Sherlock: How to Tame Your Dragon (S/J, NC-17) 2/2
Title: How to Tame Your Dragon
Author: mad_maudlin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary and warnings with Part One
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The unfortunate part of this plan was that Sherlock had to wait for John to make the next move, and even though that move was inevitable, the actual waiting was impossibly dull. Fortunately, the backers of the ill-fated royal assassin turned out to be powerful wizards in and of themselves, and the process of chasing them across the continent was very nearly a suitable distraction.
Very nearly; and it was telling that even in the thick of the investigation, while he was writing a circle or chasing a shadow or arguing with the pack of idiots Gregson had saddled him with for help-even when there were a thousand other things clamoring for his attention, Sherlock found John was slipping into his thoughts. Things like: Dear God, John would be less conspicuous than these fools, or If he opens his mouth one more time I shall have John bite him. Sometimes just a nameless longing to see John back in his dragon's skin, to climb on his back and ride away into the starlight and leave these infuriating apes behind.
That had been the point of all this from the beginning, of course: the tame dragon, the flying mount. It would simply be a glorious addition if he could bring John with him when he worked, utilize his unexpected bursts of intelligence and odd moments of naivety as well as his wings and teeth. And then home, into his bed, if could have John trembling and gasping like he'd been in the library, a continuous raw nerve of wanting, naked but for his collar...
Well. It was a good thing that none of Sherlock's so-called "help" had the nerve to share a room with him, and that the sorcerers, when they were eventually caught, died quickly.
Sherlock was spent, magically, by the confrontation, and hadn't taken the time to prepare a circle before leaving Baker Street; it took two and a half irritating days to make his way home by more mundane means. Mrs. Hudson greeting him in her usual effusive style when he finally got back. "Running out the door at all hours, it's no good for your health, dear-look at you, I bet you haven't eaten a bite today-go on, sit down, I'll be back with some tea...."
"How has John been in my absence?" he asked. Now that he was back he could sense John's presence through the collar, but he was lurking up in his bedroom, not coming down to throw himself at Sherlock's feet as planned. Perhaps a three-week jaunt across the continent hadn't been enough time to break down John's phenomenal stubbornness.
"He's been in a proper sulk," Mrs. Hudson informed him as she set the tea tray down. "Spends all that time on the roof like a bloody gargoyle, off his food-I even brought him a nice fresh leg of lamb and he hardly picked at it. And you wouldn't believe the sort of questions he's been asking!"
Sherlock grinned at her. "Oh, I've some idea."
Mrs. Hudson had known Sherlock far longer and far better than anyone in the city except Mycroft, and thus was at complete liberty to swat him with a tea towel. "Go on, you. Whatever you're up to with that one, he doesn't deserve it. He's a nice boy."
"He is a dragon who has assumed human form," Sherlock told her, just to see how she'd react.
"But a nice dragon," she asserted. "Now drink your tea."
Sherlock savored the tea and picked at one of Mrs. Hudson's sandwiches before anticipation won out over patience. He could greet John, perhaps even talk to him, without giving into any carnal urges...he was, after all, a terribly powerful wizard with a will of iron. Just say a few words, a little taunting, a little tempting...the plan would still work as long as John came to him on his own. It didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy the process of watching John break.
He took the stairs up to John's room two at a time, and didn't bother knocking before he opened the door. The room still looked more or less like it always had-bare, utilitarian, as close to dusty as Mrs. Hudson would allow. John looked, more or less, like he always did-sitting on the floor, naked, and tan in spite of the long winter. "I'm back for the foreseeable future," was what Sherlock intended to say.
What he actually said was "I'mmmmmmph!" because the instant he saw him John launched himself at Sherlock like a bolt from a bow. He was able to push Sherlock flat against the wall beside the door, and obviously he wasn't attacking-he couldn't attack, the collar wouldn't let him move at all if there was malicious intent behind it-but for a minute Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what John was doing: sort of pushing his face against Sherlock's own, mouth open, awkwardly nuzzling and licking at him, while at the same time pressing the rest of his body close enough to climb inside Sherlock's coat.
Sherlock managed to push him back, using his own willpower when it was clear John's alone wouldn't suffice to keep him still. "John. What are you doing?"
"I-" John's face was flushed, and he grimaced. "I saw people in the street doing it. It looked...good."
And he'd been thinking about it for three whole weeks and he was totally, completely, shattered: mostly hard just from Sherlock's presence, eyes blown wide and breath coming fast and deep. If Sherlock hadn't used the collar to keep him still he'd have thrown himself forward again in an instant. Sherlock very carefully shut the door, and with a lump of chalk from his coat pocket wrote a rune to keep it firmly locked. After another minute, he added a rune for silence, for Mrs. Hudson's sake.
Then he turned to John, grinning widely. "Have you thought any further about what you want?" he asked, low and taunting.
John shut his eyes. "I...I want."
"What do you want?" Sherlock pressed, and John just growled, hands spasming at his sides. "I believe I told you to speak when you're spoken to."
"I want. To feel." John swallowed and opened his eyes again. "That. In the library. What you did."
Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it in the wardrobe (empty but for John's crumpled trousers and a neat stack of unused towels). "What about it?"
"It was...I want it."
"I'm afraid," Sherlock said as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, "you're going to have to be more specific."
John made another noise-not a growl, more of a keening sound, as if language had failed him completely. Sherlock was still standing just inches away, easily in arm's reach if John had wanted to reach for him; instead, John dropped to his knees, throwing himself forward a few extra inches. The shift in position allowed him to press his face against Sherlock's belly, panting and sweating, utterly shameless.
"Oh." Sherlock immediately dug one hand into John's hair, holding him there for a moment, dizzy with glorious desire. Even when he was utterly predictable, John could be surprising. "This is what you want, then?"
"Please," John murmured, muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and watched tremors work their way through that beautiful body. John was completely helpless against touch, against anything that wasn't pain, and there was nothing more beautiful in the world. "Up, on the bed," Sherlock told him, and after a moment’s hesitation John peeled himself away and obeyed.
He didn't seem to know whether to lie down on his side or crouch on the corner like a looming buzzard; Sherlock had to coax him into lying stretched out on his back, and to cross his hands at the wrist over his head. No actual restraints, not even the force of the collar; but John held the position on his own, fingers clenching around the roundels of the headboard. Sherlock rewarded him for it by rubbing his belly in gentle circles, and John arched his back into the touch. "What are you thinking right now, John?"
"I hate you," he sighed, eyelids drooping.
"That seems a bit harsh," Sherlock chided without stopping.
"You left," John grumbled.
Sherlock grinned at him. "And did you discover what masturbation was?"
John turned his face away, but Sherlock decided to allow it for now. Instead he let his hand drift lower, past John's cock (so red, so wet) to gently squeeze his balls. They were heavy in his hand, so full-"Good God, no wonder you're desperate," Sherlock said, as John squirmed under his touch. "You must've been hard for the entire time I was gone."
"I r-really don't think that p-p-possible," John stammered.
"Hmm. An ideas for later, though." He decided to be merciful, just this once, and murmured the words to conjure a bowl of fragrant oil in his hand. Though considering how much pre-come had already dripped down his shaft, additional lubrication might not even be necessary. "Look at me, John."
John turned again to face him, eyes dark and hooded, and Sherlock kept eye contact as he began to stroke John with one oiled hand. John's mouth fell open, and he pushed up into Sherlock's hand, lost for words again; just wide-open vowel sounds, getting deeper and louder, until his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his back arched up off the sheets, a perfect curve from shoulders to heels. He seemed to come forever, spilling over Sherlock's hand and his own belly, and Sherlock kept pulling gently until John began to stammer, "Please-please-"
"Please what?" Sherlock asked.
John tossed his head on the pillow; his hands were still in place, but clenched into fists. "Too much."
Sherlock laughed at that. "My dear, we've hardly even begun." John looked vaguely horrified at the thought, but in deference to his overstimulated nerves Sherlock stopped stroking him and began to lick and kiss instead, starting with a drop of semen in the crease of his thigh and working his way up John's body. Considering how oversensitive John was to even casual touch, this was a very small mercy, and he was panting and moaning again by the time Sherlock made his way to the edge of the collar.
He was laying stretched out alongside John's body now, so their heads were level with one another. "Now, as to your earlier experiment: the people you observed on the street were kissing, and you are extraordinarily bad at it."
"So show me," John sighed, and even if it was half-sarcastic, he was turning his face to Sherlock's and raising his chin. Could this creature be any more perfect? Sherlock thought wondrously, and he was smiling again as he began to press his lips to John's.
Once again, John proved to be a delightfully adept learner. He opened his mouth readily, letting Sherlock inside, and followed his lead with lips and tongue. Sherlock was not usually particularly interested in kissing, but he could've spent hours on John's mouth alone, analyzing every reaction, savoring the not-quite-human taste of him. When John began writhing against the sheets, Sherlock reached down without looking and discovered that he was already mostly hard again, despite coming just minutes ago.
John thrust awkwardly up into Sherlock's grip and growled when Sherlock released him. "No," Sherlock said. "I think I'd like to conduct an experiment."
"Can't you do it another time?" John asked, practically whining.
"This is perhaps the best time," Sherlock said, and raised one still-slick hand to John's chest, playing with each of his nipples in turn. John arched into the touch, and sought a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss from Sherlock, but Sherlock trailed off to the side, nipping at his earlobe and leaving sucking kisses on the tender skin of his throat, just above the collar. Then down to his clavicle, the exquisite curvature of bone and muscle, and John was moaning almost constantly now as Sherlock swirled a slick finger into his navel before moving lower...past his cock, below his balls, to knead the strip of skin behind them, stroking all the way back and then forward again.
John actually seemed to stop breathing for a moment, but the way he spread his legs and bent one knee was as good as all the begging in the world. Sherlock deliberately avoided too much stimulation of his anus-yet-and lowered his mouth to the same nipple he'd been toying with earlier, tugging on it with his teeth. John jolted when his cock brushed accidentally against Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock raised his mouth just enough to ask, "What do you want?"
For a few minutes John simply panted, still bucking his hips in time with Sherlock's fingers. "More," was the first intelligible word to get past his lips, "more, please, anything..."
"Anything?" Sherlock asked, pressing down harder.
"Anything, yes, please!" John's voice cracked on the last syllable. At the same time, a steady tremor began to build in the muscles of his inner thighs, and Sherlock could feel his balls drawing up against his body. He was going to come again with any stimulation of his cock at all. Remarkable.
"Come for me," Sherlock murmured in his ear, never letting up the motion of his fingers. "Come for me, right now, just like this. Show me how much you love it, just how badly you want this. Give this to me, come on, give in..."
John cried out like he was being murdered and came again, hips jerking long after he stopped ejaculating: Sherlock kissed him through it, and then pulled John's trembling hands away from the headboard to fold across his chest. "Are you all right?" he asked, curious as to how John would answer.
It seemed to take a minute for John to find words, and when he did his voice was hoarse. "How can you stand it?" he asked, almost at the level of a whisper. "How do you...all the time...it's too much!"
"I suppose it's different for those of us born to it," Sherlock said, running his nails lightly down John's bicep. The muscle jumped and John let out a sobbing noise, and if Sherlock didn't get up off the bed this very instant he would be the one coming untouched in his trousers.
He took off his shirt, letting the cool air of the room dry the sweat that had collected on his skin; unzipped his trousers to relieve the pressure on his erection, but left them on. John was watching him, eyes half-lidded but alert, and his gaze kept dipping to Sherlock's cock in a predictable fashion. Sherlock conjured more oil, in a delicate glass vial, and filled the washstand by the window with steaming water. He brought a towel from the cupboard and hung it over the foot of the bed.
"How exactly is this going to work?" John asked; his voice was still hoarse but he appeared to have rallied.
"You'll have to be more specific, John," Sherlock said. There was something endearing about the way John stammered and stuttered, when he was usually so coolly assured.
"You..." John paused, searching for words. "You mounting me."
Sherlock smiled. "Turn over, on your front. I'll show you."
John rolled over, and let Sherlock take the pillow from under his head to position under his hips. Sherlock started with long, open handed strokes, from his back to his thighs, and John responded just like before, shivering and sighing; slowly Sherlock narrowed his focus and increased the pressure, until he was kneading John's arse, John subtly pushing up into the touch. "Oh!" he blurted when Sherlock began to trace the cleft.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Just like that."
"I don't--" John shoulders had gone tight. "I don't think-does that even work?"
Sherlock paused, and leaned forward to kiss John's shoulders and his apprehensive frown. "I assure you, it works quite well," he murmured. "You'll enjoy this."
"Is that a promise or a threat?" John murmured.
Sherlock just grinned at him.
He pushed John's knees apart and spread his cheeks, just touching with dry fingers for now. Here, too, John was nearly hairless, and tightly puckered; Sherlock circled just a finger around his entrance, and the placed a closed-mouth kiss on it. "You need to relax," he murmured.
John made a weak chuckling noise, that turned into something a little more choked when Sherlock began to lick him open: swirling his tongue around the perimeter first, then lapping over the hole. He could read the effect in the clench and shift of John's back muscles, the moaning he tried to suppress. Fighting back again. Trying not to want this.
Sherlock made his tongue into a little point and pushed, not even fully breaching the muscle, but John yelped anyway and bucked his hips so hard he nearly hit Sherlock in the face. "No," John said, voice quavering. "Not that."
Sherlock sat up again, putting his weight on John's hips. "Does it not feel pleasurable?"
"I don't want it," John said, which in its own way was an answer.
Sherlock reached for the oil and dipped his fingers into it, but didn't touch him, just let the excess drip off and land on John's skin. "I thought we'd established," Sherlock said, "that you do want it. That you're so very desperate for it that you threw yourself at me the moment I walked in. There really isn't any logic in changing course two orgasms in."
"That was different," John protested, but his resolve seemed to be cracking.
"Because it was my hands and not my cock?" Sherlock asked. He resumed touching John, spreading the oil around without trying to get inside again. "You seem to have missed an important element, John, but then again, this is hardly your area."
"What," John managed to squeeze out, even as he squirmed in place, "what'd I miss?"
"Did you think I was doing all this out of malice? Charity?" First finger in, now, just the tip, but he could already tell that John was far too tight. "You are perhaps the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen, in either of your shapes, but the moment I saw your human skin I knew I wouldn't be satisfied with merely taming you. I would've had you like this on the cellar floor right there if I'd been content with that. And you would've let me, I think, even then-you were already in love with the sensation of touch."
John didn't reply to that; his face had gone red and he was gripping at the headboard of the bed with white knuckles. But not dropping his arms; not trying to flee. And not contradicting a word Sherlock said.
"You are perfect," Sherlock continued, stroking gently in an out, coating John generously with the oil. "I don't use the word lightly. Intelligent, unpredictable, attractive...and so sensitive." He let his finger brush against John's prostate, and John whined helplessly. "And you came to me, you asked me for this, and I am giving you exactly what both of us wanted. So it's a bit late to back down now, of all times. This will be good, I promise you. But you have to let me in."
And, amazingly, with a bit of a sigh, John parted his thighs a little wider and did just that. Sherlock's heart leapt, and he pressed a kiss onto John's tailbone as he began to work another finger in. It was easier, but still not easy; John wasn't resisting, but he was still so very tight. A virgin, technically, he supposed. It would take ages to stretch him to a point where Sherlock could take him comfortably.
Of course, they had the rest of the day, and Sherlock had not become a sorcerer by giving up easily.
He kept applying more oil, periodically lowering his head to lick and kiss at the red, stretched skin around his fingers, while John's breathing got ever more labored. By the time Sherlock was able to get the third finger in, John was also hard again, and every accidental (and not-so-accidental) contact with his prostate made him cry out and clench down reflexively. "Perfect," Sherlock murmured again, feathering kissing up his spine. "So good. Open up for me, John. Let me have this."
John dropped down onto his elbows, pushing his arse even higher in the air. "Sherlock, please, just...just do it."
"Not yet, I think."
"Sherlock," and there was a frantic edge in John's voice, something new, something glorious. "I can't, you have to...it's too much, I can't do this, I can't."
"You keep saying that, you know," Sherlock said, pulling his fingers out partway so he could rub his thumb against John's reddened rim. "And you're consistently wrong."
Then plunged in again, aiming a direct stroke up John's prostate, using his other hand to pull down on John's balls just hard enough to stave off orgasm. John yelled, then drew in a shaky breath, and said in a raw, low voice, "Now, please."
He was still dangerously tight around Sherlock's fingers, but that voice was hard to resist. Sherlock pulled his fingers out, admiring how the muscle twitched but couldn't quite return to its original shape. He put more oil on his own aching prick, enough to drip with it, and lined up the head with John's body. "As you wish," he reminded John, and pushed in.
He'd been right about stretching; John's whole body tensed, and Sherlock hissed through his teeth at the muscles that clamped around the head of his cock. It was almost too tight, and there was no way John could take this without pain, and that was entirely beside the point of the whole damned exercise: John knew pain, John could endure pain, it was only pleasure that broken him apart. There had to be another way to make him relax--
"Oh," Sherlock blurted, when it came to him all at once. Like the dragons in the mountain, weeks ago-obvious. He stretched out over John's back, as far as he was able, and spoke the word that let the collar peel back from his neck. Before John could register what had happened, Sherlock bit down, hard, on the back of his neck, high near his hairline. He tasted of sweat and magic and leather and that mysterious hint of dragon, and Sherlock bit with nearly enough pressure to draw blood.
The effect was instantaneous. John let out a broken, sobbing, cry, but the tension also drained out of him, and Sherlock was able to push in all the way, balls-deep in John's body. He let up and began to lick and kiss the mark he'd made, not thrusting yet; John's squirming was more than enough stimulation for the moment. "Too much?" he murmured into John's ear.
"Yes," John hissed, panting.
Sherlock kissed his neck one last time. "Good."
He was gentle, of course; short, leisurely strokes, sitting back on his heels so he could watch himself slide in and out. John rocked weakly under him, though he really didn't have the leverage to thrust up; he was rubbing off on the pillow under him, hands clawing spastically at the sheets, voice cracking on every moan. Sherlock leaned forward again, to kiss and nip at his neck some more, and the change in angle allowed him to hit John's prostate on every other stroke.
"Can you come again?" Sherlock asked him.
John just groaned, beyond speech.
"Mmm." Sherlock bit again, more gently, at the same spot as before, and John shuddered. "I think you can. I think you will." He pushed John's hips higher, forcing him up on his knees, and sped his thrusts. "Oh. Oh. Come for me, John, just like this."
John groaned something that might've been Sherlock's name, and started to snap his hips up in earnest, driving Sherlock's cock deeper into him. Sherlock, feeling merciful, reached around to take John in hand, alternating strokes along his length with swipes of this thumb across the wet head. The third time he puts his teeth to John's neck-not even biting down, just a hard scrape-John came, every muscle in his body spasming around Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock couldn't help but follow, not after holding out so long himself. He pulled out reluctantly, and called the towel to his hand to quickly wipe up the residue of oil and semen that coated them both. John simply collapsed onto his front, breathing heavily, and his eyelashes were wet. He didn't protest when Sherlock ran a thumb over his lower lip. "There. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
John's sigh was so loud Sherlock could just barely make out a defeated, "Yes."
The water on the washstand had cooled to the perfect temperature, just as he'd anticipated, and with a fresh flannel Sherlock cleaned himself, and then John, who by now was sliding into exhausted sleep. He didn't resist in the slightest as Sherlock turned him over, and only gave a slight unhappy whimper at the feeling of the warm cloth on his reddened cock. He seemed bemused when Sherlock came back to the bed after putting the wet towels away, and once again curled up against him. "Can't," he murmured drowsily. "Really, really can't."
Sherlock chuckled, and scratched lightly at John's hair. "It's all right. Just sleep."
John mumbled something else unintelligible, and gave another sigh-smaller, more content-when Sherlock threw an arm over his chest. The collar had, at some point, fallen on the floor; Sherlock was in no hurry to cover up John's neck again, and now that they'd shared this, he doubted he needed any greater hold over him. He lay alongside his dragon for a long time, watching him sleep.
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The one little window had gone dim but not dark when Sherlock noticed the door handle jiggling; of course, with the silence rune on it, he couldn't hear anyone calling for him. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from John's sleepy heat, smudged out the runes and opened the door. "What?"
Fortunately for Mrs. Hudson, she was quite used to being confronted with a nude and belligerent Sherlock; she tutted at him once before averting her eyes. "It's your brother, dear, he's come to see you and he says it's urgent. I told him not to bother you when you've only just got back--"
Sherlock shut the door on her and sighed. No doubt Mycroft wanted to discuss the assassination plot, and could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, if not moreso. He stepped into his trousers again and slipped out of the room, hoping to quickly give Mycroft the minimum necessary to make him go way.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's state of undress, but didn't rise from his chair in the lounge. "Ah. Sherlock. So sorry to interrupt your...celebrations."
"No, you aren't," Sherlock said, flopping down on the couch. "And they're all dead, by the way, and too powerless to come back even if they weren't afraid I'd be waiting for them."
Mycroft's face twisted into a delicate moue of confusion for a moment, then cleared. "Oh, the sorcerers? Yes, yes, well done, I'm sure her majesty will reward you appropriately for it-or at least try to. But there are more pressing matters at hand."
"Are there?" Sherlock asked, wondering what Mycroft could possibly think Sherlock would be interested in.
"The embassy to the dragons has returned," he said. Paused. "One them even survived."
"And thus the queen intends to drive them away by force of arms." Sherlock peered at him, trying to work out the angle here. "Yet my dragon is quite secure, so you wouldn't be telling me this unless there will be additional measures in place."
"The climate in the court is...hostile," Mycroft said delicately. "If you are know to own a tame dragon here in the heart of the capital, there will be consequences."
Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, what? The queen will stop offering me knighthoods every time I save her wrinkly arse?"
"You overestimate the queen's affection," he answered severely. "Which do not extend to John. Nor mine, come to think of it."
Sherlock sat up, the words for fire and lightening on the tip of his tongue. "You wouldn't dare."
"Not unless I am pushed to it," Mycroft snapped. "Think very carefully, Sherlock. Your household will shortly include the only dragon left within our borders, and while I'm sure that appears greatly to your sense of drama, it puts you at a supreme personal risk. Not to mention it's hardly fair to the dragon in question."
"What would you have me do, then?" Sherlock asked frostily. "Turn him out on the street? Kill him myself?"
"I won't presume to issue an ultimatum, Sherlock," Mycroft said airily. "I merely wanted to ensure that you were aware of the facts of the situation. John's mere presence will be perceived as an insult to good men and women who died, and however powerful you think yourself, you cannot stand up to an entire kingdom if you are found out. And there will always be other dragons."
"Get out," Sherlock snarled, and for once Mycroft actually did as he was told. The warning was meaningless, anyway...it would take some coaching, but John could pass for a human well enough, and it wasn't as if dragons' shape-changing ability was well-known. No, all Sherlock had to do was put a shirt on him and keep him in this skin for a few months, until the idiocy had passed...and there were certainly plenty of ways to keep him distracted until then...
He wouldn't waste any more time on the matter. Bounding back up the stairs, Sherlock made for John's room, frowning when he saw the door ajar. He had closed it when he stepped out, and Mrs. Hudson had no reason to go inside; John might've gotten up to go to the toilet or seek out a drink, though he'd been deeply asleep when Sherlock left. When Sherlock pushed the door fully open, his eyes registered three things almost instantly:
The wide-open wardrobe, bare of John's trousers and Sherlock's coat.
The wide-open window, which faced the alley between houses.
The leather collar neatly spread out over the pillow.
The silence was nearly deafening, and Sherlock could not recall the last time he'd felt quite so disappointed, much less in himself.
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The campaign against the dragons, according to all sources, went splendidly for everyone who wasn't a fire-breathing thermopod. The king sent a mixture of mountain cavalry and heavy infantry, liberally reinforced with sorcerers and alchemists, and the dragons were still sluggish after the long winter. Some were clever enough to flee across the borders, but evidently none were clever enough to organize; the expedition simple overwhelmed dragons one and two at a time, and no conspecifics ever rushed to their aid.
Dragons weren't social creatures, after all. Dragons did not form emotional bonds.
Sherlock caught a serial killer and banished a major demon and drank tea and read books and ignored Mrs. Hudson's doting lamb-eyes and was not lonely. He burned the collar in a fit of pique and regretted it afterward. He refused to acknowledge Mycroft's existence for two solid weeks and communicated with him entirely in writing for another four.
He watched the victory parades, the mutilated, rotting dragon corpses paraded through the streets like trophies. He watched every single one.
Sherlock wasn't worried, and he certainly wasn't waiting for anything.
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He routinely left his bedroom windows open in the spring, not out of any affection for the allegedly "fresh" air but because it was less boring: he could lay in the darkness and listen to the sounds of the city, deducing the rounds of the ash-men and the lamp-lighters and the shop-keepers from the noises they made. The crowd at the pub down the street ebbed and flowed, his neighbors-those courageous enough to live near a notorious sorcerer-came and went. He heard laughter, indistinct voices, distinct patterns of footfalls that drifted and dwindled as the night drew on.
A heavy, rhythmic swishing sound. A distant scream.
The sound of shingles being ripped of his own roof.
Sherlock leapt to his window, nearly leapt out of it: in the dim light from the street, he could just see a great, heavy shape clinging to the edge of the roof across the garden, wings thrashing. As he watched, another patch of shingles broke free, and the massive shape fell to the ground with a deafening screech.
Sherlock did leap out the window, then, barely remembering the runes to gentle his fall. The garden was a closed courtyard, totally invisible from the street, but there were already witnesses...he called fire in his hand, a quick and dirty way of bringing light, as he fell to his knees in front of the familiar, brass-colored dragon that had crashed to the earth.
John looked thin and starved, with open wounds-slashes, burns-on his flanks and neck. His claws were caked with dirt and blood, and the web of one wing had been slit nearly to the frame. Sherlock put his hand on John's muzzle, just below the forward edge of the scute, and those great golden eyes fluttered open.
"You chose a peculiar time to come back," he said breathlessly.
John whimpered once, and then sudden it was a human face under his hand, an abused human body lying in the dirt. "There's nowhere else to go," John whispered, and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's touch.
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Sherlock pulled the chain from the forge with tongs, searching for any flaws in the metal before it cooled too much. Each link was a smooth oval, half-twisted, with a chip of blue-green stone set into the center; it was heavy in his hand, alive with a magic more permanent than any rune written into stone or metal could be. Quenching it with water made to cool enough to handle through his thick gloves, and he threw off his goggles, impatient to show off his handiwork.
The country house had been costly to purchase, but it was pleasant enough, and he supposed it might make a good place to retire someday, should he live so long. Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the quiet and the country air, for a change, and it was sufficiently far from the village to conceal a multitude of sins.
John lay in the garden, wings spread out to catch the summer sun, but he perked his head up when he saw Sherlock approaching with the chain. "I have something for you," Sherlock said showing it off for John's perusal. The verdict: a snort of hot, chemical-scented breath to the face. "Well, I wasn't going to forge it full-sized, you idiot. Go on, I want to see it on you."
John changed, still laying naked on his front in the grass; he rose up on his knees and cocked his head to the side. "I take it this one's going to stretch?"
"Among its many useful properties," Sherlock assured him. The chain was a solid loop with no clasp, just a bit too small to slip over John's head; Sherlock used magic to pass it straight through his neck and settle it there. He didn't seem bothered by the heat of the metal, as he reached up to finger this new bit of jewelry. "What do you think?"
"Heavy," he said, and then suddenly changed again, back to his full size. The chain grew with him, still fit snugly about the base of his neck, and it didn't slide around when he took a short, experiment trot.
"Can you fly?" Sherlock asked; John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "It's a valid question; if the chain is too heavy--"
Before he finished the question, John spread his wings again and launched himself. In the heat of the day it was easy for him to catch the rising waves of hot air and coast higher and higher, scales gleaming golden-brown in the sunlight. The villagers wouldn't report a dragon sighting, if they even noticed him; Sherlock had been careful to curry their favor to that end. They were safe here until John was fully recovered, until the city had forgotten about the slaughter of the dragons.
("They mostly just left," John had told him, as Sherlock cleaned and dressed his wounds. "I warned as many as I could and they took off for new territory."
"An advantage of having little material culture and a large wingspan, I suppose," Sherlock had commented.
John had nodded. "And easier than getting a load of dragons to agree on anything.")
Sherlock watched John climb higher as he peeled off his gloves; then he took from his pocket the ring he had made, a match for the chain, with the same blue-green stone set in the center. He slipped it on his left hand, and set his will through it. Come back.
The small, bright speck in the sky hovered a few moments more, before descending in lazy circles. John transformed just before he touched down, landing gracefully on one knee, and immediately felt for the collar, which was back to its original size. "You called me," he said, looking puzzled.
"Of course I did," Sherlock said, showing him the ring. "I can also locate you, and the collar provides a limited sort of defense against most types of sorcery, should you be attacked while we're apart."
John snorted. "Oh, you're not paranoid at all."
Sherlock dropped a hand onto his head, weaving fingers into his hair, and John's eyes fluttered shut. "I take care of what's mine," Sherlock said earnestly.
John leaned forward to rest his cheek against Sherlock's hip. "Mmmm. So I'm your dragon, am I?"
"Naturally."
"Does that mean you're my sorcerer?"
Sherlock ran his thumb over the faded bruise at the base of John's neck. "The one and only."
"Good," John said, and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's belly through his clothes.
-FIN-
Author: mad_maudlin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary and warnings with Part One
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The unfortunate part of this plan was that Sherlock had to wait for John to make the next move, and even though that move was inevitable, the actual waiting was impossibly dull. Fortunately, the backers of the ill-fated royal assassin turned out to be powerful wizards in and of themselves, and the process of chasing them across the continent was very nearly a suitable distraction.
Very nearly; and it was telling that even in the thick of the investigation, while he was writing a circle or chasing a shadow or arguing with the pack of idiots Gregson had saddled him with for help-even when there were a thousand other things clamoring for his attention, Sherlock found John was slipping into his thoughts. Things like: Dear God, John would be less conspicuous than these fools, or If he opens his mouth one more time I shall have John bite him. Sometimes just a nameless longing to see John back in his dragon's skin, to climb on his back and ride away into the starlight and leave these infuriating apes behind.
That had been the point of all this from the beginning, of course: the tame dragon, the flying mount. It would simply be a glorious addition if he could bring John with him when he worked, utilize his unexpected bursts of intelligence and odd moments of naivety as well as his wings and teeth. And then home, into his bed, if could have John trembling and gasping like he'd been in the library, a continuous raw nerve of wanting, naked but for his collar...
Well. It was a good thing that none of Sherlock's so-called "help" had the nerve to share a room with him, and that the sorcerers, when they were eventually caught, died quickly.
Sherlock was spent, magically, by the confrontation, and hadn't taken the time to prepare a circle before leaving Baker Street; it took two and a half irritating days to make his way home by more mundane means. Mrs. Hudson greeting him in her usual effusive style when he finally got back. "Running out the door at all hours, it's no good for your health, dear-look at you, I bet you haven't eaten a bite today-go on, sit down, I'll be back with some tea...."
"How has John been in my absence?" he asked. Now that he was back he could sense John's presence through the collar, but he was lurking up in his bedroom, not coming down to throw himself at Sherlock's feet as planned. Perhaps a three-week jaunt across the continent hadn't been enough time to break down John's phenomenal stubbornness.
"He's been in a proper sulk," Mrs. Hudson informed him as she set the tea tray down. "Spends all that time on the roof like a bloody gargoyle, off his food-I even brought him a nice fresh leg of lamb and he hardly picked at it. And you wouldn't believe the sort of questions he's been asking!"
Sherlock grinned at her. "Oh, I've some idea."
Mrs. Hudson had known Sherlock far longer and far better than anyone in the city except Mycroft, and thus was at complete liberty to swat him with a tea towel. "Go on, you. Whatever you're up to with that one, he doesn't deserve it. He's a nice boy."
"He is a dragon who has assumed human form," Sherlock told her, just to see how she'd react.
"But a nice dragon," she asserted. "Now drink your tea."
Sherlock savored the tea and picked at one of Mrs. Hudson's sandwiches before anticipation won out over patience. He could greet John, perhaps even talk to him, without giving into any carnal urges...he was, after all, a terribly powerful wizard with a will of iron. Just say a few words, a little taunting, a little tempting...the plan would still work as long as John came to him on his own. It didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy the process of watching John break.
He took the stairs up to John's room two at a time, and didn't bother knocking before he opened the door. The room still looked more or less like it always had-bare, utilitarian, as close to dusty as Mrs. Hudson would allow. John looked, more or less, like he always did-sitting on the floor, naked, and tan in spite of the long winter. "I'm back for the foreseeable future," was what Sherlock intended to say.
What he actually said was "I'mmmmmmph!" because the instant he saw him John launched himself at Sherlock like a bolt from a bow. He was able to push Sherlock flat against the wall beside the door, and obviously he wasn't attacking-he couldn't attack, the collar wouldn't let him move at all if there was malicious intent behind it-but for a minute Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what John was doing: sort of pushing his face against Sherlock's own, mouth open, awkwardly nuzzling and licking at him, while at the same time pressing the rest of his body close enough to climb inside Sherlock's coat.
Sherlock managed to push him back, using his own willpower when it was clear John's alone wouldn't suffice to keep him still. "John. What are you doing?"
"I-" John's face was flushed, and he grimaced. "I saw people in the street doing it. It looked...good."
And he'd been thinking about it for three whole weeks and he was totally, completely, shattered: mostly hard just from Sherlock's presence, eyes blown wide and breath coming fast and deep. If Sherlock hadn't used the collar to keep him still he'd have thrown himself forward again in an instant. Sherlock very carefully shut the door, and with a lump of chalk from his coat pocket wrote a rune to keep it firmly locked. After another minute, he added a rune for silence, for Mrs. Hudson's sake.
Then he turned to John, grinning widely. "Have you thought any further about what you want?" he asked, low and taunting.
John shut his eyes. "I...I want."
"What do you want?" Sherlock pressed, and John just growled, hands spasming at his sides. "I believe I told you to speak when you're spoken to."
"I want. To feel." John swallowed and opened his eyes again. "That. In the library. What you did."
Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it in the wardrobe (empty but for John's crumpled trousers and a neat stack of unused towels). "What about it?"
"It was...I want it."
"I'm afraid," Sherlock said as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, "you're going to have to be more specific."
John made another noise-not a growl, more of a keening sound, as if language had failed him completely. Sherlock was still standing just inches away, easily in arm's reach if John had wanted to reach for him; instead, John dropped to his knees, throwing himself forward a few extra inches. The shift in position allowed him to press his face against Sherlock's belly, panting and sweating, utterly shameless.
"Oh." Sherlock immediately dug one hand into John's hair, holding him there for a moment, dizzy with glorious desire. Even when he was utterly predictable, John could be surprising. "This is what you want, then?"
"Please," John murmured, muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and watched tremors work their way through that beautiful body. John was completely helpless against touch, against anything that wasn't pain, and there was nothing more beautiful in the world. "Up, on the bed," Sherlock told him, and after a moment’s hesitation John peeled himself away and obeyed.
He didn't seem to know whether to lie down on his side or crouch on the corner like a looming buzzard; Sherlock had to coax him into lying stretched out on his back, and to cross his hands at the wrist over his head. No actual restraints, not even the force of the collar; but John held the position on his own, fingers clenching around the roundels of the headboard. Sherlock rewarded him for it by rubbing his belly in gentle circles, and John arched his back into the touch. "What are you thinking right now, John?"
"I hate you," he sighed, eyelids drooping.
"That seems a bit harsh," Sherlock chided without stopping.
"You left," John grumbled.
Sherlock grinned at him. "And did you discover what masturbation was?"
John turned his face away, but Sherlock decided to allow it for now. Instead he let his hand drift lower, past John's cock (so red, so wet) to gently squeeze his balls. They were heavy in his hand, so full-"Good God, no wonder you're desperate," Sherlock said, as John squirmed under his touch. "You must've been hard for the entire time I was gone."
"I r-really don't think that p-p-possible," John stammered.
"Hmm. An ideas for later, though." He decided to be merciful, just this once, and murmured the words to conjure a bowl of fragrant oil in his hand. Though considering how much pre-come had already dripped down his shaft, additional lubrication might not even be necessary. "Look at me, John."
John turned again to face him, eyes dark and hooded, and Sherlock kept eye contact as he began to stroke John with one oiled hand. John's mouth fell open, and he pushed up into Sherlock's hand, lost for words again; just wide-open vowel sounds, getting deeper and louder, until his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his back arched up off the sheets, a perfect curve from shoulders to heels. He seemed to come forever, spilling over Sherlock's hand and his own belly, and Sherlock kept pulling gently until John began to stammer, "Please-please-"
"Please what?" Sherlock asked.
John tossed his head on the pillow; his hands were still in place, but clenched into fists. "Too much."
Sherlock laughed at that. "My dear, we've hardly even begun." John looked vaguely horrified at the thought, but in deference to his overstimulated nerves Sherlock stopped stroking him and began to lick and kiss instead, starting with a drop of semen in the crease of his thigh and working his way up John's body. Considering how oversensitive John was to even casual touch, this was a very small mercy, and he was panting and moaning again by the time Sherlock made his way to the edge of the collar.
He was laying stretched out alongside John's body now, so their heads were level with one another. "Now, as to your earlier experiment: the people you observed on the street were kissing, and you are extraordinarily bad at it."
"So show me," John sighed, and even if it was half-sarcastic, he was turning his face to Sherlock's and raising his chin. Could this creature be any more perfect? Sherlock thought wondrously, and he was smiling again as he began to press his lips to John's.
Once again, John proved to be a delightfully adept learner. He opened his mouth readily, letting Sherlock inside, and followed his lead with lips and tongue. Sherlock was not usually particularly interested in kissing, but he could've spent hours on John's mouth alone, analyzing every reaction, savoring the not-quite-human taste of him. When John began writhing against the sheets, Sherlock reached down without looking and discovered that he was already mostly hard again, despite coming just minutes ago.
John thrust awkwardly up into Sherlock's grip and growled when Sherlock released him. "No," Sherlock said. "I think I'd like to conduct an experiment."
"Can't you do it another time?" John asked, practically whining.
"This is perhaps the best time," Sherlock said, and raised one still-slick hand to John's chest, playing with each of his nipples in turn. John arched into the touch, and sought a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss from Sherlock, but Sherlock trailed off to the side, nipping at his earlobe and leaving sucking kisses on the tender skin of his throat, just above the collar. Then down to his clavicle, the exquisite curvature of bone and muscle, and John was moaning almost constantly now as Sherlock swirled a slick finger into his navel before moving lower...past his cock, below his balls, to knead the strip of skin behind them, stroking all the way back and then forward again.
John actually seemed to stop breathing for a moment, but the way he spread his legs and bent one knee was as good as all the begging in the world. Sherlock deliberately avoided too much stimulation of his anus-yet-and lowered his mouth to the same nipple he'd been toying with earlier, tugging on it with his teeth. John jolted when his cock brushed accidentally against Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock raised his mouth just enough to ask, "What do you want?"
For a few minutes John simply panted, still bucking his hips in time with Sherlock's fingers. "More," was the first intelligible word to get past his lips, "more, please, anything..."
"Anything?" Sherlock asked, pressing down harder.
"Anything, yes, please!" John's voice cracked on the last syllable. At the same time, a steady tremor began to build in the muscles of his inner thighs, and Sherlock could feel his balls drawing up against his body. He was going to come again with any stimulation of his cock at all. Remarkable.
"Come for me," Sherlock murmured in his ear, never letting up the motion of his fingers. "Come for me, right now, just like this. Show me how much you love it, just how badly you want this. Give this to me, come on, give in..."
John cried out like he was being murdered and came again, hips jerking long after he stopped ejaculating: Sherlock kissed him through it, and then pulled John's trembling hands away from the headboard to fold across his chest. "Are you all right?" he asked, curious as to how John would answer.
It seemed to take a minute for John to find words, and when he did his voice was hoarse. "How can you stand it?" he asked, almost at the level of a whisper. "How do you...all the time...it's too much!"
"I suppose it's different for those of us born to it," Sherlock said, running his nails lightly down John's bicep. The muscle jumped and John let out a sobbing noise, and if Sherlock didn't get up off the bed this very instant he would be the one coming untouched in his trousers.
He took off his shirt, letting the cool air of the room dry the sweat that had collected on his skin; unzipped his trousers to relieve the pressure on his erection, but left them on. John was watching him, eyes half-lidded but alert, and his gaze kept dipping to Sherlock's cock in a predictable fashion. Sherlock conjured more oil, in a delicate glass vial, and filled the washstand by the window with steaming water. He brought a towel from the cupboard and hung it over the foot of the bed.
"How exactly is this going to work?" John asked; his voice was still hoarse but he appeared to have rallied.
"You'll have to be more specific, John," Sherlock said. There was something endearing about the way John stammered and stuttered, when he was usually so coolly assured.
"You..." John paused, searching for words. "You mounting me."
Sherlock smiled. "Turn over, on your front. I'll show you."
John rolled over, and let Sherlock take the pillow from under his head to position under his hips. Sherlock started with long, open handed strokes, from his back to his thighs, and John responded just like before, shivering and sighing; slowly Sherlock narrowed his focus and increased the pressure, until he was kneading John's arse, John subtly pushing up into the touch. "Oh!" he blurted when Sherlock began to trace the cleft.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Just like that."
"I don't--" John shoulders had gone tight. "I don't think-does that even work?"
Sherlock paused, and leaned forward to kiss John's shoulders and his apprehensive frown. "I assure you, it works quite well," he murmured. "You'll enjoy this."
"Is that a promise or a threat?" John murmured.
Sherlock just grinned at him.
He pushed John's knees apart and spread his cheeks, just touching with dry fingers for now. Here, too, John was nearly hairless, and tightly puckered; Sherlock circled just a finger around his entrance, and the placed a closed-mouth kiss on it. "You need to relax," he murmured.
John made a weak chuckling noise, that turned into something a little more choked when Sherlock began to lick him open: swirling his tongue around the perimeter first, then lapping over the hole. He could read the effect in the clench and shift of John's back muscles, the moaning he tried to suppress. Fighting back again. Trying not to want this.
Sherlock made his tongue into a little point and pushed, not even fully breaching the muscle, but John yelped anyway and bucked his hips so hard he nearly hit Sherlock in the face. "No," John said, voice quavering. "Not that."
Sherlock sat up again, putting his weight on John's hips. "Does it not feel pleasurable?"
"I don't want it," John said, which in its own way was an answer.
Sherlock reached for the oil and dipped his fingers into it, but didn't touch him, just let the excess drip off and land on John's skin. "I thought we'd established," Sherlock said, "that you do want it. That you're so very desperate for it that you threw yourself at me the moment I walked in. There really isn't any logic in changing course two orgasms in."
"That was different," John protested, but his resolve seemed to be cracking.
"Because it was my hands and not my cock?" Sherlock asked. He resumed touching John, spreading the oil around without trying to get inside again. "You seem to have missed an important element, John, but then again, this is hardly your area."
"What," John managed to squeeze out, even as he squirmed in place, "what'd I miss?"
"Did you think I was doing all this out of malice? Charity?" First finger in, now, just the tip, but he could already tell that John was far too tight. "You are perhaps the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen, in either of your shapes, but the moment I saw your human skin I knew I wouldn't be satisfied with merely taming you. I would've had you like this on the cellar floor right there if I'd been content with that. And you would've let me, I think, even then-you were already in love with the sensation of touch."
John didn't reply to that; his face had gone red and he was gripping at the headboard of the bed with white knuckles. But not dropping his arms; not trying to flee. And not contradicting a word Sherlock said.
"You are perfect," Sherlock continued, stroking gently in an out, coating John generously with the oil. "I don't use the word lightly. Intelligent, unpredictable, attractive...and so sensitive." He let his finger brush against John's prostate, and John whined helplessly. "And you came to me, you asked me for this, and I am giving you exactly what both of us wanted. So it's a bit late to back down now, of all times. This will be good, I promise you. But you have to let me in."
And, amazingly, with a bit of a sigh, John parted his thighs a little wider and did just that. Sherlock's heart leapt, and he pressed a kiss onto John's tailbone as he began to work another finger in. It was easier, but still not easy; John wasn't resisting, but he was still so very tight. A virgin, technically, he supposed. It would take ages to stretch him to a point where Sherlock could take him comfortably.
Of course, they had the rest of the day, and Sherlock had not become a sorcerer by giving up easily.
He kept applying more oil, periodically lowering his head to lick and kiss at the red, stretched skin around his fingers, while John's breathing got ever more labored. By the time Sherlock was able to get the third finger in, John was also hard again, and every accidental (and not-so-accidental) contact with his prostate made him cry out and clench down reflexively. "Perfect," Sherlock murmured again, feathering kissing up his spine. "So good. Open up for me, John. Let me have this."
John dropped down onto his elbows, pushing his arse even higher in the air. "Sherlock, please, just...just do it."
"Not yet, I think."
"Sherlock," and there was a frantic edge in John's voice, something new, something glorious. "I can't, you have to...it's too much, I can't do this, I can't."
"You keep saying that, you know," Sherlock said, pulling his fingers out partway so he could rub his thumb against John's reddened rim. "And you're consistently wrong."
Then plunged in again, aiming a direct stroke up John's prostate, using his other hand to pull down on John's balls just hard enough to stave off orgasm. John yelled, then drew in a shaky breath, and said in a raw, low voice, "Now, please."
He was still dangerously tight around Sherlock's fingers, but that voice was hard to resist. Sherlock pulled his fingers out, admiring how the muscle twitched but couldn't quite return to its original shape. He put more oil on his own aching prick, enough to drip with it, and lined up the head with John's body. "As you wish," he reminded John, and pushed in.
He'd been right about stretching; John's whole body tensed, and Sherlock hissed through his teeth at the muscles that clamped around the head of his cock. It was almost too tight, and there was no way John could take this without pain, and that was entirely beside the point of the whole damned exercise: John knew pain, John could endure pain, it was only pleasure that broken him apart. There had to be another way to make him relax--
"Oh," Sherlock blurted, when it came to him all at once. Like the dragons in the mountain, weeks ago-obvious. He stretched out over John's back, as far as he was able, and spoke the word that let the collar peel back from his neck. Before John could register what had happened, Sherlock bit down, hard, on the back of his neck, high near his hairline. He tasted of sweat and magic and leather and that mysterious hint of dragon, and Sherlock bit with nearly enough pressure to draw blood.
The effect was instantaneous. John let out a broken, sobbing, cry, but the tension also drained out of him, and Sherlock was able to push in all the way, balls-deep in John's body. He let up and began to lick and kiss the mark he'd made, not thrusting yet; John's squirming was more than enough stimulation for the moment. "Too much?" he murmured into John's ear.
"Yes," John hissed, panting.
Sherlock kissed his neck one last time. "Good."
He was gentle, of course; short, leisurely strokes, sitting back on his heels so he could watch himself slide in and out. John rocked weakly under him, though he really didn't have the leverage to thrust up; he was rubbing off on the pillow under him, hands clawing spastically at the sheets, voice cracking on every moan. Sherlock leaned forward again, to kiss and nip at his neck some more, and the change in angle allowed him to hit John's prostate on every other stroke.
"Can you come again?" Sherlock asked him.
John just groaned, beyond speech.
"Mmm." Sherlock bit again, more gently, at the same spot as before, and John shuddered. "I think you can. I think you will." He pushed John's hips higher, forcing him up on his knees, and sped his thrusts. "Oh. Oh. Come for me, John, just like this."
John groaned something that might've been Sherlock's name, and started to snap his hips up in earnest, driving Sherlock's cock deeper into him. Sherlock, feeling merciful, reached around to take John in hand, alternating strokes along his length with swipes of this thumb across the wet head. The third time he puts his teeth to John's neck-not even biting down, just a hard scrape-John came, every muscle in his body spasming around Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock couldn't help but follow, not after holding out so long himself. He pulled out reluctantly, and called the towel to his hand to quickly wipe up the residue of oil and semen that coated them both. John simply collapsed onto his front, breathing heavily, and his eyelashes were wet. He didn't protest when Sherlock ran a thumb over his lower lip. "There. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
John's sigh was so loud Sherlock could just barely make out a defeated, "Yes."
The water on the washstand had cooled to the perfect temperature, just as he'd anticipated, and with a fresh flannel Sherlock cleaned himself, and then John, who by now was sliding into exhausted sleep. He didn't resist in the slightest as Sherlock turned him over, and only gave a slight unhappy whimper at the feeling of the warm cloth on his reddened cock. He seemed bemused when Sherlock came back to the bed after putting the wet towels away, and once again curled up against him. "Can't," he murmured drowsily. "Really, really can't."
Sherlock chuckled, and scratched lightly at John's hair. "It's all right. Just sleep."
John mumbled something else unintelligible, and gave another sigh-smaller, more content-when Sherlock threw an arm over his chest. The collar had, at some point, fallen on the floor; Sherlock was in no hurry to cover up John's neck again, and now that they'd shared this, he doubted he needed any greater hold over him. He lay alongside his dragon for a long time, watching him sleep.
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The one little window had gone dim but not dark when Sherlock noticed the door handle jiggling; of course, with the silence rune on it, he couldn't hear anyone calling for him. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from John's sleepy heat, smudged out the runes and opened the door. "What?"
Fortunately for Mrs. Hudson, she was quite used to being confronted with a nude and belligerent Sherlock; she tutted at him once before averting her eyes. "It's your brother, dear, he's come to see you and he says it's urgent. I told him not to bother you when you've only just got back--"
Sherlock shut the door on her and sighed. No doubt Mycroft wanted to discuss the assassination plot, and could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, if not moreso. He stepped into his trousers again and slipped out of the room, hoping to quickly give Mycroft the minimum necessary to make him go way.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's state of undress, but didn't rise from his chair in the lounge. "Ah. Sherlock. So sorry to interrupt your...celebrations."
"No, you aren't," Sherlock said, flopping down on the couch. "And they're all dead, by the way, and too powerless to come back even if they weren't afraid I'd be waiting for them."
Mycroft's face twisted into a delicate moue of confusion for a moment, then cleared. "Oh, the sorcerers? Yes, yes, well done, I'm sure her majesty will reward you appropriately for it-or at least try to. But there are more pressing matters at hand."
"Are there?" Sherlock asked, wondering what Mycroft could possibly think Sherlock would be interested in.
"The embassy to the dragons has returned," he said. Paused. "One them even survived."
"And thus the queen intends to drive them away by force of arms." Sherlock peered at him, trying to work out the angle here. "Yet my dragon is quite secure, so you wouldn't be telling me this unless there will be additional measures in place."
"The climate in the court is...hostile," Mycroft said delicately. "If you are know to own a tame dragon here in the heart of the capital, there will be consequences."
Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, what? The queen will stop offering me knighthoods every time I save her wrinkly arse?"
"You overestimate the queen's affection," he answered severely. "Which do not extend to John. Nor mine, come to think of it."
Sherlock sat up, the words for fire and lightening on the tip of his tongue. "You wouldn't dare."
"Not unless I am pushed to it," Mycroft snapped. "Think very carefully, Sherlock. Your household will shortly include the only dragon left within our borders, and while I'm sure that appears greatly to your sense of drama, it puts you at a supreme personal risk. Not to mention it's hardly fair to the dragon in question."
"What would you have me do, then?" Sherlock asked frostily. "Turn him out on the street? Kill him myself?"
"I won't presume to issue an ultimatum, Sherlock," Mycroft said airily. "I merely wanted to ensure that you were aware of the facts of the situation. John's mere presence will be perceived as an insult to good men and women who died, and however powerful you think yourself, you cannot stand up to an entire kingdom if you are found out. And there will always be other dragons."
"Get out," Sherlock snarled, and for once Mycroft actually did as he was told. The warning was meaningless, anyway...it would take some coaching, but John could pass for a human well enough, and it wasn't as if dragons' shape-changing ability was well-known. No, all Sherlock had to do was put a shirt on him and keep him in this skin for a few months, until the idiocy had passed...and there were certainly plenty of ways to keep him distracted until then...
He wouldn't waste any more time on the matter. Bounding back up the stairs, Sherlock made for John's room, frowning when he saw the door ajar. He had closed it when he stepped out, and Mrs. Hudson had no reason to go inside; John might've gotten up to go to the toilet or seek out a drink, though he'd been deeply asleep when Sherlock left. When Sherlock pushed the door fully open, his eyes registered three things almost instantly:
The wide-open wardrobe, bare of John's trousers and Sherlock's coat.
The wide-open window, which faced the alley between houses.
The leather collar neatly spread out over the pillow.
The silence was nearly deafening, and Sherlock could not recall the last time he'd felt quite so disappointed, much less in himself.
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The campaign against the dragons, according to all sources, went splendidly for everyone who wasn't a fire-breathing thermopod. The king sent a mixture of mountain cavalry and heavy infantry, liberally reinforced with sorcerers and alchemists, and the dragons were still sluggish after the long winter. Some were clever enough to flee across the borders, but evidently none were clever enough to organize; the expedition simple overwhelmed dragons one and two at a time, and no conspecifics ever rushed to their aid.
Dragons weren't social creatures, after all. Dragons did not form emotional bonds.
Sherlock caught a serial killer and banished a major demon and drank tea and read books and ignored Mrs. Hudson's doting lamb-eyes and was not lonely. He burned the collar in a fit of pique and regretted it afterward. He refused to acknowledge Mycroft's existence for two solid weeks and communicated with him entirely in writing for another four.
He watched the victory parades, the mutilated, rotting dragon corpses paraded through the streets like trophies. He watched every single one.
Sherlock wasn't worried, and he certainly wasn't waiting for anything.
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He routinely left his bedroom windows open in the spring, not out of any affection for the allegedly "fresh" air but because it was less boring: he could lay in the darkness and listen to the sounds of the city, deducing the rounds of the ash-men and the lamp-lighters and the shop-keepers from the noises they made. The crowd at the pub down the street ebbed and flowed, his neighbors-those courageous enough to live near a notorious sorcerer-came and went. He heard laughter, indistinct voices, distinct patterns of footfalls that drifted and dwindled as the night drew on.
A heavy, rhythmic swishing sound. A distant scream.
The sound of shingles being ripped of his own roof.
Sherlock leapt to his window, nearly leapt out of it: in the dim light from the street, he could just see a great, heavy shape clinging to the edge of the roof across the garden, wings thrashing. As he watched, another patch of shingles broke free, and the massive shape fell to the ground with a deafening screech.
Sherlock did leap out the window, then, barely remembering the runes to gentle his fall. The garden was a closed courtyard, totally invisible from the street, but there were already witnesses...he called fire in his hand, a quick and dirty way of bringing light, as he fell to his knees in front of the familiar, brass-colored dragon that had crashed to the earth.
John looked thin and starved, with open wounds-slashes, burns-on his flanks and neck. His claws were caked with dirt and blood, and the web of one wing had been slit nearly to the frame. Sherlock put his hand on John's muzzle, just below the forward edge of the scute, and those great golden eyes fluttered open.
"You chose a peculiar time to come back," he said breathlessly.
John whimpered once, and then sudden it was a human face under his hand, an abused human body lying in the dirt. "There's nowhere else to go," John whispered, and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's touch.
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Sherlock pulled the chain from the forge with tongs, searching for any flaws in the metal before it cooled too much. Each link was a smooth oval, half-twisted, with a chip of blue-green stone set into the center; it was heavy in his hand, alive with a magic more permanent than any rune written into stone or metal could be. Quenching it with water made to cool enough to handle through his thick gloves, and he threw off his goggles, impatient to show off his handiwork.
The country house had been costly to purchase, but it was pleasant enough, and he supposed it might make a good place to retire someday, should he live so long. Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the quiet and the country air, for a change, and it was sufficiently far from the village to conceal a multitude of sins.
John lay in the garden, wings spread out to catch the summer sun, but he perked his head up when he saw Sherlock approaching with the chain. "I have something for you," Sherlock said showing it off for John's perusal. The verdict: a snort of hot, chemical-scented breath to the face. "Well, I wasn't going to forge it full-sized, you idiot. Go on, I want to see it on you."
John changed, still laying naked on his front in the grass; he rose up on his knees and cocked his head to the side. "I take it this one's going to stretch?"
"Among its many useful properties," Sherlock assured him. The chain was a solid loop with no clasp, just a bit too small to slip over John's head; Sherlock used magic to pass it straight through his neck and settle it there. He didn't seem bothered by the heat of the metal, as he reached up to finger this new bit of jewelry. "What do you think?"
"Heavy," he said, and then suddenly changed again, back to his full size. The chain grew with him, still fit snugly about the base of his neck, and it didn't slide around when he took a short, experiment trot.
"Can you fly?" Sherlock asked; John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "It's a valid question; if the chain is too heavy--"
Before he finished the question, John spread his wings again and launched himself. In the heat of the day it was easy for him to catch the rising waves of hot air and coast higher and higher, scales gleaming golden-brown in the sunlight. The villagers wouldn't report a dragon sighting, if they even noticed him; Sherlock had been careful to curry their favor to that end. They were safe here until John was fully recovered, until the city had forgotten about the slaughter of the dragons.
("They mostly just left," John had told him, as Sherlock cleaned and dressed his wounds. "I warned as many as I could and they took off for new territory."
"An advantage of having little material culture and a large wingspan, I suppose," Sherlock had commented.
John had nodded. "And easier than getting a load of dragons to agree on anything.")
Sherlock watched John climb higher as he peeled off his gloves; then he took from his pocket the ring he had made, a match for the chain, with the same blue-green stone set in the center. He slipped it on his left hand, and set his will through it. Come back.
The small, bright speck in the sky hovered a few moments more, before descending in lazy circles. John transformed just before he touched down, landing gracefully on one knee, and immediately felt for the collar, which was back to its original size. "You called me," he said, looking puzzled.
"Of course I did," Sherlock said, showing him the ring. "I can also locate you, and the collar provides a limited sort of defense against most types of sorcery, should you be attacked while we're apart."
John snorted. "Oh, you're not paranoid at all."
Sherlock dropped a hand onto his head, weaving fingers into his hair, and John's eyes fluttered shut. "I take care of what's mine," Sherlock said earnestly.
John leaned forward to rest his cheek against Sherlock's hip. "Mmmm. So I'm your dragon, am I?"
"Naturally."
"Does that mean you're my sorcerer?"
Sherlock ran his thumb over the faded bruise at the base of John's neck. "The one and only."
"Good," John said, and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's belly through his clothes.
-FIN-