Sherlock: How to Tame Your Dragon (S/J, NC-17) 1/2
Title: How to Tame Your Dragon
Author: mad_maudlin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Extreme dubcon, kidnapping, manipulation, mindfuck, D/s themes, and depending on your interpretation, possibly beastiality.
Summary: Sorcerer!Sherlock sets out to trap himself a pet dragon. Said dragon turns out to be far more interesting than he initially anticipated.
A/N: Written for this prompt at the Sherlock kink meme, and thank god it got other fills because this one took off on me. The file on my hard drive is called "stockholm syndrome" for a reason.
How To Tame Your Dragon
by Mad Maudlin
Sherlock had been camping in the mountains for six weeks before he found a suitable dragon. The literature had suggested that it would be difficult, but by his estimate the literature was three parts myth to one part hysterical exaggeration, so he tried not to let it influence his theories overmuch. He spent hours searching, both the crags above the treeline and the alpine valleys, attentive to the evidence-footprints, claw marks, noxious pellets the size of his fist and hard, metallic scales embedded in trees or shed at the bottom of rocks. He was above all patient; contrary to Mycroft's accusations, he'd never expected this to be the easy part.
When he finally found one-observed from a distance with a small spyglass-he was pleased to see that the major anatomy corresponded nicely with the written records. Good to know the wise men of ages past had not been completely delusional. The dragon on the rock above was a gray-green color, like old copper, and Sherlock noted the vanes on its tail, the visible blood vessels in the vanes of its wings, the spur-like digit on the wing joint, the boney plate across the dome of the skull-scute, the last was called, after the shields wild men had once made of it. He managed a quick sketch before the dragon flew away.
After that first one, the sightings were more frequent, though still sparse-still, Sherlock hadn't expected to come upon any sort of nest of the things. In fact, he probably would not have survived if he had-they were not the behemoths of legend, true, but the smallest adults were still the size of a draft horse and quick as serpents. Rather, by identifying the ideal hunting grounds and sunning territory, he was able to plan his movements with more efficiency, and soon was lucky enough to stumble upon one every three or four days.
Almost all of which, naturally, were useless for what he meant to do.
He discounted the females out of hand; they were too large and too aggressive, quick to spew flame at each other or anything else that proved more irritating than potentially edible. He would never train one of those to accept a saddle and doubted he could sit one comfortably if he did. Anyway he couldn't take the risk that he might inadvertently choose a broody one; one dragon would be a useful addition to his household, but a clutch of them would be a nuisance and a threat. He considered a few juveniles as well, in case those would be easier to master, but he had no idea how long they would take to mature to rideable size or what their adult dimensions might be like: even the males could vary in height by up to a foot as adults. Impractical.
There were several males living in a sort of colony on the upper slopes of the mountain, which proved that dragons had some social skills, and Sherlock observed them carefully from the cover of air and darkness to get their measure. They generally never gathered in groups of more than three at a time, and two or three of the largest almost always kicked off with a squabble-snapping at one another or head-butting like mountain sheep, taking the blows directly on the scute rather than with the horns that curled away from it. Other males, older or smaller, were actively submissive to this group: several times Sherlock saw one of them lie flat on its belly and let a more aggressive male bite the base of it neck, just under the back edge of the scute, and soon he could recognize the distinct marks this treatment left.
He debated for a long time whether a such a submissive dragon might be the best choice, if it wasn't already tame to the point of cravenness; but then again, part of the appeal of a riding around the kingdom on a dragon in the first place was the ability to train it to selected aggression. Frankly, if it wasn't going to bite on command, he wasn't interested, and he would hate to go through the trouble of trapping a dragon if it turned out to be high-strung or cowardly.
Snow fell, and he dared creep deep into the dark depths of caves, where he found a clutch of eggs: eight of them, faceted like gemstones and hot to the touch. If he raised the dragon from a hatchling, he surely could make it whatever sort of creature he wanted...but he had heard of eagles raised from eggs who were clumsy in the air and aggressive with their handlers, whereas the wild-caught birds were calm and biddable. Besides, by the time a hatchling dragon was mature enough to ride, he'd likely be bored of the idea, and out a fortune in fodder in the interim. And though the clutch had no sign of adult dragon presence less than six months old, he didn't know enough about dragon life cycles to anticipate how to care for a hatchling, what special needs it might have beyond a meaty diet.
No, he needed one already full-grown, small enough to sit astride but large enough to bear him, neither mindlessly aggressive nor spinelessly weak.
Perhaps you should pick out a color in advance as well, he could imagine Mycroft saying-Mycroft had thought Sherlock's whole plan to be ludicrous vanity, and advised him that the queen had plans to exterminate the dragons in these mountains anyway. Which was why Sherlock was here in the early winter, with every day growing colder around him, waiting to find a dragon that he could make his own.
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And then one morning, he found fresh dragon tracks on the ground: just large enough to be interesting and crisply fresh. Sherlock called on air and darkness to hide him, and followed the tracks downstream, to one of the iced-over pools where he'd found deer and mountain goats drinking. Everything around him was still now, though, and as soon as he saw the shape of wings ahead, he climbed a tree to observe from above.
This dragon was on the small side, even for a male, but nicely muscled and sporting adult-sized horns. It had a lovely golden-brown hide, like highly polished brass, marred only by a raised, pale scar above its left foreleg, near the base of the wing. That was unfortunate: Sherlock had no use for a mount that was impaired. But on the other hand, this dragon had clearly taken on a worthy opponent and survived, despite its size. It was too small to stand up to the dominant males in the colony upslope, that was certain, but it hadn't submitted to them, either; there was no tell-tale mark on the back of its neck. Strong but even-tempered. Solitary.
"You are lovely, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured, as the dragon lapped from a steaming hole in the ice. Occasionally it exhaled forcefully, melting the hole a little larger, but didn't actually ignite. "I think you're mine."
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Once he'd chosen his dragon, it was ridiculously simple to catch. Sherlock tracked it back to its den-a jumble of rocks it barely fit into, honestly, he was doing it a favor by taking it in. While it dozed, he scratched runes onto the trees and stones, writing sleep and stillness into the very air. It was a short round-trip back to his campsite to fetch the bindings he'd already prepared.
The dragon woke when Sherlock threw the straps over it, which was already far too late. The leather moved to his will, tangling and twining around the dragon's legs, pinning flat its wings, looping tightly around its jaws and binding them shut. Its screeching was nearly deafening, and it thrashed so violently that Sherlock began to worry that it was going to hurt itself; he stretched out a hand, and with a word, hoisted the whole creature a good foot off the ground.
"You ought not to struggle," he told it, standing as close as he dared. The dragon stopped tossing its head and looked at him, upside-down, golden eyes narrow and glaring. "I've taught the bindings to tighten by themselves, so you can't even work yourself loose. And I'd much rather you didn't injure yourself, you're useless to me lame."
It growled at him, almost as if it understood, and pulled back its lips to hiss fire-but Sherlock had anticipated that, and all that emerged was a mist of noxious fluid. Defeated, the dragon went still.
Sherlock grinned. "Good boy. I think we're going to get along famously."
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He had even prepared for the return journey: transporting a belligerent dragon overland was a pointless hassle, not to mention likely to attract far too much attention (particularly if the queen was serious about the extermination option). Instead he wrote a circle into the snow, the mate of the one he'd prepared weeks earlier in the cellar at Baker Street, and together he and his dragon stepped between shadows. (Well, he stepped; the dragon, naturally, had to be pushed.)
Mrs. Hudson had kept the house nice and warm, and Sherlock had installed bars in the cellar as thick as his forearm, running from floor to ceiling, to create a secure cell of the appropriate size. He stepped through them by magic, leaving his dragon bound on the floor for the moment.
Mrs. Hudson was in vapors over his unannounced return, of course, and he had to shoo her away while he retrieved the last necessary item from his workshop: a leather collar, wide and heavy, with several bronze d-rings set into the exterior surface. The inner surface was written thickly with runes, as many as he dared use: runes of binding, of compulsion, of control. He had researched extensively how a falconer might wake a haggard, essentially torturing it until it broke to his hand, and the whole thing seemed extraordinarily boring. He would still have to train the dragon to submit to him, but the collar would shorten the whole process considerably.
Sherlock bounded back down to the cellar, carrying the collar over his shoulder. What he found on the other side of the bars made him stop in his tracks.
A man lay on his side, bound in leather straps. He was perfectly naked, and every inch of his skin was tanned an even golden-brown; the straps were twined around his legs, and kept his arms bent in front of him with lines that criss-crossed over his back. He was not a tall man, but fit and healthy, save for a thick, raised scar across his left shoulder blade; and when Sherlock stepped through the bars again, he found familiar golden eyes glaring at him from under a fringe of dark blond hair.
Every thought of having a flying mount by midsummer flew out of his mind as he knelt in front of his new discovery. "Extraordinary," he murmured, and traced the edge of the strap across the man's-the dragon's-mouth. "Oh, you are simply extraordinary."
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It took three days to remake the collar, though in Sherlock's defense he wasn't exactly concentrating on it. None of the dragonlore he'd studied had made any reference whatsoever to dragons that could change their shape, much less transform into men, and he felt new justification for his original assertion that all the authors were idiots.
During that time, his dragon did not speak, but it did attempt to bite him when he released the strap over its mouth, and often kicked at him feebly when he was in range. It couldn't change back, because Sherlock had taught the straps only to tighten, never to yield; in fact, several times a day he had to pop down to the cellar to ensure the dragon hadn't managed to tighten any one strap to the point of suffocating itself or cutting off circulation. This gave him a chance to study its human shape up close: broad shoulders, wide hands, straight strong legs and a long nose. Its skin was surprisingly soft to the touch, and far warmer than a real human's would ever be; it was almost totally hairless, except for its head and the patch between its legs. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, but solid, well-made, and at the moment, completely at Sherlock's mercy.
The dragon didn't seem to mind its nudity terribly much, and after a while even learned to go still and submit to the necessary adjustments of the straps. And if Sherlock's fingers strayed from his task, to explore and caress all that soft skin and the lightly defined muscle underneath-well, more often than not he earned himself a kick, or the dragon began to thrash about until the straps were tighter than ever. But not always. Not always right away. And that was perhaps the most intriguing thing of all.
So Sherlock went back to his research, and to the new collar, and deep thoughts of what he might to do with a dragon in man's skin. It was little wonder that work progressed exceedingly slowly.
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The new collar was essentially identical to the old one, only smaller, and when Sherlock wrapped it around his dragon's throat, the ends melted together to form an unbroken band of leather. He spoke the word that release the straps, and the dragon scrambled to its feet, facing him, hands loosely curled into fists. "Go on, then," Sherlock said, spreading his arms wide. "Have a go. Just to see how it works."
The dragon didn't move. Couldn't move, actually, because of the obedience written into the collar, for all it clearly wanted to rush at him. It still snarled at him, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly.
He fed the dragon straight away-while it was bound, he hadn't dared put a hand near its mouth, so it had been watered wine and broth lapped from a bowl. Now he presented it with a choice of bread, roasted chicken or raw beef, and was utterly unsurprised that the bloody meat was its first choice. It must've been starving, but Sherlock noted that it approached the tray warily and ate lightly, sniffing at each individual piece and discarding a few for no reason he could identify. It stood again when it was done, back straight and shoulders square.
"You are a puzzle," Sherlock said, studying his dragon. The straps had chafed somewhat, leaving an array of pink lines across its skin, but it didn't appear to be in any pain. When Sherlock reached out to touch one of the lines, the dragon growled lowly; the collar kept it from lashing out at Sherlock, but didn't stop it from stepping away from his hand.
Sherlock could've stopped it-could have willed it to stillness while he investigated to his heart's content-but for now he let it be. There would be plenty of time for exploration later. "Come on," he said, backing up the words with a burst of his will. "I'll show you to your room."
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"Did you ever find a dragon on your little expedition?" Mycroft asked, faux-innocent over tea.
"I found something far more interesting," Sherlock said, which was true, and made Mycroft raise an eyebrow at him.
"The queen has begun preparing to drive the dragons out of the mountains," Mycroft continued after a heavy pause. "The expedition will leave in the spring."
"Hmmm. That would be fascinating if I cared."
The only dragon Sherlock was interested in was sitting on the roof, barefoot and shirtless, once Mycroft had been chased away. Even getting him into trousers had required recourse to the collar, and Sherlock would not have minded the nudity personally, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stand for it--he's a fit enough young man, but it's just common decency, she'd declared. The dragon also did not seem particularly interested in the room Sherlock had prepared for him, but rather could usually be found restlessly slinking about the house and grounds. God only knew when or where he actually slept.
Sherlock, however, knew at least one of his secrets, and it was high time he addressed it. He sat beside his dragon on the roof, and asked, "Why won't you speak?"
The dragon went still, his usual response to a threat; he couldn't attack Sherlock, but he never tried to run away unless Sherlock actually touched him. Mrs. Hudson's hugs and petting got much the same response, but she managed not to be offended-Sherlock had told her the dragon was an idiot he'd found on the streets. Now Sherlock watched the dragon's reactions as he continued, "I've been observing you, and it's obvious that you understand every word I say, even if you deliberately ignore most of them. Your interactions with Mrs. Hudson are even more telling. Moreover, my library has been disturbed, and since Mrs. Hudson doesn't clean there without my express consent, you are the only possible culprit. Thus, you are literate, which presupposes linguistic. You have no obvious physiological impediment for speaking in this form, so that leaves two options: that you have some manner of mental impairment, or you are being contrary."
The dragon actually had the nerve to smile at that.
Sherlock leaned forward. "You know that I could force you, if I wished."
"I know."
It was a pleasant tenor voice, a little hoarse from all the growling, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin at it. "Have you got a name, then, or shall I make one up for you?" he asked.
"Call me John," the dragon said, as if this was not ludicrous. Sherlock decided to accept this tentatively for now.
"Tell me, John, can all your kind change shape this way, or are you unique?"
John shrugged his tan shoulders, utterly unconcerned by the winter wind whipping over the city. "All of us can. Most of us don't. You lot are a bit useless without all your iron bits on, you know."
Sherlock didn't tell him that a load of useless humans with iron bits on would shortly attempt to exterminate his species. "You seem to favor books about medicine and healing magic." John didn't respond. "Nothing to say to that?"
"It wasn't a question, so no."
Oh, this was fun. Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingers over John's scarred shoulder, just to make him jump away. "What happened here, there?"
"An ax."
"Hmm. Wielded by a competent user, approximately six foot seven, using a two-handed grip, on an upswing originating from below your left wing. If he'd gotten a proper swing with it, he'd have taken your foreleg off, but you'd rushed him and he was too close to follow it through."
John looked at him with widened eyes, but didn't say anything. Fine.
Sherlock stood, and re-wrapped his cloak. "You are welcome to use the library, of course, but please stop dog-earing the arcane manuscripts. I'll also expect you to speak when spoken to."
"Yes, sir," John said, all dry defiance, but Sherlock found he rather liked the sound of it all the same.
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At first, Sherlock suspected John was indulging in random acts of rebellion, which was irritating and tiresome; it took some time before he realized that the dragon was, after a fashion, testing his boundaries. He attempted several times to leave the grounds of the house, despite the collar-runes binding him to it; he ignored questions until Sherlock had to will the answer out of him word by word, and while he occasionally assisted Mrs. Hudson with the housekeeping he sometimes hid from Sherlock for hours, even days.
Not that Sherlock couldn't find him in a heartbeat, of course, and not that he didn't eventually submit when ordered. But there was a principle to the thing.
The tipping point came when Lestrade paid a visit, because he actually had a case for Sherlock, something worth investigating-a half-eaten prostitute found in the canal, and he was just reading through the descriptions of the tattoos on what was left of her limbs when John came through the sitting room with an armful of wood for the fire.
Lestrade blinked at the half-naked man with the leather collar, and because he had all the manners and breeding of a feral swine, said, "Er. Hello."
John just looked at him narrowly, and then at Sherlock. Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade, this is my servingman, John. He is utterly uncivilized and will bite you as soon as look at you. John, you may go."
But the flicker of attention he spared for John wasn't enough to send him running out the door-more of a gentle nudge, really. John loitered in the doorway, watching them, and Lestrade seemed increasingly nervous about him even as Sherlock pointed out the five signs that they were dealing with a specific abomination conjured by a very particular sorcerer. He sent Lestrade away, planning to summon and dispel the abomination himself by midnight, and thus he didn't quite see the exchange that took place in the sitting room door.
What he heard was Lestrade say, "A pleasure to--" and then a startled yelp. When Sherlock turned, Lestrade was clutching a hand to his chest and looking alarmed, while John had put his back to the wall and was growling openly. "He took a swing at me!" Lestrade protested.
"Fascinating," Sherlock said. "What did you do?"
"I-what?" Lestrade blinked, and then looked warily at John, who had stopped growling but was watching them both very carefully.
Sherlock sighed. "John, go to your room and wait for me there," he said crisply, putting the strength of his will into the words, and John marched out of the room with a small snarl. Sherlock tugged on Lestrade's arm until the inspector revealed his hand, but aside from a few faint scratches from John's blunt human nails, there was no damage. "I repeat. How did you provoke him?"
"I tried to shake his hand," Lestrade said irately. "If that's provocation, you've got a lunatic for a valet."
"Did you touch him?" Sherlock asked. John, of course, couldn't even attempt to harm him, and had seemed unthreatened by Mrs. Hudson, but this was new data.
"I didn't even get near him," Lestrade grumbled.
"Interesting."
By the time he'd chivvied Lestrade away, it was already drawing close to nightfall, but Sherlock doubted he'd need much time to deal with the whore-eating abomination. Instead he went to John's chilly, empty bedroom, where John was standing straight and proud at the foot of the bed. "Why did you strike Lestrade?"
"He threatened me," John said crisply.
Aha. "He did nothing of the sort. He approached you with an open hand as a form of greeting. It's something humans do."
"You don't," John said. "Not with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or the other one you're always yelling at."
Oh, this was brilliant, far better than murder. John had been analyzing, categorizing, even if he'd got it all wrong-- "Mycroft is my brother and I despise him," Sherlock explained. "Lestrade is a longtime business associate and my social inferior, not that he notices. Mrs. Hudson is a woman and also my employee. Thus, the handshake is not an appropriate greeting. To Lestrade, you are an unfamiliar man who he will persist in attempting to treat as a social equal, so offering a handshake would be a form of friendly greeting, originally symbolic of the fact that neither of you is holding a weapon."
John's nostrils flared. "I'm not a man and I don't need any weapons."
"You belong to me and I will not have you treat my guests with hostility," Sherlock said, and with another burst of power called the riding crop up from the mud room. "Knees."
John didn't resist the collar this time, kneeling at the foot of the bed and bracing his arms against the mattress. Sherlock tested the crop in his hand and explained, "I will, of course, modify the protections on the collar to prevent you from harming others in the future. But you also need to be punished for the harm you've already done. Five strokes. Count them, please."
John did; he braced himself for it, and Sherlock drew blood on every blow, but John bore it quite stoically. He scarcely reacted, in fact, until Sherlock summoned a flannel and a bowl of water in the same manner as the crop, and knelt behind him.
"Not that wounds as shallow as these are likely to scar," he said, daubing the flannel against one thin streak of blood, "but I do attempt to care of my things."
John was tense and still, except for heavy, erratic breathing, and his hands were fisted in the sheets. "Don't," he blurted, causing Sherlock to hesitate.
"Don't what?" he prompted after a minute.
"Don't touch me," John said in a strangely breathy voice.
Interesting. "You are in no position to give orders," Sherlock reminded him, and resumed the treatment. "Now, keep still."
Cleaning and salving the wounds was the work of minutes, but John had begun to tremble minutely by the time Sherlock stood up. A beating hadn't broken his composure, but somehow a healing touch did? He lashed out at perceived aggression, but fled signs of affection? Sherlock gave John the freedom to move again, but John stayed where he was, forehead pressed to the sheets. "I will be in my workshop the rest of the night," Sherlock informed him. "Do not even attempt to enter until sunrise, or something extraordinarily nasty will probably eat you."
John didn't say anything, but Sherlock decided, this time, to let it slide.
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John seemed sulky for days after the discipline, and skittish whenever Sherlock got too close; his back healed swiftly and cleanly but the nerves remained. There was something here that Sherlock was missing, and until the puzzle was solved, it eclipsed nearly all others.
Nearly all, because there was that incident with the royal assassin, and that was the one that provided the key to the other.
Sherlock was far, far too skilled of a sorcerer to be poisoned, so he had no compunctions about intercepting the dose meant for the queen. He could feel the oily toxins seep into his bloodstream even as he plucked the dart out of his palm, and it was a simple act of will to keep them confined there while he smiled broadly at the would-be regicide caught red-handed with the blowgun still in his hands. Lord Gregson had the man in irons within minutes. It was almost pathetic once Sherlock had worked out the code.
Except of course, when he stood up from the chair and the blood rushed away from his head. Only then did he think to check the dart for enchantments. "Oh, fuck," he declared, prompting a nervous titter from the crown princess as she was lead out.
Gregson seized Sherlock by the arm. "What's the matter, old boy? You look ill."
"An incisive observation," Sherlock snapped, but he couldn't put feeling into it; he quickly tried to summon a minor water element, enough to purge the taint from his blood, but the power flickered in his hands and wouldn't cohere. "I need my workshop. Immediately."
Gregson looked skeptical. "Dr. Stamford is the crown's own physician, I'm sure he would be delighted--"
"Home," Sherlock growled, doing a passable imitation of John. "Now."
By the time the carriage arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock could hardly stand on his own. Gregson helped him inside and called for Mrs. Hudson, but John was there first, half-naked and staring. "Don't be an idiot," Sherlock tried to tell him, but his speech was slurring and even summoning enough will to stay awake was becoming a challenge. "My workshop. Help me."
He hadn't put any power into the words, but John came to him anyway and lifted him almost effortlessly out of the chair, despite the disparity in their heights. Sherlock vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson and Gregson protest, but all his attention was now focused inwards, on maintaining his own breathing and heartbeat long enough to get to safety.
Up and up and up and did the house really have so many floors? Sherlock pressed his face against John's neck, soaking up the warmth and the strange spicy smell of him, not quite human no matter what shape he took. John had obeyed for once without be compelled, why would he do that? What piece of the puzzle had Sherlock got now? Up and up and up and up...
It was pure relief to step into the workshop, within walls closely written with secret and safe. Echoes of his own magic buoyed him up and helped dispel the enchantment, but of course he'd gotten distracted from the actual poison during the process. It had spread through his blood unchecked, gumming up his muscles, clogging his brain, and he was barely aware of John setting him down on the old, leather-upholstered couch as he fought to purge himself.
He dragged his eyes open, but all he could see was John, standing over him and staring with a sort of sick fascination. "I suppose," Sherlock managed to rasp, "this means your freedom."
John didn't reply to that before Sherlock was subsumed by darkness.
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He was left adrift for some time afterward-hours, days. Awareness came and went, leaving dribs and drabs of data: the smell of candles, the sound of pouring water, John's voice from a long way off. Pain, but he expected pain; the feeling of nervous fingers against his skin.
When Sherlock awoke properly, the windows of his workshop were bright with sunlight, and he lay naked under a blanket on the leather couch. John was sound asleep on the floor by his feet, propped against the couch in a half-sitting position. The moment he began to move, John awoke, and sat up straight to watch Sherlock stretch. "Hello," Sherlock said to him. "How long as I unconscious?"
"Couple days," John said, staring earnestly. "You were dying."
The certainty with which John said that was intriguing. Sherlock looked at his left palm, where the dart had gone in, and found a bandage; under it was an incision that was beginning to heal. "Who drew the poison?" he asked.
"Who do you think?" John said irately. "Mrs. Hudson and the others couldn't even smell it."
Sherlock stared at him for several long minutes, trying to put pieces together despite the residual fug of illness in his brain. "Where did you learn to read?" he asked.
John looked away from him, but Sherlock had enough strength to drag the answer out. "A village," he snapped. "St. Bartholomew."
So he'd lived among humans before, but not for long-long enough to learn to read, not long enough to learn how to pass in the skin he put on. And he'd taught himself enough medicine to diagnose Sherlock, draw the poison and dress the wound, all from a few weeks of lurking in the library. "You are truly extraordinary," Sherlock said honestly, and John went red in the face and left very quickly.
He came back with a basin and towels and a basket over his elbow. "You smell bad," he informed Sherlock, and offered him a flannel. The basket turned out to contain bread and honey, and a stoppered bottle of broth, which Sherlock availed himself of first. John left the room again as soon as Sherlock threw the blanket off to wash.
Mrs. Hudson was, of course, elated to see Sherlock up and about (less so to see him naked, but she'd put up with worse). John had to help Sherlock down to his bedroom, though, and there was something there in the way he fumbled with Sherlock's dressing gown, about the way he held himself as Sherlock slung and arm around his neck, that felt like the last piece of the puzzle. Sherlock fell asleep turning it over in his mind, and awoke with the answer fully formed like a goddess or a miracle.
Of course it required experimental confirmation, but honestly, it was so perfectly right he could weep.
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He could've summoned John to his bedside with a thought, but he made himself wait, so as not to put John on his guard. In the meantime, of course, there was Mycroft, or as John put it, "The brother is here-d'you want to throw him out now or later?"
Sherlock, distracted by his own concerns, had to ask, "What brother are you talking about?"
"The one that's always here," John said. "Mycroft, the one you hate."
"Oh." John's speech had heretofore been flawless, and Sherlock found the error puzzling. "Mycroft is my brother, John, not just any brother."
John gave him a strangely blank look, as if he couldn't sense a distinction. "Okay."
Sherlock leaned forward, now curious. "John. Are dragons not hatched in clutches?"
"Of course," John said warily, like he wasn't sure of the point of the question.
"And what do dragons from the same clutch call each other?"
"...other dragons?"
Fascinating. Another puzzle piece. "Send Mycroft up and be prepared to see him right back out again."
Mycroft was full of nattering from the queen-gratitude, Sherlock, a landed title, Sherlock, dull--but then he changed the topic to one of more relevance. "Your 'man' there is quite fascinating, isn't he?"
"So you noticed," Sherlock said; he supposed it was too much to hope that Mycroft would miss the thickness of spells written into the collar or comprehend its significance.
Mycroft set his tea aside and steepled his fingers. "Really, Sherlock, keeping a dragon as a catamite is perhaps the only thing more audacious than riding around on one."
Sherlock snorted, even as wondered, On what basis do you conclude I've already fucked him? "And what would you know about catamites, Mycroft?" he asked aloud.
"I know that the Church frowns upon them, though I suppose somewhat less so than bestiality," he shot back.
"And what have they do say on the subject of murder?" Sherlock asked. "Or do they condone the queen's plan to purge the mountains?"
Mycroft chuckled. "As it happens, I've managed to convince Her Majesty to send...a sort of embassy, I suppose. Attempt to reason with the creatures before we resort to bloodshed."
"I hope they come back in identifiable pieces," Sherlock replied quite seriously.
"In all earnestness, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned forward. "This...being, it is not human. You mustn't convince yourself it is."
"I think," Sherlock said, "John is far closer to human than even he realizes."
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Once Sherlock had his strength back, there was no further excuse to put it off. He sent Mrs. Hudson out of the house on errands and locked all the doors; then he sought out John.
The library, of course; he spent more time there than anywhere else. He sat on the floor, book braced against his knees, and followed the words with one finger. Occasionally his lips moved, but no sound came out. Sherlock watched him for over fifteen minutes before John noticed he was there. "Oh. Did you want something?"
"You could say that," Sherlock replied.
He kept still, kept watching as John considered this reply: as he set the book aside and climbed to his feet, shoulders square and back straight. But for the first time in weeks, his chin wasn't raised in knee-jerk defiance. Just waiting. Sherlock's move.
He stepped further into the library and pushed the door shut behind him. "Dragons aren't particularly social creatures, are you?"
"We're voracious carnivores, so no, not very," John replied, watching Sherlock carefully.
"You leave the nest almost immediately," Sherlock observed, walking around behind John, who didn't move. "No kinship bonds, parental or filial. Even when males form a colony for mutual protection, you spend as much time squabbling for dominance as sharing kills. You do not mate for pleasure and do not pair-bond after mating."
John's shoulder twitched fractionally. "What's your point?" he asked, voice going husky.
Sherlock willed John to stillness, and then he gently ran his knuckles up John's spine, raising gooseflesh in his wake. John made a choked noise in response. "The only times dragon touch one another is to cause pain," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "But you're not in your dragon skin now. The human body is capable of such pleasure-and doesn't that just scare the hell out of you?"
John didn't answer, not in words; but when Sherlock fanned his fingers over his ribs a little shiver ran up John's whole body. He pressed himself against John from behind, stroking broadly up his chest, letting his fingers catch on his nipples until they stood out stiffly. "What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked.
"S-stop," John said weakly, but he wasn't trying to flee-not that Sherlock would let him, of course. "Please."
"Don't be tedious," Sherlock asked, and dropped a hand to the front of John's trousers to cup his swelling cock. John made a high-pitched noise and squirmed in place, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the sensation, and his thighs began to quiver as Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the head through coarse wool. "This is new to you, so of course you're frightened of it, you want it to stop. But what frightens you even more is how good it feels, how much you want it, even though you think you shouldn't. From the moment you changed, you've let me touch you and then run away, but that wasn't just for me, was? You were punishing yourself, for being all too human.
"There's nothing to be frightened of, John. You can want this. You can have this."
John was shaking now, head thrown back against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock stroked him through his trousers; he didn't thrust his hips, but his mouth was wide and gasping, and when he opened his eyes to look into Sherlock's they were blown black, with hardly any trace of gold. Sherlock raised his other hand to John's throat, tugging one of the collar's d-rings, and John came like that, with a groaning growl.
"Gorgeous," Sherlock said, pressing his nose against the hot, scarred shoulder.
John swallowed hard, and said, "Please," but didn't follow up with anything. Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped away from him, giving him physical and metaphorical space. John raked a hand through his hair and stammered, "I-I don't--"
"You may move now if you wish," Sherlock said, reluctantly (but he'd anticipated this reaction, it was always a possibility, he'd planned for it;) "But. I forbid you to masturbate."
John's echo was breathy, incredulous. "Master-what?"
Ah. Another things dragons in the wild didn't do, apparently. Sherlock discharged the last of the power holding John in place. "You'll know what it is when you try it."
John didn't even respond to this; just fled.
Part Two
Author: mad_maudlin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Extreme dubcon, kidnapping, manipulation, mindfuck, D/s themes, and depending on your interpretation, possibly beastiality.
Summary: Sorcerer!Sherlock sets out to trap himself a pet dragon. Said dragon turns out to be far more interesting than he initially anticipated.
A/N: Written for this prompt at the Sherlock kink meme, and thank god it got other fills because this one took off on me. The file on my hard drive is called "stockholm syndrome" for a reason.
How To Tame Your Dragon
by Mad Maudlin
Sherlock had been camping in the mountains for six weeks before he found a suitable dragon. The literature had suggested that it would be difficult, but by his estimate the literature was three parts myth to one part hysterical exaggeration, so he tried not to let it influence his theories overmuch. He spent hours searching, both the crags above the treeline and the alpine valleys, attentive to the evidence-footprints, claw marks, noxious pellets the size of his fist and hard, metallic scales embedded in trees or shed at the bottom of rocks. He was above all patient; contrary to Mycroft's accusations, he'd never expected this to be the easy part.
When he finally found one-observed from a distance with a small spyglass-he was pleased to see that the major anatomy corresponded nicely with the written records. Good to know the wise men of ages past had not been completely delusional. The dragon on the rock above was a gray-green color, like old copper, and Sherlock noted the vanes on its tail, the visible blood vessels in the vanes of its wings, the spur-like digit on the wing joint, the boney plate across the dome of the skull-scute, the last was called, after the shields wild men had once made of it. He managed a quick sketch before the dragon flew away.
After that first one, the sightings were more frequent, though still sparse-still, Sherlock hadn't expected to come upon any sort of nest of the things. In fact, he probably would not have survived if he had-they were not the behemoths of legend, true, but the smallest adults were still the size of a draft horse and quick as serpents. Rather, by identifying the ideal hunting grounds and sunning territory, he was able to plan his movements with more efficiency, and soon was lucky enough to stumble upon one every three or four days.
Almost all of which, naturally, were useless for what he meant to do.
He discounted the females out of hand; they were too large and too aggressive, quick to spew flame at each other or anything else that proved more irritating than potentially edible. He would never train one of those to accept a saddle and doubted he could sit one comfortably if he did. Anyway he couldn't take the risk that he might inadvertently choose a broody one; one dragon would be a useful addition to his household, but a clutch of them would be a nuisance and a threat. He considered a few juveniles as well, in case those would be easier to master, but he had no idea how long they would take to mature to rideable size or what their adult dimensions might be like: even the males could vary in height by up to a foot as adults. Impractical.
There were several males living in a sort of colony on the upper slopes of the mountain, which proved that dragons had some social skills, and Sherlock observed them carefully from the cover of air and darkness to get their measure. They generally never gathered in groups of more than three at a time, and two or three of the largest almost always kicked off with a squabble-snapping at one another or head-butting like mountain sheep, taking the blows directly on the scute rather than with the horns that curled away from it. Other males, older or smaller, were actively submissive to this group: several times Sherlock saw one of them lie flat on its belly and let a more aggressive male bite the base of it neck, just under the back edge of the scute, and soon he could recognize the distinct marks this treatment left.
He debated for a long time whether a such a submissive dragon might be the best choice, if it wasn't already tame to the point of cravenness; but then again, part of the appeal of a riding around the kingdom on a dragon in the first place was the ability to train it to selected aggression. Frankly, if it wasn't going to bite on command, he wasn't interested, and he would hate to go through the trouble of trapping a dragon if it turned out to be high-strung or cowardly.
Snow fell, and he dared creep deep into the dark depths of caves, where he found a clutch of eggs: eight of them, faceted like gemstones and hot to the touch. If he raised the dragon from a hatchling, he surely could make it whatever sort of creature he wanted...but he had heard of eagles raised from eggs who were clumsy in the air and aggressive with their handlers, whereas the wild-caught birds were calm and biddable. Besides, by the time a hatchling dragon was mature enough to ride, he'd likely be bored of the idea, and out a fortune in fodder in the interim. And though the clutch had no sign of adult dragon presence less than six months old, he didn't know enough about dragon life cycles to anticipate how to care for a hatchling, what special needs it might have beyond a meaty diet.
No, he needed one already full-grown, small enough to sit astride but large enough to bear him, neither mindlessly aggressive nor spinelessly weak.
Perhaps you should pick out a color in advance as well, he could imagine Mycroft saying-Mycroft had thought Sherlock's whole plan to be ludicrous vanity, and advised him that the queen had plans to exterminate the dragons in these mountains anyway. Which was why Sherlock was here in the early winter, with every day growing colder around him, waiting to find a dragon that he could make his own.
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And then one morning, he found fresh dragon tracks on the ground: just large enough to be interesting and crisply fresh. Sherlock called on air and darkness to hide him, and followed the tracks downstream, to one of the iced-over pools where he'd found deer and mountain goats drinking. Everything around him was still now, though, and as soon as he saw the shape of wings ahead, he climbed a tree to observe from above.
This dragon was on the small side, even for a male, but nicely muscled and sporting adult-sized horns. It had a lovely golden-brown hide, like highly polished brass, marred only by a raised, pale scar above its left foreleg, near the base of the wing. That was unfortunate: Sherlock had no use for a mount that was impaired. But on the other hand, this dragon had clearly taken on a worthy opponent and survived, despite its size. It was too small to stand up to the dominant males in the colony upslope, that was certain, but it hadn't submitted to them, either; there was no tell-tale mark on the back of its neck. Strong but even-tempered. Solitary.
"You are lovely, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured, as the dragon lapped from a steaming hole in the ice. Occasionally it exhaled forcefully, melting the hole a little larger, but didn't actually ignite. "I think you're mine."
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Once he'd chosen his dragon, it was ridiculously simple to catch. Sherlock tracked it back to its den-a jumble of rocks it barely fit into, honestly, he was doing it a favor by taking it in. While it dozed, he scratched runes onto the trees and stones, writing sleep and stillness into the very air. It was a short round-trip back to his campsite to fetch the bindings he'd already prepared.
The dragon woke when Sherlock threw the straps over it, which was already far too late. The leather moved to his will, tangling and twining around the dragon's legs, pinning flat its wings, looping tightly around its jaws and binding them shut. Its screeching was nearly deafening, and it thrashed so violently that Sherlock began to worry that it was going to hurt itself; he stretched out a hand, and with a word, hoisted the whole creature a good foot off the ground.
"You ought not to struggle," he told it, standing as close as he dared. The dragon stopped tossing its head and looked at him, upside-down, golden eyes narrow and glaring. "I've taught the bindings to tighten by themselves, so you can't even work yourself loose. And I'd much rather you didn't injure yourself, you're useless to me lame."
It growled at him, almost as if it understood, and pulled back its lips to hiss fire-but Sherlock had anticipated that, and all that emerged was a mist of noxious fluid. Defeated, the dragon went still.
Sherlock grinned. "Good boy. I think we're going to get along famously."
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He had even prepared for the return journey: transporting a belligerent dragon overland was a pointless hassle, not to mention likely to attract far too much attention (particularly if the queen was serious about the extermination option). Instead he wrote a circle into the snow, the mate of the one he'd prepared weeks earlier in the cellar at Baker Street, and together he and his dragon stepped between shadows. (Well, he stepped; the dragon, naturally, had to be pushed.)
Mrs. Hudson had kept the house nice and warm, and Sherlock had installed bars in the cellar as thick as his forearm, running from floor to ceiling, to create a secure cell of the appropriate size. He stepped through them by magic, leaving his dragon bound on the floor for the moment.
Mrs. Hudson was in vapors over his unannounced return, of course, and he had to shoo her away while he retrieved the last necessary item from his workshop: a leather collar, wide and heavy, with several bronze d-rings set into the exterior surface. The inner surface was written thickly with runes, as many as he dared use: runes of binding, of compulsion, of control. He had researched extensively how a falconer might wake a haggard, essentially torturing it until it broke to his hand, and the whole thing seemed extraordinarily boring. He would still have to train the dragon to submit to him, but the collar would shorten the whole process considerably.
Sherlock bounded back down to the cellar, carrying the collar over his shoulder. What he found on the other side of the bars made him stop in his tracks.
A man lay on his side, bound in leather straps. He was perfectly naked, and every inch of his skin was tanned an even golden-brown; the straps were twined around his legs, and kept his arms bent in front of him with lines that criss-crossed over his back. He was not a tall man, but fit and healthy, save for a thick, raised scar across his left shoulder blade; and when Sherlock stepped through the bars again, he found familiar golden eyes glaring at him from under a fringe of dark blond hair.
Every thought of having a flying mount by midsummer flew out of his mind as he knelt in front of his new discovery. "Extraordinary," he murmured, and traced the edge of the strap across the man's-the dragon's-mouth. "Oh, you are simply extraordinary."
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It took three days to remake the collar, though in Sherlock's defense he wasn't exactly concentrating on it. None of the dragonlore he'd studied had made any reference whatsoever to dragons that could change their shape, much less transform into men, and he felt new justification for his original assertion that all the authors were idiots.
During that time, his dragon did not speak, but it did attempt to bite him when he released the strap over its mouth, and often kicked at him feebly when he was in range. It couldn't change back, because Sherlock had taught the straps only to tighten, never to yield; in fact, several times a day he had to pop down to the cellar to ensure the dragon hadn't managed to tighten any one strap to the point of suffocating itself or cutting off circulation. This gave him a chance to study its human shape up close: broad shoulders, wide hands, straight strong legs and a long nose. Its skin was surprisingly soft to the touch, and far warmer than a real human's would ever be; it was almost totally hairless, except for its head and the patch between its legs. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, but solid, well-made, and at the moment, completely at Sherlock's mercy.
The dragon didn't seem to mind its nudity terribly much, and after a while even learned to go still and submit to the necessary adjustments of the straps. And if Sherlock's fingers strayed from his task, to explore and caress all that soft skin and the lightly defined muscle underneath-well, more often than not he earned himself a kick, or the dragon began to thrash about until the straps were tighter than ever. But not always. Not always right away. And that was perhaps the most intriguing thing of all.
So Sherlock went back to his research, and to the new collar, and deep thoughts of what he might to do with a dragon in man's skin. It was little wonder that work progressed exceedingly slowly.
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The new collar was essentially identical to the old one, only smaller, and when Sherlock wrapped it around his dragon's throat, the ends melted together to form an unbroken band of leather. He spoke the word that release the straps, and the dragon scrambled to its feet, facing him, hands loosely curled into fists. "Go on, then," Sherlock said, spreading his arms wide. "Have a go. Just to see how it works."
The dragon didn't move. Couldn't move, actually, because of the obedience written into the collar, for all it clearly wanted to rush at him. It still snarled at him, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly.
He fed the dragon straight away-while it was bound, he hadn't dared put a hand near its mouth, so it had been watered wine and broth lapped from a bowl. Now he presented it with a choice of bread, roasted chicken or raw beef, and was utterly unsurprised that the bloody meat was its first choice. It must've been starving, but Sherlock noted that it approached the tray warily and ate lightly, sniffing at each individual piece and discarding a few for no reason he could identify. It stood again when it was done, back straight and shoulders square.
"You are a puzzle," Sherlock said, studying his dragon. The straps had chafed somewhat, leaving an array of pink lines across its skin, but it didn't appear to be in any pain. When Sherlock reached out to touch one of the lines, the dragon growled lowly; the collar kept it from lashing out at Sherlock, but didn't stop it from stepping away from his hand.
Sherlock could've stopped it-could have willed it to stillness while he investigated to his heart's content-but for now he let it be. There would be plenty of time for exploration later. "Come on," he said, backing up the words with a burst of his will. "I'll show you to your room."
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"Did you ever find a dragon on your little expedition?" Mycroft asked, faux-innocent over tea.
"I found something far more interesting," Sherlock said, which was true, and made Mycroft raise an eyebrow at him.
"The queen has begun preparing to drive the dragons out of the mountains," Mycroft continued after a heavy pause. "The expedition will leave in the spring."
"Hmmm. That would be fascinating if I cared."
The only dragon Sherlock was interested in was sitting on the roof, barefoot and shirtless, once Mycroft had been chased away. Even getting him into trousers had required recourse to the collar, and Sherlock would not have minded the nudity personally, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stand for it--he's a fit enough young man, but it's just common decency, she'd declared. The dragon also did not seem particularly interested in the room Sherlock had prepared for him, but rather could usually be found restlessly slinking about the house and grounds. God only knew when or where he actually slept.
Sherlock, however, knew at least one of his secrets, and it was high time he addressed it. He sat beside his dragon on the roof, and asked, "Why won't you speak?"
The dragon went still, his usual response to a threat; he couldn't attack Sherlock, but he never tried to run away unless Sherlock actually touched him. Mrs. Hudson's hugs and petting got much the same response, but she managed not to be offended-Sherlock had told her the dragon was an idiot he'd found on the streets. Now Sherlock watched the dragon's reactions as he continued, "I've been observing you, and it's obvious that you understand every word I say, even if you deliberately ignore most of them. Your interactions with Mrs. Hudson are even more telling. Moreover, my library has been disturbed, and since Mrs. Hudson doesn't clean there without my express consent, you are the only possible culprit. Thus, you are literate, which presupposes linguistic. You have no obvious physiological impediment for speaking in this form, so that leaves two options: that you have some manner of mental impairment, or you are being contrary."
The dragon actually had the nerve to smile at that.
Sherlock leaned forward. "You know that I could force you, if I wished."
"I know."
It was a pleasant tenor voice, a little hoarse from all the growling, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin at it. "Have you got a name, then, or shall I make one up for you?" he asked.
"Call me John," the dragon said, as if this was not ludicrous. Sherlock decided to accept this tentatively for now.
"Tell me, John, can all your kind change shape this way, or are you unique?"
John shrugged his tan shoulders, utterly unconcerned by the winter wind whipping over the city. "All of us can. Most of us don't. You lot are a bit useless without all your iron bits on, you know."
Sherlock didn't tell him that a load of useless humans with iron bits on would shortly attempt to exterminate his species. "You seem to favor books about medicine and healing magic." John didn't respond. "Nothing to say to that?"
"It wasn't a question, so no."
Oh, this was fun. Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingers over John's scarred shoulder, just to make him jump away. "What happened here, there?"
"An ax."
"Hmm. Wielded by a competent user, approximately six foot seven, using a two-handed grip, on an upswing originating from below your left wing. If he'd gotten a proper swing with it, he'd have taken your foreleg off, but you'd rushed him and he was too close to follow it through."
John looked at him with widened eyes, but didn't say anything. Fine.
Sherlock stood, and re-wrapped his cloak. "You are welcome to use the library, of course, but please stop dog-earing the arcane manuscripts. I'll also expect you to speak when spoken to."
"Yes, sir," John said, all dry defiance, but Sherlock found he rather liked the sound of it all the same.
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At first, Sherlock suspected John was indulging in random acts of rebellion, which was irritating and tiresome; it took some time before he realized that the dragon was, after a fashion, testing his boundaries. He attempted several times to leave the grounds of the house, despite the collar-runes binding him to it; he ignored questions until Sherlock had to will the answer out of him word by word, and while he occasionally assisted Mrs. Hudson with the housekeeping he sometimes hid from Sherlock for hours, even days.
Not that Sherlock couldn't find him in a heartbeat, of course, and not that he didn't eventually submit when ordered. But there was a principle to the thing.
The tipping point came when Lestrade paid a visit, because he actually had a case for Sherlock, something worth investigating-a half-eaten prostitute found in the canal, and he was just reading through the descriptions of the tattoos on what was left of her limbs when John came through the sitting room with an armful of wood for the fire.
Lestrade blinked at the half-naked man with the leather collar, and because he had all the manners and breeding of a feral swine, said, "Er. Hello."
John just looked at him narrowly, and then at Sherlock. Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade, this is my servingman, John. He is utterly uncivilized and will bite you as soon as look at you. John, you may go."
But the flicker of attention he spared for John wasn't enough to send him running out the door-more of a gentle nudge, really. John loitered in the doorway, watching them, and Lestrade seemed increasingly nervous about him even as Sherlock pointed out the five signs that they were dealing with a specific abomination conjured by a very particular sorcerer. He sent Lestrade away, planning to summon and dispel the abomination himself by midnight, and thus he didn't quite see the exchange that took place in the sitting room door.
What he heard was Lestrade say, "A pleasure to--" and then a startled yelp. When Sherlock turned, Lestrade was clutching a hand to his chest and looking alarmed, while John had put his back to the wall and was growling openly. "He took a swing at me!" Lestrade protested.
"Fascinating," Sherlock said. "What did you do?"
"I-what?" Lestrade blinked, and then looked warily at John, who had stopped growling but was watching them both very carefully.
Sherlock sighed. "John, go to your room and wait for me there," he said crisply, putting the strength of his will into the words, and John marched out of the room with a small snarl. Sherlock tugged on Lestrade's arm until the inspector revealed his hand, but aside from a few faint scratches from John's blunt human nails, there was no damage. "I repeat. How did you provoke him?"
"I tried to shake his hand," Lestrade said irately. "If that's provocation, you've got a lunatic for a valet."
"Did you touch him?" Sherlock asked. John, of course, couldn't even attempt to harm him, and had seemed unthreatened by Mrs. Hudson, but this was new data.
"I didn't even get near him," Lestrade grumbled.
"Interesting."
By the time he'd chivvied Lestrade away, it was already drawing close to nightfall, but Sherlock doubted he'd need much time to deal with the whore-eating abomination. Instead he went to John's chilly, empty bedroom, where John was standing straight and proud at the foot of the bed. "Why did you strike Lestrade?"
"He threatened me," John said crisply.
Aha. "He did nothing of the sort. He approached you with an open hand as a form of greeting. It's something humans do."
"You don't," John said. "Not with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or the other one you're always yelling at."
Oh, this was brilliant, far better than murder. John had been analyzing, categorizing, even if he'd got it all wrong-- "Mycroft is my brother and I despise him," Sherlock explained. "Lestrade is a longtime business associate and my social inferior, not that he notices. Mrs. Hudson is a woman and also my employee. Thus, the handshake is not an appropriate greeting. To Lestrade, you are an unfamiliar man who he will persist in attempting to treat as a social equal, so offering a handshake would be a form of friendly greeting, originally symbolic of the fact that neither of you is holding a weapon."
John's nostrils flared. "I'm not a man and I don't need any weapons."
"You belong to me and I will not have you treat my guests with hostility," Sherlock said, and with another burst of power called the riding crop up from the mud room. "Knees."
John didn't resist the collar this time, kneeling at the foot of the bed and bracing his arms against the mattress. Sherlock tested the crop in his hand and explained, "I will, of course, modify the protections on the collar to prevent you from harming others in the future. But you also need to be punished for the harm you've already done. Five strokes. Count them, please."
John did; he braced himself for it, and Sherlock drew blood on every blow, but John bore it quite stoically. He scarcely reacted, in fact, until Sherlock summoned a flannel and a bowl of water in the same manner as the crop, and knelt behind him.
"Not that wounds as shallow as these are likely to scar," he said, daubing the flannel against one thin streak of blood, "but I do attempt to care of my things."
John was tense and still, except for heavy, erratic breathing, and his hands were fisted in the sheets. "Don't," he blurted, causing Sherlock to hesitate.
"Don't what?" he prompted after a minute.
"Don't touch me," John said in a strangely breathy voice.
Interesting. "You are in no position to give orders," Sherlock reminded him, and resumed the treatment. "Now, keep still."
Cleaning and salving the wounds was the work of minutes, but John had begun to tremble minutely by the time Sherlock stood up. A beating hadn't broken his composure, but somehow a healing touch did? He lashed out at perceived aggression, but fled signs of affection? Sherlock gave John the freedom to move again, but John stayed where he was, forehead pressed to the sheets. "I will be in my workshop the rest of the night," Sherlock informed him. "Do not even attempt to enter until sunrise, or something extraordinarily nasty will probably eat you."
John didn't say anything, but Sherlock decided, this time, to let it slide.
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John seemed sulky for days after the discipline, and skittish whenever Sherlock got too close; his back healed swiftly and cleanly but the nerves remained. There was something here that Sherlock was missing, and until the puzzle was solved, it eclipsed nearly all others.
Nearly all, because there was that incident with the royal assassin, and that was the one that provided the key to the other.
Sherlock was far, far too skilled of a sorcerer to be poisoned, so he had no compunctions about intercepting the dose meant for the queen. He could feel the oily toxins seep into his bloodstream even as he plucked the dart out of his palm, and it was a simple act of will to keep them confined there while he smiled broadly at the would-be regicide caught red-handed with the blowgun still in his hands. Lord Gregson had the man in irons within minutes. It was almost pathetic once Sherlock had worked out the code.
Except of course, when he stood up from the chair and the blood rushed away from his head. Only then did he think to check the dart for enchantments. "Oh, fuck," he declared, prompting a nervous titter from the crown princess as she was lead out.
Gregson seized Sherlock by the arm. "What's the matter, old boy? You look ill."
"An incisive observation," Sherlock snapped, but he couldn't put feeling into it; he quickly tried to summon a minor water element, enough to purge the taint from his blood, but the power flickered in his hands and wouldn't cohere. "I need my workshop. Immediately."
Gregson looked skeptical. "Dr. Stamford is the crown's own physician, I'm sure he would be delighted--"
"Home," Sherlock growled, doing a passable imitation of John. "Now."
By the time the carriage arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock could hardly stand on his own. Gregson helped him inside and called for Mrs. Hudson, but John was there first, half-naked and staring. "Don't be an idiot," Sherlock tried to tell him, but his speech was slurring and even summoning enough will to stay awake was becoming a challenge. "My workshop. Help me."
He hadn't put any power into the words, but John came to him anyway and lifted him almost effortlessly out of the chair, despite the disparity in their heights. Sherlock vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson and Gregson protest, but all his attention was now focused inwards, on maintaining his own breathing and heartbeat long enough to get to safety.
Up and up and up and did the house really have so many floors? Sherlock pressed his face against John's neck, soaking up the warmth and the strange spicy smell of him, not quite human no matter what shape he took. John had obeyed for once without be compelled, why would he do that? What piece of the puzzle had Sherlock got now? Up and up and up and up...
It was pure relief to step into the workshop, within walls closely written with secret and safe. Echoes of his own magic buoyed him up and helped dispel the enchantment, but of course he'd gotten distracted from the actual poison during the process. It had spread through his blood unchecked, gumming up his muscles, clogging his brain, and he was barely aware of John setting him down on the old, leather-upholstered couch as he fought to purge himself.
He dragged his eyes open, but all he could see was John, standing over him and staring with a sort of sick fascination. "I suppose," Sherlock managed to rasp, "this means your freedom."
John didn't reply to that before Sherlock was subsumed by darkness.
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He was left adrift for some time afterward-hours, days. Awareness came and went, leaving dribs and drabs of data: the smell of candles, the sound of pouring water, John's voice from a long way off. Pain, but he expected pain; the feeling of nervous fingers against his skin.
When Sherlock awoke properly, the windows of his workshop were bright with sunlight, and he lay naked under a blanket on the leather couch. John was sound asleep on the floor by his feet, propped against the couch in a half-sitting position. The moment he began to move, John awoke, and sat up straight to watch Sherlock stretch. "Hello," Sherlock said to him. "How long as I unconscious?"
"Couple days," John said, staring earnestly. "You were dying."
The certainty with which John said that was intriguing. Sherlock looked at his left palm, where the dart had gone in, and found a bandage; under it was an incision that was beginning to heal. "Who drew the poison?" he asked.
"Who do you think?" John said irately. "Mrs. Hudson and the others couldn't even smell it."
Sherlock stared at him for several long minutes, trying to put pieces together despite the residual fug of illness in his brain. "Where did you learn to read?" he asked.
John looked away from him, but Sherlock had enough strength to drag the answer out. "A village," he snapped. "St. Bartholomew."
So he'd lived among humans before, but not for long-long enough to learn to read, not long enough to learn how to pass in the skin he put on. And he'd taught himself enough medicine to diagnose Sherlock, draw the poison and dress the wound, all from a few weeks of lurking in the library. "You are truly extraordinary," Sherlock said honestly, and John went red in the face and left very quickly.
He came back with a basin and towels and a basket over his elbow. "You smell bad," he informed Sherlock, and offered him a flannel. The basket turned out to contain bread and honey, and a stoppered bottle of broth, which Sherlock availed himself of first. John left the room again as soon as Sherlock threw the blanket off to wash.
Mrs. Hudson was, of course, elated to see Sherlock up and about (less so to see him naked, but she'd put up with worse). John had to help Sherlock down to his bedroom, though, and there was something there in the way he fumbled with Sherlock's dressing gown, about the way he held himself as Sherlock slung and arm around his neck, that felt like the last piece of the puzzle. Sherlock fell asleep turning it over in his mind, and awoke with the answer fully formed like a goddess or a miracle.
Of course it required experimental confirmation, but honestly, it was so perfectly right he could weep.
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He could've summoned John to his bedside with a thought, but he made himself wait, so as not to put John on his guard. In the meantime, of course, there was Mycroft, or as John put it, "The brother is here-d'you want to throw him out now or later?"
Sherlock, distracted by his own concerns, had to ask, "What brother are you talking about?"
"The one that's always here," John said. "Mycroft, the one you hate."
"Oh." John's speech had heretofore been flawless, and Sherlock found the error puzzling. "Mycroft is my brother, John, not just any brother."
John gave him a strangely blank look, as if he couldn't sense a distinction. "Okay."
Sherlock leaned forward, now curious. "John. Are dragons not hatched in clutches?"
"Of course," John said warily, like he wasn't sure of the point of the question.
"And what do dragons from the same clutch call each other?"
"...other dragons?"
Fascinating. Another puzzle piece. "Send Mycroft up and be prepared to see him right back out again."
Mycroft was full of nattering from the queen-gratitude, Sherlock, a landed title, Sherlock, dull--but then he changed the topic to one of more relevance. "Your 'man' there is quite fascinating, isn't he?"
"So you noticed," Sherlock said; he supposed it was too much to hope that Mycroft would miss the thickness of spells written into the collar or comprehend its significance.
Mycroft set his tea aside and steepled his fingers. "Really, Sherlock, keeping a dragon as a catamite is perhaps the only thing more audacious than riding around on one."
Sherlock snorted, even as wondered, On what basis do you conclude I've already fucked him? "And what would you know about catamites, Mycroft?" he asked aloud.
"I know that the Church frowns upon them, though I suppose somewhat less so than bestiality," he shot back.
"And what have they do say on the subject of murder?" Sherlock asked. "Or do they condone the queen's plan to purge the mountains?"
Mycroft chuckled. "As it happens, I've managed to convince Her Majesty to send...a sort of embassy, I suppose. Attempt to reason with the creatures before we resort to bloodshed."
"I hope they come back in identifiable pieces," Sherlock replied quite seriously.
"In all earnestness, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned forward. "This...being, it is not human. You mustn't convince yourself it is."
"I think," Sherlock said, "John is far closer to human than even he realizes."
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Once Sherlock had his strength back, there was no further excuse to put it off. He sent Mrs. Hudson out of the house on errands and locked all the doors; then he sought out John.
The library, of course; he spent more time there than anywhere else. He sat on the floor, book braced against his knees, and followed the words with one finger. Occasionally his lips moved, but no sound came out. Sherlock watched him for over fifteen minutes before John noticed he was there. "Oh. Did you want something?"
"You could say that," Sherlock replied.
He kept still, kept watching as John considered this reply: as he set the book aside and climbed to his feet, shoulders square and back straight. But for the first time in weeks, his chin wasn't raised in knee-jerk defiance. Just waiting. Sherlock's move.
He stepped further into the library and pushed the door shut behind him. "Dragons aren't particularly social creatures, are you?"
"We're voracious carnivores, so no, not very," John replied, watching Sherlock carefully.
"You leave the nest almost immediately," Sherlock observed, walking around behind John, who didn't move. "No kinship bonds, parental or filial. Even when males form a colony for mutual protection, you spend as much time squabbling for dominance as sharing kills. You do not mate for pleasure and do not pair-bond after mating."
John's shoulder twitched fractionally. "What's your point?" he asked, voice going husky.
Sherlock willed John to stillness, and then he gently ran his knuckles up John's spine, raising gooseflesh in his wake. John made a choked noise in response. "The only times dragon touch one another is to cause pain," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "But you're not in your dragon skin now. The human body is capable of such pleasure-and doesn't that just scare the hell out of you?"
John didn't answer, not in words; but when Sherlock fanned his fingers over his ribs a little shiver ran up John's whole body. He pressed himself against John from behind, stroking broadly up his chest, letting his fingers catch on his nipples until they stood out stiffly. "What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked.
"S-stop," John said weakly, but he wasn't trying to flee-not that Sherlock would let him, of course. "Please."
"Don't be tedious," Sherlock asked, and dropped a hand to the front of John's trousers to cup his swelling cock. John made a high-pitched noise and squirmed in place, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the sensation, and his thighs began to quiver as Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the head through coarse wool. "This is new to you, so of course you're frightened of it, you want it to stop. But what frightens you even more is how good it feels, how much you want it, even though you think you shouldn't. From the moment you changed, you've let me touch you and then run away, but that wasn't just for me, was? You were punishing yourself, for being all too human.
"There's nothing to be frightened of, John. You can want this. You can have this."
John was shaking now, head thrown back against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock stroked him through his trousers; he didn't thrust his hips, but his mouth was wide and gasping, and when he opened his eyes to look into Sherlock's they were blown black, with hardly any trace of gold. Sherlock raised his other hand to John's throat, tugging one of the collar's d-rings, and John came like that, with a groaning growl.
"Gorgeous," Sherlock said, pressing his nose against the hot, scarred shoulder.
John swallowed hard, and said, "Please," but didn't follow up with anything. Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped away from him, giving him physical and metaphorical space. John raked a hand through his hair and stammered, "I-I don't--"
"You may move now if you wish," Sherlock said, reluctantly (but he'd anticipated this reaction, it was always a possibility, he'd planned for it;) "But. I forbid you to masturbate."
John's echo was breathy, incredulous. "Master-what?"
Ah. Another things dragons in the wild didn't do, apparently. Sherlock discharged the last of the power holding John in place. "You'll know what it is when you try it."
John didn't even respond to this; just fled.
Part Two