment occurring between a parent or parent figure, especially a mother, and offspring, that usually begins at birth and is the basis for further emotional affiliation.

2. a. A dental technique in which a material such as plastic or porcelain is attached to the surface of a discolored or damaged tooth.

b. The technique of using adhesives to attach orthodontic brackets or other appliances to the teeth.

Sherlock was, by his very definition, a curious person; which was why John was so utterly shocked to find he did not jump on board and want to learn every single aspect about sex. Instead John woke again in an empty bed the next morning and sought out Sherlock to find him fiddling with a violin.

“Look what Mycroft’s sent me. He said it was a ‘thank you’, but I’ve done nothing to be thanked for,” Sherlock stated, his face filled with suspicion, “I’m searching it for bugs or traps of some kind, but I can’t seem to find any. I need a lab. I wonder if St. Barts will let me use theirs again? That Molly girl was awfully helpful while you were ill.”

“Molly?” John asked, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“Tea would be lovely, yes.”

“Right. Molly?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Funny little thing. She seems to have a slight crush on me, although I may be misreading her. I’m often baffled by attraction – sexual or otherwise. I’m in the mood for eggs today, are you?”

“Yeah, sure, anything that gets you to eat. Hell, you want haggis for breakfast I’ll make it for you.”

“Unlikely and inconvenient. Haggis made properly takes at least half a day.”

“Not the way my mum made it, but I see your point.”

“That sounds good.”

John paused a moment, thinking the sentence didn’t quite jive, and then decided he’d better check just in case.

“What sounds good?”

“Biscuits.”

“Ah, sure, biscuits, tea, and eggs. How do you want your eggs?” John asked, rolling his eyes.

“However you’re having it will do.”

“Poached?”

“Maybe it’s got poison on the strings…”

“Poached it is. Do you even know how to play the violin?”

“I haven’t for some years, but yes. It helps me think. I’ve quite missed it, but my last violin met an unfortunate fate.”

“That fate would be?”

“Mycroft sat on it.”

“Ah. Sherlock, are we bonded?”

“Hmm?”

“Bonded, are we bonded?”

“Of course, what makes you think otherwise?”

“It’s just… I don’t know, I guess I pictured something a bit… how can you tell, exactly?”

“Because your entire world revolves around me.”

“You think everyone’s entire world revolves around you.”

“Yes, but in your case it’s true.”

John didn’t know how to feel about that so he started making breakfast. While they ate, Sherlock still fiddling with the violin, John broached the subject again.

“Is there anything I should know about being bonded? I tried to look it up but there isn’t much on the subject.”

“If I die you’ll likely lose all interest in life and commit suicide,” Sherlock informed the violin in a monotone voice.

“Oh. Well, good to know.”

“Do you like the violin?”

“I don’t know much about them, but that seems a good one, I suppose.”

“I meant its music,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh! Yes, I suppose, if it’s played well.”

Sherlock lifted the violin, pressed bow to string, and the flat filled with glorious music. John’s fork clattered to the plate in surprise and he was glad he had no food in his mouth as he was gaping.

“You’re wasted in this flat,” John stated once the soft notes had died out, “You should be in a concert hall.”

“Boring.”

John laughed a bit and shook his head: “So we don’t have a ceremony or… I don’t know, I sort of pictured you biting my neck to put a mark on me or something.”

“Most dragons will have their bonded get a tattoo of themselves or something representing them somewhere visible. I hadn’t broached the subject because I assumed you’d refuse.”

A twist went through John’s stomach and Sherlock looked up in surprise and raised one eyebrow as he glanced over John’s body appraisingly.

“Oh… well… isn’t that erotic,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s… what?” John asked, his breath coming fast. He was rock hard and had no idea why.

“The idea of my mark being on your body excites you,” Sherlock stated.

“A bit, yeah,” John replied, his voice cracking like a teenager.

“Mmm,” Sherlock growled, and slid down to his knees.

John was frozen in place, utterly shocked as he felt Sherlock pull the fly of his sleep pants open. He moaned in bliss as the man swallowed his cock down in one go, suckling hungrily on the tip before bobbing his head and applying just the right amount of suction.

“Oh, gods, you’re far too good at this,” John moaned, gripping the edge of the table with both hands.

<I’m borrowing memories from your mind. You do like this sort of thing, don’t you? You can’t even remember their faces, just what they did and how it felt… my, my, is that a fantasy of me doing this? Hmmmm, you need to learn to ask for what you want, John.>

“Oh, gods, this. I want this.”

<I’m sure you do. Do you want me to swallow? Yes? Hmmm… deepthroat? I suppose I could try…>

“Oh, fuck!” John shouted as Sherlock took him all the way into the back of his throat.

The dragon gagged a bit but then found a comfortable rhythm and kept at it. John’s cup clattered to the floor when he reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead and knocked it to the ground. It shattered everywhere but he barely noticed. He was busy pulling his hair in frustration as Sherlock teased the slit of his dick before swallowing him down again.

“Oh, fuck, just… more! Stop teasing!”

<But you love the teasing.>

“I’ve had enough! Fuck! Sherlock, I need to come! Now!”

More oh, god, yes, just like that, fuck, fondle my… YES!!

<Your lips are saying stop but your mind is screaming go.>

“Fuck my mind!”

<I’d rather blow it, thanks.>

Sherlock chuckled around John’s cock and he felt his muscles tighten in anticipation. He was hovering right over the edge but Sherlock was teasing him and bringing him back down again. He pulled off and gently ran his teeth down the underside of his cock as he slid back down before wrapping his lips around John’s cock and then sucking all the way up.

I want to fuck your face!

“Shit! Don’t listen to that! I didn’t mea…”

<I’m not adverse to you…>

John grabbed Sherlock by his curly hair and started moving his head fast and hard up and down his shaft, just barely avoiding knocking his head against the table. Sherlock finally took him seriously and hollowed his cheeks as he sucked hard on John’s swollen member while simultaneously stroking his bollocks. John was making all manner of embarrassing noises, but then Sherlock started moaning too and John cried out as he spilled himself down the back of Sherlock’s throat. He released Sherlock immediately, shocked by his aggressive behavior and more than a bit worried that Sherlock would flee from him. Instead he found himself being tugged off the stool by the hand.

John stood up, his quickly diminishing prick still dangling out the front of his sleep pants, and found himself pinned to the counter as Sherlock pressed his own engorged member against John’s leg and rutted against him frantically.

“Let me…”

“Can’t!” Sherlock gasped, and came hard inside his pants.

Sherlock clung to him, trembling a bit and breathing hard.

“That was… surprisingly fulfilling,” Sherlock panted.

“You think that was good, wait till we actually make love,” John panted gently stroking Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock winced and John drew back, dropping his hand to his side.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you can’t… reciprocate like that.”

“I wasn’t wincing at what you said… I… I am very fond of you, John.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief, but then…”

“I’m uncomfortable about the idea of being penetrated, or penetrating you for that matter.”

“Well,” John sighed as he tucked himself back inside his sleep pants, “I can see your concern. I’m not too excited about the being penetrated part myself, but while it will probably hurt a bit at first there’s a little organ inside-”

“I know what a prostate is, John,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Right, of course you do, sorry.”

“I’ve never been good at being touched. You’re the only person I’ve ever been physically close to. Mummy and Daddy weren’t the loving sort.”

“You weren’t ever hugged or held as a child?” John asked, pulling Sherlock back into his arms.

Sherlock wrapped both arms around John’s shoulders and hung them loosely there, his eyes narrowed and staring over John’s head as he thought about it.

“Not that I recall. Perhaps when I was very young, but my memory goes back fairly far and I don’t remember anything tender. My parents were busy often; we mainly saw them at dinner and for a short period afterwards while Father took his evening pipe and whiskey and mother read to us for a bit. I had a governess for most things, but she wasn’t every affectionate either. She treated our injuries and wiped our noses, but her main function was as a teacher. Until I was about ten I never saw another child besides Mycroft, and he was an adult by then.”

“You… you really meant it when you said you didn’t have friends. You never had any!” John realized in horror.

“Not really, no. Mycroft and I were rather sick of each other by the time he went away to University. I was glad to see him go. I had rather be alone.”

“Do I smother you sometimes?” John asked in concern.

“No… No you’re different,” Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on John’s shoulder, “You’re warm and soft and comfortable. I hate being away from you.”

“I’m… glad. Thank you, Sherlock. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned, but it’s a real honor to be a part of your life.”

“Mmm, would it be a real honor to wash all this sticky nonsense off of me?”

John chuckled, “Come on then.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade joined them for dinner, walking through the door with a case file under one arm and a box of takeout under the other. He was whistling to himself and when he’d placed everything down he walked up to Sherlock and kissed both his cheeks.

“I don’t know what you did, what your brother did, or what I have to do in exchange for it, but I’m all yours!” Lestrade announced cheerfully before tossing himself down on the sofa.

“You’re awfully cheerful today,” John smiled, possessively tightening his grip on the dragon relaxing against his side. He’d been going through the paper looking for job openings.

“I’ve just been back from my new flat. It’s perfect. I can walk to work if I have to!”

“Mycroft is very resourceful,” John nodded.

“John is getting a tattoo of me on his body,” Sherlock announced proudly.

“Cheers!” Lestrade exclaimed, but gave John an incredulous look.

“I want it, honest,” John laughed.

“Well that’s… I mean with all the cuddly jumpers I just never pictured…”

“Apparently I’m game,” John shrugged, but blushed a bit.

“Ah, his dragon form, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” John nodded firmly.

“Is that a case file?” Sherlock interrupted, staring at it greedily.

“Yeah, I… What am I doing with this?” Lestrade asked, staring at it in confusion.

Sherlock snatched it from his hand and flipped it open.

“You’re not supposed to see that!” Lestrade argued, but Sherlock compelled him to sit and the man did… right on the coffee table, “Damn it, Sherlock! I’m serious!”

“So am I. I’m going mad with boredom. There’s nothing to do in this flat except bother John.”

“I’m not bothered…”

“You will be. My brain is starting to rot… this is interesting. Rache. That’s German for revenge.”

“Oh?” Lestrade asked, “We thought we were looking for someone named Rachel.”

“Don’t be thick,” Sherlock scolded, “Why would the killer write ‘Rachel’ at both crime scenes, but leave off the ‘l’ both times? Once could be excused as being interrupted, or even the victim dying before completing their task, but twice?”

“That is a good point,” Lestrade nodded, looking sheepish.

“This second scene, the one in the room for let, was there anything found near the body?”

“Just a few odds and ends for travel, a glass of water, and a pill case.”

“A pill case!” Sherlock exclaimed in excitement.

“No, don’t waste your energy. They were sugar pills. Lab tested one.”

“What, just one?”

“Well… yeah.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that would have made Einstein feel stupid.

“I’ll… I’ll just phone the lab,” Lestrade muttered, pulling out his mobile and thumbing down his contact list as he blushed hotly.

“I’d like to see the wedding band found at the first crime scene, too,” Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade gave John a helpless look and started rattling off instructions to the person on the other end of the phone.

Chapter 14: Hope

Miriam-Webster Dictionary:

MARRIAGE:

1a : the state of being united to a person of the opposite sex as husband or wife in a consensual and contractual relationship recognized by law (2) : the state of being united to a person of the same sex in a relationship like that of a traditional marriage <same-sex marriage>

b : the mutual relation of married persons : wedlock

c : the institution whereby individuals are joined in a marriage

2: an act of marrying or the rite by which the married status is affected ; especially: the wedding ceremony and attendant festivities or formalities

3: an intimate or close union <the marriage of painting and poetry — J. T. Shawcross>

Lestrade showed up at lunchtime with a blank look on his face, which quickly dissolved into outright rage. John had been making cucumber sandwiches in the kitchen while Sherlock was moving some of his lab stuff up into John’s former bedroom. He still refused to do all his experiments there, but agreed to do the ones that didn’t require a nearby sink. John was not comforted.

“Where are you Sherlock? You little fucker!” Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock flitted in on wings and landed on John’s shoulder with enough force to jar him.

“Listen here, wyrm!” Lestrade raged, walking the few steps to John and Sherlock and reaching out to grab him.

John reacted instantly and Lestrade was facedown on the floor with a soldier on his back snarling in his ear.

“John… the fuck! Get off me!” Lestrade struggled, but John was not to be budged.

“You try to touch him like that again and I’ll break your arm in seven places. I can promise you, you’ll never use it again no matter how fucking good your doctor is,” John growled into his ear, “You don’t want to push your luck with me, Lestrade. Never forget I was a soldier. I killed people. I’ve got no qualms about doing it again.”

 “You were a doctor!”

“I HAD BAD DAYS!”

Sherlock’s bare ankle appeared in the midst of the conversation on the floor like a beacon of sanity.

“That’s quite enough, I think, let him up John.”

John released Lestrade and stepped back quickly but did not come off guard.

“Fuck,” Lestrade gasped rolling his shoulders and checking himself over for injuries, “I take back the cuddly jumper statement from yesterday.”

John nodded sharply, still on edge. His blood was pounding through his vanes rather alarmingly. He felt almost giddy. Sherlock moved to him and slipped both arms around his neck, looking down at him with a worried look on his face.

“You really thought he was going to hurt me?”

“I was,” Lestrade snipped unhelpfully.

John’s entire body twitched, but Sherlock shushed him gently: “At ease, my beautiful soldier, at ease. I could have stopped him in an instant.”

“You were small…”

“And you know full well how very large and toothsome I can become in an instant. He wouldn’t have done anything I hadn’t let him anyway, I control him completely when necessary.”

“Speaking of which, I was on duty when you decided to fucking dragon-nap me!” Lestrade snapped.

Neither of them answered. Sherlock had leaned in for a kiss and it had quickly become passionate. John felt himself pressed to the counter edge as Sherlock hardened and his hips began to seek out friction. John moaned enthusiastically and sank to the floor to swallow him down. Sherlock gasped and thrust weakly into John’s mouth while Lestrade swore and stomped back out the door. Then, judging from the stomping sounds, he turned around and came back in.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock, I don’t want to watch you bugger him!”

“I’m not done with you yet,” Sherlock panted. John gave him a much firmer suck to remind him he didn’t need Lestrade; John had it all quite neatly covered, “Oh, gods, I didn’t mean like that. I don’t need him like that. Oh, fuck that’s good!”

“I didn’t even like men before I met you now I’m lusting after your brother and watching you get sucked off. Fucking hell,” Lestrade complained.

Sherlock’s cock flagged.

“Well that’s a mood killer,” Sherlock growled, “Go into the living room and desist this repulsive talk of my brother.”

Lestrade stomped off and John applied a bit more friction and a bit less suction until Sherlock was hard again then bobbed his head enthusiastically. John moaned hungrily around Sherlock’s cock and the man responded in kind, panting and tugging gently on John’s short hair, which had finally gotten long enough to get a grip on. John cupped Sherlock’s buttocks and gave them a playful squeeze, thrilled when the man gasped enthusiastically.

John had an idea then, and slipped a finger in beside Sherlock’s cock to saturate it with saliva. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, but John highly suspected that was for his benefit. Once he had his finger well and truly wet he slipped his finger back to the dragon’s cleft and stroked his soaked finger up and down. Sherlock shivered and John slipped off his cock to spit on his finger again and then latched back on as he slid his finger deeper inside those round orbs to stroke Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock gasped and stilled his hips as John gently explored his rosebud, stroking it until Sherlock relaxed and sighed in obvious pleasure. John slid his finger in to the first knuckled and let Sherlock relax around it a moment. Then he slid it back out and a bit further in. He kept at this slowly, his tongue lathing Sherlock’s cockhead and teasing the slit.

By the time he was easily pressing his finger in and out Sherlock was panting and moaning in distress from John’s teasing.

“John… please…” Sherlock pleaded hoarsely.

John swallowed Sherlock’s cock down, did a mental calculation to accommodate for the angle, and sought out Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock cried out and nearly choked John in his enthusiasm as his hips snapped back and forth. John wrapped his fist around the base of Sherlock’s cock and relaxed his jaw as the dragon-man pulsed in his mouth. A moment later Sherlock groaned out his orgasm and John swallowed his come down with a pleased hum.

 Sherlock leaned back, supporting himself against the table with one hand, while he stared down at John in shock and panted a moment.

“That was brilliant,” Sherlock gasped.

“That’s my line,” John chuckled, then stood up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

A knock at the door had them both groaning in frustration. John palmed his erection, moving it to a more comfortable position, and Sherlock called for the person to enter. Sherlock tossed himself into his usual chair and John slid into his. Lestrade was sitting on the couch, red faced and annoyed, when a tall ruddy fellow walked into the room. His cheeks were sunken and he looked as though he’d led a hard life.

“Cab for one of you?” The man asked.

John found himself standing on Sherlock’s puppet strings, his body completely out of his control. As was his mouth.

“Ah, yes,” John replied cheerfully, as he stood and indicated the suitcases he’d only just noticed, “If you’ll just help me down with these…”

“Where are your clothes?” The man gaped at Sherlock, who smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Ah, you’re from America*, aren’t you,” John stated with all of Sherlock’s pompous mannerisms, “Yes, he’s a dragon. Yes, you should bow. No, he won’t be putting on any ‘underwear’**- or whatever you quant people call it.”

The man hesitated; glancing to the other two men in the room and clearly waiting for them to crack a grin and admit it was a joke. Lestrade gave the man a disgusted look and mimed bowing from his spot on the sofa with a dramatic fluttering of fingers. Nervous, the man made a half bow. Sherlock rewarded him by lowering his eyebrow and pointing to the baggage. Just as the man stepped forward to take hold of the bags John’s puppet body stepped forward and caught him by the arms, dragging them backwards and pinning them behind him. John pulled and the man shouted and put up a fight, but he was already quite well caught and soon stilled.

“What is this?”

<You are responsible for the deaths of two men, do you confess?>

“You are responsible for the deaths of two men, do you confess?” John parroted, then gave Sherlock a look that he hoped conveyed how ridiculous and unlikely that was.

“I… Yes. How did you know?”

John and Lestrade both gaped, but Sherlock preened like the peacock he clearly thought he was. He took a breath to launch into an explanation, apparently with his own voice, and John tensed in anticipation of hearing him speak in front of a non-thrall for the first time.

“Just a minute now,” Lestrade interrupted, “I have to read him his rights.”

Lestrade went through the procedure while Sherlock bounced on the balls of his toes like an impatient toddler. John felt about the same, but for different reasons.

“Right then,” Lestrade stated once the man had firmly waved his rights, “We get him down to the station then I want a statement – from both of you. You, too, John.”

“I don’t know anything!” John insisted.

Sherlock snorted and gave John his ‘that’s obvious’ look.

Arse, John mentally snarled.

Sherlock gave him a saucy wink and headed out the door ahead of Lestrade. John grumbled and followed.

Once in Lestrade’s police car the man explained to John why he was so eager to confess.

“I’m not long for this world, doctor,” He stated, nodding when John gave him a startled look at his knowledge of his occupation, “I can tell. I’m clever. It’s how I’ve survived all this time. Place your hand over my heart, doctor.”

“You have an aortic aneurism!” John declared, “Lestrade, this man isn’t lying. He won’t survive to trial.”

“I doubt I’ll survive the night after that scuffle,” The man stated calmly, “Which is why I want to explain my actions. I don’t want to be known as a common cutthroat.”

When they reached the station Jefferson Hope, as he introduced himself as, was quickly processed and led to an interrogation room. Since he’d gone so compliantly Lestrade hadn’t handcuffed him. Now he offered the man tea and sat patiently to one side as Sherlock explained his role in the capture.

“I noted the tire marks in the crime scene photos, but when the neighbors were questioned there were no witnesses as to a vehicle having been in the area. Now that neighborhood – Lauriston Gardens – it’s populated with silly old ladies. Silly old ladies are better than CCTV. They know everything that goes on, are in everyone’s business, and very eager to give you details: so it made no sense that no vehicles were noted. So I asked myself, who could pass unseen through any neighborhood? Who could be allowed admittance into any home off of even the most scrutinized streets? Who do we trust absolutely, with our lives, property, and addresses, despite them being a complete stranger?”

“A cabby!” John exclaimed, and Sherlock nodded calmly.

“You saw him with your own eyes, Lestrade,” Sherlock informed, “Here is that drunk you were so annoyed by outside of the first crime scene. I only had to hack into employment records for all the cabby companies in London and find an American employee. I knew he’d be American because the victims were, and this was – as noted – revenge. You have a photograph of him in your records, so I already knew what our killer looked like – not that I couldn’t have devised some of that from his footprints. So I merely applied what I knew to what was available to me and found the answer to your problem. Simple deduction. He had returned to the first scene for the wedding band – the woman is the object of your revenge?”

“She was. I pried that ring off of her cold dead finger, and Drebber – the first man I killed – was her forced husband and the monster that caused her death by broken heart. Strangerson helped with the crime and killed her father, that’s the third ‘victim’ in order of actual death.”

“And the other?”

“The man what performed the ceremony while she begged to be killed instead.”

Lestrade gaped in horror: “She was forced to marry Drebber, by a priest who ignored her pleas not to, in the company of the man who killed her father?”

“Is it no wonder,” Hope asked with a sad look, “That she died within a month? I tell you my revenge was justified; yet I had no proof to press charges properly. Her grave will never be found and the words of a vagabond aren’t taken for much.”

“Yet you still gave them a choice,” Sherlock stated, “Why not just kill them outright?”

“I had decided swift vengeance was no vengeance at all, that I wanted them to face me and know what crimes they were being punished for. I have been hunting these men across continents and decades. When I had one in my grasp I knew one of us would die, but I didn’t have it in me to kill in cold blood. I’m not cutthroat, like I said.”

“Hence the pills,” Sherlock mused, nodding in remembrance.

“I got the poison out of a job I once had while searching for these so-called-men. I made them into pills myself: some harmless and some deadly. I decided when the day came I would give them one and take another myself. In that way we’d let the gods decide it. He might have begged for his, it was in his eyes, but I could see he knew it would be no good. We chose our pills and the gods favored me. You see, detectives? Doctor? There is justice.”

“The blood at the scene?” Lestrade asked.

“I have lung cancer as well from my years working a coal mine while searching for the brutes. I coughed it up while singing praises to the gods for ending my enemy and then put it to good use writing my reasons on that wall.”

“You’ve led a hard life,” John commented softly and the man nodded.

 “The priest and the killer?” Sherlock prompted, “I know you killed them together, but one was not murder.”

“No. Strangerson was too cowardly to take his pill. He saw the priest die and then threw himself upon me. I stabbed him in self-defense, but I have no doubt he would have ended up just as dead. The gods knew his crimes.”

“What… what group was this, exactly?” Lestrade asked in alarm.

“The Gray Men,” Hope explained, “They rescued my dear Lucy’s father when he was struggling on the streets with her as a baby. They were a cult living en-masse in a big cabin on the mountains, but they turned bitter one day. They had more women than men so they began to force the women to marry several to one man and then serve him as slaves. I almost got away with the both of them, but they came after us in hordes and took her from me while I was hunting for food, killing her father in front of her first. Drebber had five wives already when he married my sweet Lucy, and they mourned her death more than he did because she was a sweet and kind thing. I was lost on the mountain a month and arrived in time to pry that ring from her finger and see her buried without the mark of that beast on her hand. I… I’d sorely like to be buried with that ring. It’s all I have left of her, they gave their women no possessions.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lestrade nodded.

The man gave them a weak smile and asked if he could be shown to his cell because he was tired from telling his story. Lestrade led the way and the man stretched out to rest in silence. He was dead by morning with a peaceful smile on his face as though he had found a peaceful end at last.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John watched in awe as Sherlock made himself the perfect size and wrapped himself around John’s bare torso. He glanced in the mirror and nodded at the positioning. Sherlock’s head rested on his right shoulder from behind and his body wrapped once around John’s torso so that the wings were stretched across his back, his feet supported on John’s hips in front of him, and Sherlock’s tail wrapped around John’s waist.

The tattoo artist walked around John taking multiple pictures from many angles before asking Sherlock and John to pose separately for some pictures. While they loaded onto the computer nearby he worked on some sketches. He then showed them his ideas and Sherlock picked one while John fiddled nervously with his shirt in his hand. Once they had that situated the man explained it would take several sittings to get the tattoo in place – one to outline it and two to ink it. Sherlock was annoyed by the delay but they dutifully made three appointments with recovery time in between.

<Perhaps Lestrade will have cases for us.> Sherlock griped.

John calmly called the clinic he’d been working at and explained that he needed off on certain days. John tried not to let his upset show through when Sarah, the head of the clinic, whinged about it while simultaneously hinting that he needed to ‘make it up to her’. He was rather annoyed by her. She was flirting with him persistently and he was starting to feel that if he didn’t relent and at least take her out for lunch then she would see him fired. He’d been a great worker so far – always on time and never shirking his duties despite Sherlock’s needy whining in his ear.

<You should just quit.>

I was trying hard to keep that from you, Sherlock, you should give me some privacy every once and again.

<You’re my husband in all but name, John. Your mind is mine.>

I need some boundaries somewhere.

<Says the man who had his finger up my bum earlier.>

John’s cock twitched in reminder that John hadn’t had a chance to get off that day or the following. Sherlock had been melancholy and avoiding his affections, choosing to play rather stirring but otherwise disjointed melodies on his violin. He was apparently in some sort of post-case-high funk and needed another fix. John had hoped their appointment with the tattoo artist would bring Sherlock out of it, but now he was moping again; his small dragon body wrapped cutely around John’s shoulders.

You should also come with me to the clinic like you used to so you won’t be so bored.

<Dull.>

John had gotten used to the stares, especially those of women who seemed to think dragon/scarves were sexy as hell. He was not prepared for his boss to come walking down the street, dressed quite nicely and clearly out for a day at the shops. He was equally not prepared for her to stare at him – and Sherlock – with open lust. It stirred something in him, but also repelled him. He belonged to Sherlock and wasn’t certain he wanted to stretch that even with the dragon’s permission if he should give it.

“John and…”

“Sherlock,” John supplied at her pause.

“Sire,” She curtsied politely. Sherlock raised his head and gave an uncharacteristic nod.

Please don’t make her a thrall. Please!

<Why not? She’s attractive, polite, and you’ve been thinking about her often while trying very hard to hide it from me.>

Remember us talking about you assuming things that you only see snippets of in my head? She’s trying to climb into my pants at work. She makes me uncomfortable.

<She… you’ve been thinking about her constantly… she… she’s been sexually harassing you?!>

John was entirely unprepared for the scream of outrage and the tiny dragon streaking towards Sarah. Sarah screamed and ducked. Once Sherlock had more room behind her he transformed into his full form and John stood frozen in horror as people on the streets screamed and fled from his obvious wrath. John vaulted Sarah’s prone form and cut Sherlock’s advance off.

<MOVE!>

“No! Sherlock! Please don’t do this!” You’re not welcome in the Queens Court; you’ll be tried if you kill her! I can’t lose you!

Sherlock huffed, shuffled on his short legs, stretched his head from side to side like a cobra looking to strike, and then lowered it demurely as John slowly approached him with one hand outstretched. He held both arms out and gently caressed along Sherlock’s jaw, his hands stroking the ‘whiskers’ of flesh on either side of his flared nostrils that arched as his tension showed, appearing as a snarl.

“John!” Sarah called from behind him, “He’ll kill you!”

John held a hand behind him to signal her to silence and Sherlock growled low in his throat.

<You are mine. None may have you without my express permission.> Sherlock’s dragon form hissed outloud, steam curling from his lips as they retreated to show two rows of deadly sharp fangs.

None can. None will. I’m yours. Entirely yours. “My love,” John soothed out loud, hoping his voice would add to his thoughts.

Sherlock keened and shrank down, his wings flapping strongly until he was small and pressed to John’s chest, trembling with rage and still growling angrily. He sounded like an angered cat, but John wasn’t fool enough to laugh at his diminished sounds. This was still a very deadly dragon with a very short temper and a very needy personality.

John took off at a run, heading for home via the back alleys and stairways Sherlock projected into his mind. The dragon wanted home instantly and he wanted John to carry him. John made no protest; his tired legs could be soothed later, preferably while wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.

*For those of you wondering, America has no dragons L. This is because they were all killed off during the American-Indian Wars. No one of European blood has produced a Dragon Blood Heir in the Americans since it’s discovery. I am considering doing a very sad, but very memorial-styled, historic story about the death of the last Native American Dragon for this universe, perhaps in a ballad style.

**Yes, I’m aware that underwear is used outside of America. I’m playing on Sherlock’s personality and aristocracy.

CHAPTER 15: Growing

This chapter may be a bit triggery – note the new tags for drug references. Also there’s a bit of dubious consent in here – though no rape or angst regarding the actions taken. I promise a good time had by all.

Special mention to Borderlinecrazy who gave me some advice on this chapter. Thanks!!

Encyclopædia Britannica

Dragon Reproduction:

While many dragons choose not to reproduce, this fault has a biological counterpart in that both female and male dragons are capable of being impregnated. While females give live births, male dragons are the creation of the myth that all dragons lay eggs. Male dragons bodies are physically incapable of sustaining a pregnancy or delivery, however they are able to lay a very small egg that then grows to the size of a watermelon. Since the baby inside is humanoid, the parents must break open the egg themselves; this vulnerability has led to more than one dragon egg dying before a parent realized gestation was complete. See ‘Gestation’ and ‘Dragonologist’ for more information.

John didn’t expect to be able to return to work. He showed up the next day in his usual outfit with his hair combed and his teeth brushed only because he had no intention of being fired while looking slovenly.

He walked in with his head held high and headed for his office while keeping an eye out for a box to pack his stuff up in. Sarah saw him shortly after he walked in the door, turned pale, and then quickly avoided him. John blinked in her direction and shut his office door behind him. He hoped she hadn’t just gone to call the police. A few minutes later he buzzed for the first patient and his day started as though nothing had ever happened.

John and Sarah had break together. That was when she usually flirted with him. This time she avoided so much as looking at him, going about her business with her head down.

“Ah, Sarah, I think we should…”

“I’m not flirting,” She said quickly and nervously.

“I know.”

“And I won’t do it again. Tell him, won’t you?” She pleaded.

“Yes. Yes, he’s probably… aware. Listen, I just wanted to apologize and assure you that…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sarah insisted, still talking to her roast beef sandwich, “You tried to protect me, from what I saw. You were a perfect gentleman… NOT that I mean anything by that, because I don’t. Not at all. Just… thank you. For not letting him… Well…”

“Yeah. Sure. You’re welcome.”

They had a few awkward moments of silence before John’s damnable curiosity got the better of him.

“So… did he… talk to you or something?”

“Your dragon?”

“Yes.”

“No. Gods, no, I’d have run the other way.”

“Oh, right, well, I guess I won’t bring him in to work, then,” John laughed a bit to show he was joking.

“He has every right to be here,” She said, her tone mechanical.

“Well, not if he’s going to terrify you. Not that he’d do that again, we had a very long chat about it.”

“No, it’s beneficial to the clinic if you bring him in. He’s more than welcome,” She insisted, her tone still mechanical.

“You sound like you’re reading a script,” John replied in surprise.

“Well, that’s probably because I am.”

“From whom?”

Sarah hesitated, and then lifted her eyes to his for the first time that day.

“Do you know an auburn haired, middle-aged man-“

“-With a peculiar attachment to a brolly?”

Sarah nodded and John groaned and rubbed his hand across his face, “He didn’t threaten you, did he?”

“Yes, but he did so very elegantly,” Sarah replied sardonically.

John snickered first. Sarah smiled. Then they both laughed a bit and relaxed quite a good deal.

“He’s quite a piece of work, isn’t he?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, but not too loud, he’s probably bloody recording this.”

“He can’t do that! This is a clinic! Patient confidentiality!”

“Trust me, it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re joking?” Sarah asked with her face still amused.

John pressed his lips together, gave her a pitying look, and shook his head. Then John received a text.

Kindly keep my name and affiliation with Sherlock to yourself, Dr. Watson – M

“And that would be Lord Brolly Poppins texting me to keep my mouth shut.”

Sarah’s face paled and she looked around the room in alarm.

“Relax, he just doesn’t want you to know his real name or anything personal.”

“You know him personally?” She squeaked in alarm.

“Unfortunately,” John sighed.

“Who are you and why are you working at a piss poor clinic like this one?” She asked in shock.

“Nobody. I’m… nobody,” John flushed.

“A nobody who knows two somebody’s who could apparently kill and get away with it.”

“Apparently, yes. Oh, and I’ve a mate on the force.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am for making you uncomfortable,” Sarah stated with no small trace of fear in her voice.

“It’s… fine. Gods, I wasn’t trying to scare you. I…” John took a breath and planted a smile on his face again, “I’d like us to be friends.”

Sarah nodded her head so vigorously she looked a bit like a bobble-head doll, especially since her eyebrows had virtually disappeared into her hair line by that point.

“What did he say to you, if I may ask?” John wondered.

“Something along the lines of interfering with the breeding of dragons being a crime punishable by execution if proven guilty, but that I’d never get to see a trial if he had anything to say about it.”

“Bloody My… friend. My bloody friends. They’re so… incorrigible,” John muttered, “Look, you’ll be fine. Sherlock’s probably forgotten it by now…”

<No I haven’t.>

“You haven’t what?” Sarah asked, blinking in confusion.

“Did I say that? He just… Sorry, sometimes he talks through me. Apparently he hasn’t forgotten it, but he will… No, actually, I won’t. Damn it Sherlock!”

Sarah was looking at him in alarm, so he did the merciful thing and gave up trying to reassure her. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, went back to his lunch, and hurried out so she could eat hers with less fear and apprehension to cause indigestion.

Then his mind replayed the conversation and focused on one point alone.

Breeding of dragons?

XXXXXXXXXXX

After Sherlock’s ease solving the Study in Scarlet, and the notable fact that he had single handedly caught the man as well, John thought Sherlock’s fame would take off, as it well deserved. Not so. Sherlock worked a series of small cases that the police sent his way when they couldn’t be bothered and collected equally small fees for them. It was a start, and with John’s income from the hospital they managed to stay afloat.

John thought that meant that he would start spending time at Scotland Yard hounding them for cases or riding on his shoulder to the clinic as he’d once done. Neither occurred. Instead Sherlock fell into some awful sort of malaise and spent days stretched out on the couch staring up at the ceiling. It was so contrary to his lover’s usual behavior that he began subtly searching the house – and Sherlock’s arms – for signs of drug use. He was one part horrified and one part relieved when he found the small decorative box full of antique needles and two small vials of drugs. A quick study found them to be cocaine and morphine.

Well, this explains your lethargy. John thought at him while staring angrily at the morphine.

<Relax. I only use a seven percent solution. It’s not as though I’m shooting it up straight.>

I can’t believe you’d risk your brilliant mind for a rush!

<Morphine is hardly a rush, John, and I told you – my mind rots without something to do. This keeps me from going utterly mad and taking you with me.>

I’d rather the latter!

John took the box and meant to be rid of it but found himself putting it back where he’d found it. What followed was literally an entire day where John called out of work and repeatedly tried to dispose of the box of illegal substances. After a few hours he was screaming mad, shouting abuse at Sherlock down the hall. After a few more he was in tears, pleading with him to just let him help. After a few more hours he had entered a state of sheer stubbornness and simply repeatedly attempted to throw it straight out their bedroom window onto the street below.

Recognizing his attempts wouldn’t stop – John hadn’t even eaten all day – Sherlock finally stomped into the room and scowled at him angrily.

“Give that here!”

“No!” John made another attempt to toss it but found himself obediently handing it to Sherlock instead.

“Honestly!” Sherlock snapped, turning and placing it back under the floorboard John had pried it out of, “I give you credit for noticing the loose floorboard, but this? You’re embarrassing yourself, John.”

“You just wait and see what I wouldn’t do for you Sherlock!” John snapped back, “Give that back!”

John dove for it and found himself in the kitchen staring into the fridge. When he looked up Sherlock was in the doorway panting and sweating as though he’d ran a mile.

“Damn it, stop fighting me!” Sherlock growled.

I’m wearing him down!

“No!” John snapped, shoved Sherlock out of the way and bolted for the floor again.

“Damn it, John, those needles are antiques worth hundreds! I’m not going to let you toss them out the window.”

“Better reason to do so! You’ll get tetanus!” John snarled, kneeling on the floor and grabbing a screwdriver despite some horrid part of his mind screaming at him not to. He’d never actually felt the pull Sherlock had on him before. It was uncomfortable and alien.

“I’ll do no such thing!” Sherlock screamed back, staggering into the room and looking as wild as John felt.

What followed was an actual physical struggle. John pried up the boards while Sherlock tugged angrily at his arms and was repeatedly tossed aside. While John struggled with the box at the window again Sherlock physically jumped on his back and they ended up wrestling on the floor. Sherlock attempted to turn their tussle sexual, moaning and arching against him suggestively, but John was not to be dissuaded despite the growing bulge in his trousers.

Finally he managed to pin the amateur detective to the floor and use a nearby belt to secure his arms. He tugged it tight and held it while stuffing fallen objects back into the box and then dragging them and his snarling lover back to the window. He tossed the box out the window with its lid sprung and glass shattered on the sidewalk below. As if the gods above agreed with him a large delivery truck drove over the corpse of Sherlock’s drug habit. John cheered and Sherlock groaned in misery.

“Huzzah and good riddance!”

“Huzzah? Who says huzzah? Pity’s sake, John…”

“Shut up!” John snarled, feeling unaccountably powerful to have the dragon on his knees and bound on the floor, “If you want a distraction, by gods, I’ll give it to you!”

John dragged the dragon-man across the room and pushed him up on the bed. Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear but John didn’t try to gentle his actions. He tugged his own clothes down and flipped Sherlock onto his belly on the bed, manipulating his legs into position. Sherlock growled and pleaded but to no avail as John sat on his hips while lubricating his own aching member.

“John, I’m not ready. You promised. You promised we didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to! John!!”

John spread those beautiful orbs while holding the belt in his teeth to keep the weakly squirming Sherlock held in place. He ran a lubricated finger down his cleft and teased his pucker until Sherlock ceased pleading and whimpered a bit. Then John slid his member vertically between those two plush domes, pressing them together to give him a bit of friction. John moaned at the slide and Sherlock gasped, realizing that John had no intention of piercing him. John released the belt and loosened it so Sherlock could remove his arms if need be. The man pulled both to his sides, the belt dangling off one, and grasped the duvet as John continued to thrust betwixt his cheeks, his speed increasing as he chased his release. Sherlock’s hand moved between his legs but John snarled and pushed it away.

“Not like that,” John growled, making Sherlock moan in apprehension.

John continued to drive himself forward, his hips canting eagerly as pleasure coiled in his abdomen. He intended to finish quickly and then pleasure Sherlock until the man was boneless.

“Is this what you want?” John panted, “All my attention on you? Just you wait until I get my hands on that long prick of yours.”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, “I’m twitching.”

“Mnm, I know, I can feel you.”

John panted, focusing on the feel of that little muscle as his cock stroked the length of it. He really couldn’t feel it exactly, but he was aware of Sherlock clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Sherlock had begun to rock himself back towards John, flexing his hips like a belly dancer.

“I want to see you dance,” John moaned, eliciting a chuckle from the man beneath him.

The vibration felt wonderful but John didn’t want this to be a laughing matter so he focused on finishing as quickly as possible so he could pleasure Sherlock instead. Not that the man wasn’t enjoying himself. There were a fair few nerve endings John was frotting against and Sherlock evidently loved every minute. John’s body tensed and he gasped out his orgasm, watching the pearlescent arc spatter across Sherlock’s back before flipping him over.

Sherlock’s face was beautifully flushed, his eyes glazed and his full lips parted. John kissed him hungrily as he grabbed the lube and stroked Sherlock’s aching cock. Sherlock hissed at the chill of the lube but was soon moaning against his mouth enthusiastically.

“What do you want, my love?” John purred, “How can I please you?”

“Now you’re complacent,” Sherlock complained.

“I’m a doctor first and your sex slave second,” John chuckled.

“Mmm, filthy man,” Sherlock accused.

“Guilty as charged. Tell me what you want me to do. Should I jerk you off while you lie in a puddle of my come?” Sherlock groaned at that and squirmed a bit as though to spread it about on his body. “Or give you some of what I took a bit ago? Would you like that Sherlock?”

“Outercourse,” Sherlock muttered, then groaned as John rubbed his thumb over the man’s cockhead, still keeping his motions too slow to bring him off.

Deciding that was what Sherlock wanted based on his muttered correction, John straddled his thighs and leaned forward. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s eager mouth and palmed his cock, pressing it between his (admittedly expanding) mounds. He began to make minute shifting motions, Sherlock’s well-lubed cock sliding easily between hand and arse. Sherlock gasped and wriggled a bit, his face flushed and his hips arching for more friction. John let him thrust a bit but then jumped in alarm when the angle pushed Sherlock’s cockhead sharply against his entrance.

For one moment John was envisioning himself being impaled on Sherlock’s long, slender cock and it had his cock twitching with enthusiasm, then Sherlock was arching his back and crying out, his hips making frantic, small thrusts as he came hard between John’s cheeks. John gasped as his entrance was pushed firmly against twice more, but Sherlock’s spongy cock-head gave before John’s pucker so his rosebud became saturated but remained virginal.

They both stared down at each other with their mouths open in awe.

“We almost…” Sherlock started, then swallowed hard.

“I think we’d better stretch me out a bit next time,” John worried, “That might have gone badly if we’d both followed our urges.”

Sherlock blushed, looked away, and nodded hesitantly.

John opened his mouth – probably to put his foot in it – but was interrupted by the sound of swearing and stomping from downstairs.

“Is that Mr. and Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock’s answer was to grab the nearest article of clothing and direct John to wipe him off. Once done, he bolted downstairs with John dragging clothes on and hurrying behind him. Mrs. Hudson was screaming at Mr. Hudson at the top of her lungs and he was shouting for her to shut up.

“You’re a murderer, Jack! A murderer! That little girl is dead because of you and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it!”

“Shut up you brazen hussy! I’ll teach you to speak out of turn! I am the man. Of. This. House!”

Each of the last four words was punctuated by a thump or a slap. John swore, wishing he’d grabbed his Sig, and Sherlock switched to dragon form and kicked the door in without bothering to knock first.

Then he collapsed.

John swore, recalling that he’d been pushing Sherlock hard all day, and vaulted the weakened wyrm. Inside he tackled Mr. Hudson to the ground and shouted at Mrs. Hudson until she stopped kicking him and fetched him something to tie the man with. By the time that was done Sherlock had regained himself enough to transfer back into a human and was sitting at the kitchen table looking at a box of photos.

“Lestrade is on his way,” Sherlock informed John.

“Thanks,” John panted.

“Mr. Hudson is a murderer.”

“I gathered.”

“There’s not enough here to prove it, though, especially since his crime was committed overseas.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” John panted.

“You get that blighter put away for life and I’ll comp your rent to pay you back for it,” Mrs. Hudson promised, shaking her finger at Sherlock as though he had been naughty.

When Lestrade arrived some time later he also looked at Sherlock as though he’d been naughty, but when John walked around to see what he’d been looking at he figured out why. The man had a smear of dried semen just under his hairline.

Sherlock glared at them while John and Lestrade snickered, but John thought he looked just a bit proud.

Chapter 16: Miss Mary Morstan

A/N: Please no freaking out about polygamy or het sex. Patience. There's a plot complication coming up that will settle this for you all.

po·lyg·a·my

noun \-mē\

Definition of POLYGAMY

1

: marriage in which a spouse of either sex may have more than one mate at the same time — compare polyandry , polygyny

2

: the state of being polygamous

— po·lyg·a·mist noun

—   po·lyg·a·mize intransitive verb

The man walked towards the rear of the tourist group, looking around himself with a sharp look as though he knew what the corners held but was looking for something specific within them. He leaned heavily on a cane, but no one took pity on him. He looked too much like a man capable of a great deal of evil; his eyes were wild, his skin weathered, and his beard unkempt. He would have looked a better part on a pirate ship than in a tour through the Agra Fort in India.

Finally he must have seen what he was looking for, because he slipped easily away from the tour guide. Down several halls he turned, avoiding the populace whenever possible and intentionally looking as though on business when he could not, Jonathan Small eventually halted at a wall of bricks, several of which had clearly been repaired within the last few decades. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they had not been more than surface caulked, which informed him that they had not been pulled out to be re-laid properly. Then he pulled out a small, concealed dagger from his boot and began to chip away at the wall. This wall was fortunate enough to be in the least populated area within the portion of the Fort still occupied by the Indian Army, but of course that was why he had chosen this spot. Hours he worked, silent as possible with the utmost patience. When finally the last brick was tugged out of place he reached into the darkened hollow and found… cobwebs so old that even the spiders had abandoned them.

Small barely contained his rage, though he wished fervently to scream his betrayal at the top of his lungs. Leaving the bricks where they lay he slipped back out of the architectural marvel via a rarely used exit. Only one man saw him and noted his presence, and he was dispatched quite quickly. Jonathan then re-attached his prosthetic leg, collected his cane that the man had knocked out of his grasp, and vanished for nine long years from all knowledge of men.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock!” John called from the kitchen, “There’s a head in the fridge!”

“Just tea for me, thanks!”

John sighed, leaning his forehead against his arm for a moment, gave the occupant of the icebox a sympathetic look, and shut the door again in defeat. Lestrade called for tea as well and John prepared it with a grumble. He was just relieved they were all getting on, despite Lestrade’s continued pursuit of– and rejection by- Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock found the mans interest disgusting, John found it amusing, and Lestrade found a new love of poetry and waxed on about the man as though he were Adonis. Although, John had noted a twinkle in his eye that made him doubt the sincerity of his prose.

“So when is this client showing?” Lestrade complained as John returned with the tea.

“Three,” John supplied when Sherlock declined to answer or even look up.

Their naked companion was stretched out on the couch in abject misery. He’d gone through a nasty withdrawal, despite the fact he watered his drugs down, and was only just recovered from it. When the knock at precisely three came at the door John answered it and was instantly stopped in his tracks. The woman who stood there was blonde, delicately boned, and had the most expressive and intelligent eyes he’d seen aside from Sherlock’s. He stood gaping a moment, shocked that he was even able to be interested in someone besides Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes?” The woman asked with her cheeks flushed as she met John’s eyes.

“I… no, but do come in, please. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is just there; please excuse his lack of clothes. He’s a dragon, you see, and I’m his thrall,” John let the pride show in his voice as he gestured to Sherlock.

<I am not your PET, John.>

I know that.

<Do you?>

I rather thought it was the other way around?

<Just so long as we’re clear.>

“Miss Mary Morstan?” Sherlock asked, hoping to his feet as though he hadn’t been lazing about for weeks on end.

“Yes, sir, I was sent here by Mrs. Cecil Forrester, my employer, who you solved a rather complicated domestic issue for some years ago.”

“Mrs. Forrester… Ah, yes, she was at Uni with me, she and her newly wed husband sought me out, but as I recall the matter was rather simple,” Sherlock replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Perhaps to one such as you,” Mary flattered, though there was no sign on her face of deceit.

“You have your own troubles, I presume?” John asked, gesturing to the chair reserved for clients.

Mary settled into it and John drank in her appearance. She was plainly dressed, though clearly educated, in a uniform that made him think of a teacher in primary school. Despite her lackluster garb, she was both elegant and demure. Her words as she spoke contained no impoverished accent, though she seemed to be of the working class.

“My story is a strange one, Mr. Holmes. My father was a military man and my mother had died when I was a toddler. I was sent to a boarding school here in London while he was overseas in India where I had been born; He and my mother had spent most of their lives there. My father married late in life, but was a strong and healthy man. After I left boarding school I became a governess for Mrs. Forrester. Nine years ago he was given leave to return but vanished before we could meet! No word was ever found.”

Miss Morstan went on to explain that a year later she received a message on a social website which she frequented that asked for her address. Being young and having been told she would benefit from it, she gave out her address. It was only after that Mrs. Forrester told her how foolish that was. The event proved fortuitous, however, when she began to receive a pearl every year on the same date each time.

However, that morning was the date she always received a pearl, and instead she received a letter:

“’Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are distrustful bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend’,” John read aloud, “What do you make of that, Sherlock?”

“Hmmm, an interesting adventure, no doubt. We’ll go with you, of course, and you’ll dine with us before hand. Lestrade will have to miss this one, especially since it’s out of his jurisdiction.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

“No one could fault me,” Small told his companion, “After all, it was join them or they would kill me on the spot. All the more misery me for stumbling down that alley that night, but they made me swear an oath and I never broke it. I wasn’t even the one to stab the museum curator, no, not me. That was Dost… Dost… Dost Akbar… you wouldn’t understand, you know.”

Small’s companion nodded affably.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Small sighed, “The love of another man is a beautiful thing. Dost was a giant of a man. Strong and powerful. Older than I, which is what cost him in the penal colony on the Island. I’ll never forget the day I buried the man I loved… Still… Ah, never mind. What would you know of love? You’re related to your wife, you sick bastard! Anyway. They wouldn’t fault me. We four grew close after the curator’s stalker turned us in… a stalker! Aren’t they usually mad and killing people?”

Small laughed at the irony, but soon sobered again, picking at his food and tossing it to the side.

“Soon we’ll have the treasure back again and I’ll be able to give my fellows peace. The Sign of the Four will be avenged.”

So saying Small signed his name to the paper, along with his three deceased comrades, and added four crosses connected at the arms to the paper. He then set it up to be mailed out to Major John Sholto of London. He’d found the man at last! Revenge was far more important to Small in his declining years than the fortune was, but he was eager to have both.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mary, John, Sherlock, and Thadeus Sholto were sitting in a rather expensive hotel discussing a lost treasure, of all things! The Great Agro Treasure, which had been hidden from Mary’s father for four years before he had gone to attempt to claim it- and vanished.

“My brother,” Thadeus Sholto explained, “Is as greedy a man as my late father was. It was after receiving this note that he fell ill, and died before telling us where the treasure he’d appropriated without including your father was hidden!”

Sherlock looked over the note and compared the signature at the bottom to the odd map that Mary had found amongst her father’s things after his disappearance.

“The same symbol, and a name: The Sign of the Four. Four men, apparently: Jonathan Small, Abdullah Khan, Mahomet Singh, and Dost Akbar. Take a look at this, John. You can tell a great deal about a person from their signature. The first on Mary’s chart is young, but this man is aged many years.”

“What does it mean, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know yet, but it appears to be more important than I originally thought. I would think it was a map to this treasure Thadeus mentioned, but this is no house in Upper Norwood, this is a palace in India. So, the treasure was buried more than once.”

“Indeed,” Thadeus nodded, “In fact, the reason I called Miss Morstan here was because it was her father who was supposed to dig it up the first time! My greedy father kept it from him, and when he came to claim it four years my father… well, he claims that yours had a heart attack, fell, and struck his head upon the treasure chest itself. His servant, long since dead, helped him hide the body upon finding them. Even the servant thought it murder, so my father claimed he was afraid to properly inform the police without fear of ending up in prison.”

Mary, who had been holding up rather well throughout this discussion, paled a good deal. John hurried to fetch her a glass of water from the wet bar, throwing an angry look at Thadeus for upsetting her with his careless words.

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” John comforted the best he could, “This whole time you’ve been hoping he was alive and now…”

“No,” Mary sighed, taking a sip of the water and schooling her expression into one of strength, “No, I knew he was gone, but to hear how it happened...”

Mary closed her eyes a moment, let out another breath, and then refocused rather well.

“I’m sorry, Thadeus,” Mary nodded, “Please continue.”

Thadeus went on to explain that he and his brother searched the estate in Norwood for eight years for the treasure, and recovered it just the night before. He and his brother had then had an argument over including Mary in on the recovered funds. Bartholomew, Thadeus’ brother, insisted that she had no claim to it, while Thadeus pointed out that they already had wealth and Mary was an impoverished governess and orphan thanks to their father’s actions. Finally Thadeus had stormed out and taken a room in a hotel to wait for Mary to respond to his summons.

“We’ll go and confront him together and see if he can’t be swayed by your… feminine charms,” Thadeus smirked.

Mary looked insulted and John concurred, favoring him with another nasty look. Sherlock, however, jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together, and agreed they should hurry along. So they stuffed themselves into a cab and headed over to Thadeus’ childhood home of Pondicherry Lodge.

They found Pondicherry Lodge in an uproar. Sherlock managed to pick the many locks to Bart’s rooms and found the man murdered, his face twisted into a mad smile as he sat at his desk in his rooms. A giant hole broken through the ceiling above him showed where the treasure had been lowered from it’s secret place above.

“Doctor! Doctor!” Thadeus declared, grabbing at John’s arm, “I fear my heart is failing me! Save me!”

John had already realized the man was a terrible hypochondriac, but he gripped his wrist quickly and glanced at his eyes just to make sure. It was an awful shock, and even hypochondriacs could die of it.

“You’re fine, you twit,” John snapped irritably, earning a horrified look from Bart’s housekeeper. John flushed immediately. The man had just lost his brother and he’d called him a twit!

“The police will think I’m the culprit! And to make matters worse, the treasure is gone!” Bart wailed.

The police did blame Thadeus, and marched himself and two servants out of the house without further ado. Sherlock couldn’t get them to see reason, but he had managed to search the house before they arrived.

“Pity this isn’t Lestrade’s beat,” Sherlock sighed as he climbed down the side of the building, “That Jones fellow is a braggard and a fool.”

“Among other things, yes. I can’t believe he arrested Thadeus. Even I can tell he hasn’t the wit for this.”

“We’ll get him freed,” Sherlock nodded.

“So, what did you find?” John asked eagerly.

Sherlock chuckled, “Eager to find this treasure and impress Miss Morstan, are you?”

John blushed and looked away, “Not really. Once she’s rich she’ll want nothing to do with me.”

“She’ll have little choice,” Sherlock snorted, “I’ve made her a thrall. She’ll be craving me, and you can reel her in.”

“You’re joking!” John asked in excitement, “And you’ll let me?”

“Of course. You won’t stop going on about how attractive she is…”

John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him soundly, pulling him tight to his body. They snogged for a few moments, desire curling beneath their skin. When they separated Sherlock’s eyes were heavy, his lips swollen, and his breath fast.

“I’m going to see Mary home then come back for you,” John whispered while stroking along Sherlock’s arm, “When you’re done here we’ll get a cab home and you’ll to tell me everything you’ve figured out, you vain thing. Then I’m going to make love to you for hours.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed, “One difference. I need you to pick up a friend of Lestrade’s.”

“Sure, who?”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John sat down beside Mary in the cab. She was sitting quite straight and steady despite having seen a rather grotesque body today and having spent over an hour comforting the housekeeper and then another being questioned by the police.

“You’ve done remarkably well Miss…” John started, but was interrupted when Mary burst into tears.

“Oh, it was just awful!” Mary sobbed into a tissue.

John started out holding her hand and telling her how well she’d done, but when she pressed towards him he didn’t hesitate to pull her close and hold her tightly. He ended up with a female body pressed hip to chest for the first time in nearly four years! John’s blood rushed south and he was grateful that they were sitting in a cab rather than standing or Mary would have been fully aware of how affected he was by her presence. He took a deep breath and willed himself not to try something stupid… like dry humping her leg in the back of the cab.

Mary calmed herself – John wasn’t much help – before they reached Mrs. Forrester’s, at which point she hurried into the study with John trailing behind her in a daze. She and Mrs. Forrester sobbed in each other’s arms as she related the tale and John weakly excused himself.

Once back outside in the fresh air he took several healthy gulps of it and wondered where his skills with the fairer sex had gone. Probably down the throat of a rather sensual male dragon, John decided. Thinking of Sherlock’s full lips and talented tongue were not helping with his ‘little problem’ so John decided to walk a block or two, catch a different cab, pick up this Toby fellow for Sherlock, and head back to the Lodge that way.

His plan went well until he found out whom Toby was… or what Toby was.

“That’s a dog,” John stated dumbly as the man stood in the doorway with a long-furred and not-much enthused ugly mutt.

“Observant, are’n yeh?” The owner sneered, “You said Toby an this is the on’y Toby in the ‘ouse!”

“Brilliant. Thanks. I’ll just… take his leash then…”

It took three cabbies to find one who would let him take the dog in the car since the first two ‘didn’t like the look of him’. John didn’t like the look of him, either, but he kept his complaint to himself. Sherlock must have had a reason for asking a dog to a crime scene, and it would probably be a rather ingenious one.

XXXXXXXXXX

“A trap door in the roof!” John breathed, “You are amazing!”

“What bothers me is that they cut us off,” Sherlock replied, “Ah, Toby! Excellent! One of the villains stepped right in some tar on the roof, tar that had been saturated with Eucolyptus leaves from the nearby trees. That’s a scent trail unlike any I’ve ever come across.”

“There’s no other way?”

“Oh, there are many ways to track the culprits down, but that is certainly the most direct. Did you see those prints I pointed out to you before you took Mary home?”

“In the tar? Yes, a child’s footprints, my gods, do you think they saw the murder? Poor thing,” John worried.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head.

“What?” John questioned.

“Oh, never mind. You’ll find out in time,” Sherlock teased.

Sherlock took an instant liking to Toby, ruffling his fur and letting the creature sniff him rudely. John was utterly revolted, despite having liked dogs. Sherlock let the creature sniff the handkerchief he’d pressed into the tar and the creature was off like a… well like a duck, really. Toby waddled down the road with his nose to the ground at a fast enough pace to make a decent walk. Walk they did: almost ten miles, ending in a crossroads a block from the Thames when Toby began to whine and travel in circles. John was holding up traffic despite shouting and honking from cars. An officer was headed their way and John was schooling himself to give an excuse when Toby gave a yip and took off to the left. They followed him another block and ended at a pile of barrels of… tar.

John winced and glanced at Sherlock in concern, but he laughed rather than having one of his typical fits.

“Poor Toby,” Sherlock cooed, ruffling the dog’s fur, “too much tar in the area, eh?”

“What now, Sher?” John asked, “You mentioned other options?”

“No, Toby will get us there; we just need to go back to where he was confused and have him take us down the other trail.”

They backtracked and John made excuses to the same officer before finally heading off to the right instead. Three blocks later and they reached a boat dock, but there they were stalled once more. Sherlock studied the area a moment and then headed for a boat rental. There his mutism suddenly kicked in again and John was left to stumble through a questioning. Sherlock guided him to pretend they wished to rent a very fast motorboat and after a few minutes they found out the husband had taken one out and not returned last night.

<Pretend to have seen the boat. Describe it.>

I don’t know what it looked like.

<Doesn’t matter. Pull it out your arse.>

“I think I saw that one last time I was here,” John tried, “Was it the black one with the blue stripes?”

“No, no,” The wife insisted, “Black with a red stripe and a white top.”

“That’s the one!”

<The Euclid?>

“The Euclid, was it?”

“Close, but it’s the Aurora,” She corrected with a laugh.

“That’s the one exactly! When will it be back?”

“I don’t rightly know,” The woman frowned, “He doesn’t usually go out in the middle of the night. I can take your number and give you a ring?”

John gave her his mobile number and Sherlock hurried away ahead of him.

“What happened?” John asked worriedly.

Sherlock opened his mouth and no sound came out. He frowned angrily and blushed.

<I don’t know. I think it has to do with Mary. I felt odd while you were off with her. For some reason I can’t read her mind as I can yours. Something is… wrong!>

“It’s fine, love, it’s all fine,” John soothed, though inwardly he was hurt by this development, “Nothing has to happen with her. She can be like Lestrade. Let’s go home and think of ways to track the motorboat, yeah? Besides, I believe I owe you some love making.”

Sherlock nodded, lips pressed tightly together, but he obviously wasn’t convinced by John’s empty words. Once they were home, however, Sherlock turned surly and paced irritably. He pinned a piece of orange paper in one of their windows and ignored John’s advances.

“I’m going to send out some friends of mine to look for the motorboat and the other three members of the four.”

“Other three? You think the child is a part of it?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I meant the other three besides Jonathan Small and our diminutive murderer. Small will be easy to locate, he’s also with the… murderer.”

“So there are six?”

“No. There’s Jonathan Small, who we know from Thadeus’ story is white, male, and has a prosthetic leg and-”

“But… Thadeus has never seen him. You just described the fellow his father mistakenly took a shot at a few years before he died.”

“Yes, and by that we know that Small has the same description as that unfortunate fellow. We also know that Small is the one that description belongs to because he was the only Caucasian who signed the letter and map. The other three are Indian by name at least, and we’ll have more difficulty hunting them down, which is why I’ll be employing the Baker Street Irregulars.”

“The who now?”

“The Baker Street Irregulars. Lestrade suggested the name when he pointed out that it would be irregular to see street children coming and going at Baker Street.”

“More than a bit irregular, Sherlock,” John worried.

“No worries, I’ve told Wiggins to make sure he’s the only one who reports in.”

“Why… why do we need street children again?” John asked, picturing the court date.

“No one pays them any mind. They can go virtually anywhere unquestioned, either by virtue of stature or social status, and no one remembers they saw them. I throw them a coin or two and they’re content to scour the city for me, find our men and boat, and report back,” Sherlock explained.

John struggled for a moment, wondered if Sherlock was right, and then let it go.

“So what about that dart? The little one that killed Bart Sholto?”

“Another mystery I’ll keep to myself for now. It will be more fun to see the look on your face later,” Sherlock teased him.

Wiggins reported in a few moments later, a scrappy young lad with a dirty face but bright intelligent eyes. John stuffed his pockets full of biscuits and forced a glass of milk on him despite Sherlock’s scowling. Sherlock gave Wiggins the descriptions he had and sent him off to look for three Indian men in the company of a peg-legged Caucasian and the motorboat from the wharf.

Sherlock and John retired to their bedroom, as John had promised, to celebrate Sherlock’s new case and the end to his lethargy. Sherlock was practically thrumming with excitement and John was devouring it like an addict. They stripped each other’s clothes off in short order and stumbled into the shower while kissing and groping each other. A quick scrub down to wash the sweet and grime of the day away, and Sherlock was panting and wriggling against John’s body. It never failed to excite him when the dragon was so utterly wanton with him. Sherlock’s normally calculating eyes would glaze over and John would feel a surge of power as they tussled, rutted, and otherwise ravaged each other.

They hadn’t been intimate in a while and John had a long night planned for them. He started by dropping to his knees and sucking him off fast and hard. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with shock; he was thinking that John usually preferred to draw things out, but today he had something in mind. While Sherlock was moaning in bliss John gently pushed him until he lay down on the bed.

John slipped some lubricant onto his fingers and stroked Sherlock’s furled pucker until the man relaxed, which was no hardship with John sucking him off. Sherlock had felt one finger before and John was determined to get him up to two or even three today. He underestimated how aroused the man was, however, and was soon swallowing down his release.

Sherlock sighed happily, not the sort to be bothered if he finished before his lover. John chuckled and kept on prodding the man’s entrance, wondering if plan B was an option. Sherlock smiled down at him lazily and John decided to make it a go. He was achingly hard, but he was certain he could hold himself off long enough. For now he avoided Sherlock’s prostate as he worked on getting two fingers into the dragons relaxed body.

Sherlock, apparently, decided he wasn’t comfortable and took that moment to roll over without warning. John’s fingers slipped out and he paused a moment to figure out if the dragon was fleeing him or just being a ponce. The latter, apparently, as he snuggled into the bed and ignored John even when he parted the man’s cheeks and pressed his fingers back inside. He did give a startled hiss when John went up to three.

“John… I think… I think that’s full,” Sherlock stated, his voice unusually high.

John swallowed down a laugh and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, “Just a bit more, love.”

“Can’t you just… wank? Or… I’ll suck you off,” Sherlock decided, and tried to turn back over.

John took that moment to dive straight for his prostate and Sherlock’s entire body stiffened and stayed frozen in place. Sherlock was on hands and knees, one leg slightly forward, as he’d intended to move. He didn’t alter that pose even as John stroked his prostate more insistently.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “I’m getting hard again.”

“Good,” John replied softly reaching a hand between his thighs to encourage that development.

“Haven’t…” Sherlock swallowed and recovered his voice a bit, “Haven’t you told me to be more considerate? I should… I should do this to you instead.”

“Is that what you want?” John asked softly, grasping his cock a bit firmer and drawing a moan from the man, “Do you want me to stop?”

“N-no,” Then suddenly he changed his mind and replied with a panicked tone, “Yes. Stop.”

John withdrew both hands instantly and Sherlock lowered himself onto his stomach and then curled up on his side.

Oh, shit. Not good.

“Sher? Love?” John wiped his hands off and leaned forward to pet the man’s hair comfortingly.

“I’m so hard. Again.”

“I can suck you off again…”

“I want… No… I…”

“Tell me what you want,” John urged, “Whatever it is, it’s fine. I want it, too.”

“I want what you’re picturing. I want…” Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed hard, “I want inside you, but you don’t want that.”

“I don’t not want it; I’m just nervous, same as you are. You want me, take me, love, I’m yours to do whatever you want to,” John soothed, stroking his hips and urging him to roll onto his back.

Sherlock lay there, curious despite himself, and watched as John lubed up his fingers again. John nervously straddled Sherlock and slipped a finger slowly inside himself. He had tried this in the shower once or twice, but this was a different matter. He was nervous, but excited as well. He wanted to feel Sherlock come inside him, to watch the pleasure on the man’s face as he came apart in John’s arms.

John stretched himself slowly, taking the time to show Sherlock that it didn’t have to be a frightening thing. When asked to, he turned around so Sherlock could curiously watch and even slipped a finger into him as well.

“Mph, that’s nice,” John panted as Sherlock curiously prodded him, “You, ah! You got my prostate.”

“I was trying to,” Sherlock snipped, then shifted about and knelt behind John.

“I’d really rather face you,” John pleaded, and Sherlock lay back down again.

John straddled him, stroking him to make sure he was fully hard and well lubed, and slid slowly down the man’s shaft. It was such an odd feeling. He’d thought the head would be the worst, and it was in the sense that it was the widest part and burned a bit, but John reached a point where his body simply didn’t want to take more in and he had to still. He knelt there, panting and trying to decide if he could go deeper or if he should settle for shallow sex. Sherlock’s eyes were clenched shut, his breathing erratic, clearly lost in the pleasure he was feeling. That settled it for John. He pulled off a bit and slid the rest of the way down in one go, grunting as his body clenched without his permission in an attempt to stop the intrusion.

“Oh, gods!” Sherlock gasped, clawing at John’s hips in apparent alarm.

His eyes had flown open and he was staring at John with a look of wonder on his face. John was gasping and smiled as he felt his body adjusting to the unusual sensation of being filled.

“Well, worse than I thought it would be but getting better, yeah?” John panted, as he felt the urge to move filling him.

“John. Please. I. Fuck,” Sherlock stated firmly.

John slipped up and then slid back down and they both let out shocked groans. Sherlock’s grasp on his hip was becoming painful, so John tugged his hands up and held them, getting Sherlock to brace them up so John could clasp them and use them to raise and lower himself with more ease.

“Reverse pushups,” Sherlock gasped, and John smiled. He was getting used to Sherlock saying random things during sex.

John leaned back a bit more and sure enough he managed to graze his own prostate, but was so shocked he jumped and Sherlock slid out of him. He looked down at his lover guiltily, but Sherlock was grinning back and John relaxed and shifted down again. This time Sherlock participated, grasping his own cock and holding it up so John could slide back down. They moved easier after that, flirting with their eyes and whispering filthy things to each other as they moved.

“Can you tell what it feels like for me to have you inside my body?” John panted.

“Full and satisfying,” Sherlock growled back, his eyes flashing with lust.

Sherlock adjusted his hips, spreading and bending his knees, and John gasped as his prostate was assaulted full on.

“Oh, gods! Yes! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! I’m close, Sherlock I’m… oh gods… oh!”

John groaned, threw his head back and closed his eyes in bliss as his throbbing member erupted, completely untouched, painting Sherlock’s torso in white stripes. He was gasping and he could feel himself clenching Sherlock tightly. His rhythm faltered, his legs burned, but before he could recover himself or ask to switch positions, Sherlock rolled them over and took to thrusting desperately into John’s boneless body. John moaned and let his arms fall back on either side of his head, completely content to lay back and let Sherlock use him for his pleasure. He winced when the dragon hit his over stimulated prostate, but Sherlock caught on and avoided it afterwards.

“Oh, gods, John, I’m so close but I can’t…”

“Kiss me,” John urged, and the man lifted his head and pressed their lips together viciously.

John took advantage of the shift in position to slide a hand down and stroke Sherlock’s nipples into buds. He then flicked them gently and the man gasped into his mouth. A few circles with the pad of his thumbs and Sherlock was panting and growling eagerly. John turned his head to the side and kissed and nipped Sherlock’s neck.

“You are so fucking sexy with your cock buried inside me, taking me over and again. You own me, Sherlock Holmes, and I love to give myself to you,” John whispered while continuing to stimulate his lover’s body.

The multitude of sensations at once threw him over the edge and Sherlock came with a strangled cry, his body arching and his hands tearing at the bedding on either side of John’s head.

“Fuck!” He gasped, and then collapsed on top of John breathlessly.

“Yeah,” John agreed.

Chapter 17: Secrets and Disguises

TRIGGER WARNING: I apologize for using the T-slur. I wrote it when I didn't know better, but I left it in because I think Lestrade would use it. 

 “The penal colony was hell. I was blessed they shut it down three years after I ended up in that shite hole, but the camp that followed was only a bit better. We were still prisoners, after all, but the camp was more of a work-release thing. Well… it was supposed to be. Agreement was you log trees and work off your crime and eventually they’ll let you off that god-forsaken island, but they never let us off. No, not a single one of us; my three compatriots worked themselves to death. I was stubborn. You don’t loose a leg to a crocodile in basic training; survive that hell, only to give up because you’re forced to work wood for near sixty years. They didn’t treat us bad, but they never let up about the Agro treasure. Fools! If they’d only known we’d hidden it inside the very building we stole it from!”

Small laughed to himself, cutting off another piece of meat from the shank he was devouring and popping it in his mouth. His companion watched him in silence, grinning occasionally, and eating his own portion slowly.

“I was a fool to trust Sholto and Morstan,” Small stated, his voice cracking with grief, “But there I was without a friend left in the world and they showed me such kindness… I don’t blame Morstan so much; he was tricked, too, but Sholto! That bastard! I suffered for that treasure! I suffered for sixty-three long years! Most of it alone and friendless! My beloved dead and buried!”

Small dissolved into weeping and his companion patted his arm consolingly.

“Thank you, Tonga. You’re a good friend for a savage thing,” Small replied, sniffling and getting himself under control, “I’m sorry for putting you through this humiliation. I know you’re a proper warrior and not some circus freak.”

Tonga grinned demonically and Small laughed.

“It was a good day,” Small continued with a grin, “When that earthquake hit. Your people got away mostly unscathed, Morstan got shipped home with a minor injury, and me! I escaped that shit hole camp!”

Small put down his plate and stood up to do a shuffling dance, laughing before tossing himself back down.

“They still think I’m dead!” He laughingly continued, “I left my old dog tags hanging from a post by the beech after the tsunami passed. You and your boat came in handy for our escape- me from prison and you from you missus! Ha ha!”

Tonga joined in the laughter, slapping his short leg and shaking his shaggy head.

“Come on, Tonga, let’s turn in. We’ve got some work to do tomorrow.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sadly, the next several days were spent with Sherlock pacing angrily around the flat. Mrs. Hudson even checked up on them in true concern because she said she’d heard him pacing all night long.

“I know, I couldn’t get him to come to bed. I’m sorry he kept you up.”

“Oh, no, it was my hip kept me up. Is he all right? He seems almost… feverish!”

John glanced at his lover and nodded at the truth in that statement. Sherlock was flushed and sweating, his brow furrowed in concentration as he passed from one part of the living room to another over and again. John had given up trying to get him to eat, but had succeeded in getting some fluids into him.

“Your ex-husband hasn’t contacted you?” John asked, changing the subject.

“Not yet, and good riddance!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “I’ll never stop being grateful for you two coming up with the proof he was guilty! I can sleep easy at night now… when my hip isn’t acting up.”

“I can prescribe you something for that if you aren’t already seeing someone,” John mentioned.

“Oh, I’ve got a doctor, it’s just some nights the medicine does nothing at all!”

“I know the feeling,” John replied, rubbing at his recent bullet wound.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic smile, through Sherlcok another worried look, and then whispered that she’d bake something nice and leave the door open hoping the smell would draw him down. John smiled and nodded at the idea, but doubted it would work. Moments after Mrs. Hudson left Sherlock erupted.

“No good! Bah! It’s all no good! What’s the use of all this data if I have no way to extrapolate their location!! How could my Irregulars have failed me?!”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that, it sounds like a bad case of the stomach flu.”

“There’s no use for it. I’ll have to find the boat myself.”

“Could they have banked it? Or gone all the way out to sea? Or changed it’s colouring?”

“Doubtful, but I can’t dismiss any options…” Sherlock paused and looked John over appraisingly, his eyes roving over his body almost sensually. John smiled welcomly but a moment later Sherlock looked away.

“Mary was just thinking of you.”

“Oh. I. She was. Well…” John replied, flushed and flustered.

“I’m confused by her John, is it because she’s female? I want you to be happy, and I want you to have a female to breed with, but I get this crawling feeling when my mind touches hers and then my mind just… runs from her. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’ve specified you’re only attracted to men; perhaps it is because she’s a woman. Have you had other female thralls?”

“One, but she died,” Sherlock replied, and went back to pacing.

“Oh. Sorry. Is… do you… should I… damn, this is difficult. Do you think its jealousy?” John asked nervously, “Do you not want me with someone else?”

“You’re mad for her, I want you with her if it makes you happy.”

“You didn’t answer my first question.”

“No, I’m not jealous! It’s preposterous! You belong to me, she belongs to me, that should work! The idea of you and Lestrade together doesn’t distress me.”

“Really? It rather does me,” Lestrade stated, stomping into the room. John laughed and Lestrade grinned at him.

Sherlock snorted and stormed off to the bedroom. When he emerged he was dressed… dressed?

Is it sick that seeing you in clothing makes me hot and bothered?

<No.>

“Why are you dressed like a doc worker?” Lestrade asked, giving Sherlock a curious look.

“I’ve got to take care of some things. Disguises make life easier for me. For whatever reason when I wear one I have no issues with my mutism; likewise when I’m in ‘detective’ mode.”

“Detective mode!” Lestrade burst out laughing, but stopped when John snapped at him.

“It also,” Sherlock stated with a firm look, “makes it easier for other people to talk to me.”

“Where’s my disguise?” John asked, standing up and heading for his coat.

“You’re staying behind, there will be no danger to me and quite a bit of difficulty training you to act.”

John frowned, but didn’t argue and Sherlock left with a quick kiss to his cheek. John spent the next day at the clinic worrying over Sherlock. He checked in several times with John, and he could feel the moment Sherlock cheered up because he began to flirt.

<Stopped to eat. I know you like it when I eat. I think I’d like eating more if I did it off your body.>

That’s… fuck, Sherlock, I’m with a patient!

<Did you drop anything? Tell me you popped a tent!>

Popped a… you spend too much time around Lestrade.

<Would you like to eat food off of me?>

Yes. Gods, yes. What the hell brought this on?

<A rather lovely zucchini dish, actually. They hollowed out the shell and served zucchini soup in it.>

I hope it was washed properly.

<I think it was. The waitress is flirting with me. Should I bring her home? Maybe you’d like a fling. I’d like to watch you with her.>

Consider my tent pitched.

<Yes, then?>

I don’t know; I’m not sure I’m a one-off sort of guy. If you want, I guess.

<You’re thinking of Mary again.>

Well… yeah…

<On the tip of my tongue. What is wrong with her? Why can’t I figure it out?>

Jealous?

<No. Not jealous. Still picturing you with the waitress. She has very small breasts. Do you mind small breasts? I think I might prefer them.>

Small are lovely.

<John… I just figured out why I like her.>

Why?

<She is a he… or a ze… no she prefers she… this is fascinating! The waitress is transgender, pre-op. She’s offered to show me her bits. I’m going into the bathroom with her.>

S-seriously?!

<Wow.>

Need more detail.

<Perfectly shaven. Small but beautifully shaped. Very pale. Her arsehole is bleached, John. Bleached. Her breasts are smaller than I thought, still developing, but I rather like her nipples. Large and very… suckable…>

Her arsehole is… So… You’re bringing her home?

<Afraid not. The Work has to come first, John, but I have her number.>

Oh, you are a cruel man.

<How’s your patient?>

I pretended to feel ill and fled. I’m wanking in the gentlemens. Thank you for reducing me to a sixteen-year-old boy.

<Once this case is over I’m going to do unspeakable things to you. Possibly with Jolene, but preferably alone until I’ve memorized every inch of you.>

Oh gods, I’m coming.

<Taste it. Think about the taste. I want to hear it.>

Mmm’s salty and bitter. I shouldn’t like this.

<Yes, you should.>

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock returned in a disguise that would have fooled John had he not been connected to him mentally. He looked like an old man, bent double with rheumatism, with the calloused thumbs of a retired fisherman. Lestrade and John gaped at him.

“You picked up a tranny like that and I can’t even get a bloody date from your brother? What the hell is wrong with your family?”

“I changed for lunch,” Sherlock scoffed, stripping the entire disguise off in a sweeping motion.

Sherlock threw himself down on the couch despite it being occupied by John and Lestrade. Lestrade snarled and struggled out from under Sherlock’s lanky legs. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s plastered down curls and fluffed them back up.

“You’re not getting any,” Sherlock smirked.

“I’m going to start raping you,” John growled.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock snickered, pulling his hands into his thought pose, “I’d boil you.”

“I crave you all day and all night,” John informed him firmly.

“Well,” Lestrade snorted, “That’s my cue to go to my room and wank to photos of your brother.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sherlock and John both groused while the DI cackled his way upstairs.

“Jones is on his way over, by the way,” Sherlock muttered about two seconds before the bell was pulled.

“Tell me he’s not a thrall,” John groaned.

“Gods, no, give me so credit. I think I have decent taste,” Sherlock replied with a look of disgust.

“Well, I guess that’s a kind of compliment then. Thanks,” John winked before wriggling out from beneath Sherlock and unlocked the door to welcome the DI.

“This better be good Holmes,” Jones snarled.

“A good deal better than you’ve got, considering you had to let all your culprits go,” John stated for Sherlock, who had dropped mute again.

“Talking through your thralls again, Freak,” Jones growled.

“I could stop bothering at all, you know,” John informed him coldly, “You are more than welcome to solve the case yourself.”

Jones struggled with his pride now, he stood there with a frustrated look on his face, and then he sighed and nodded firmly.

“Apologies. I’m at the end of my ropes. I know Sholto murdered his brother, but I have no way to prove it.”

“Well, your problem is simple,” John smirked, “You’re completely wrong. Once we’re past that, we can find the actual killers.”

Jones puffed up a moment, and then sagged and dropped into a chair: “My director’s breathing down my fucking neck. I went to the press too soon and now I’m out of perps. Give me what you got and I’m your man.”

“Fantastic. I’m going to need your fastest motorboat,” John deadpanned.

Here are some of my notes and some interesting links you lot might enjoy.

The Agra Treasure from Fort Agra

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agra_fort

On 26 December 2004, the coast of the Andaman Islands was devastated by a 10-metre (33 ft) high tsunami following the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake. On 30 March 2010, a magnitude 6.9 earthquake struck near the Andaman Islands.

Andaman forests contain 200 or more timber producing species of trees, out of which about 30 varieties are considered to be commercial. Major commercial timber species are Gurjan (Dipterocarpus spp.) and Padauk (Pterocarpus dalbergioides). The following ornamental woods are noted for their pronounced grain formation:

The penal colony was eventually closed on 15 August 1947 when India gained independence. It has since served as a museum to the independence movement.

(J.Small at least 86?)

Tonga – Jarawa Tribe of Andamanese natives

Chapter 18: Jonathan Small

Interspecies Reproduction with Dragons:

Although the adaptation originally served in order for male dragons to impregnate other male dragons, since dragons often choose to utilize humans as a source of reproduction it has been found that the process works between the species as well. Female dragons impregnated by male humans carry their offspring as usual, delivering via live birth and only in their dragon form, but male dragons must reproduce in the way they would with another male dragon.

For a male human, female human, or a male dragon to bear dragon young, much the same process is used: during fertilization the male dragon’s sperm congeals when it fails to encounter female dragon hormones; this creates a small pouch within the abdomen of the receiving partner. In cases in which a womb is not available, the pouch will create itself off of the sigmoid colon, forming what can feel like a hernia as it pushes against the surrounding organs and muscle wall. Note, that it is not possible for dragon sperm to form a pouch in a stomach or throat (see: Nortons, Dragon Myths and Tall Tails). That pouch will absorb DNA from the surrounding tissue of the receiving partner and mix with the DNA of the dragon. The pouch forms an egg over a period of two to three days, which is then expelled- with the pouch- out whichever opening was used for impregnation. If the dragon is the receiving partner and the sire is the human, the dragons own body will absorb the male human’s sperm and the previous process is followed with an additional day added to the gestation period. Gestation must occur while the dragon is in their fully transformed state, though size of the dragon does not affect the size of the egg nor changing size damage it.

See also: Dragon Nesting and Hoards, Dragon Behavior during Gestation/Impregnation, Dragon Behavior during Nesting, and Dragon Mating.

They lazily weaved their way around the basic area of the warehouse that Sherlock had discovered the Aurora had been stashed in. To the outside observer they were merely patrolling normally.

<Minor repairs, the owner said, and laughed about how ridiculous they were. There’s nothing wrong with her. The criminals are waiting till the sensation dies down.>

“What makes you think they’ll make a move tonight?” John asked, his arm slipping around his chilled companions waist. Sherlock was wearing a long coat and a blue scarf, but nothing underneath or on his feet. It was fairly warm out, but the breeze over the water chilled him. John wanted to pin him to the deck and ravage him.

<They’re running out of time. I put an advertisement in the paper, listing it as from the wife of the ships owner. Now that he’s officially a missing person they have to make a move.>

“Do you think he’s alive?”

<Oh, yes, I imagine he’s alive and well and driving the vessel. Unless my information is quite wrong our man is nearly ninety years old and has a very poorly made prosthetic leg. He won’t be up for driving a craft of that caliber. Whether or not he’s innocent of crime is another matter. You have your pistol?>

“For the third time, yes.”

<Draw it and whatever you do keep it aimed at the littlest passenger. He is deadly, John. You see him raise his arm, you shoot him.>

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied, pulling his gun out and slipping the safety off.

“Is that…?” Jones started, but stopped at Sherlock’s scolding look, “Never mind. I didn’t see it.”

The doors opened and a boat came speeding out of the warehouse with alarming acceleration, nearly taking out two smaller craft on its way. They shot after it, Sherlock worrying vocally about their petrol levels.

“She’s faster than I thought she’d be,” Sherlock worried, “Or the captain is better.”

“It’s the captain,” John sighed, “We should have brought Lestrade. He’s fantastic with a boat.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock snapped, slamming his hand on the rail.

John watched as they slid between various river crafts, held the rail tightly and Sherlock tighter as the boat jumped waves made by the craft they chased. Eventually Sherlock abandoned standing and his clothes crumpled to the ground as he slithered around John’s body, clinging to him in smaller mimicry of the tattoo that graced his body and part of his neck and face. John gripped the rail with both hands as Sherlock’s claws dug into his thick jacket.

<Your gun! Draw your gun!>

You need to tell me what I’m facing!

<The smaller one is from a tribe of warriors in the Andaman Islands. They are fierce, loyal, and very deadly. He will have a blow pipe with him, the thorn-darts of which are what killed Bart Sholto. There is NO CURE for their toxin. You will die with a twisted smile on your face as your body seizes up in an unnatural rigor within seconds of your death.>

Fucking hell.

<Gun! Now! We’re getting closer!>

John struggled to draw his gun again, keeping it trained on the deck of the ship ahead of him. He could see several people, but none of them were dark skinned and none below the four feet specified by Sherlock when he’d first found the tiny footprints in Sholto’s attic. Where were the three Indian men? The Islander?

The captain of the vessel never turned to look at them, but John watched as another man- old, bearded, and nearly skeletal- struggled to face them from the back of the boat, waving his fist in defiance before struggling back around to hover over the edge near the front. He was clearly having difficulty moving across the swaying deck, more than was necessary even for such rough waters.

Sea sick?

<Not sure. He does look busy.>

“We’re getting low on petrol!” Jones shouted back, his man up front never taking his eyes off the speeding boat ahead of them.

“We have to catch them!” John shouted back, “They’ll have the treasure on the boat! Those jewels and pearls are national treasures!”

They should be in a museum, John’s mind supplied, and Sherlock chuckled as John shamelessly imagined himself as Indiana Jones.

<Hmmm, another pleasure to explore with you in bed. I wonder where one gets a fedora and whip in London?>

Oh, fuck, not now. What the hell is with you lately? You’re so off and on and off and on and…

<Stop picturing us fucking you’re making me hard.>

How does that work in dragon form?

<I’ll show you later.>

John had a moment of absolute horror and revulsion… followed by giddy curiosity. Sherlock laughed in his head and John gave himself a shake and re-focused on the boat ahead of them. Someone had just popped up from seemingly nowhere on the deck. He was a small Island man, between three and four feet tall, with a disfigured face and barely any clothing on. His hair was all in wild braids and he screamed at them like a creature possessed. His hand raised a short red stick to his lips and John fired his gun. The small man toppled backwards and his diminutive body slid about the deck as the boat continued to zig and zag, painting a trail of blood behind him.

The captain of the boat must have been more distracted than was immediately obvious, however, because he made a foolish mistake in navigating the crowded waterways and had to jerk the craft sharply to one side to avoid a collision. The result, to the cheers of the Marine Policing Unit’s occupants, was that the Aurora ran herself aground. They quickly stalled the engines and drifted closer to the shore, careful not to run aground themselves. The captain had been tossed onto the sand and lay unmoving, but the man who had waved his fist at them was conscious and hurrying about.

Jonathan Small, which was who the lumbering man on the ship turned out to be, struggled over the edge and tried to make a run for it. He hit the ground hard, but landed on a protruding stone. John gasped in horror as the man’s leg splintered- white bone protruding from his trouser leg- but when Sherlock grew larger and carried John over by lifting him like a child, the man turned out to be unharmed. He sprawled on the ground, his lame leg trapped in the pebbly shore where his prosthetic had fractured and become a bizarre sort of flagpole upon which he was waving.

Sherlock transformed into his human self and strolled up to the swearing man, chuckling as he approached.

“Jonathan Small, I presume?”

“Yes, damn you, and who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then I’ll be adding you to the list of men who have wronged me and mine! What did you have to go and shoot Tonga for?”

“He would have killed my thrall,” Sherlock replied, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, before they take you away. I’m not technically with the police, so you can speak freely to me. I just want some small matters cleared up.”

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John laughed.

“There are some gaps in the story, John. I know you stole the treasure in 1944, I found record of your arrest- turned in by the curator’s jealous ex-lover- and I am aware the penal colony shut down in 1947…”

John headed over to the captain, Smith, and was examining him. His shoulder looked at least dislocated, and he was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head. His ear and part of his face had been shredded when he’d slid across the ground. 

“We need to get Small into the boat,” Jones chuckled, giving Sherlock a fond smile as an ambulance sang out in the distance, “I’m doing you a favor by not taking him the fast way by car so you have your chance to question him.”

Please don’t make Jones a thrall!

<I’m not! You know, some people simply naturally like me.>

Oh yeah? Name one.

<Shut up.> Sherlock ordered without vehemence.

Small was loaded into a craft via a life raft; John and Sherlock followed after and listened in rapt attention to his life story. An hour later they wandered the small deck, hand in hand and musing over the end of their case.

He’ll be better off in prison, John informed Sherlock, He’ll get a proper prosthetic leg- not some rotted out wooden one- and proper medical care. It’s practically a retirement plan.

<Well, if I ever tire of the idea of keeping bees in my graying years I’ll just rob a bank.>

That’s not funny.

<Who’s joking? Use a gun and it gets your sentence doubled!>

Bloody hell.

“Fascinating life, this man has led,” Sherlock remarked as they reviewed his written confession, “Losing his leg, being discharged from service to his country, squandering his youth on the streets in India, running with a gang, sentenced to life in a prison camp, fifty-seven years working off his sentence in that lumber yard under government supervision. Then Morstan and Sholto show up in 2000, two UK Navy men, one with a vacation home in the area and one on shore leave, who get themselves in trouble with the Indian government and end up in a work release program in the same lumber yard. They scam him, meaning to take the treasure for themselves, but Sholto gets released first and runs with it. Morstan goes home injured after the same 2004 earthquake and tsunami that freed Small of his imprisonment and- as far as we are aware- dies in front of the elder Sholto, who himself dies after receiving a threatening letter from Small after living in fear of him for four years.”

“Then Small returns to extract his revenge and finds himself facing the children of the men he swore revenge on. At least he wasn’t the one to kill Bart Sholto.”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, “Tonga thought he was doing right. He was a warrior after all, proud and noble. He only knew that Bart was an enemy of his beloved friend and healer; killing him meant protecting the man who saved his life during the tsunami. He probably felt he had to do so to repay his debt. It’s a pity we couldn’t have taken him alive, such a rare and proud people should be preserved. I would have liked to have him taken back to the island once more. Still, it can’t be helped. He was a threat to everyone with those deadly thorns.”

“Well, we have the treasure now,” John stated, looking down at the heavy box on the deck.

“Yes, and it is rightfully Thadeus Sholto’s,” Sherlock replied, “Though first the police will be taking custody of it and then I imagine the Indian government will want to buy it from him. He has agreed to split it completely with Mary and has charged me with returning it to him so it can be divided up. However… I think you should take it to Mary first and I’ve arranged it with Jones so you can show it to her. Women, I understand it, are impressed with gems and such.”

John blushed, “You’re sure?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “But she is my thrall and she’s been calling to me for some time now. It’s been cruel of me to keep her at a distance. You want her, you’ll have her.”

“I want to win her fair and square, Sherlock, I don’t want you influencing her,” John warned.

Sherlock nodded and smiled warmly, “You’ve my word, John. I won’t influence her. Woo her or fail on your own, but I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

“Thank you,” John replied, pressing a gentle kiss to his dragon lover’s cheek, “You’ve no idea what this means to me. I’ve missed a woman’s touch and voice. I love you desperately, but I was straight until you mucked about in my head and there’s a part of me that will always miss the softness and smell of a lady.”

“I suppose transsexuals won’t do?” Sherlock asked with a sad smile.

John laughed and cupped Sherlock’s pecks, “Probably not, but I won’t protest if you start growing something soft for me.”

Sherlock made a face, “I’ve already changed into a dragon and nearly lost my voice forever for it, do you really think my mental disposition could hold up to a sex change?”

“No, and I was joking anyw- hey!” John was nearly bowled over as Sherlock suddenly grabbed him and clung to him tightly, shaking from head to toe, “What is it? Sherlock? What happened?”

Sherlock turned John slightly and pointed to the wooden piping along the side of the police boat. John followed his eyes and saw something black sticking out of it.

<Don’t touch it!> Sherlock cautioned, his mental voice terrified.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

<Tonga’s thorn dart. You shot too late. He fired it off. He missed, thank gods, but he fired it off and I never even noticed! You could have died!>

John rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly as he stared in horror at the tiny bit of death stuck fast in the side of the boat. They’d reached the Yards dock and a panda wagon was waiting for Small. Sherlock transformed into a three-foot dragon and wrapped himself tightly around John’s torso and shoulders. John stroked his head, which rested on his shoulders, as he walked off the boat with the small, heavy chest in his hands. Jones was to escort him to Mrs. Forrester’s where the lock would be picked- the keys were tossed into the Thames by Small- and opened in front of Mary. After that it would go into evidence until after Small’s trial and then to Sholto and Mary to decide it’s final fate.

Sherlock was calm again by the time they reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s lovely town home. The small estate of which Mary was governess was warm and inviting, and they all three were led into the library where Mrs. Forrester and Mary waited with baited breath. Sherlock had picked the lock on the way over.

“We haven’t opened it yet,” John beamed, aiming to impress the soon-to-be-wealthy woman. He still doubted that she would want anything to do with him once she was rich, but he still wanted at least to see her beautiful smile, “You’ll be the first to set eyes on this treasure in years!”

John tugged at the lid, but it held fast, a bit more prying and he managed to tug it loose. A loud creak sounded as he opened the iron-lined strongbox to find…

“It’s empty!” Mrs. Forrester exclaimed in surprise.

“Thank gods!” John breathed in relief, “Now there’s nothing to stand between us!”

Mary looked up at him, her gorgeous eyes wide and a bit wet. John crossed the room to her and caught up both her hands.

“I couldn’t say anything when I thought you’d be rich; you’d have just thought I was after the treasure, but I’m not. I don’t care about money. I love you. I love your strength and your poise and your brilliant mind and your exquisite beauty. Marry me, Mary Morstan, and I’ll treat you like the most lustrous of pearls for all of your life. I’m not rich, but you’ll never want for affection.”

To John’s sorrow, Mary blushed, pulled her hands free, and looked hopefully towards Sherlock: “I can’t, John. I’m sorry. Sherlock’s made me his thrall, I’m to be his now.”

“That’s just it; Sherlock chose you for me. Not that you have to!” John added hastily, “It’s your choice.”

“For… you?” Mary asked, a strange look crossing her face as she looked back and forth between them both.

“Yes. We’re together, he and I, and it’s a bit odd, but you’ll get used to it. You sort of have to, actually, he changes you slowly over time.”

“He’s with you?” Mary asked, her voice squeaking a bit.

“Well… yes… you wouldn’t have to see it if it bothers you. Sherlock and I can keep that part private, same between you and I.”

<Not a chance in hell. If you’re fucking someone, I’m watching.>

Sherlock! We’ll talk about this later.

<I’ve got that weird feeling from her again…>

“Oh, no! I’d want to be with both of you!” Mary cooed, pressing against John and holding a hand out for Sherlock to join them.

“Oh, well, ah, I’m not sure that’s possible. Sherlock isn’t attracted to women at all,” John stammered, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly.

“Not in the least,” Sherlock replied with a look of disgust.

Mary pushed out of John’s arms, her face twisted in rage.

“You’re joking! All this time?! There’s no chance?!”

“Mary,” John coaxed, confused by her sudden change in demeanor, “You can still be with me, and Sherlock will be a part of it just… not sexually. I know it sounds limiting but…”

<John, I’m certain of it now. She’s been hiding part of herself from me! Something isn’t right! It feels dirty!>

Sherlock, she’s a woman. Try not to let your heterophobia get in the way of…

“SON OF A BITCH!” Mary shrieked, stomping her foot angrily, “Do you have any idea how hard I worked? How difficult it was to find Small? To locate a dragon inexperienced enough with telepathy to trick?”

“Trick?” John echoed, a feeling of dread welling up inside him.

Mary blanched and Sherlock stepped forward, his face enraged. He grabbed Mary’s arm and jerked her towards himself. His free hand he gripped her jaw with and stared deeply into her eyes.

“Sherlock!” John called out, but found himself unable to move forward as pain suddenly lanced through his head.

John slumped down to the floor, and with a sharp cry Mary joined him there. When he hazarded to rise again her eyes were empty of life, her body a shell of the human being she once was. Standing over her shaking in rage was Sherlock’s dragon form- all 12 feet of him- knocking over books and dislodging pictures from the walls. Mrs. Forrester fled the room screaming like a banshee. Sherlock roared in apparent rage and his claw came down on John as though to step on and crush him. John cried out and rolled, putting his arms up, but there was no way to escape the giant wyrm in the confines of the now very crowded library. Sherlock pinned him down as though with a cage of flesh and the world around him suddenly jerked and twisted.

When John was able to move again he was someplace dark, cold, and damp. He could feel the dragon hovering over his body, could hear his angry snarls, could vaguely see his eyes glowing in the darkness above him; but he couldn’t hear the Sherlock. No matter how much he cried out to him, verbally or mentally, Sherlock only growled and hissed like a giant angry cat.

John rolled onto his stomach, intending on getting away from Sherlock, as he suddenly felt afraid of him for the first time since they’d met. His hands met cold circles on the floor and he slipped as they slid beneath him, sharp stones and bits of metal poked and prodded him. Sherlock gripped John’s arm with one massive claw and dragged him bodily up what felt like a hill of coins. At the top John was thrown down in a groove almost like a nest, there he cowered amidst the coins, grateful the sharp odds and ends weren’t in this part, and shivered in the cold… cave?

Oh, my gods. Coins? Bits of metal? Stones? Dark and isolated? This is Sherlock’s hoard! I’m in his nest!

Just because I wanted to look it up and thought you might to, here is a Police motorboat on the Thames

Chapter 19:

Warning:

PWP WARNING
BESTIALITY/ANTHROMORPHIC WARNING
DON’T LIKE, GO TO NEXT CHAPTER

This chapter is entirely skippable; there will be little plot, and what there is will be re-capped in the next chapter sans the kink. (BTW, I find it hilarious that my computer tried to correct skippable to shippable. LOL. My Mac ships dragon!lock harder than you do!)

There are TWO, count it, TWO dragon sex scenes below. The first is what I originally wrote and the second is when I was like ‘let’s take this shit up a notch’.  (No, they don't have sex twice, I couldn't decide what kind of PENIS I wanted Sherlock to have.) They both start out the same, so just keep reading… you’ll see the difference soon enough.

Dragon Mating

Dragons mate for two other reasons besides reproduction; they can have recreational sex in their human forms, and they can have what is known as ‘hoard claiming’. Hoard claiming occurs when a dragon feels their hoard, nest, eggs, or mate has been threatened in some way. Since mother dragons are more ferocious and their abilities heightened, breeding a male or female dragon inside of a nest is a way to protect a hoard, as well as providing the dragon with heirs should it die defending its wealth.

During non-recreational sex, a dragon is reduced to a feral state, their mind retreating and animalistic urges coming to the front. While it has been said that dragons are tender lovers, there is no substantial proof to back this myth up. Should a dragon breed a human partner during, that human will most likely not be harmed so long as they were an existing thrall. Dragons raping humans in a hoard claiming frenzy has occurred, but it is usually partially a defense mechanism which occurs when a human stumbles across or otherwise raids their caves. Non-thrall humans rarely survive the claiming process, and the egg will never form.

See Also: Dragon Biology, Dragon Reproduction, Interspecies Dragon Reproduction, Dragon Nesting and Hoards, Dragon Behavior during Gestation/Impregnation, and Dragon Behavior during Nesting.

Writh

John curled up, trembling in terror. He heard a sudden intake of breath and held his own as he waited for the flesh curling pain that would accompany Sherlock’s deluge of boiling water. It never came. Instead Sherlock shifted away from him and apparently breathed into the pile of metal John was ensconced in. The metal beneath him warmed to an uncomfortable heat and he hissed and pulled his hands away, grateful for his thick jumper. He soon regretted it as his body broke into a drenching sweat to accommodate for the stifling heat rising off of the coins.

Sherlock had returned, and was once more crowding John down onto his side on the coins. John rolled onto his back and pushed up against Sherlock’s torso, shouting at him once again.

“Don’t bloody sit on me! What the fuck is wrong with you?! It’s me! John! Sherlock! Snap out of it! Sherlock!”

Sherlock paused in his shifting about, his body covering John’s as though to protect him, but John had never been more terrified in his life. Then Sherlock began to croon softly, making deep purring and keening noises that vibrated his entire torso. John was instantly calmed, his body going limp beneath Sherlock’s as that soothing feeling he got when Sherlock spoke in his mind swept through him. John sighed in relief. This was still his Sherlock. The thrall hadn’t somehow been broken. John had no idea what was going on, but Sherlock wasn’t going to kill him.

Then, quite suddenly, John knew exactly what was going on, because Sherlock lifted a claw and shredded his jumper from top to bottom in one quick motion. John yelped and then found a way to literally hold perfectly still while Sherlock repeated the action with his trousers, taking his pants out with the same motion. John was left in socks and shoes, which the dragon apparently had no concern for as he crouched down and rubbed a slick member as thick as John’s arm against his thigh.

“Oh gods, no! Snap out of it, Sherlock! You’ll tear me apart with that thing!”

John tried to scramble away on the (thankfully no longer scorching hot) coins, but they slipped and slid and he ended up captured in one gigantic claw and pinned down. Sherlock’s ‘hand’ was braced against his shoulder blades, and John was painfully aware that his bare arse was propped up in the air. John was then left to question his sanity, as the slick length that touched his hip this time was no thicker than his own cock was when erect… then suddenly thinned even further. Was the dragon no longer aroused?

Sherlock crooned lovingly and John had heard these noises from his dragon friend before, but they were usually accompanied by words in his mind to translate the dragonese. Sherlock’s mind was locked away; all John sensed was a wild aching need that was quickly pumping the blood south in John’s own body. John was too aroused to fight back, sobbing as desire robbed him of every sense except the need for completion. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, waiting to be bred. Sherlock rumbled his approval and John felt something wet and thin press against his twitching entrance.

Sherlock had stopped pinning him down and John’s body arched instinctively in anticipation of what his lust-dulled mind was screaming at him was about to happen. He gasped, winced, yelped, moaned, and ground back in turns as his hole was swiftly penetrated by something wet that started out small and slid inside with a bit of burn before starting to thicken. It wriggled and teased and pressed deep inside him, stroking his prostate at odd moments without apparent intent. John was aching and crying out, pressing back for more. The member inside of him twisted like a corkscrew, thoroughly buggering John over and again without need to even move either of their hips. Sometimes it was thin and long, sometimes thick and short. When it began to press deeper inside, John literally felt the moment it reached the curve in his bowels. John cried out, but was too far gone to form a cohesive sentence let alone demand Sherlock stop.

The prehensile cock inside of him arched and pressed deeper inside his body, following its natural curve without pain. John did, however, feel well and thoroughly penetrated in ways he had never imagined. His breathing had become shallow and he was seeing eruptions of light flash before his eyes in the darkness. John’s mind, buried beneath the lust and instinctive urges, told him he was about to pass out, but he was helpless and being thoroughly plundered by a twelve foot dragon.

He had never wanted to come so desperately in his entire life.

Sherlock’s unbelievable prick pulled back, thickened, stroked John’s prostate relentlessly, and then buried itself once more deep inside his body. Sherlock roared, his mighty voice echoing off the darkened walls. John screamed as he felt heat flood his body and his abdomen swelled, the stretch painful as his body protested the expansion. As John drew a gasping breath back in, his own body relented to the onslaught of pleasure and he came sobbing beneath the crooning dragon.

John sagged to one side, panting and sweating and suddenly grateful for the hot coins against his aching muscles. He rolled onto his back, groaning at the pressure against his bladder from the protrusion in his belly. The blackness was made complete when he slid helplessly into unconsciousness.

Rod

“Oh gods, no! Snap out of it, Sherlock! You’ll tear me apart with that thing!”

John tried to scramble away on the (thankfully no longer scorching hot) coins, but they slipped and slid and he ended up captured in one gigantic claw and pinned down. Sherlock’s ‘hand’ was braced against his shoulder blades, and John was painfully aware that his bare arse was propped up in the air. Thankfully, Sherlock took that moment to move his hips away from him, though John suspected it had more to do with proportions since a twelve foot dragon would have difficulty both pinning and mounting a man under six feet.

Sherlock slid down and John relaxed at the space put between him and that engorged… thing. It hadn’t felt like a proper dick. It had been narrow at the tip, had bumps or ridges along the shaft, and had swollen at the base until it was thick enough around to maim him.

John felt Sherlock’s muzzle press against him, nuzzling him affectionately as he crooned lovingly. John had heard these noises from his dragon friend before, but they were usually accompanied by words in his mind to translate the dragonese. Sherlock’s mind was locked away; all he sensed was a wild aching need that was quickly pumping the blood south in John’s own body. 

Sherlock stopped pinning him down and his snout slid lower and lower until John’s body arched instinctively in anticipation of what his lust-dulled mind was screaming at him was about to happen. Sherlock’s long forked tongue slid out and stroked along his cleft, slick in parts and rough in others. He gasped, winced, yelped, moaned, and ground back in turns as his hole was thoroughly saturated. When Sherlock’s tongue pressed inside him he nearly hyperventilated on sensory overload. It wriggled and teased and pressed deep inside him, stroking his prostate at odd moments without apparent intent. John was aching and crying out, pressing back for more, when Sherlock abruptly pulled away and mounted him again.

John was too aroused to fight back, sobbing as desire robbed him of all logic except the need for completion. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, waiting to be bred. Sherlock rumbled his approval and John felt something wet and spongy press against his entrance. John moaned and pushed back, but the dragon growled in frustration and pulled away. John wriggled on the heated pile of coins, calling out Sherlock’s name as his body thrummed for release. The large dragon circled him, making angry clicking and growling noises and shifting coins about, but when he mounted him again John could feel his body was smaller. This time when the slick shaft pressed against him John got what he was craving, but not in the way he’d expected.

Sherlock’s long, slick cock was still big enough to burn on entry, despite the slick stretching he’d had from the dragon’s tongue. It started with shallow thrusts, leaving John frustrated and gripping at a two fistfuls of coins. As it pushed in further it got thicker and John began to pull away, but the ridged shaft inside him was made to go in easy… and stay there. John gasped as he felt himself stretched wider and wider with each wet thrust. Tears were running down his cheeks and he lowered his forehead to the hot coins and braced himself for the worst.

Sherlock stilled. John panted. It took him a moment to realize the dragon was completely inside of him. He felt the head of the dragon’s member begin to swell and Sherlock groan/growled above him, the sound throaty and invigorating as it resonated down his long body and through his cock into John’s trembling passage. John moaned and the ridges stroked his prostate firmly during the slide out. John had been so aroused by Sherlock’s untamed state that he had remained hard despite the ache in his body. Now he gasped and panted as Sherlock began to thrust in and out of his body. When the dragon pulled away John’s knees would lift off the bed of coins beneath him and he would slowly slide off the dragon’s cock, the smaller ridges each stroking his prostate in turn, until the now swollen head of the cock was all that remained inside. Then Sherlock would plunge back down and John would scream in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

On this went until John was desperate to come, but his body still refused to obey him; he couldn’t simply reach between his thighs and stroke himself to completion. John began to beg, loud and frantic, shouting for Sherlock to let him come. He had no idea if the dragon could even understand him any more, but he could feel a subtle shift in his movements. Sherlock sped up, John’s knees aching as they were repeatedly lifted, dropped, and pressed into the coins. John felt his bollocks draw up tight, then gasped as Sherlock seated himself fully and threw his head back, roaring out his climax. John joined him, screaming in a mixture of agony and unbridled pleasure as his own body released across the coins even as Sherlock’s seed stretched out his abdomen. His body ached as it protested the unnatural expansion, but John was helpless beneath his dragon. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, the dragon’s prick softened, the ridges retreated, and he slid free from John’s body.

John sagged to one side, panting and sweating and suddenly grateful for the hot coins against his aching muscles. He rolled onto his back, groaning at the pressure against his bladder from the protrusion in his belly. He was asleep before any conscious thought could reach him.

Chapter 20: Pregnant

John awoke with a groan and a cramping pain in his abdomen. He shifted on what was apparently a hard and scratchy surface before he gave up on movement and simply went limp and whimpered. For a horrible moment the heat, pain, dehydration, and darkness made him think he was back in Afghanistan, buried beneath a collapsed tent and surrounded by rotting corpses.

“Sherlock,” John sobbed, tears starting up.

“Hush, love, I’m here. I’ll take care of you,” Sherlock spoke gently, and John felt a cool hand on his fevered forehead.

“M’pain,” John choked.

“I know. I’m sorry. You’re going to hurt for a few days, and then it will all be over. I promise. In the meanwhile I’m going to take care of you, love.”

Love. Love. Sherlock was calling him his love. That wasn’t right. Sherlock couldn’t love; had told him so.

“Oh, gods, I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“No,” Sherlock laughed, “But you may want to kill me when you’re able to move again. I’m going to transform and lift you up. You need to be on something softer than a pile of gold coins.”

“Where the fuck did you get gold coins from?” John muttered, but Sherlock had transformed and scooped him up.

John was lowered back down on something soft and he sighed in relief. His tired body ached and he felt unaccountably full. His body took that moment to air out several fresh protests now that immediate pain had been eased.

“Sherlock, this is awkward, but I need to piss,” John groaned, “And I think the other, too. Oh, fuck, and I think I’m gonna puke.”

Sherlock took care of him, his dragon form lifting him effortlessly and with utmost gentleness. John found himself ankle deep in a flowing stream, gently supported by a tail wrapped around his torso beneath his armpits. He wanted to drop down and lay in the cold water, but Sherlock immediately told him he couldn’t.

<You must stay hot. I know the fever burns you and makes your mind foggy, but it is necessary. Trust me, love.>

John groaned but followed Sherlock’s instructions. He let his bowels go and flushed in shame, but was soon past that worry as he doubled over to be violently sick. Sherlock washed him gently, spilling hot water down his body to cleanse him before carrying him back to the nest. John discovered why the coins were so hot beneath him then as Sherlock vanished a moment and then let out a shuddering breath. The dragon was heating the coins with steam! Sherlock left John a moment to replenish his fluids at the stream and then returned with what felt like a jewel encrusted goblet full of fresh, clean mountain water… which the bastard had heated before giving him. John swallowed it down gratefully anyway.

“What… what happened?”

“You don’t recall?” Sherlock asked.

“No, where are my clothes and why is it so dark? I figured out the hoard part, so you can skip that.”

Sherlock was silent a moment then sighed and carefully explained: “You’re lying on the remnants of your clothes and a few scraps of material I’ve collected for you. I’m suppressing and calming your mind, which is probably why you don’t recall what happened. You will eventually. I need you to stay completely calm at all times. Any wrong move could be disastrous. I will help you stand, walk, everything. Wake me up if I’m asleep, but I doubt I’ll sleep for the next few days. I mean this, John. You absolutely must be careful. I might be able to find you a torch amongst this mess if you like.”

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me,” John replied, though he really didn’t feel it; he felt numb and distant from his own mind.

“You’re egg heavy, John. I’ve laid an egg inside you and it’s still forming. Right now it’s like a water balloon and it could pop if you move around too much or even bear down. Once it hardens you’ll push it out safely, and I’m told it isn’t as bad as you might think. Then you can leave here if you need to, but I’ll be staying to care for our child until he or she is ready to hatch.”

“Oh,” John replied, his mind still a bit hazy from the fever and Sherlock’s influence, “So I should just rest, then?”

“Yes.”

John’s eyes slid shut and he slipped into a deep slumber, waking only to eat what tasted like boiled meat and vegetables. It was very bland, but he was hungry. Sherlock held and caressed him, massaging his aching body and pressing kisses to him constantly. John was ill again at one point, but Sherlock merely tucked him back down, heated his bed of coins again, and left to bring him back more food.

John had no sense of time, but he was aware of Sherlock leaving and returning. When the dragon left sometimes panic crept in and he would cry or start to think of harming the ‘egg’ growing inside of him. He would turn on the torch Sherlock had left him and look around at the treasures and wonder if he could escape the cave, but he couldn’t even see the walls from where he crouched in a nest of gold. Yet when Sherlock returned, so did peace and he would relax into his lover's touch without hesitation.

He slept almost constantly and when he was awake he was a bathed and fed like an infant. An infant is what you’ll have soon, a part of John’s mind supplied, but when he touched his abdomen it all felt completely surreal.

Eventually John woke to find Sherlock gone and an odd scuffling sound around him. Confused he sat up and turned on his torch. Soon an answering light appeared and he looked up to see lights and shadows appearing from a gapping hole high up above him.

“There’s someone down there,” A voice called, “but it’s at least a forty foot drop.”

“Hello?” John called, his mind struggling out of the stupor Sherlock left him in.

<Don’t let them touch you! Your gun is with your clothes. Use it!>

John had spied it a bit ago and checked it over for something to do. He caste about for it now, annoyed that his frazzled mind made him forget where it was. Soon he had it in hand and watched as the light bobbed and slowly moved downward.

They’re repelling into the cave.

<Shoot them on sight. I’m coming back now.>

John couldn’t see them enough to shoot them just yet, but three lights were coming closer, slipping on coins and gemstones as they sought out John’s light. It struck John then that he’d probably have better luck in the dark and he turned off his torch.

“John?” Mycroft’s voice called out, “John Watson? Is that you? It’s Mycroft. Do you know me?”

“You have to leave,” John replied back, “I’m ordered to kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on me.”

“You need medical attention, John. We know what happened with Mary.”

“Mary?” John’s mind floundered and somewhere deep inside he ached. The pain brought back a flood of memories and John lowered the weapon, if only because his hands were shaking too much to fire it.

“We can get you out of here before he returns,” Mycroft soothed, and John could see the light from his hat approaching closer, “We can take you someplace safe where he can’t hurt you again.”

“Sherlock would never hurt me,” John replied, lifting the weapon again.

Something wasn’t right. Mycroft wouldn’t say those things, and he certainly wasn’t going to repel into a darkened cave for John. For Sherlock, perhaps, but not for John.

Or for Sherlock’s egg!

John fired, three shots in the darkness, and the sound of screams echoed in the cave. For a split second he was back in Afghanistan and his panic had him vaulting over the side of the nest edge, sliding out of his warm ledge of coins and down to the cave floor where the gems were sharp and the surrounding area cold. John’s mind came crashing back to reality and he froze in horror. He touched his abdomen where the lump beneath his skin was hard and painful. Sherlock’s child. His child. John was shaking in fear. He could feel the fever leaving him and it terrified him. He had to keep warm. How long before his temperature dropped enough to harm the egg?

Sherlock’s angry roar filled the cavern, the scrape of scales and claws on stone grated on his ears, and then the loud thump as he simply dropped onto all fours rather than land gracefully. Sherlock growled and hissed, and John could hear as well as feel him moving up the mound of coins to seek John out.

“I’m here! I’m here, but I’m getting cold!” John called out.

Sherlock’s wings beat the air and he came down and scooped John up into a gentle embrace. John was deposited back on his warm haven, the coins quickly heated until John hissed in discomfort, but he bore it and laid out flat to absorb the heat better. Sherlock hovered over him, adding his own bodily warmth and John felt the fever returning with a hazy lull over his mind.

“I fell,” John slurred, “I fell and I’m scared for our child.”

Sherlock keened, his long head snaking around so he could nose gently at John’s abdomen. He turned him gently onto his side and sniffed deeply at his entrance, but seemed eased by whatever he found.

<I don’t smell death. You are far along; the young one may be safe. We will know when you lay it in a few hours time.>

“That soon?” John asked. It all felt a daze. Most people had months to prepare.

<The egg won’t hatch for a while, but yes, that soon and you’ll be free to move about again. Sleep. You’ll want to be calm later.>

“Did I kill your brother?”

Sherlock snorted, <No. He was talking over a radio of sorts.>

“Oh, good. Lestrade would be devastated.”

<Doubtlessly.>

Chapter 21: Egg Laying

WARNING - Egg laying.

John woke to a cramping feeling reminiscent of stomach flu and called for Sherlock’s help. The dragon, however, was crooning and nuzzling John rather than helping him and John soon found his muscles acting of their own accord. John groaned and felt the lump moving lower in his body. He laid his hand across his abdomen, amazed as he felt the egg shifting. There was a horrid tearing feeling and John felt warmth spill out of him and smelled the sharp copper tang of blood, but the sharp pain soon dulled to an ache as the egg slid lower in his body. When it reached the muscles John found he had to reach beneath himself and stretch them as he would in preparation for sex. He could feel the egg now, its shell hard and hot, and he used both hands to hold himself open for its passage.

John bore down let out several panting cries as the egg finally slid from his body. He could feel his entrance twitching and trying to close back up. More blood was spilling out of him and he groaned in pain. He’d lost more blood than he’d thought and was starting to panic. Sherlock leaned down, his tongue lathing across John’s entrance and slipping inside. He felt the pain ease and recalled a dragon’s natural healing ability. John lay back on the coins, content to let Sherlock care for him as the creature caressed his body; apparently bathing him at the same time he healed him. The entire process couldn’t have taken more than an hour and John was asleep again in minutes.

Chapter 22: All Things Treasured

When John woke up it was to find himself cast out of the nest. He was still comfortable, having been placed on his bundle of shredded clothes and sheets in a grove just below the nest, but he was decidedly kicked out. Sherlock was wrapped around it in dragon form, crooning and nuzzling the coins every once and a while. John tried to get close to see his egg, but slid down the slope again. He was sore but not in excruciating pain, though he could have used a pill or two.

“Hey! Don’t I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor?” John snipped.

He heard Sherlock mentally chuckle and felt something brush his ankle. It was Sherlock’s tail, which John gripped and used to climb up to the nest. Once he reached it he was alarmed at the heat coming off of it.

“Is this safe?”

<My instincts say so, but many dragon eggs don’t survive because this wasn’t originally how we were supposed to reproduce; it’s an adaptation and our instincts for it are still quite new.>

Sherlock sounded worried and that worried John, who leaned down and gently brushed coins off of their tiny prize. The egg was about the size of a duck egg, perhaps a bit larger but not as big as a goose egg. When he touched the shell it didn’t feel fragile like a hen egg did, it felt more like a rock, though the texture was smooth.

“Our child is in there,” John breathed.

<Yes.>

“Is there anything we should do? Get a dragonologist to look at him or something?”

<Him?>

“I dunno, better than ‘it’.”

Sherlock chuckled and gently covered the egg over with coins again, warning John to step back. Once John was clear Sherlock breathed steam across the coins to heat them again, tested the temperature with his nose, and repeated the action. John was sweating from the proximity alone.

<We can care for her together.>

“Her?”

<You say him, I’ll say her. One of us will be right.>

John laughed a bit and then scrambled down the edge with the torch pointed in front of him. He made it to the stream and sorely missed Sherlock’s warm presence as he bathed sans hot dragon breath. Once he was feeling more human again he carefully crawled back up the pile, nicking himself on a few gems, and sprawled out in the pile. Sherlock was a bit far away for casual conversation so John decided to think at him.

Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to start a family? I’d have been ecstatic.

<It wasn’t a conscious decision. I reacted to Mary’s betrayal.>

I’m still more than a bit fuzzy on that, especially the part where you killed her.

Sherlock sighed and shifted above him.

<You’re angry and hurt and sad. I didn’t want you to feel that way. I’m sorry you are hurt, but not for my actions. She was not who you thought she was. She tricked us both, and for that I am truly sorry.>

That doesn’t change the fact that I love her, Sherlock.

<I’m partly to blame for that. I saw how attracted to her you were and pushed it a bit. I wanted you to be happy and thought you would be if you had a woman in your life.>

So my feelings for her aren’t real?

<No.>

John spent some time thinking on that and curled up tighter.

They feel real. They hurt. I hurt. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest. I keep playing her death over and over in my head and it kills me that you were the one who killed her.

<She isn’t dead.>

She…. What? John sat up, hope blossoming in his chest again, but Sherlock made a strange, pained sound.

<John, she’s not alive, either. Mary’s brain has been destroyed. She’s on life support at St. Bart’s. It was the only way to break the thrall. Eventually, if I just left her be, she’d have killed herself anyway. Or she would have defied the attachment and become malicious. She was trying to get to my hoard the entire time, John. She never wanted you; she wanted to entice me into breeding her because she knew that dragons only breed on top of their hoards. She would have stolen all my treasure and my egg and held the last for ransom against Mycroft. She knows who he is, or at least has a good idea, and that he is desperate to keep our family going- especially from me in the hopes I’ll breed another dragon heir.>

I don’t believe you. You jumped to conclusions, Sherlock; you couldn’t even properly read her mind!

<John, don’t you remember what she said? She admitted to tricking us. She lured in Small. All of it was to get to a bigger treasure than her father had tried to get from Small; my hoard.>

Damn you and your hoard!!

<That’s why I brought you here, John. You don’t care. Not about treasure and not about deceit. You care about me. You do still care about me, don’t you?>

John rubbed at his eyes, sniffling miserably. A part of him knew Sherlock was right, but another part was miserable and missing the perfect woman he had envisioned in Mary.

<John? I love you. Do you still love me?>

Yes…

“Yes,” John sobbed, because it needed to be said out loud.

After a time of silence between the two, John finally calmed himself down enough to ask a rather important question.

How long will he be in there?

<Several months. We’ll feel her moving when it’s time. You can leave if you like, but I have to stay. If you want to stay I can have Lestrade bring you a few things. Do you want me to relay what you need?>

Yeah. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A couple bars of soap. Some clothes. I assume you’ll still be bringing food in?

<I’ll leave to get it for short periods of time, yes.>

Salt. Pepper. A bag of chocolates.

<Anything else?>

No. That will do. Where are you getting the food?

<Local farmer. Mycroft is paying him off. I think that’s how he found my hoard.>

He didn’t know where it was before?

<No, you’re the only person who’s ever seen it.>

I’m honored.

<You’re my mate now. It’s as much yours as mine. You can have something, if you like, to symbolize that. Most dragons will court their mate by giving them a gift from their hoard. It’s the only time we willingly part with anything.>

I don’t want anything, but thank you.

<Please? I want you to have something. I feel… incomplete.>

Okay. I’ll look around.

John spent a few hours exploring the cave, but soon felt too tired to do much of else. He sat himself down on a pile of smooth stones that appeared to have been collected for no other reason than that they were smooth.

What are these?

<Soapstones.>

Why are they here? They aren’t precious or rare, and they probably don’t heat up well, either.

<I like them.>

Are they a part of your hoard?

<Yes.>

Do you have other things in here without monetary value?

<Some odds and ends from my childhood, some scraps of cloth- which you’ve been bedding on- you, and our egg. Things that matter to me but aren’t valuable otherwise.>

What were the cloths?

<The sheets I was wrapped in the first time I transformed. They still have stains from my blood on them, despite having been washed several times.>

The toys? Where are they?

<Near the back. They were the first things I brought here.>

Where did you get all the gold?

<I stole it, of course. That’s what dragons do. I took some from various pawn shops, collectors, museums, and a chest of it from Buckingham Palace.>

You’re joking!

<The Queen sent me a letter afterwards. Apparently she was most impressed. I have it in the same chest in a plastic bag to keep it getting damp.>

That’s brilliant! I have to read it.

<It’s well buried. I’ll dig it up for you once she hatches.>

All right.

John sat quietly for a few moments and then began sorting through the soapstone pile, running his hand over each and holding them up to the light of his torch. Eventually he found one that was roughly shaped like Sherlock’s head while he was in dragon form. He smiled and brought it to his lips to kiss it’s ‘snout’ gently.

Can I have this?

<Yes, though I haven’t the foggiest idea why you’d want it.>

For the same reason you collected it. I like it.

<Then it’s yours, with my love.>

Your love. I never thought I’d have that.

Sherlock didn’t reply. He was busy crooning to their egg again and shifting coins around. John wove his way back to his little demi-nest and curled up with his soapstone clutched tightly in one hand.

John didn’t recall his dream, though he did remember the sensations and would for years to come. What made this dream different than every other erotic dream was that he woke up to the feel of a hot channel clenched around his aching erection. John gasped, and gripped the hips of whoever was slowly riding him to mindlessly thrust up into that wet heat.

“Oh, Johhhnnn!” Sherlock groaned.

John moaned heatedly, trying to slow himself but unable to calm the throbbing desire that had swallowed him whole. He had no idea how much preparation Sherlock had given himself, if the man had adequate lubrication (it felt it) or if he had wanted John to participate or simply lie passively by and be taken. All he knew was he was finally, finally inside Sherlock Holmes and it was everything he’d imagined it to be. Sherlock’s tight passage clenched on every plunge and tried to suck him back in whenever the man rose up on his slim legs.

John remembered to seek out Sherlock’s prostate and started rotating his hips until Sherlock let out a strangled cry. John gripped his cock and tossed him off as quickly as he could, keeping the angle the same and listening to the dragon-man gasp and grunt in pleasure. Sherlock’s muscles massaged John’s throbbing shaft as he painted John’s chest with his ejaculate. Sherlock sagged into his arms and lay there, panting and clutching at him as John frantically pushed up into him a few more times before grunting out his own release.

“Oh, wow,” John breathed, “That… that was brilliant. That was… oh, gods. Sherlock, what… what wonderful thought brought that on?”

“I wanted sex, you were erect and moaning, and you are likely still too sore from birthing our child.”

John was silent a moment and then burst out laughing.

“So all I had to do to get you to spread your pretty white arsecheeks was lay a fucking egg? Bloody hell!”

Sherlock chuckled against John’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck, but soon pulled away.

“The baby?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, kissing him in the darkness, “She needs constant heat.”

John sighed as the dragon slipped away on four sure feet and the whisper of wings. He was content in ways that had nothing to do with sexual satisfaction. He still ached, and he doubted he would ever be able to love another woman again, but he had Sherlock and he was hardly a consolation prize. More than that, he had their child to look forward to: a small piece of himself and the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

John slipped down to the stream to clean himself up again and staggered back, mentally adding ‘head lamp’ and ‘lantern’ to the list of things Lestrade should bring. Sherlock laughed at him and he ignored him and curled up for more healing sleep.

Chapter 23: The Frustrations of Being a Thrall

John was awoken by shouting and thrashed himself back into consciousness .

“Oi! John! Get yer arse up here! I’m not fucking climbing anymore!”

“Wha? Greg?” John asked, shining his weak torch in the direction of the brighter light hovering many feet above his head.

“Yeah, errand boy Greg! You get fucking laid on a pile of gold and what do I get? I get to spelunking in a damp cave! You know there are fucking human remains out here? Human remains! Propped up on sticks like some kind of tribal warning! The fuck is going on here?”

“Greg, I just shat out an egg, shot three people defending it while pregnant, and I’m really fucking tired. Toss everything down if you aren’t going to come any further.”

“You laid an egg? Really?”

“Yeah. Out my bum. Now I’d really like to brush my teeth and bathe with actual soap so…?”

Lestrade grumbled to himself and then started repelling down. Sherlock hadn’t moved the entire time and John had no idea if he was commenting silently or if he was even awake. A step or two closer revealed heat still coming off the nest in waves. Lestrade hit the ground and staggered over, tripping over treasure and various odds and ends.

“The fuck are you naked?”

“Sherlock shredded my clothes.”

Lestrade paused a moment and John watched him process those words.

“Nope. Nope. Don’t want to know. Here’s your shit.”

“Thanks,” John replied amicably, accepting the bag of things he’d requested.

“You staying?”

“Yeah, though I might wander out once I’ve healed a bit more. Walking’s a bit painful and exhausting at the moment. How hard is the trip in here?”

“It’s about 20 feet of ‘where the fuck do I put my feet’ but it’s not impossible. It’s some kind of a cave, the entrance to which- did I mention?- has fucking human bodies propped up in front of it.”

“You mentioned, yeah,” John shrugged, “Talk to Sherlock about it.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade muttered as though it were a swear, “Sherlock wants me to talk to Mycroft.”

“About his little invasion of our nest? Pity. I’d like to be the one to talk to him about it.”

“You’re welcome to it. I’m trying to woo the man and Sherlock wants me to go demand answers from him. Fucking hell.”

“Maybe it will lead to angry sex?” John suggested with a shrug.

Lestrade snorted and started making his way up the nest to Sherlock and the egg.

“I’m not so sure…” John began to warn, but was cut off by Sherlock raising his head and roaring at Lestrade. The poor sod toppled backwards and slid down the mound of coins and sharp stones.

“I’m so fucking done with this!” Lestrade roared, flailing and writhing about as he tried to get his legs back under him. “I’m so fucking done with it all!”

John had tugged on a pair of pants and shoes and was scrambling down to Lestrade to help him up. The man shoved John off angrily.

“Do you have any idea what this is like?” Lestrade roared at him, “I never fucking wanted this! I had a fiancée! I had a life! I was fucking straight a month ago! Now I’m mooning over some poncy twit with a brolly fetish, with a dragon haunting my head, and no fucking life left to speak of!”

“Yeah, well I was turned gay, then forced into loving a woman who wanted Sherlock for his hoard, watched her get her brain turned into mush, only to be brought back here and bred like a fucking dog in heat! Then I had to lay an egg, which I can barely get near because of the heat- despite the fact my child is in there- and I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead!”

They both stood there panting in silence, then Lestrade took a step closer to John who shoved him angrily.

“I’m… I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Sherlock.”

“I love him! I fucking love him and that probably isn’t even real either!” John raged.

“Course it is, you two are perfect for each other…”

“Why? Because he changed me to be? I’m a puppet, Greg! I’m a marionette.”

“You’re… not… you’re… shit…”

“I’m fucking Pinocchio, but nobody’s cut my strings! I’d die for him and I don’t even know if that’s him or me talking! I have killed for him, and I’d do it again! What kind of life is that?”

“Easy John, easy,” Lestrade soothed, trying to get close enough to comfort him as John continued to stomp and rage around room, kicking at gemstones and overturning cases of coins and jewels.

John turned on him to tell him off again, but arms encircled his waist and pulled him tight against a very hot and very naked body. John went limp, sobbing brokenly as Sherlock eased him to the ground and held him tightly. John laid his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and wailed out his misery like a child, letting all the pain and sorrow flow. Sherlock held him and rocked him for several minutes before whispering that he had to care for their child and gently passing him to Lestrade. John curled into Lestrade’s arms; face buried against the man’s dusty shirt, and sobbed brokenly. Lestrade petted his hair and muttered soothing words, but their questions remained unanswered.

Chapter 24: Manipulation

Lestrade left them after a few hours of snuggling with John, which they both muttered was a ‘this never leaves the cave’ scenario. Lestrade informed John that the cave was on the Holmes’ property, and that it had been there for centuries… as well as some of the treasure. Apparently Sherlock’s distant dragon heir had utilized it as well, but the location had been kept secret. Sherlock, after much prodding, admitted he had found it by scent. Apparently he could smell gold for miles away.

<I’ve added to it considerably!> Sherlock replied tartly, speaking of his hoard with pride.

“Bragging about stealing,” John sighed, “You’re better than that.”

<I’m a dragon. It’s what we do. Why do you think I get nasty looks whenever we pass a jewelry shop? There are even laws allowing me to take a certain amount of items from a shop. The government recoups the losses to the owner, but they still aren’t happy with the situation.>

“I imagine not,” John chortled, “If the country weren’t run by dragons I imagine they wouldn’t be happy with it, either.”

<They weren’t. They made a big deal about it and told me to go back to my land of origin, conquer it, and steal from their people instead. That’s why I stole the chest from Buckingham Palace. I wanted to prove they weren’t better than me.>

“I’m ashamed of how impressed I am, and of how much that made sense to me.”

Sherlock snorted and went back to ignoring him in favor of crooning over their egg. He hummed sometimes, a tuneless melody that seemed to John to sound like very distant wind howling in trees or across a moor. As John rebuilt his strength by climbing about the cave and exploring the nooks and crannies, he often heard the dragon transform into his human shape and talk to their egg as well. Sherlock continued to hunt for them, bringing back food, skinning it, and boiling it with his dragon ability. He buried the entrails and skins, apparently.

John ventured outside the cave that same day to soak up some sunlight and the swim in a nearby lake that fed their little cave’s stream. He’d encountered one or two of Mycroft’s men patrolling the area, but they left him alone and he did the same. Lestrade, however, was a different matter.

XXXXXXXXX

Lestrade always prided himself on not giving a fuck about his appearance. That being said, showing up at the Holmes’ mansion covered in cave mold and rock dust with a healthy helping of John’s snot and tears on his shoulder was a bit further than he was willing to go. Especially when he was still trying to impress the current resident of said giant fucking estate.

Lestrade checked himself into a cheap motel, prettied himself up, and headed back around the dinner hour to knock on the door.

“What took you so long?” Mycroft asked acerbically once he was led into the splendor of whatever-the-fuck-this-rediculously-elegant-room-was-called, “I expected you hours ago.”

“How did you know I was coming?” Lestrade asked, always impressed by the man’s intelligence. He was even more cunning than Sherlock, and usually had a less biting tongue… usually.

“You were allowed entry onto this property because you are Sherlock’s thrall and he is still a member of this household. Do not by any means think that means you were unobserved. You’ve changed your clothes, I see.”

“Like them?” Lestrade asked with a wink.

“No,” Mycroft stated without emotion, “How fairs my brother, his mate, and the new addition to the Holmes legacy?”

“All well, though John made some rather alarming comment about not knowing if the baby was alive inside that shell.”

Mycroft sighed, “They won’t know until it either hatches or rots. Damn them both.”

“Why did you try to storm the lair, anyway? And why send a bunch of suits without guns? You’re supposed to use knights for that sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh, my, Sir Gregory, do slay the vicious dragon for me!” Mycroft twittered mockingly.

“For you? Anything,” Lestrade winked salaciously.

Mycroft smirked and Lestrade chuckled, accepting his drink from the servant at his elbow with a nod of thanks.

“So, why? It cost three men their lives and John’s mind-fucked over it,” Lestrade replied in all seriousness.

“Because of the very reason you previously stated. Dragons laying eggs is a relatively new development, despite what mythology would have you believe. It is not uncommon for the egg to be overheated, underheated, or unhelped when it is finally time for it to hatch. I am hopeful that having John there will aid with the final issue, but overall I wanted a full medical team to keep the egg monitored at all times. I was hoping to extract John just as he’d reached the safe point- egg hard enough to survive movement but not yet laid- in order to transfer him to a Dragonologist and have him painlessly deliver the egg into an incubator.”

“Sounds reasonable. You couldn’t have debated this out with Sherlock?”

“I tried to. My brother and I don’t have the psychic link you have. His instincts are demanding only his thralls be allowed near his nest. Technically speaking you could walk right in there, pick up the egg, and walk back out.”

“Not so,” Lestrade argued, shaking his head, “I tried to get a look at it and he raised holy hell.”

“Likely he would, but he wouldn’t have actively stopped you. His instincts tell him that his thralls are precious, more so than his hoard or perhaps equally so, and that they can be trusted with his young. He would scream and make a fuss, but he would allow you to move the egg so long as your movements did not endanger it. Walk in with a heated box, for instance, and place the egg inside on a cushion, and he’d have no cause to hinder you.”

Lestrade was silent a moment, twirling his drink and staring into it’s amber depths as though they held the answer to life itself.

“You want me to do it, don’t you? You want me to take his kid away from him and give it to you.”

“It would be best for all involved, Gregory,” Mycroft insisted, using his given name for the first time, “We could ensure the child within- assuming he or she is still alive- is delivered safely into this world. Sherlock would be grateful in the end. My brother never has cared for responsibility. If it weren’t for you and John being in his life I’d be insisting the child was reared by myself.”

Lestrade sipped his drink and studied Mycroft quietly, “He knows. He knows everything I do and think.”

“Actually, he does not. He can connect with you, but he doesn’t remain in contact constantly. Right now he is distracted, which was as good a reason to annihilate Ms. Morstan as any. She was a true threat to his unborn child. I am not.”

“Aren’t you?” Lestrade asked.

“Gregory,” Mycroft purred, using his fucking name again, “You’ve been professing an attraction to me for some time now. Surely you can’t possibly think I’m a monster? I want what is best for my niece or nephew, and for Sherlock and John in the long run. Think of their devastation should they come to realize that they inadvertently harmed their unborn child?”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, looking away, but then looking back with a sad smile on his face.

“You’re manipulating me. Manipulating my feelings. How’s that better than Morstan?”

“I suppose it is not,” Mycroft stated, “But unlike Ms. Morstan, I am prepared to follow through.”

“In what way?”

“Perhaps a tour of the House? I’d love to show you how beautiful the Holmes estate is.”

Gregory blinked at the sudden change of topic, but nodded happily as he really needed time to get his thoughts in order. Mycroft got to his feet and motioned for Lestrade to come with him. What followed was a short, but apparently informative, sightsee of the rather lovely Holmes mansion; sadly Lestrade was too deep in his own thoughts to listen to the history and cheerfully delivered anecdotes Mycroft poured out. He hummed and nodded and made non-committal noises where appropriate, but was overall not paying a lick of attention.

Which was why he was so floored when the tour ended in Mycroft’s bedroom with the man pressing him to a dark oak door and snogging him senseless.