Here Be Dragons. [dragon!Sherlock/hobbit!John] Part I
Title: Here Be Dragons
Pairing: dragon!Sherlock/hobbit!John
Rating: R
Warnings: bestiality/inter-species sex, utter bastardisation of both Tolkien's and Sherlock/ACD canons, kidhobbitnapping, first class ticket to special hell guaranteed.
Words: 20,410
Summary: Original prompt & fill. John makes a bet with his friends to go and find the rumoured dragon of the mountain - he gets a dragonful more than he bargained for.
(It's basically 500 words of porn, then 17,000 words of plot, followed by another couple thousand words of porn. And for some unfathomable reason also the longest fic I've ever written.)
- - -
Heat.
The smell of warm metal and leathery scales, the sharp, acrid sting of fire smouldering deep inside the dragon's chest.
Heat.
Hard, jutting angles of gold and jewels beneath his naked back, the smooth and cool pressure of monstrous claws against the curve of his shoulder, the soft inside of his left knee, caging him in.
Heat.
The beast's breath washes over John and sends a momentary shiver across his sweat-damp skin before the maddening heat of the dragon's lair closes around him again. It's almost like a physical presence in its intensity.
“Well, little hobbit,” comes a voice so deep he can feel it in his bones. “Ready to ask for forgiveness?”
John's mouth is dry, and words are fleeing his fevered mind. “…Sorry,” he whispers. “I never meant…” To intrude, to touch, to steal. It was mere curiosity. A quest for an adventure.
An adventure gone wrong, it seems, though his heart pounds in his chest like in the middle of a merry hunt. His words are met with another huff that sears his skin and makes his body arch in a puzzling mixture of pleasure and agony.
“Never mind what your intentions were,” the rumbling begins before pausing. The near-silence has an air of contemplation, and the beast's voice carries a hint of a question when it continues. “You are afraid.”
God, is he afraid. Although the dragon's hold does not infringe on his breathing, his breath is coming in shallow gasps, and a mere shift of a claw could shatter his shoulder or tear his leg right open.
So why is he hard enough to ache?
The air around him moves when the dragon unfurls its wings and leans closer. Upon spying a hazy peek through his lashes, John can see one huge silvery eye observing him, the gleaming circle split into two half moons by a thin, vertical pupil.
“But you don't smell of fear like the others.”
The others. Others unlucky enough to be caught sneaking in by the master of the lair; others presumably slaughtered on sight. Yet the dragon has spared him so far, is toying with him. Why?
A sound like a small earthquake rattles the chamber, and it takes him a moment to recognise it as chuckling.
“Interesting.”
The dragon continues to speak even as it lifts its talons, leaving him completely exposed to the assessing glare. “Such a homely little species your kind is, but here you are. Seeking danger. Excited by it.”
There is a hint of moisture in the air, but he receives no other warning than that before a wet, hot, and slightly coarse pressure slithers over his lower body and - Eru All High -
His eyes fly open, and for a moment his vision is swimming in a golden haze of firelight reflected in a million pieces of treasure, beyond which he can see the immense figure of the dragon, its scales black as coal and its tongue red as blood…
… and then his eyes squeeze shut on their own accord as his clammy hands search for purchase on the smooth golden baubles and his hips push and stutter against the moist friction as he comes undone.
The tongue withdraws from his skin, leaving him a sweaty, shivering mess on a bed of gold. The most violent of his tremors past, he feels a scaly appendage coiling around him and gently lifting his limp body.
“I think,” rumbles the dragon, “I shall keep you.”
- - -
John dreams of a boat at sea.
It's a place he has only ever read of in books, so from his position on the bottom of the boat he compares the sensations with more familiar sceneries. The movement of the boat is stronger than at a lake, but steadier than in the wild tumble of a river. It's like the rhythm of breathing.
He pushes himself up and gazes at the sky, and that's when he knows for certain he's dreaming. The sky - or the nothingness where there should be sky - is an empty grey, and the inky sea underneath it heaves despite the complete lack of wind from any direction. He reaches out to skim his fingers over the glittering surface.
It's warm to the touch, and from beneath the waves rises a steady beat.
- - -
He becomes aware of being awake only when he takes notice of his nakedness. It's an easy thing to miss, as the heat of his surroundings is enough to keep him warm despite his lack of clothes.
The heat. Of course.
The leathery hide of the dragon is firm but smooth under his body, smooth enough indeed that there are no marks on his skin left by the scales. One immense wing is folded half on top of him, partially obscuring the looming ceiling of the cavern from view. A fleeting image of a dark sea and an empty sky rises unbidden to his mind, but the dream slips away before he can commit it to memory.
“You might as well come down to where I can see you properly.”
The voice takes John by surprise, and he jumps to his feet, wondering how the dragon knew him to be awake. He clambers down one forearm thicker than his arms can reach around and almost trips on one trinket or another on landing.
The silvery gaze settles on him immediately and pins him down, so intense that he at first completely forgets to cover himself from view. The dragon takes its time observing his appearance and then makes a sound that could be called intrigued. Finally his brain kicks into gear and he flushes a deep red.
“Uh, you don't… happen to…” John hesitates and clears his sleep-dry throat. “To remember what you did with my clothes?”
The dragon gives him a once-over from head to toe. “I don't see how that will be necessary,” it rumbles. “Considering the level of perspiration you displayed last night, there's hardly any need for clothing to keep you warm.”
And John thought he couldn't flush any deeper. “Regardless,” he says after a short embarrassed cough. “I'd rather not walk around like… well, like this.” He does a rather bad job at covering his privates, and the dragon sighs, finally averting its eyes.
“Oh, fine,” it grumbles and flicks its head towards a corner of the great chamber. “Somewhere there.”
He scrambles off the pile of treasure (probably of no problem to someone with thick scales, but bloody uncomfortable to anyone without) and approaches the indicated corner. True enough, his clothes are there, unfortunately in several more pieces than when he last saw them.
“Oh, for the love of…” he groans and picks up half of what used to be his waistcoat. His nice waistcoat, damn it. He shoots a glance over his shoulder to where the beast is reclining, but it seems to have no interest in his activities. He sets to salvage what he can of his possessions, which isn't much, so that in the end he manages to fashion the remains of his shirt and waistcoat into a sort of a loincloth. That will have to do for now.
John turns around to find the dragon either dozing off or in very deep thought. He clears his throat. “Any chance of breakfast down here?” he asks.
No response. He walks a bit closer, hesitantly, and tries again. “Hello?”
“What?” the dragon huffs out without opening its eyes.
“Break… fast?” he asks again, feeling a bit unnerved when the dragon looks at him incredulously and frowns.
“Didn't you eat yesterday?” it asks.
“Well, yes,” he replies, surprised by the tone of accusation in the other's voice. “But I haven't eaten today.”
“Oh god,” the dragon sighs, closing its eyes again, and with that the conversation is at its end.
“Right,” John mutters to himself when it becomes clear the dragon isn't going to be of any assistance. He circles the chamber, looking for any edible scraps, but it figures that a dragon does not keep food stocked, preferring to eat its prey fresh. If at all, he thinks, glancing back at the recumbent form of the beast. With a little bit of distance it's easier to see that while the dragon is great in length and wingspan, it doesn't have that much bulk.
A little farther off the floor of the cavern starts sloping, and following a curve in the rock John stumbles upon what appears to be an underground spring. The sight of water fills him with relief, and he falls to his knees to sate his thirst. That achieved, he merely sits still, trying to get a grip on his situation. In the deep silence of the cavern John can hear the quiet dripping of water as it apparently bubbles up from somewhere in the rock, seeping through the layers of earth to collect clear as a mirror at the bottom of the caves.
A flicker of movement under the still surface catches his attention and he leans forward. It's a fish, silver pale and about the size of his forearm. So the waterways must be connected to the surface after all, he thinks and rises to his feet, keeping the fish in sight at all times. If only he had a pole or something… But by some stroke of luck the fish wanders to a shallow nook of the pool of water and, seeing his chance, John jumps after it, pinning its wriggly body against the rock and then scooping it out of the water.
He's probably giggling like a madman as he stumbles out of the spring and up the curve of the tunnel into the main chamber, continuously chanting “I got it! I got it!” under his breath. He stops in his tracks at the sight of the dragon frowning at his antics and tries to quell his giddiness.
“I found a fish-oh!” he says and then exclaims in surprise when said fish gives a vigorous wriggle in his arms and slips from his grasp. He leans down to catch it when the dragon moves from its position.
“Leave it,” it grumbles, and John starts.
“Why?” he asks, feeling indignant at the request. “I caught it myself and--”
“Leave - it,” the dragon repeats itself, and this time John doesn't have the courage to stand up against the order. Very nearly pouting, he steps away from the jumping body of the fish, which suddenly looks tiny next to the great snout of the dragon. He expects the beast to gulp it down with a mere swipe of its tongue, but instead a fine line of fire flickers from the dragon's open mouth, engulfing the fish until the pale scales of its body have turned a solid brown.
The dragon withdraws without another word, leaving the now-cooked fish steaming on the floor of the chamber. John hesitates a good while, waiting for some kind of a sign of approval, but when none comes, he slowly walks up to his slightly-charred catch and starts picking at it.
“Actually, this isn't that bad,” he muses aloud, half to himself and half to the beast, when he gets to the flesh. The dragon hums a short note, which trembles through the floor, and says nothing more.
- - -
In retrospect, the introductions probably could've gone a bit smoother.
“What kind of a name is 'John' for a hobbit?” the dragon asks.
John crosses his arms and stares defiantly up at the dragon from his spot next to its right paw. “It was my grandfather's name,” he replies. “Lived to a ripe age of one hundred and five, I'll have you know.”
The dragon snorts. “A hundred,” it mutters. “That's easy.”
John coughs. “Anyway,” he says. “What kind of a name is 'Sherlock' for a dragon, then?”
“A perfectly adequate one,” Sherlock-the-dragon loftily replies. “And I'll have you know I'm two hundred, twenty one and a half years of age,” he adds, as an afterthought.
John is silent for a moment. “Twenty one and a half years?” he then asks. Sherlock frowns.
“Yes?”
“You count your age in halves,” John chuckles. “Nobody above ten does that, you know--” and then he has to hastily step back when Sherlock swats one massive paw before growling deep in his throat and coiling up into a great heap of scales and wings.
- - -
Some time later John finds himself browsing the extent of Sherlock's lair and treasure. He'd been hesitant at first, fearing that the dragon would get angry at him for laying hand to his possessions, but it turns out Sherlock barely pays him any attention while he gawks at the priceless collections, muttering brilliant and fantastic at every newly unearthed piece of wonder. One half of John feels relieved by this apparent freedom, while the other worries that he's being treated as just one more addition to the dragon's hoard.
A flute catches his attention, sitting conspicuously atop a crate filled to bursting, its nearly pearlescent surface reflecting the flickering lights of the cavern in an alluring fashion. John picks it up and turns it around in his hands, inspecting the fine engravings along the length of the instrument. It looks vaguely elven, and he wonders how it could've ended up in Sherlock's possession. Surely he's not doing anything with it, John wonders as he raises the mouthpiece to his lips and gives a tentative puff of air.
The flute makes a half-hearted peep of no determinate note, and John tries again. This time he manages to produce a long, relatively steady note, which is inevitably shot to hell when he tries moving his fingers on the keys, and the sound resolves into a panicked squeal.
Any further attempts are briskly cut off by a whip-like tail snapping sharply against the floor not three feet from where John's standing. He probably jumps half his height into the air, and the flute clatters onto the floor.
“Shut up. That's annoying,” Sherlock grumbles from his usual resting position, which had led John to mistakenly think the dragon asleep.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he mumbles and hurries to return the flute where he found it, resolving to leave it alone for the time being.
- - -
“How come I've never seen you fly?” John asks one other time.
Sherlock doesn't even dignify this with an answer, just stares at him and raises an eyebrow, well, ridge, in a condescending way.
“I mean, your wings should easily carry you with their size. Or is there something wrong with them?” Suddenly the mere thought is enough to fill him with sadness - the thought of a dragon losing its wings and ending up trapped on the surface.
Before that train of thought can proceed any further, though, it's cut off by a snort of epic proportions. “Do they look like there's something wrong with them?” Sherlock asks and unfurls said wings so that they almost appear to form an artificial sky of night black. The sight is so majestic it derails John's thoughts for a moment.
“Then why?” he continues after a while. “And I don't mean just the time I've been here, before that, as well. That's why we made that bet with the guys, you know, to find out if you were real.” He frowns a little as Sherlock folds his wings closer together again. “Everybody's heard rumours about a dragon living inside the mountain, but nobody's ever actually seen you.”
Sherlock sighs and scratches his long neck with a talon. The resulting sound is like small rocks rubbing together. “Why should I? Your kind rarely gets up to anything interesting, and the world outside changes with so slow a pace I'm hardly missing anything.”
“Hardly missing…” John shakes his head, watching the long lines of the dragon with incredulity. “If I had wings, I'd never leave the skies,” he speaks under his breath.
Sherlock harrumphs. “So you say now,” he mutters. He gives all the impression of leaning his head down for a nap, the conversation all but forgotten, but as John keeps on staring at him, Sherlock eventually gives an exasperated huff and opens his eyes.
“Fine,” he grunts and extends a paw towards John. “Come here, then.” When John can make no movement from his surprise, Sherlock sighs another huff of air and lifts his wings. That takes the hint, and John scrambles forwards and climbs onto the massive palm as the clawed digits close in as a loose cage. A great gust of air billows around him, and then his world tilts and surges upwards in a sudden motion that sends him clutching the nearest talon for support.
They rise high into the shadowy recesses of the cavern, Sherlock expertly avoiding the arching walls of rock around them as he heads for a hidden opening in the ceiling of the lair. John has no idea which side of the mountain they finally emerge from when Sherlock's wings extend to their full length and let them be swept up by the winds.
The world below them is tiny and bathed in the golden light of a sunset, and John is torn between squeezing his eyes shut in terror and trying to commit as much of the view to his memory as possible. It's breathtakingly beautiful and terrifying at once, and his heart is beating a thousand miles per hour.
The setting sun comes almost fully into view as they gain height, though its light serves little to warm him up. Indeed, the higher and faster they go the more the wind catches on his few clothes, perfectly adequate in the warmth inside Sherlock's lair, but of no protection high in the sky. His fingers and hands, where he's squeezing them around one claw, are quickly growing numb, and the fear of falling suddenly overtakes him.
“Sherlock!” he yells, praying to all spirits and gods that his voice carries over the wind. “Take me back down, please? I-It's too h-high up.” His teeth start chattering from the cold, and he has to snap his jaw shut. He can't be sure if Sherlock heard him, he certainly hears no reply, but even with his eyes closed he can feel the weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach as they drop lower in one swooping move. Soon the wind ceases once more, and when John dares to open his eyes next, they're back in the tunnel of rock leading into the cavern.
Sherlock lands with a soft, faintly jingling thump, and John half-falls half-stumbles off his paw when his arms grow tired of holding on. He manages a few steps on terminally shaking legs before his knees give beneath him and he falls down to the ground.
Sherlock makes an annoyed noise. “What's wrong with you now, I thought you'd be happy to finally get what you--” He falls silent mid-sentence when he takes notice of the pronounced shivers running through John's body. Cocking his head, he leans closer.
“John?”
The unusually warm breath over John's overly cooled skin feels like being burned alive, and he whimpers aloud in agony. Tucking his shaking hands as close to his body as possible, he curls into a ball, hoping for the shivers to stop.
Sherlock keeps on staring, feeling utterly confused and more than a little miserable at seeing John in such pain. (Did he cause that? He didn't mean to, he didn't mean to hurt John, just to give him something more to be excited about so that he'd keep on making those little noises - the good kind of noises, not the whimpers he's making now like he's in pain and it's all Sherlock's fault.) Carefully placing his paws on either side of John's pitifully small body, he lies down, tucking his wings around them as to prevent any warmth from leaking away.
Lying with his eyes closed, John is barely aware of the movement around him, but when he next ventures to look around him, he's greeted by the sight of a long, scaly neck arched over him like the vault of a great hall, the fire in Sherlock's veins exuding heat in waves, wrapping him in a comfortable warmth. He doesn't notice when exactly he stops shivering from the cold, as the moment he does he's swept into a deep, calm sleep.
- - -
“And where do you think you're going?”
Again the question catches him completely off-guard and John whirls around to see Sherlock still in his resting spot, eyes closed. The dragon has such an uncanny way of guessing his every movement that John is inclined to believe him to be partly psychic.
“Uh, just outside,” he says, trying to fight the urge to shift nervously from foot to foot and failing spectacularly when Sherlock opens his eyes. “I mean, I could go search for some food, so you won't have to bother since you're always complaining how much I eat, and anyway, I haven't…” He starts babbling with increasing speed as Sherlock moves closer, never once lifting his eyes from John.
The hobbit gulps and plunges ahead, determined to argue his case as far as he can before inevitably getting interrupted. “I haven't been to the village since I first came here, and they must be worried about me, so if I could just go visit and tell them I'm fine they'd--”
“Why do you need them?” Sherlock asks, sounding, strangely enough, genuinely confused instead of arrogant. John blinks at him.
“Uh, because it's where I grew up?” he says. “It's still my home.”
Sherlock visibly bristles at this and leans closer to John, towering above him every inch like the formidable beast he is. “You left your home and came here,” he growls. “And you will stay here.” He pushes John with his snout until the hobbit stumbles backwards and keeps on pushing until John is herded far away from the smaller entrance to the cave.
“If you need food, I'll find it for you. I am, surely, a better hunter than you are.” Sherlock finally steps away once he's backed John into a small nook in the opposite end of the cavern and spreads his wings, rising to sit half on his haunches. “Stay, John. I won't be long.”
And with that he is gone in a flurry of black scales, soon disappearing among the shadows covering the heights of the vast ceiling. John sits still, dumbstruck, staring after the dragon.
It isn't exactly new, Sherlock was nothing if not vigilant about him, but to actually forbid him from going back to his home village, to physically prevent John from leaving, that is… Frightening, John's mind supplies, and in no good way. It isn't an adventure as much as it is a death wish. Sherlock won't let him leave even if he asks, which only leaves him the option of… running away.
Knowing his time to be limited, John scampers from his nook to where he has stored the remains of his clothing, pulling the torn rags on the best he can and ignoring the discomfort of the heat around him. He has no way of knowing which time of the day it is outside - the deep cavern allows no sunlight to enter - and he only hopes he won't stumble right into the pitch black of a cold night. His torch having been shattered upon his apprehension by the dragon, he has no light to take with him to guide him through the dark tunnels.
But do it he will. He has to.
- - -
Sherlock dives through the dark sky to slide back into the familiar tunnels of his home, half an ox clutched in one great paw. He is starting to see John's insistence on eating his food cooked with the scent of tenderised meat filling his nose, though there had been something incredibly amusing about the little hobbit's indignant squawks at being presented with a raw, freshly-slain fowl.
Will have to ask him about that, Sherlock ponders as he swoops down into his cavern and settles on his haunches. “John, I found you a--” he starts and then stops, struck by the sense of something being horribly wrong.
“John?” Sherlock sweeps his gaze across the visible expanse of the cavern, then closes his eyes and concentrates on the smells. Disregarding the obvious scent of fresh meat, the common smells of metal and earth, there's a missing slot where there used to be…
“John!” His head whips around, but no matter where he looks or how many piles of his precious collections he hurls aside, there is no sign of the little hobbit. A low, furious growl shaded with grief rising from his throat, he lashes out with his tail hard enough to send a shattering of stone through the air, and finally curls in a tight heap in the middle of his great cavern, wings tucked over his head, faint tremors travelling along the length of his body.
- - -
As luck would have it, John can barely tell the difference between the moment when he steps from the darkness of the caves into the darkness of the night, and it's sheer luck he doesn't stumble on the first protruding root he comes across. It's only by the cold air slithering under his torn clothes that he first guesses he's approaching the outside. There is little in the means of a path leading to the barely-there entrance to the mountain in broad daylight, and the flimsy glimpses of moonlight through the shredded veil of clouds don't offer much guidance on his way.
It had taken him an hour at a leisurely pace to reach the mountain in daytime. John heads west and hopes to reach at least the halfway point of his journey before Sherlock notices he's gone.
- - -
The first glimpse of the village lights fills John with such indescribable relief he throws all precaution to the wind as the hurries forward, only to have that feeling replaced by utter confusion at the welcome he receives.
“Halt! Who is there?” The sudden blaze of a torch feels blinding after the long walk through darkness, so John can barely see the face of the person approaching him, but there is something distinctly familiar about the voice.
“Bill? Is that you?” he asks, shielding his eyes with a hand.
The person with the torch pauses a few paces away from him, suspicion lacing both his voice and demeanour. “Who's asking?”
“It's me - John!” he almost yells. He can't have changed that much during his absence, can he? Although admittedly his clothes, or the partial lack of, probably make him look more like a raggedy goblin than a respectable hobbit.
His name cinches the matter, though, and Bill - John can now confidently recognise the other hobbit - rushes the few remaining steps between them and grabs John's shoulder with his free hand. “Thank Eru, it really is you!” the slightly taller man exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief. “We all thought you were a goner.”
John clasps his hand on Bill's shoulder in a mirroring gesture and offers a small smile. “Oh, not at all,” he assures his friend. “In all likelihood I wasn't in that grave a danger at any point as you might believe.”
“Not in danger..? Look at your clothes!” Bill flicks the ragged edge of his torn shirt and, oh admittedly that does look pretty bad. “That doesn't look like nothing.”
“It's a long story,” John gives a dismissive wave of his hand, then raises an eyebrow at Bill's own appearance. “More importantly, what's this all about? Since when do you carry a dagger around the village?”
Bill glances down at himself, said dagger hanging in a sheath by his side, and then as if suddenly remembering something, he raises his torch and peers into the shadows behind John's back. “Night guard,” he replies. “Strange things've been going on, ever since you disappeared, in fact. Strangers around the village after dark, and not Dúnedain or dwarves. Or elves, for that matter.” This last part is said in a kind of a wistful sigh, Bill being known for his avid fascination with stories of Elvenkind passing through the Hobbit lands on their journeys.
“Strangers,” John repeats. “You mean… Men?” He pauses, glances around and continues in a hushed voice. “Goblins?”
Bill shakes his head. “Bigger than goblins. But they don't speak, not even when we tried to address them. They just run away from the fire. And then last week…” A shadow passes over his face, and John is certain it's not merely a flicker of the torch. “Last week Carl went missing.”
John's eyes turn round. “Bigfoot?” he asks. “The fisher's son?”
Bill nods solemnly. “Left his house in early morning to go down to the lake and… just disappeared. At first they thought he'd drowned--”
“As if a fisher would.”
“--but it turned out he'd never been seen at the lake. Gone. Just like that.” Bill shivers despite his warm clothing and shifts the torch to his other hand. “It was still dark and early. Nobody saw nuthin'.”
John stares at the ground, a mournful frown between his brows. Carl had been a big fellow for a hobbit, not just where his feet were concerned, so for something to snatch him up with no sound nor sign would have to be malevolent and cunning indeed. But why hobbits? John felt a shiver run down his spine. Why would anyone be interested in them?
“Crikey, what am I doing!” Bill interrupts his gloomy thoughts. “Telling ghost stories in the middle of the night while you're freezing your feet off. Come on, come on…” He slings an arm around John's shoulders and tugs him along. “The tavern's still open, I bet everyone will be thrilled to see you back. You really need to tell us what you've been up to all this time…”
John manages a small grin despite himself. “Speaking of betting, Bill, weren't you pretty certain about that dragon story?”
“What? Oh, you still going on about that,” Bill laughs. “Yeah, so?”
John stretches an arm and gives Bill a good clap on the shoulder. “Well, you might just be in luck tonight…”
- - -
Harry cries. A lot. Then she tries to somehow hit him and hug him at the same time while yelling something about “Three weeks, John!” between her sobs, and then buries her face in his shoulder. It's the first welcome he receives after stepping into the tavern, so he's a bit wary about the others' reactions when they finally convince Harry to let him go and sit back down. Mike had been staring at him like at a ghost, but when he steps up to John, it's with a warm smile and a one-armed hug while he presses a fresh pint into John's hands.
“Good to have you back, mate,” he says softly and continues under his breath that Harry's been a bit out of kilter these past weeks, with a brief nod towards the corner where she's still dabbing her eyes with a borrowed napkin.
After a round of welcomes from everyone in the tavern, and a few others who ran in after the news got around, he is sat down with another complimentary pint of ale from Mrs Hudson (though he's barely finished half of his first one) and a room full of excited eyes fixed on him.
“So, tell us everything,” someone says, and everyone nods or cheers in agreement, and John finds himself stuck. Where to even start with all that's happened to him during the three weeks? After a bout of silence, Mike, bless him, goads him on with the first question.
“Did you see the dragon?”
John grins at his ale, then at the excited faces around him, and nods. The tavern explodes into a flurry of bewildered cries, and Bill claps his hands with joy. “I knew it!” he laughs and points at Mike, who groans into his arms. “You owe me!” And Mrs Hudson has to tell them all to calm down or she's throwing them out of her tavern, and then asks John to carry on.
So he tells them. He hesitates occasionally over his choice of words when he starts describing the many wonderful treasures of the dragon's lair, because though they are no dwarves, even the most down-to-earth hobbit is no stranger to the allure of gold and jewels. John had kept his hands strictly to himself upon taking his leave, for he knows that daring to steal from the hoard is a sure way to get a furious Sherlock at his heels.
The dragon himself is a whole other issue. Knowing most hobbits to be already prejudiced against Sherlock's kind, and not entirely without reason, John doesn't want to add to that simmering aversion. The last thing they need is a host of riled hobbits seeking retribution from a fickle dragon. So he finds himself assuring his audience over and over again that he was never truly hurt during his time in the mountain (though he fears the state of his clothes eats away at his credibility) and that Sherlock couldn't be behind the strange occurrences of the village.
When he finally gets to retire to his hut, a bit dusty to be sure but otherwise in the same condition as when he left, he can barely get a wink of sleep, listening to the silent night for the barest hint of great wings rending through the air.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, however, because at dawn he wakes up to a commotion at the village gates that pushes his previous worries completely out of his mind. It's a company of hobbits from a farthing on the western side of the river that forms a natural border to their village, every man and woman in various states of distress and carrying as much of their possessions on their persons as possible. A lone Ranger brings up the rear and requests entrance to the village, which - after a brief consultation with the Master of the lands - is granted alongside the fleeing hobbits.
John hurries to the marketplace first thing upon waking and listens to the travellers' relay of the attack on their village, of dark goblins and hooded riders ransacking and capturing the villagers, setting fire to the places they had emptied of people and livestock. Some hobbits had taken up the few weapons they could find, but even with the help of the Rangers who walk on the borders of the Hobbit lands, they couldn't stand against the force of the attack and were forced to flee.
The refugees are granted lodgings in the village and, after a few more negotiations, the offers of assistance from the Rangers are accepted as well. As the crowd starts to disperse after the declarations, John catches a glimpse of Bill, who immediately catches up to him for a talk.
“They've seen it, too,” Bill says the moment they reach speaking distance. “Strangers after dark, people disappearing. It's not just us, they're all over Buckland and Shire, too.” They stand in silence for a moment, watching the people pass them by, others hurrying to the gates to close them behind the newcomers.
“But why are they attacking us?” John asks. “Even if there's a war out there, why bring it here? We've got nothing to give.”
Bill merely shakes his head. “Don't know and am not going there to ask,” he replies and gives John a worried look. “In the meanwhile you'd be better off carrying a dagger on your own person, mate.”
- - -
It begins from the west, but over the following weeks it goes on and spreads wider. The villages in the south, too, are being attacked and their surviving people driven eastwards towards the few remaining safe havens in the Hobbit lands.
It's only after listening to the refugees' stories and consulting the maps provided by the Rangers that the whole picture of their situation opens to them. The attacks aren't just random acts of violence by opportunistic bandits - it's military strategy.
“They're occupying the villages in the south and west, so the people flee inland. There are ranges of mountains to the northeast. We've got nowhere to run.” John feels a dull, desperate coldness settle in the pit of his stomach following the words.
“They're caging us in.”
- - -
“Of course, there's always one thing we could try.”
It's a quiet night at the tavern, most of the locals preferring to stay at home with their families with the dangers surrounding them. Some of those from the other villages are milling around the room, setting up emergency lodgings. The influx of refugees has only increased by the week, and they're quickly running out of space.
John looks up from his pint to see Mike throw a furtive glance at the other people in the pub. “What one thing?” he asks.
Mike leans closer and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, you know that dragon you told us about…” he begins, but John cuts him off with a brisk shake of his head.
“No,” he simply says. Mike's expression sags for a minute before he seems to regain his momentum and presses on.
“So he's an eccentric one, you said, but not unreasonable. Say we draw together our valuables - I've got some family heirlooms that have got to be worth something - and ask him to--”
“You can't buy a dragon's help,” John sighs. Sending someone else off with such a task is unthinkable, but if John were to return himself, he could be facing anything from cool dismissal to instant captivity to being torn to shreds on first sight. None of the options sound appealing.
Mike falls silent after that, and for a long time they drink their ales without a word being exchanged. Nearing the end of the night, and the bottom of their third pints, one of them finally murmurs in a faint voice, “'s worth a try, though, isn't it?”
- - -
It's another week before he is ready to go, and even then it isn't without a row with Harry.
“You barely got away the first time, and now you're going back to the beast!” she yells from her position in the doorway of his hut, looking for all the world ready to physically stop him from leaving. “And if you don't come back this time?”
John fights the urge to fiddle with his backpack. The same thought has occurred to him. “Then you keep on fighting with the rest of the villagers,” he says, calmly, because somebody has to remain calm here.
Harry snorts. “Yeah, right. Keep on going like nothing's wrong, huh?” She shakes her head. “If you're not back in two days, I'm going after this stupid dragon myself and killing it. Then I'll find whatever's left of you and kill you twice for being so stupid.”
“You're being ridiculous.”
“Look who's talking,” she sniffs.
Armed with two long daggers, more in case of danger on the road than against the possible wrath of Sherlock's claws, John sets off. He doesn't mean to dawdle, he has no time for that, but nevertheless his steps start lacking in speed the nearer he draws to the mountain, mentally rehearsing and preparing for all potential outcomes of his arrival.
In daytime the entrance to the caves appears dark and cool, but the temperature steadily rises the deeper he descends into the tunnels. After a while he's certain he can't be but a few corners away from the main chamber, and he can't tell whether the sweat on his brow is because of the heat or his anxiety. He could still turn away at this point. He hasn't been seen, he can just say any offers he made were rejected and leave it at that. No need to risk his life.
The moment this thought crosses his mind, a roaring voice carries up the short stretch of tunnel remaining between him and Sherlock.
“I can hear you, little creature. Show yourself!”
John takes a deep breath and steps forward. Like the previous time, he first perceives the glimmer of precious metals strewn about the chamber, then the tail and feet of a being so dark and enormous it seems to blend together with the shadows, and then - craning his neck towards the ceiling - the silvery gaze almost hypnotic in its intensity. It feels like entering the court of a king - a very solitary, peculiar one to be true, but a king nonetheless.
John can't get a word out of his mouth. He can barely stop himself from shaking, from averting his eyes from Sherlock's unreadable face. The dragon seems to be frozen like a statue, but whether from surprise or anger or some whole other emotion, it's impossible to tell.
“H-Hello,” John finally chokes out. It's barely above a whisper, and Sherlock gives no indication of having heard him. John swallows compulsively, hoping that he could reach into his backpack for a flask to moisten his throat.
“I've… I've come in behalf of my village,” he tries again after a moment. “To ask for help.”
At this Sherlock slowly moves from his stiff, regal position, lowering his head so that it's almost resting on his massive paws. “I thought you made it clear you don't want anything I have to offer,” he speaks in a very poised voice, which nevertheless sends a jolt of dread through John.
“I'm not speaking for myself alone,” John quietly replies. “I trust you're aware the land of Mordor has begun a war against the other reigns of our realm. My village alongside other Hobbit settlements are being unwittingly drawn into the war by the enemy destroying our homes. We have the men of our and the neighbouring villages and help from the Dúnedain, but we…” His throat grows dry, and he has to cough to regain his voice. “We still don't have the manpower to defend ourselves against the armies of Mordor.”
Sherlock gives a disdainful snort. “Politics. How dull,” he mutters.
John remains deathly still, though a slow burn is starting to rise inside him at the indifferent dismissal from the dragon. “I thought a mere request would not catch your sympathies, so we also prepared these,” he says and slides his backpack to the ground to unfasten it. “We don't have much in terms of treasure, but we are ready to offer you these in exchange for help.”
He displays the few pieces of gold and silver contained in the knapsack, though the little confidence he has left quickly dwindles when he sees Sherlock is barely paying him any attention. He pulls out a delicate golden necklace and holds it in his hands. “This belonged to my mother. It was a wedding gift from my father. Probably the most valuable thing they ever owned,” he says softly and turns to look at Sherlock to see the dragon eyeing the piece of jewellery, and for a moment John feels a flicker of hope, but then Sherlock closes his eyes with a huff.
“They are worth more in sentiment than anything else,” he declares.
John stares for a long while, unable to find a response to this statement. Then he slowly repacks all the items in a defeated silence and stands straight once more to face the dragon. “So that means you won't help?” he asks, despite the leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock doesn't react in any way, and the lump of lead bursts into a flash of anger.
“People are dying, Sherlock!” John all but yells. “Good people, my people!” I might die as well, he thinks, but does not dare say aloud. “Can you honestly say you don't care one whit about what happens in the world outside?”
The silence, after the reverberations of his words have died down, is heavier than anything, and Sherlock still doesn't move a muscle. John shakes his head in disbelief. “Apparently you don't,” he says in a hollow voice. “Fine. Forget it, then.”
He turns away, clenching his fists to stop them from shaking, and walks gingerly the way he came. A small part of him expects, almost hopes, to be stopped from leaving, but Sherlock's indifference towards both him and his cause indicates that everything that happened between them during their three weeks has been all but deleted.
- - -
Despite being told to get as much rest as possible before the outbreak of the battles, John can catch only a few hours of fitful sleep every night, and even in his waking hours he is high-strung and twitchy, nervously checking the state of their weapons and medical equipment as if they had magically increased overnight.
So it comes almost as a relief to hear the horn sounded at dusk, a sign that the enemy has been sighted. The shadow of war hanging over the village has prevented them from leading their normal lives; at least in battle they have the slightest chance to prove their worth and throw off that shadow.
John rushes to the gates, swiftly fastening the bracer around his left arm as he climbs up one of the newly erected surveillance towers to take his place among the archers. His quiver heavy with arrows, he hefts the bow in his left hand and waits for orders.
“Remember, we don't have arrows to waste, so make each shot count!”
From their elevated positions, they can see the dark hordes marching closer and closer. On his right, Bill gives his side a slight nudge.
“How long do you reckon we can last?” he whispers. John swallows, keeping his eye on the horizon and his finger on the arrow.
“We'll last as long as they do,” he replies, forcing steel into his voice even as his heartbeat keeps on rising. He keeps his mouth shut about the one truth they all know, the one they are trying their hardest to ignore.
It's that when the sun goes down, the hordes have the upper hand.
Volley after volley they shoot at the approaching enemy, giving their allies on ground level a breather of a second before another assault threatens to overwhelm them. The last rays of the setting sun lend the enemy a nigh infernal glow, as if they weren't already daunting enough. John struggles to keep his eye on the opponents at hand and to ignore the impending threat in the distance.
Then the horizon falls into shadow, and John hears shaky gasps from around him.
“Heavens above, but we are done for,” Bill whispers, and John risks a glance. What first appeared to be a rippling storm cloud has now resolved into a monster of nightmarish proportions, with wings large enough to cover a good portion of the horizon behind them. The sight is so familiar it forces a painful lump into his throat, and he quickly draws another arrow and sends it barrelling into an enemy's neck to keep himself focused.
“Don't look at it,” he tells Bill and his other comrades. “Fretting won't do any good.”
They keep on fighting dutifully, determined to take down as many godforsaken Orcs as possible before inevitably being struck down by the approaching beast. They manage to focus their attention on helping the frontline, so the sudden flare of light in the distance gives them all a good jolt. It's bright as the setting sun, and even after its disappearance both the hobbits and their enemies keep on staring at the horizon.
Then it comes again, and in the momentary glow of distant flames John grows certain that he's not just imagining the familiarness of the winged form, and the horrified wailing that rises from the hordes of Orcs confirms his suspicions. Suddenly filled with renewed vigour, he grasps Bill's shoulder.
“He's not fighting for them!” he yells. “He's attacking them!”
“Who is?” Bill yells back, voice slightly shaky with terror. John points at the form of the dragon, framed by its own flickering fire.
“Sherlock! That's him, I'm sure it is.” He lets go of Bill to take up his bow and arrows once more and takes aim. “Keep on shooting, fellows! We're not done yet!”
The resistance from the enemy crumbling by every passing minute, they take them down with increasing speed and accuracy, aiming at the back of the neck on those who try to run away. The sky grows darker, but the dark no longer frightens John, not when he knows they've got an ally on their side.
Soon enough the remaining Orcs all but abandon their endeavours and start scrambling away, and John looks up to see Sherlock swooping down from the sky, scattering the last of the enemy resistance as he lands outside the village gates. John flings down his bow and arrows and climbs down from the tower, his chest tight with emotions he's too overwhelmed to name. The village is nothing short of chaotic, with part of the gates having collapsed under the attack, and those hobbits involved in the fight still have their swords drawn, too busy staring at the dragon to sheath their weapons.
John rushes out of the gates and stops dead in his tracks. Sherlock has one of the Orcs captive under one huge paw, a talon poised above the creature's heaving chest. He's murmuring something under his breath, so quiet John can't make out individual words, but even so there is no mistaking of the raw and inelegant sounds of the Black Speech. John feels his blood run cold and suddenly understands the reason for the suspicious and borderline enraged looks on the faces of his fellow hobbits.
Whatever Sherlock had said to the Orc, it responds with a raucous cackle and a screech in its hideous language, which is abruptly cut off when the dragon suddenly pushes down in a fit of rage, crushing the Orc's body with a sickening crunch. John barely turns his head away in time and hears a chorus of horrified gasps around him. The situation could explode any second if the villagers decide to treat Sherlock as an enemy.
John takes a deep breath and turns back to face the dragon, who is staring despondently at the crushed remains of his victim. “Sherlock!” he calls out, hoping to catch the other's attention.
Sherlock's head snaps up, and his eyes instantly zero in on John. He makes to move towards him, but he only manages to extend one paw before a deftly aimed rock snaps between his eyes and makes him flinch back.
“Stay away, you beast!” comes a shout from behind John, and he turns around to see several hobbits raising their weapons.
“Cut it out!” John yells and quickly runs over to Sherlock before anyone can stop him. “He's on your side, for heaven's sake!” He stops a few steps in front of Sherlock's paws, the sight of which makes several villagers take a shuddering breath. Behind him, Sherlock has grown very still and quiet.
A young boy, apparently the one responsible for throwing that rock, looks nervously from John to Sherlock and back again. “But he killed that man!” he cries.
“That 'man' was an enemy,” John explains. “Sherlock only came here with the intention to help, not to destroy. He's a friend.”
A wave of murmur spreads through the hobbits at his words, and though some still have their swords drawn, at least the open looks of hostility have dulled down to mere confusion. John feels a puff of warm air ruffle his hair and clothes and looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock's head lowering to his level. He reaches out to smooth a hand over the scaly curve of the dragon's snout.
“You came to help,” he says softly, his throat oddly tight. “…Thank you.”
Sherlock gives a soft grunt. “You did ask,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he pushes gently against John's palm. The hobbit lets his hand remain where it lies as he glances back at the muttering crowd.
“They're suspicious of me,” Sherlock says quietly, and John wishes he could properly hug the dragon, so miserable does Sherlock sound. He settles for gently patting his muzzle instead, and puts every ounce of confidence he can muster into his tone as he says, “I'm sure they'll come around.”
John does not once step away from Sherlock until the murmurs of the villagers have died down and they seem to have achieved a consensus to trust his word. “All right, so the dragon can stay,” calls out one of the men with a sword on their side, though sheathed now.
“Thank you,” says John. “And his name is Sherlock.”
“I could've said that myself,” said Sherlock mutters, and John gives him a grin.
“Oh, hush you.”
They stare at each other in silence while the crowd around them starts to disperse, heading to clear up the damage done by the battle and to tend to the wounded. Sherlock looks away after a moment and flexes his wings. “I should… probably leave,” he says.
John frowns. “Why?”
“Well…” Sherlock glances back at the village, again looking uncomfortable. “You have a lot of repairing to attend to, and I'm not… particularly good at fixing things.” It almost seems to pain him to admit this disability of his, and John can't help a small smile.
“You may have a point there,” he chuckles. “Then what will you do?”
Sherlock looks over his shoulder into the now-dark horizon, the way their enemy had retreated. “I can have a look around the area, see that all is clear,” he says. “It's easier to survey from the air, I'm sure.”
John nods at this and takes a step back. “All right,” he says. “Promise you'll come back, though?”
Sherlock looks back down at him, and though he can't really smile, John is sure there is a certain fondness in the expression on his face. “Of course,” he says in a soft rumble and spreads his wings in one smooth motion. John takes additional steps back as Sherlock rises to his hind legs and pushes himself into the air with a massive flex of his wings. A gust of wind washes over the ground, and John hears several gasps and even a few whistles as the dragon gracefully takes flight and disappears into the night sky.
- - -
“I thought you should have this.”
It's the night after the first battle, and Sherlock has taken John atop one of the small hills outside the village, ostensibly to keep watch, but there is no doubt as to the two enjoying a peaceful moment together after so long a separation.
John looks up at the sound and sees Sherlock's paw descending towards him, apparently trying to hold onto something very small and fragile, which nevertheless manages to slip from underneath one talon. John sees a glint of silver and extends his hands just in time to grasp the lithe flute. He notices the intricate engravings on the side of the instrument and makes a small oh of recognition.
“Thank you,” he says in a soft voice and gives Sherlock a bright smile in response. The dragon just hums a short note and then rests his head down on the grassy ground. John inspects the flute for a moment before raising it to his lips and starting to make quiet, tentative sounds, which slowly develop into single, clear notes as the night proceeds further.
“You know, I never expected this,” John speaks the words into a comfortable silence. Sherlock makes an inquisitive sound, so he continues. “Getting to know you, beyond the 'dragon in the mountain' level… trusting you, even. For you to come and help us. All this.” John smiles down at the flute, his cheeks feeling a tad warm after such a confession, happiness warming his stomach like a full meal. It takes him a moment to realise Sherlock has fallen completely silent.
“Sherlock, what is it?” he asks, a tinge worried.
Sherlock gives a huffing sigh and flicks his tail in a nervous manner. “I didn't bring you help,” he mutters. John merely stares at him, uncomprehendingly, so he raises his head and stares off into the distance as he speaks. “By now everyone will have heard of the village of hobbits with a dragon on their side. I have only brought you the enemy's attention.” He droops his head a bit. “That can lead to nothing good.”
John remains silent and turns back to stare at the flute in his hands, his good mood suddenly evaporated. He can't deny that Sherlock's words have some truth in them, but at the same time he can't bear to give in to such despondent thoughts.
“So you're saying they will only focus more of their force on us?” he asks after a heavy bout of silence.
“That is possible,” Sherlock admits.
John bites his lip and clenches his fingers around the flute. “So when they attack again? What happens then?”
He thinks Sherlock looks at him, then, but can't be sure, because he can't bring himself to look up lest he break into tears.
“We fight,” Sherlock murmurs, breath like a warm summer's breeze against his hair. “Simple as that.”
- - -
There had been rumours of bizarre happenings along with skulking strangers in the dark, first related by the newly arrived hobbits and later confirmed by some of the Dúnedain who observed the plains. Rumours of large areas of grassland suddenly turning dead and withered during the night, livestock and nocturnal animals found stone dead with no sign of violence, even some unfortunate lone travellers on the roads falling victim.
Their village witnesses this phenomenon firsthand only when one of the Rangers on patrol never returns. After a brief discussion a group is sent to search for him, and soon enough they find the man, skin ice cold, blue-tinged lips contorted into a silent scream of agony. He still has all his weapons on his person and shows no sign of bodily injury, apart from the veins standing stark against the deathly paleness of his skin, as if he had frozen to death. But the weather of the plains is mild throughout the year, and nobody with a reasonable dress should have the slightest of risks of losing their life to the cold.
The mysterious death threatens to dampen the slowly-rising battle morale of the villagers, and thereafter nobody apart from Sherlock with his thick skin is allowed outside the gates after dark.
- - -
On one of the last peaceful afternoons, on a lightly forested grassland some distance away from the gates - because there simply is no space for Sherlock to land anywhere inside the village - Sherlock watches John checking over his bow. The dragon has been quiet for a while in that very deliberate way of his, which indicates there's a question or a dozen brewing inside that enormous skull. And soon enough a huff of breath breaks the silence.
“How good exactly are you with that thing?”
John throws him a smile that could be called vaguely wicked and moves the bow to his left hand and fishes for an arrow in the quiver lying on the ground. He stands up, looking around them, and then spots a group of young trees at the edge of the plain.
“See those?” he asks, nodding in their direction as he raises his bow and takes aim. “The frontmost one.” Sherlock makes a quiet sound of understanding behind him, and John closes one eye as he focuses on the target, the width of the tree approximately that of his palm.
A second or two of almost absolute stillness, and then the arrow whistles through the air and sinks into the bark with a resounding thwack.
“Impressive,” Sherlock murmurs, and John feels a happy flush colour his cheeks.
“Thanks,” he says softly, glancing between Sherlock and the tree and fidgeting on his feet until finally snapping out of it. “I should, uh,” he clears his throat, “go and get the arrow… Can't waste those for just target practice.”
He trudges off to the edge of the field, successfully cooling his burning cheeks in the meantime, and returns to find Sherlock gazing at him in a thoughtful manner.
“A marksman like yourself must be of great value to your village,” the dragon comments, which does little in helping John keep his blushing at bay. It's not common for Sherlock to hand out compliments like this, but still he goes on, “Indeed, it would be very unfortunate were they to lose you in battle.”
At this, John frowns and looks up at Sherlock, expecting some kind of a continuation, but it seems like Sherlock himself is waiting for a reply. John clears his throat. “Well… I suppose so, yes,” he finally says.
Sherlock just keeps on staring at him and then averts his eyes with a quiet huff. “Which means it'd be for the best if you focused on holding out when the attack comes,” he says quickly.
It takes John a few moments to translate the convoluted sentence into a plain old declaration of don't you dare get yourself killed, but when he manages that, there's no force on earth that could stop the grin spreading on his face. “Of course I won't,” he murmurs and then, seeing Sherlock's confused and slightly alerted frown, corrects himself. “I mean, of course I'll watch out for myself,” he says.
Sherlock just flirts his wings and closes his eyes in response. “Good.”
__________
Part II
Pairing: dragon!Sherlock/hobbit!John
Rating: R
Warnings: bestiality/inter-species sex, utter bastardisation of both Tolkien's and Sherlock/ACD canons, kidhobbitnapping, first class ticket to special hell guaranteed.
Words: 20,410
Summary: Original prompt & fill. John makes a bet with his friends to go and find the rumoured dragon of the mountain - he gets a dragonful more than he bargained for.
(It's basically 500 words of porn, then 17,000 words of plot, followed by another couple thousand words of porn. And for some unfathomable reason also the longest fic I've ever written.)
- - -
Heat.
The smell of warm metal and leathery scales, the sharp, acrid sting of fire smouldering deep inside the dragon's chest.
Heat.
Hard, jutting angles of gold and jewels beneath his naked back, the smooth and cool pressure of monstrous claws against the curve of his shoulder, the soft inside of his left knee, caging him in.
Heat.
The beast's breath washes over John and sends a momentary shiver across his sweat-damp skin before the maddening heat of the dragon's lair closes around him again. It's almost like a physical presence in its intensity.
“Well, little hobbit,” comes a voice so deep he can feel it in his bones. “Ready to ask for forgiveness?”
John's mouth is dry, and words are fleeing his fevered mind. “…Sorry,” he whispers. “I never meant…” To intrude, to touch, to steal. It was mere curiosity. A quest for an adventure.
An adventure gone wrong, it seems, though his heart pounds in his chest like in the middle of a merry hunt. His words are met with another huff that sears his skin and makes his body arch in a puzzling mixture of pleasure and agony.
“Never mind what your intentions were,” the rumbling begins before pausing. The near-silence has an air of contemplation, and the beast's voice carries a hint of a question when it continues. “You are afraid.”
God, is he afraid. Although the dragon's hold does not infringe on his breathing, his breath is coming in shallow gasps, and a mere shift of a claw could shatter his shoulder or tear his leg right open.
So why is he hard enough to ache?
The air around him moves when the dragon unfurls its wings and leans closer. Upon spying a hazy peek through his lashes, John can see one huge silvery eye observing him, the gleaming circle split into two half moons by a thin, vertical pupil.
“But you don't smell of fear like the others.”
The others. Others unlucky enough to be caught sneaking in by the master of the lair; others presumably slaughtered on sight. Yet the dragon has spared him so far, is toying with him. Why?
A sound like a small earthquake rattles the chamber, and it takes him a moment to recognise it as chuckling.
“Interesting.”
The dragon continues to speak even as it lifts its talons, leaving him completely exposed to the assessing glare. “Such a homely little species your kind is, but here you are. Seeking danger. Excited by it.”
There is a hint of moisture in the air, but he receives no other warning than that before a wet, hot, and slightly coarse pressure slithers over his lower body and - Eru All High -
His eyes fly open, and for a moment his vision is swimming in a golden haze of firelight reflected in a million pieces of treasure, beyond which he can see the immense figure of the dragon, its scales black as coal and its tongue red as blood…
… and then his eyes squeeze shut on their own accord as his clammy hands search for purchase on the smooth golden baubles and his hips push and stutter against the moist friction as he comes undone.
The tongue withdraws from his skin, leaving him a sweaty, shivering mess on a bed of gold. The most violent of his tremors past, he feels a scaly appendage coiling around him and gently lifting his limp body.
“I think,” rumbles the dragon, “I shall keep you.”
- - -
John dreams of a boat at sea.
It's a place he has only ever read of in books, so from his position on the bottom of the boat he compares the sensations with more familiar sceneries. The movement of the boat is stronger than at a lake, but steadier than in the wild tumble of a river. It's like the rhythm of breathing.
He pushes himself up and gazes at the sky, and that's when he knows for certain he's dreaming. The sky - or the nothingness where there should be sky - is an empty grey, and the inky sea underneath it heaves despite the complete lack of wind from any direction. He reaches out to skim his fingers over the glittering surface.
It's warm to the touch, and from beneath the waves rises a steady beat.
- - -
He becomes aware of being awake only when he takes notice of his nakedness. It's an easy thing to miss, as the heat of his surroundings is enough to keep him warm despite his lack of clothes.
The heat. Of course.
The leathery hide of the dragon is firm but smooth under his body, smooth enough indeed that there are no marks on his skin left by the scales. One immense wing is folded half on top of him, partially obscuring the looming ceiling of the cavern from view. A fleeting image of a dark sea and an empty sky rises unbidden to his mind, but the dream slips away before he can commit it to memory.
“You might as well come down to where I can see you properly.”
The voice takes John by surprise, and he jumps to his feet, wondering how the dragon knew him to be awake. He clambers down one forearm thicker than his arms can reach around and almost trips on one trinket or another on landing.
The silvery gaze settles on him immediately and pins him down, so intense that he at first completely forgets to cover himself from view. The dragon takes its time observing his appearance and then makes a sound that could be called intrigued. Finally his brain kicks into gear and he flushes a deep red.
“Uh, you don't… happen to…” John hesitates and clears his sleep-dry throat. “To remember what you did with my clothes?”
The dragon gives him a once-over from head to toe. “I don't see how that will be necessary,” it rumbles. “Considering the level of perspiration you displayed last night, there's hardly any need for clothing to keep you warm.”
And John thought he couldn't flush any deeper. “Regardless,” he says after a short embarrassed cough. “I'd rather not walk around like… well, like this.” He does a rather bad job at covering his privates, and the dragon sighs, finally averting its eyes.
“Oh, fine,” it grumbles and flicks its head towards a corner of the great chamber. “Somewhere there.”
He scrambles off the pile of treasure (probably of no problem to someone with thick scales, but bloody uncomfortable to anyone without) and approaches the indicated corner. True enough, his clothes are there, unfortunately in several more pieces than when he last saw them.
“Oh, for the love of…” he groans and picks up half of what used to be his waistcoat. His nice waistcoat, damn it. He shoots a glance over his shoulder to where the beast is reclining, but it seems to have no interest in his activities. He sets to salvage what he can of his possessions, which isn't much, so that in the end he manages to fashion the remains of his shirt and waistcoat into a sort of a loincloth. That will have to do for now.
John turns around to find the dragon either dozing off or in very deep thought. He clears his throat. “Any chance of breakfast down here?” he asks.
No response. He walks a bit closer, hesitantly, and tries again. “Hello?”
“What?” the dragon huffs out without opening its eyes.
“Break… fast?” he asks again, feeling a bit unnerved when the dragon looks at him incredulously and frowns.
“Didn't you eat yesterday?” it asks.
“Well, yes,” he replies, surprised by the tone of accusation in the other's voice. “But I haven't eaten today.”
“Oh god,” the dragon sighs, closing its eyes again, and with that the conversation is at its end.
“Right,” John mutters to himself when it becomes clear the dragon isn't going to be of any assistance. He circles the chamber, looking for any edible scraps, but it figures that a dragon does not keep food stocked, preferring to eat its prey fresh. If at all, he thinks, glancing back at the recumbent form of the beast. With a little bit of distance it's easier to see that while the dragon is great in length and wingspan, it doesn't have that much bulk.
A little farther off the floor of the cavern starts sloping, and following a curve in the rock John stumbles upon what appears to be an underground spring. The sight of water fills him with relief, and he falls to his knees to sate his thirst. That achieved, he merely sits still, trying to get a grip on his situation. In the deep silence of the cavern John can hear the quiet dripping of water as it apparently bubbles up from somewhere in the rock, seeping through the layers of earth to collect clear as a mirror at the bottom of the caves.
A flicker of movement under the still surface catches his attention and he leans forward. It's a fish, silver pale and about the size of his forearm. So the waterways must be connected to the surface after all, he thinks and rises to his feet, keeping the fish in sight at all times. If only he had a pole or something… But by some stroke of luck the fish wanders to a shallow nook of the pool of water and, seeing his chance, John jumps after it, pinning its wriggly body against the rock and then scooping it out of the water.
He's probably giggling like a madman as he stumbles out of the spring and up the curve of the tunnel into the main chamber, continuously chanting “I got it! I got it!” under his breath. He stops in his tracks at the sight of the dragon frowning at his antics and tries to quell his giddiness.
“I found a fish-oh!” he says and then exclaims in surprise when said fish gives a vigorous wriggle in his arms and slips from his grasp. He leans down to catch it when the dragon moves from its position.
“Leave it,” it grumbles, and John starts.
“Why?” he asks, feeling indignant at the request. “I caught it myself and--”
“Leave - it,” the dragon repeats itself, and this time John doesn't have the courage to stand up against the order. Very nearly pouting, he steps away from the jumping body of the fish, which suddenly looks tiny next to the great snout of the dragon. He expects the beast to gulp it down with a mere swipe of its tongue, but instead a fine line of fire flickers from the dragon's open mouth, engulfing the fish until the pale scales of its body have turned a solid brown.
The dragon withdraws without another word, leaving the now-cooked fish steaming on the floor of the chamber. John hesitates a good while, waiting for some kind of a sign of approval, but when none comes, he slowly walks up to his slightly-charred catch and starts picking at it.
“Actually, this isn't that bad,” he muses aloud, half to himself and half to the beast, when he gets to the flesh. The dragon hums a short note, which trembles through the floor, and says nothing more.
- - -
In retrospect, the introductions probably could've gone a bit smoother.
“What kind of a name is 'John' for a hobbit?” the dragon asks.
John crosses his arms and stares defiantly up at the dragon from his spot next to its right paw. “It was my grandfather's name,” he replies. “Lived to a ripe age of one hundred and five, I'll have you know.”
The dragon snorts. “A hundred,” it mutters. “That's easy.”
John coughs. “Anyway,” he says. “What kind of a name is 'Sherlock' for a dragon, then?”
“A perfectly adequate one,” Sherlock-the-dragon loftily replies. “And I'll have you know I'm two hundred, twenty one and a half years of age,” he adds, as an afterthought.
John is silent for a moment. “Twenty one and a half years?” he then asks. Sherlock frowns.
“Yes?”
“You count your age in halves,” John chuckles. “Nobody above ten does that, you know--” and then he has to hastily step back when Sherlock swats one massive paw before growling deep in his throat and coiling up into a great heap of scales and wings.
- - -
Some time later John finds himself browsing the extent of Sherlock's lair and treasure. He'd been hesitant at first, fearing that the dragon would get angry at him for laying hand to his possessions, but it turns out Sherlock barely pays him any attention while he gawks at the priceless collections, muttering brilliant and fantastic at every newly unearthed piece of wonder. One half of John feels relieved by this apparent freedom, while the other worries that he's being treated as just one more addition to the dragon's hoard.
A flute catches his attention, sitting conspicuously atop a crate filled to bursting, its nearly pearlescent surface reflecting the flickering lights of the cavern in an alluring fashion. John picks it up and turns it around in his hands, inspecting the fine engravings along the length of the instrument. It looks vaguely elven, and he wonders how it could've ended up in Sherlock's possession. Surely he's not doing anything with it, John wonders as he raises the mouthpiece to his lips and gives a tentative puff of air.
The flute makes a half-hearted peep of no determinate note, and John tries again. This time he manages to produce a long, relatively steady note, which is inevitably shot to hell when he tries moving his fingers on the keys, and the sound resolves into a panicked squeal.
Any further attempts are briskly cut off by a whip-like tail snapping sharply against the floor not three feet from where John's standing. He probably jumps half his height into the air, and the flute clatters onto the floor.
“Shut up. That's annoying,” Sherlock grumbles from his usual resting position, which had led John to mistakenly think the dragon asleep.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he mumbles and hurries to return the flute where he found it, resolving to leave it alone for the time being.
- - -
“How come I've never seen you fly?” John asks one other time.
Sherlock doesn't even dignify this with an answer, just stares at him and raises an eyebrow, well, ridge, in a condescending way.
“I mean, your wings should easily carry you with their size. Or is there something wrong with them?” Suddenly the mere thought is enough to fill him with sadness - the thought of a dragon losing its wings and ending up trapped on the surface.
Before that train of thought can proceed any further, though, it's cut off by a snort of epic proportions. “Do they look like there's something wrong with them?” Sherlock asks and unfurls said wings so that they almost appear to form an artificial sky of night black. The sight is so majestic it derails John's thoughts for a moment.
“Then why?” he continues after a while. “And I don't mean just the time I've been here, before that, as well. That's why we made that bet with the guys, you know, to find out if you were real.” He frowns a little as Sherlock folds his wings closer together again. “Everybody's heard rumours about a dragon living inside the mountain, but nobody's ever actually seen you.”
Sherlock sighs and scratches his long neck with a talon. The resulting sound is like small rocks rubbing together. “Why should I? Your kind rarely gets up to anything interesting, and the world outside changes with so slow a pace I'm hardly missing anything.”
“Hardly missing…” John shakes his head, watching the long lines of the dragon with incredulity. “If I had wings, I'd never leave the skies,” he speaks under his breath.
Sherlock harrumphs. “So you say now,” he mutters. He gives all the impression of leaning his head down for a nap, the conversation all but forgotten, but as John keeps on staring at him, Sherlock eventually gives an exasperated huff and opens his eyes.
“Fine,” he grunts and extends a paw towards John. “Come here, then.” When John can make no movement from his surprise, Sherlock sighs another huff of air and lifts his wings. That takes the hint, and John scrambles forwards and climbs onto the massive palm as the clawed digits close in as a loose cage. A great gust of air billows around him, and then his world tilts and surges upwards in a sudden motion that sends him clutching the nearest talon for support.
They rise high into the shadowy recesses of the cavern, Sherlock expertly avoiding the arching walls of rock around them as he heads for a hidden opening in the ceiling of the lair. John has no idea which side of the mountain they finally emerge from when Sherlock's wings extend to their full length and let them be swept up by the winds.
The world below them is tiny and bathed in the golden light of a sunset, and John is torn between squeezing his eyes shut in terror and trying to commit as much of the view to his memory as possible. It's breathtakingly beautiful and terrifying at once, and his heart is beating a thousand miles per hour.
The setting sun comes almost fully into view as they gain height, though its light serves little to warm him up. Indeed, the higher and faster they go the more the wind catches on his few clothes, perfectly adequate in the warmth inside Sherlock's lair, but of no protection high in the sky. His fingers and hands, where he's squeezing them around one claw, are quickly growing numb, and the fear of falling suddenly overtakes him.
“Sherlock!” he yells, praying to all spirits and gods that his voice carries over the wind. “Take me back down, please? I-It's too h-high up.” His teeth start chattering from the cold, and he has to snap his jaw shut. He can't be sure if Sherlock heard him, he certainly hears no reply, but even with his eyes closed he can feel the weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach as they drop lower in one swooping move. Soon the wind ceases once more, and when John dares to open his eyes next, they're back in the tunnel of rock leading into the cavern.
Sherlock lands with a soft, faintly jingling thump, and John half-falls half-stumbles off his paw when his arms grow tired of holding on. He manages a few steps on terminally shaking legs before his knees give beneath him and he falls down to the ground.
Sherlock makes an annoyed noise. “What's wrong with you now, I thought you'd be happy to finally get what you--” He falls silent mid-sentence when he takes notice of the pronounced shivers running through John's body. Cocking his head, he leans closer.
“John?”
The unusually warm breath over John's overly cooled skin feels like being burned alive, and he whimpers aloud in agony. Tucking his shaking hands as close to his body as possible, he curls into a ball, hoping for the shivers to stop.
Sherlock keeps on staring, feeling utterly confused and more than a little miserable at seeing John in such pain. (Did he cause that? He didn't mean to, he didn't mean to hurt John, just to give him something more to be excited about so that he'd keep on making those little noises - the good kind of noises, not the whimpers he's making now like he's in pain and it's all Sherlock's fault.) Carefully placing his paws on either side of John's pitifully small body, he lies down, tucking his wings around them as to prevent any warmth from leaking away.
Lying with his eyes closed, John is barely aware of the movement around him, but when he next ventures to look around him, he's greeted by the sight of a long, scaly neck arched over him like the vault of a great hall, the fire in Sherlock's veins exuding heat in waves, wrapping him in a comfortable warmth. He doesn't notice when exactly he stops shivering from the cold, as the moment he does he's swept into a deep, calm sleep.
- - -
“And where do you think you're going?”
Again the question catches him completely off-guard and John whirls around to see Sherlock still in his resting spot, eyes closed. The dragon has such an uncanny way of guessing his every movement that John is inclined to believe him to be partly psychic.
“Uh, just outside,” he says, trying to fight the urge to shift nervously from foot to foot and failing spectacularly when Sherlock opens his eyes. “I mean, I could go search for some food, so you won't have to bother since you're always complaining how much I eat, and anyway, I haven't…” He starts babbling with increasing speed as Sherlock moves closer, never once lifting his eyes from John.
The hobbit gulps and plunges ahead, determined to argue his case as far as he can before inevitably getting interrupted. “I haven't been to the village since I first came here, and they must be worried about me, so if I could just go visit and tell them I'm fine they'd--”
“Why do you need them?” Sherlock asks, sounding, strangely enough, genuinely confused instead of arrogant. John blinks at him.
“Uh, because it's where I grew up?” he says. “It's still my home.”
Sherlock visibly bristles at this and leans closer to John, towering above him every inch like the formidable beast he is. “You left your home and came here,” he growls. “And you will stay here.” He pushes John with his snout until the hobbit stumbles backwards and keeps on pushing until John is herded far away from the smaller entrance to the cave.
“If you need food, I'll find it for you. I am, surely, a better hunter than you are.” Sherlock finally steps away once he's backed John into a small nook in the opposite end of the cavern and spreads his wings, rising to sit half on his haunches. “Stay, John. I won't be long.”
And with that he is gone in a flurry of black scales, soon disappearing among the shadows covering the heights of the vast ceiling. John sits still, dumbstruck, staring after the dragon.
It isn't exactly new, Sherlock was nothing if not vigilant about him, but to actually forbid him from going back to his home village, to physically prevent John from leaving, that is… Frightening, John's mind supplies, and in no good way. It isn't an adventure as much as it is a death wish. Sherlock won't let him leave even if he asks, which only leaves him the option of… running away.
Knowing his time to be limited, John scampers from his nook to where he has stored the remains of his clothing, pulling the torn rags on the best he can and ignoring the discomfort of the heat around him. He has no way of knowing which time of the day it is outside - the deep cavern allows no sunlight to enter - and he only hopes he won't stumble right into the pitch black of a cold night. His torch having been shattered upon his apprehension by the dragon, he has no light to take with him to guide him through the dark tunnels.
But do it he will. He has to.
- - -
Sherlock dives through the dark sky to slide back into the familiar tunnels of his home, half an ox clutched in one great paw. He is starting to see John's insistence on eating his food cooked with the scent of tenderised meat filling his nose, though there had been something incredibly amusing about the little hobbit's indignant squawks at being presented with a raw, freshly-slain fowl.
Will have to ask him about that, Sherlock ponders as he swoops down into his cavern and settles on his haunches. “John, I found you a--” he starts and then stops, struck by the sense of something being horribly wrong.
“John?” Sherlock sweeps his gaze across the visible expanse of the cavern, then closes his eyes and concentrates on the smells. Disregarding the obvious scent of fresh meat, the common smells of metal and earth, there's a missing slot where there used to be…
“John!” His head whips around, but no matter where he looks or how many piles of his precious collections he hurls aside, there is no sign of the little hobbit. A low, furious growl shaded with grief rising from his throat, he lashes out with his tail hard enough to send a shattering of stone through the air, and finally curls in a tight heap in the middle of his great cavern, wings tucked over his head, faint tremors travelling along the length of his body.
- - -
As luck would have it, John can barely tell the difference between the moment when he steps from the darkness of the caves into the darkness of the night, and it's sheer luck he doesn't stumble on the first protruding root he comes across. It's only by the cold air slithering under his torn clothes that he first guesses he's approaching the outside. There is little in the means of a path leading to the barely-there entrance to the mountain in broad daylight, and the flimsy glimpses of moonlight through the shredded veil of clouds don't offer much guidance on his way.
It had taken him an hour at a leisurely pace to reach the mountain in daytime. John heads west and hopes to reach at least the halfway point of his journey before Sherlock notices he's gone.
- - -
The first glimpse of the village lights fills John with such indescribable relief he throws all precaution to the wind as the hurries forward, only to have that feeling replaced by utter confusion at the welcome he receives.
“Halt! Who is there?” The sudden blaze of a torch feels blinding after the long walk through darkness, so John can barely see the face of the person approaching him, but there is something distinctly familiar about the voice.
“Bill? Is that you?” he asks, shielding his eyes with a hand.
The person with the torch pauses a few paces away from him, suspicion lacing both his voice and demeanour. “Who's asking?”
“It's me - John!” he almost yells. He can't have changed that much during his absence, can he? Although admittedly his clothes, or the partial lack of, probably make him look more like a raggedy goblin than a respectable hobbit.
His name cinches the matter, though, and Bill - John can now confidently recognise the other hobbit - rushes the few remaining steps between them and grabs John's shoulder with his free hand. “Thank Eru, it really is you!” the slightly taller man exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief. “We all thought you were a goner.”
John clasps his hand on Bill's shoulder in a mirroring gesture and offers a small smile. “Oh, not at all,” he assures his friend. “In all likelihood I wasn't in that grave a danger at any point as you might believe.”
“Not in danger..? Look at your clothes!” Bill flicks the ragged edge of his torn shirt and, oh admittedly that does look pretty bad. “That doesn't look like nothing.”
“It's a long story,” John gives a dismissive wave of his hand, then raises an eyebrow at Bill's own appearance. “More importantly, what's this all about? Since when do you carry a dagger around the village?”
Bill glances down at himself, said dagger hanging in a sheath by his side, and then as if suddenly remembering something, he raises his torch and peers into the shadows behind John's back. “Night guard,” he replies. “Strange things've been going on, ever since you disappeared, in fact. Strangers around the village after dark, and not Dúnedain or dwarves. Or elves, for that matter.” This last part is said in a kind of a wistful sigh, Bill being known for his avid fascination with stories of Elvenkind passing through the Hobbit lands on their journeys.
“Strangers,” John repeats. “You mean… Men?” He pauses, glances around and continues in a hushed voice. “Goblins?”
Bill shakes his head. “Bigger than goblins. But they don't speak, not even when we tried to address them. They just run away from the fire. And then last week…” A shadow passes over his face, and John is certain it's not merely a flicker of the torch. “Last week Carl went missing.”
John's eyes turn round. “Bigfoot?” he asks. “The fisher's son?”
Bill nods solemnly. “Left his house in early morning to go down to the lake and… just disappeared. At first they thought he'd drowned--”
“As if a fisher would.”
“--but it turned out he'd never been seen at the lake. Gone. Just like that.” Bill shivers despite his warm clothing and shifts the torch to his other hand. “It was still dark and early. Nobody saw nuthin'.”
John stares at the ground, a mournful frown between his brows. Carl had been a big fellow for a hobbit, not just where his feet were concerned, so for something to snatch him up with no sound nor sign would have to be malevolent and cunning indeed. But why hobbits? John felt a shiver run down his spine. Why would anyone be interested in them?
“Crikey, what am I doing!” Bill interrupts his gloomy thoughts. “Telling ghost stories in the middle of the night while you're freezing your feet off. Come on, come on…” He slings an arm around John's shoulders and tugs him along. “The tavern's still open, I bet everyone will be thrilled to see you back. You really need to tell us what you've been up to all this time…”
John manages a small grin despite himself. “Speaking of betting, Bill, weren't you pretty certain about that dragon story?”
“What? Oh, you still going on about that,” Bill laughs. “Yeah, so?”
John stretches an arm and gives Bill a good clap on the shoulder. “Well, you might just be in luck tonight…”
- - -
Harry cries. A lot. Then she tries to somehow hit him and hug him at the same time while yelling something about “Three weeks, John!” between her sobs, and then buries her face in his shoulder. It's the first welcome he receives after stepping into the tavern, so he's a bit wary about the others' reactions when they finally convince Harry to let him go and sit back down. Mike had been staring at him like at a ghost, but when he steps up to John, it's with a warm smile and a one-armed hug while he presses a fresh pint into John's hands.
“Good to have you back, mate,” he says softly and continues under his breath that Harry's been a bit out of kilter these past weeks, with a brief nod towards the corner where she's still dabbing her eyes with a borrowed napkin.
After a round of welcomes from everyone in the tavern, and a few others who ran in after the news got around, he is sat down with another complimentary pint of ale from Mrs Hudson (though he's barely finished half of his first one) and a room full of excited eyes fixed on him.
“So, tell us everything,” someone says, and everyone nods or cheers in agreement, and John finds himself stuck. Where to even start with all that's happened to him during the three weeks? After a bout of silence, Mike, bless him, goads him on with the first question.
“Did you see the dragon?”
John grins at his ale, then at the excited faces around him, and nods. The tavern explodes into a flurry of bewildered cries, and Bill claps his hands with joy. “I knew it!” he laughs and points at Mike, who groans into his arms. “You owe me!” And Mrs Hudson has to tell them all to calm down or she's throwing them out of her tavern, and then asks John to carry on.
So he tells them. He hesitates occasionally over his choice of words when he starts describing the many wonderful treasures of the dragon's lair, because though they are no dwarves, even the most down-to-earth hobbit is no stranger to the allure of gold and jewels. John had kept his hands strictly to himself upon taking his leave, for he knows that daring to steal from the hoard is a sure way to get a furious Sherlock at his heels.
The dragon himself is a whole other issue. Knowing most hobbits to be already prejudiced against Sherlock's kind, and not entirely without reason, John doesn't want to add to that simmering aversion. The last thing they need is a host of riled hobbits seeking retribution from a fickle dragon. So he finds himself assuring his audience over and over again that he was never truly hurt during his time in the mountain (though he fears the state of his clothes eats away at his credibility) and that Sherlock couldn't be behind the strange occurrences of the village.
When he finally gets to retire to his hut, a bit dusty to be sure but otherwise in the same condition as when he left, he can barely get a wink of sleep, listening to the silent night for the barest hint of great wings rending through the air.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, however, because at dawn he wakes up to a commotion at the village gates that pushes his previous worries completely out of his mind. It's a company of hobbits from a farthing on the western side of the river that forms a natural border to their village, every man and woman in various states of distress and carrying as much of their possessions on their persons as possible. A lone Ranger brings up the rear and requests entrance to the village, which - after a brief consultation with the Master of the lands - is granted alongside the fleeing hobbits.
John hurries to the marketplace first thing upon waking and listens to the travellers' relay of the attack on their village, of dark goblins and hooded riders ransacking and capturing the villagers, setting fire to the places they had emptied of people and livestock. Some hobbits had taken up the few weapons they could find, but even with the help of the Rangers who walk on the borders of the Hobbit lands, they couldn't stand against the force of the attack and were forced to flee.
The refugees are granted lodgings in the village and, after a few more negotiations, the offers of assistance from the Rangers are accepted as well. As the crowd starts to disperse after the declarations, John catches a glimpse of Bill, who immediately catches up to him for a talk.
“They've seen it, too,” Bill says the moment they reach speaking distance. “Strangers after dark, people disappearing. It's not just us, they're all over Buckland and Shire, too.” They stand in silence for a moment, watching the people pass them by, others hurrying to the gates to close them behind the newcomers.
“But why are they attacking us?” John asks. “Even if there's a war out there, why bring it here? We've got nothing to give.”
Bill merely shakes his head. “Don't know and am not going there to ask,” he replies and gives John a worried look. “In the meanwhile you'd be better off carrying a dagger on your own person, mate.”
- - -
It begins from the west, but over the following weeks it goes on and spreads wider. The villages in the south, too, are being attacked and their surviving people driven eastwards towards the few remaining safe havens in the Hobbit lands.
It's only after listening to the refugees' stories and consulting the maps provided by the Rangers that the whole picture of their situation opens to them. The attacks aren't just random acts of violence by opportunistic bandits - it's military strategy.
“They're occupying the villages in the south and west, so the people flee inland. There are ranges of mountains to the northeast. We've got nowhere to run.” John feels a dull, desperate coldness settle in the pit of his stomach following the words.
“They're caging us in.”
- - -
“Of course, there's always one thing we could try.”
It's a quiet night at the tavern, most of the locals preferring to stay at home with their families with the dangers surrounding them. Some of those from the other villages are milling around the room, setting up emergency lodgings. The influx of refugees has only increased by the week, and they're quickly running out of space.
John looks up from his pint to see Mike throw a furtive glance at the other people in the pub. “What one thing?” he asks.
Mike leans closer and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, you know that dragon you told us about…” he begins, but John cuts him off with a brisk shake of his head.
“No,” he simply says. Mike's expression sags for a minute before he seems to regain his momentum and presses on.
“So he's an eccentric one, you said, but not unreasonable. Say we draw together our valuables - I've got some family heirlooms that have got to be worth something - and ask him to--”
“You can't buy a dragon's help,” John sighs. Sending someone else off with such a task is unthinkable, but if John were to return himself, he could be facing anything from cool dismissal to instant captivity to being torn to shreds on first sight. None of the options sound appealing.
Mike falls silent after that, and for a long time they drink their ales without a word being exchanged. Nearing the end of the night, and the bottom of their third pints, one of them finally murmurs in a faint voice, “'s worth a try, though, isn't it?”
- - -
It's another week before he is ready to go, and even then it isn't without a row with Harry.
“You barely got away the first time, and now you're going back to the beast!” she yells from her position in the doorway of his hut, looking for all the world ready to physically stop him from leaving. “And if you don't come back this time?”
John fights the urge to fiddle with his backpack. The same thought has occurred to him. “Then you keep on fighting with the rest of the villagers,” he says, calmly, because somebody has to remain calm here.
Harry snorts. “Yeah, right. Keep on going like nothing's wrong, huh?” She shakes her head. “If you're not back in two days, I'm going after this stupid dragon myself and killing it. Then I'll find whatever's left of you and kill you twice for being so stupid.”
“You're being ridiculous.”
“Look who's talking,” she sniffs.
Armed with two long daggers, more in case of danger on the road than against the possible wrath of Sherlock's claws, John sets off. He doesn't mean to dawdle, he has no time for that, but nevertheless his steps start lacking in speed the nearer he draws to the mountain, mentally rehearsing and preparing for all potential outcomes of his arrival.
In daytime the entrance to the caves appears dark and cool, but the temperature steadily rises the deeper he descends into the tunnels. After a while he's certain he can't be but a few corners away from the main chamber, and he can't tell whether the sweat on his brow is because of the heat or his anxiety. He could still turn away at this point. He hasn't been seen, he can just say any offers he made were rejected and leave it at that. No need to risk his life.
The moment this thought crosses his mind, a roaring voice carries up the short stretch of tunnel remaining between him and Sherlock.
“I can hear you, little creature. Show yourself!”
John takes a deep breath and steps forward. Like the previous time, he first perceives the glimmer of precious metals strewn about the chamber, then the tail and feet of a being so dark and enormous it seems to blend together with the shadows, and then - craning his neck towards the ceiling - the silvery gaze almost hypnotic in its intensity. It feels like entering the court of a king - a very solitary, peculiar one to be true, but a king nonetheless.
John can't get a word out of his mouth. He can barely stop himself from shaking, from averting his eyes from Sherlock's unreadable face. The dragon seems to be frozen like a statue, but whether from surprise or anger or some whole other emotion, it's impossible to tell.
“H-Hello,” John finally chokes out. It's barely above a whisper, and Sherlock gives no indication of having heard him. John swallows compulsively, hoping that he could reach into his backpack for a flask to moisten his throat.
“I've… I've come in behalf of my village,” he tries again after a moment. “To ask for help.”
At this Sherlock slowly moves from his stiff, regal position, lowering his head so that it's almost resting on his massive paws. “I thought you made it clear you don't want anything I have to offer,” he speaks in a very poised voice, which nevertheless sends a jolt of dread through John.
“I'm not speaking for myself alone,” John quietly replies. “I trust you're aware the land of Mordor has begun a war against the other reigns of our realm. My village alongside other Hobbit settlements are being unwittingly drawn into the war by the enemy destroying our homes. We have the men of our and the neighbouring villages and help from the Dúnedain, but we…” His throat grows dry, and he has to cough to regain his voice. “We still don't have the manpower to defend ourselves against the armies of Mordor.”
Sherlock gives a disdainful snort. “Politics. How dull,” he mutters.
John remains deathly still, though a slow burn is starting to rise inside him at the indifferent dismissal from the dragon. “I thought a mere request would not catch your sympathies, so we also prepared these,” he says and slides his backpack to the ground to unfasten it. “We don't have much in terms of treasure, but we are ready to offer you these in exchange for help.”
He displays the few pieces of gold and silver contained in the knapsack, though the little confidence he has left quickly dwindles when he sees Sherlock is barely paying him any attention. He pulls out a delicate golden necklace and holds it in his hands. “This belonged to my mother. It was a wedding gift from my father. Probably the most valuable thing they ever owned,” he says softly and turns to look at Sherlock to see the dragon eyeing the piece of jewellery, and for a moment John feels a flicker of hope, but then Sherlock closes his eyes with a huff.
“They are worth more in sentiment than anything else,” he declares.
John stares for a long while, unable to find a response to this statement. Then he slowly repacks all the items in a defeated silence and stands straight once more to face the dragon. “So that means you won't help?” he asks, despite the leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock doesn't react in any way, and the lump of lead bursts into a flash of anger.
“People are dying, Sherlock!” John all but yells. “Good people, my people!” I might die as well, he thinks, but does not dare say aloud. “Can you honestly say you don't care one whit about what happens in the world outside?”
The silence, after the reverberations of his words have died down, is heavier than anything, and Sherlock still doesn't move a muscle. John shakes his head in disbelief. “Apparently you don't,” he says in a hollow voice. “Fine. Forget it, then.”
He turns away, clenching his fists to stop them from shaking, and walks gingerly the way he came. A small part of him expects, almost hopes, to be stopped from leaving, but Sherlock's indifference towards both him and his cause indicates that everything that happened between them during their three weeks has been all but deleted.
- - -
Despite being told to get as much rest as possible before the outbreak of the battles, John can catch only a few hours of fitful sleep every night, and even in his waking hours he is high-strung and twitchy, nervously checking the state of their weapons and medical equipment as if they had magically increased overnight.
So it comes almost as a relief to hear the horn sounded at dusk, a sign that the enemy has been sighted. The shadow of war hanging over the village has prevented them from leading their normal lives; at least in battle they have the slightest chance to prove their worth and throw off that shadow.
John rushes to the gates, swiftly fastening the bracer around his left arm as he climbs up one of the newly erected surveillance towers to take his place among the archers. His quiver heavy with arrows, he hefts the bow in his left hand and waits for orders.
“Remember, we don't have arrows to waste, so make each shot count!”
From their elevated positions, they can see the dark hordes marching closer and closer. On his right, Bill gives his side a slight nudge.
“How long do you reckon we can last?” he whispers. John swallows, keeping his eye on the horizon and his finger on the arrow.
“We'll last as long as they do,” he replies, forcing steel into his voice even as his heartbeat keeps on rising. He keeps his mouth shut about the one truth they all know, the one they are trying their hardest to ignore.
It's that when the sun goes down, the hordes have the upper hand.
Volley after volley they shoot at the approaching enemy, giving their allies on ground level a breather of a second before another assault threatens to overwhelm them. The last rays of the setting sun lend the enemy a nigh infernal glow, as if they weren't already daunting enough. John struggles to keep his eye on the opponents at hand and to ignore the impending threat in the distance.
Then the horizon falls into shadow, and John hears shaky gasps from around him.
“Heavens above, but we are done for,” Bill whispers, and John risks a glance. What first appeared to be a rippling storm cloud has now resolved into a monster of nightmarish proportions, with wings large enough to cover a good portion of the horizon behind them. The sight is so familiar it forces a painful lump into his throat, and he quickly draws another arrow and sends it barrelling into an enemy's neck to keep himself focused.
“Don't look at it,” he tells Bill and his other comrades. “Fretting won't do any good.”
They keep on fighting dutifully, determined to take down as many godforsaken Orcs as possible before inevitably being struck down by the approaching beast. They manage to focus their attention on helping the frontline, so the sudden flare of light in the distance gives them all a good jolt. It's bright as the setting sun, and even after its disappearance both the hobbits and their enemies keep on staring at the horizon.
Then it comes again, and in the momentary glow of distant flames John grows certain that he's not just imagining the familiarness of the winged form, and the horrified wailing that rises from the hordes of Orcs confirms his suspicions. Suddenly filled with renewed vigour, he grasps Bill's shoulder.
“He's not fighting for them!” he yells. “He's attacking them!”
“Who is?” Bill yells back, voice slightly shaky with terror. John points at the form of the dragon, framed by its own flickering fire.
“Sherlock! That's him, I'm sure it is.” He lets go of Bill to take up his bow and arrows once more and takes aim. “Keep on shooting, fellows! We're not done yet!”
The resistance from the enemy crumbling by every passing minute, they take them down with increasing speed and accuracy, aiming at the back of the neck on those who try to run away. The sky grows darker, but the dark no longer frightens John, not when he knows they've got an ally on their side.
Soon enough the remaining Orcs all but abandon their endeavours and start scrambling away, and John looks up to see Sherlock swooping down from the sky, scattering the last of the enemy resistance as he lands outside the village gates. John flings down his bow and arrows and climbs down from the tower, his chest tight with emotions he's too overwhelmed to name. The village is nothing short of chaotic, with part of the gates having collapsed under the attack, and those hobbits involved in the fight still have their swords drawn, too busy staring at the dragon to sheath their weapons.
John rushes out of the gates and stops dead in his tracks. Sherlock has one of the Orcs captive under one huge paw, a talon poised above the creature's heaving chest. He's murmuring something under his breath, so quiet John can't make out individual words, but even so there is no mistaking of the raw and inelegant sounds of the Black Speech. John feels his blood run cold and suddenly understands the reason for the suspicious and borderline enraged looks on the faces of his fellow hobbits.
Whatever Sherlock had said to the Orc, it responds with a raucous cackle and a screech in its hideous language, which is abruptly cut off when the dragon suddenly pushes down in a fit of rage, crushing the Orc's body with a sickening crunch. John barely turns his head away in time and hears a chorus of horrified gasps around him. The situation could explode any second if the villagers decide to treat Sherlock as an enemy.
John takes a deep breath and turns back to face the dragon, who is staring despondently at the crushed remains of his victim. “Sherlock!” he calls out, hoping to catch the other's attention.
Sherlock's head snaps up, and his eyes instantly zero in on John. He makes to move towards him, but he only manages to extend one paw before a deftly aimed rock snaps between his eyes and makes him flinch back.
“Stay away, you beast!” comes a shout from behind John, and he turns around to see several hobbits raising their weapons.
“Cut it out!” John yells and quickly runs over to Sherlock before anyone can stop him. “He's on your side, for heaven's sake!” He stops a few steps in front of Sherlock's paws, the sight of which makes several villagers take a shuddering breath. Behind him, Sherlock has grown very still and quiet.
A young boy, apparently the one responsible for throwing that rock, looks nervously from John to Sherlock and back again. “But he killed that man!” he cries.
“That 'man' was an enemy,” John explains. “Sherlock only came here with the intention to help, not to destroy. He's a friend.”
A wave of murmur spreads through the hobbits at his words, and though some still have their swords drawn, at least the open looks of hostility have dulled down to mere confusion. John feels a puff of warm air ruffle his hair and clothes and looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock's head lowering to his level. He reaches out to smooth a hand over the scaly curve of the dragon's snout.
“You came to help,” he says softly, his throat oddly tight. “…Thank you.”
Sherlock gives a soft grunt. “You did ask,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he pushes gently against John's palm. The hobbit lets his hand remain where it lies as he glances back at the muttering crowd.
“They're suspicious of me,” Sherlock says quietly, and John wishes he could properly hug the dragon, so miserable does Sherlock sound. He settles for gently patting his muzzle instead, and puts every ounce of confidence he can muster into his tone as he says, “I'm sure they'll come around.”
John does not once step away from Sherlock until the murmurs of the villagers have died down and they seem to have achieved a consensus to trust his word. “All right, so the dragon can stay,” calls out one of the men with a sword on their side, though sheathed now.
“Thank you,” says John. “And his name is Sherlock.”
“I could've said that myself,” said Sherlock mutters, and John gives him a grin.
“Oh, hush you.”
They stare at each other in silence while the crowd around them starts to disperse, heading to clear up the damage done by the battle and to tend to the wounded. Sherlock looks away after a moment and flexes his wings. “I should… probably leave,” he says.
John frowns. “Why?”
“Well…” Sherlock glances back at the village, again looking uncomfortable. “You have a lot of repairing to attend to, and I'm not… particularly good at fixing things.” It almost seems to pain him to admit this disability of his, and John can't help a small smile.
“You may have a point there,” he chuckles. “Then what will you do?”
Sherlock looks over his shoulder into the now-dark horizon, the way their enemy had retreated. “I can have a look around the area, see that all is clear,” he says. “It's easier to survey from the air, I'm sure.”
John nods at this and takes a step back. “All right,” he says. “Promise you'll come back, though?”
Sherlock looks back down at him, and though he can't really smile, John is sure there is a certain fondness in the expression on his face. “Of course,” he says in a soft rumble and spreads his wings in one smooth motion. John takes additional steps back as Sherlock rises to his hind legs and pushes himself into the air with a massive flex of his wings. A gust of wind washes over the ground, and John hears several gasps and even a few whistles as the dragon gracefully takes flight and disappears into the night sky.
- - -
“I thought you should have this.”
It's the night after the first battle, and Sherlock has taken John atop one of the small hills outside the village, ostensibly to keep watch, but there is no doubt as to the two enjoying a peaceful moment together after so long a separation.
John looks up at the sound and sees Sherlock's paw descending towards him, apparently trying to hold onto something very small and fragile, which nevertheless manages to slip from underneath one talon. John sees a glint of silver and extends his hands just in time to grasp the lithe flute. He notices the intricate engravings on the side of the instrument and makes a small oh of recognition.
“Thank you,” he says in a soft voice and gives Sherlock a bright smile in response. The dragon just hums a short note and then rests his head down on the grassy ground. John inspects the flute for a moment before raising it to his lips and starting to make quiet, tentative sounds, which slowly develop into single, clear notes as the night proceeds further.
“You know, I never expected this,” John speaks the words into a comfortable silence. Sherlock makes an inquisitive sound, so he continues. “Getting to know you, beyond the 'dragon in the mountain' level… trusting you, even. For you to come and help us. All this.” John smiles down at the flute, his cheeks feeling a tad warm after such a confession, happiness warming his stomach like a full meal. It takes him a moment to realise Sherlock has fallen completely silent.
“Sherlock, what is it?” he asks, a tinge worried.
Sherlock gives a huffing sigh and flicks his tail in a nervous manner. “I didn't bring you help,” he mutters. John merely stares at him, uncomprehendingly, so he raises his head and stares off into the distance as he speaks. “By now everyone will have heard of the village of hobbits with a dragon on their side. I have only brought you the enemy's attention.” He droops his head a bit. “That can lead to nothing good.”
John remains silent and turns back to stare at the flute in his hands, his good mood suddenly evaporated. He can't deny that Sherlock's words have some truth in them, but at the same time he can't bear to give in to such despondent thoughts.
“So you're saying they will only focus more of their force on us?” he asks after a heavy bout of silence.
“That is possible,” Sherlock admits.
John bites his lip and clenches his fingers around the flute. “So when they attack again? What happens then?”
He thinks Sherlock looks at him, then, but can't be sure, because he can't bring himself to look up lest he break into tears.
“We fight,” Sherlock murmurs, breath like a warm summer's breeze against his hair. “Simple as that.”
- - -
There had been rumours of bizarre happenings along with skulking strangers in the dark, first related by the newly arrived hobbits and later confirmed by some of the Dúnedain who observed the plains. Rumours of large areas of grassland suddenly turning dead and withered during the night, livestock and nocturnal animals found stone dead with no sign of violence, even some unfortunate lone travellers on the roads falling victim.
Their village witnesses this phenomenon firsthand only when one of the Rangers on patrol never returns. After a brief discussion a group is sent to search for him, and soon enough they find the man, skin ice cold, blue-tinged lips contorted into a silent scream of agony. He still has all his weapons on his person and shows no sign of bodily injury, apart from the veins standing stark against the deathly paleness of his skin, as if he had frozen to death. But the weather of the plains is mild throughout the year, and nobody with a reasonable dress should have the slightest of risks of losing their life to the cold.
The mysterious death threatens to dampen the slowly-rising battle morale of the villagers, and thereafter nobody apart from Sherlock with his thick skin is allowed outside the gates after dark.
- - -
On one of the last peaceful afternoons, on a lightly forested grassland some distance away from the gates - because there simply is no space for Sherlock to land anywhere inside the village - Sherlock watches John checking over his bow. The dragon has been quiet for a while in that very deliberate way of his, which indicates there's a question or a dozen brewing inside that enormous skull. And soon enough a huff of breath breaks the silence.
“How good exactly are you with that thing?”
John throws him a smile that could be called vaguely wicked and moves the bow to his left hand and fishes for an arrow in the quiver lying on the ground. He stands up, looking around them, and then spots a group of young trees at the edge of the plain.
“See those?” he asks, nodding in their direction as he raises his bow and takes aim. “The frontmost one.” Sherlock makes a quiet sound of understanding behind him, and John closes one eye as he focuses on the target, the width of the tree approximately that of his palm.
A second or two of almost absolute stillness, and then the arrow whistles through the air and sinks into the bark with a resounding thwack.
“Impressive,” Sherlock murmurs, and John feels a happy flush colour his cheeks.
“Thanks,” he says softly, glancing between Sherlock and the tree and fidgeting on his feet until finally snapping out of it. “I should, uh,” he clears his throat, “go and get the arrow… Can't waste those for just target practice.”
He trudges off to the edge of the field, successfully cooling his burning cheeks in the meantime, and returns to find Sherlock gazing at him in a thoughtful manner.
“A marksman like yourself must be of great value to your village,” the dragon comments, which does little in helping John keep his blushing at bay. It's not common for Sherlock to hand out compliments like this, but still he goes on, “Indeed, it would be very unfortunate were they to lose you in battle.”
At this, John frowns and looks up at Sherlock, expecting some kind of a continuation, but it seems like Sherlock himself is waiting for a reply. John clears his throat. “Well… I suppose so, yes,” he finally says.
Sherlock just keeps on staring at him and then averts his eyes with a quiet huff. “Which means it'd be for the best if you focused on holding out when the attack comes,” he says quickly.
It takes John a few moments to translate the convoluted sentence into a plain old declaration of don't you dare get yourself killed, but when he manages that, there's no force on earth that could stop the grin spreading on his face. “Of course I won't,” he murmurs and then, seeing Sherlock's confused and slightly alerted frown, corrects himself. “I mean, of course I'll watch out for myself,” he says.
Sherlock just flirts his wings and closes his eyes in response. “Good.”
__________
Part II