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“What a relief- I don’t think I’d have survived another day long flight back. Getting here was-“ John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, sleeping under an eye mask, wrapped in a plush blanket and wearing large headphones “-trying.”
“I’ll extend your gratitude to the Prime Minister for the use of his private plane. I should like to think that, given your newfound international reputations, your travel accommodations could be expected to improve to this standard. As a show of thanks, if not in the interest of avoiding a repeat incident like this.” John and Mycroft are sat a few rows forward, speaking quietly. Politely, reluctantly.
“I don’t put too much blame on him really- nobody likes airports or long flights, especially cramped into economy seats. With his attention span and need for moving about, it had to have been difficult.”
Mycroft nods politely, but it’s clear from his face he holds no sympathy for his brother. John feels frustrated at this- his friend is different, and nobody, especially not his family, has ever taken any time or effort to show him some compassion. Indeed, Sherlock had a very difficult time growing up. He didn’t feel as though he fit anywhere, especially not with his family. Despite their knowing that he was different, his parents never tried to help him adapt or even understand himself. Even used it to shame him on frequent occasions. He was different, and they felt worried for him, and embarrassed for themselves- any flaw, any mistake, any show of individuality was a target.
Of course, none of this had been spoken aloud by him, especially not to John- not to him. Never. It was hard enough to not make mistakes around others, but If John knew…
But unbeknownst to him, John did know. He knew, or had an inkling, as to how Sherlock was treated. And why he acted the way he did- cold, unfeeling, always pin-straight in appearance and never faltering. It wasn’t ego, it was a defense mechanism. John found it difficult not to defend his friend further, tell Mycroft off, tell Sherlock, in the privacy of their flat of course, that he didn’t need to be perfect for John for John to continue liking, respecting, and wanting to be around him. For
john to continue being attracted to him. But these things are never easy; especially for John.
John, who was taught never to address an issue out of respect. John, who was shown that bringing up ‘touchy feely’ subjects got him shut out. John, who wanted desperately to be able to show the people he cared for how he felt, but never could, for fear of being pushed aside. Again. And Sherlock, who never let anyone in because he was a museum of glass artifacts, and other people were crazed bulls looking for targets. The two of them were brick walls, hoping in vain to break down and be broken down.
*****
A few days later, once home and settled, the ‘bored’ started setting in. “Didn’t you bring back some sort of plants to study?”
“Yes, John! Brilliant!” Sherlock sprang up from his chair and rushed to his bedroom. He returned with his microscope, a journal, and several small plastic bags of different green and blue colored leaves. He set about quickly, making his usual space up at the kitchen table. And there he stayed for hours, long into the night. In fact, John found him there early the next day.
“Glad to see you’ve found an interesting project.” Sherlock only ‘mmm’ d vaguely, nodding towards the groggy voice coming down the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he caught a glimpse of John as he entered to make his breakfast. He'd been so wrapped up in the case, he hadn't noticed John's new beard. Or rather, just scruff as it was currently. That, and his morning bedhead, and the pajama pants slung low on his hips...
Once John was out of the room and safely turned around, he decided it was time for a shower. He tied his dressing gown tightly around himself and, as calmly and nonchalantly as possible, made his way to the bathroom.
Sherlock began to feel light headed while working the soap into his hair. He dismissed it, citing the steam, lack of sleep and food, and well, John mostly. But a few moments later, he found himself swaying, and blacking out.
He woke up to what felt like heavy, scalding rain, and a distant voice calling his name. Opening his eyes, he saw what was most assuredly his shower, but somehow three or four times larger. He tried to sit up, but things felt odd to say the least. His body just didn't feel familiar. He slowly brought his hands around to look at, but they were certainly not his. they weren't even human! What...whose hands are these? What happened to me! He felt panic rising, and tried to yell for John, but what came out shocked him, and he fell back against the side of the tub: fire!
At the small thump, John burst into the bathroom. "Sherlock, are you okay?" No answer. He was afraid to open his mouth after his first try. But he had to say something fast, because John was approaching quickly.
"John, wait!" I'm- I'm not injured, to my knowledge. But somethings is strange, something happened to me, and I don't want you to-" but John peeled back the curtain, slightly, as if trying to be somewhat respectful. If something was wrong, he needed to help. He wasn't going to let Sherlock's ego waste valuable time. John screamed when he saw what was behind the curtain, which scared Sherlock, causing him again to-
"Holy shit!"
John ripped back the curtain, revealing a small dragon, about eight inches in height, with jet black scales, and eyes that were, with no doubt, Sherlock's. "Oh my god...how?" John's face scrunched up like it always did when he was genuinely perplexed with Sherlock. Normally he found it endearing and thrilling, being interesting to someone. Now it was just irritating.
"I have no idea."
John was taken aback; he'd rarely heard Sherlock admit to not knowing, let alone having no leads. In the interest of doing something, John reached over and turned the shower off. He grabbed Sherlock's towel from the hook, draped it over his hand, and held it out to him. John lifted him slowly from the tub, and set him down gently on the floor. There was a bit of an awkward moment wherein John started to make an effort to dry Sherlock off, but Sherlock reached for and used the towel himself, and nobody knew exactly how to proceed.
"Perhaps this has something to do with those plants I brought back. "
"How so?"
"Think about it! If those people were suffering hallucinations, of a highly realistic and long lasting nature-"
"So are we hallucinating?"
"I don't know. Logic says yes. But actually being turned into a dragon- that would explain what happened to those people so much more clearly! That man, who woke up in a tree! His wife, who had burned her bed to a crisp- what if it actually happened John? What if they didn't just hallucinate, and awaken to find themselves having done regrettable things under the influence. What if they really did become what they said they became."
"It's completely insane, but at this moment I'm compelled to believe you for one reason only."
"What's that?"
"I never even went near those plants, and hear you are in front of me, not...yourself"
*****
The next several days were exhausting, and terrifying. Adapting to his new body was so painful for Sherlock- especially given his need to always seem together in front of everyone, especially John. Having John help him eat, needing his food cut up so small, needing to rely on John to help him drink and get around and bathe was enough to give him anxiety and depression the likes of which he hadn't felt since university. John even had to help him with not slipping in if he needed the loo. Sherlock wasn't sure if he even wanted to return to his human form; the shame and guilt he felt for relying on John like this was enough to put dark, familiar thoughts into his mind.
Things improved slightly one day when Sherlock fell backwards off of the edge of the desk, and his natural flight senses kicked in. Then he was able to get around much easier, at least, but it didn't solve all of the problems he and John faced together.
The toast popped up from the oven, and John put it onto a plate. He cut the single piece of bread into fourths, and smeared each one with honey. Then he poured a small amount of tea into a clean beaker- the regular tea cups, they had determined, were far too big and quite dangerous when filled with scalding tea for small hands. sherlock flapped over slowly, perching himself on the table across from John. They had forgone the polite 'please and thank you's' days ago, when it became clear to both of them that this situation was more permanent than they had hoped, and John decided that asking Sherlock to be polite about such a devastating and scary situation was asking too much.
"Thank you, John" Sherlock had barely eeked out one morning, repressing tears of frustration and humiliation.
"Hey, we can just...not mention it, from now on. It's not bother." Sherlock nodded through bleary eyes, pretending they were obviously just sleepy and getting used to the light.
Bathing was interesting, especially starting out. It wasn't as if it was a particularly intimate thing- dragons don't wear clothes, don't look like humans, and, at least not to either of their discovery, don't have visible private parts to be ashamed of showing. Nonetheless, it felt strange to have john present during those times, let alone helping him. Eventually, though a routine formed that was comfortable for the both of them. John would fill the tub with about four inches of warm, but not hot water. Sherlock could easily fly in and lower himself into the tub, with the water hitting him only about half way up his total height. He could submerge himself, with John's careful (but protested) supervision, and then come up and soap himself with the washcloth that John would prepare using shower gel. It was a strange thing, for sure, because the cloth was too big for him to hold, and his small arms wouldn't allow him to reach his whole body, even if they could find something small enough for him to use. so John held out his hands in a cupped manner, just slightly below the water's surface, and Sherlock sort of just rolled about in them, soaping himself up.
Sherlock found the whole thing embarrassing, and also just a little bit wonderful. Over time, the embarrassment faded, and he grew to love the experience, of course never letting on that he felt anything but indifferent. But being held like that by John, and feeling safe, and cared for...and feeling someone's touch all over, even in an innocent way, even in a body that wasn't exactly his...it was so wonderful.
Secretly, John enjoyed being able to take care of Sherlock like this. When he was human, he didn't need anyone for anything. But John felt this need to care for him like he had never felt for anyone else he'd had feelings for. He hated this for Sherlock, truly, but part of him- a very guilty-feeling part- liked to opportunity to show Sherlock he cared, even if the circumstances were less than desirable. He liked making sure Sherlock ate, and ate well. He liked making sure he was feeling alright, and that he wasn't hurt. He liked looking out for him when he flew about, because God knows Mr. Dramatic Monologue took advantage of his new abilities. He liked being someone that Sherlock finally felt like he could rely on, or at least finally showed that he trusted John like that. He liked drawing him a warm bath, finding a soft flannel, and helping Sherlock take a nice, warm, soothing bath. he liked swiping the soap away from his eyes, helping him get tough spots, and wrapping him in a warm towel after.
*****
But the real challenge came when a case popped up that they couldn't refuse. It was at least a nine, and hearing Lestrade describe it over speaker phone, he couldn't even begin to come up with solutions. Passing this up would be torturous.
"So let me get this straight- you want to hide in my coat pocket, and investigate the crime scene from inside my coat?"
"Yep."
"Oh, well alright then, seems completely reasonable."
"John, it is! Look- just put me in your pocket. I can look out easily from underneath the flap, I'll hear fine, and I can tell you what to say and do from there."
"Alright, but how do I explain the voice coming from my coat?"
"Put your phone in your pocket, people will think I'm on speaker phone."
"So why don't you just stay here, and I'll skype you?"
"What happens if someone looks at your phone, John?"
John knew this was the only safe bet if Sherlock wanted to remain unseen. "Fine," he said, lifting Sherlock into his pocket and closing the flap with the button. But it's cold out, so wrap up in this," he said, pushing Sherlock's scarf in through the flap on the other side.
Their plan worked, for the most part; people believed that Sherlock's voice, which was muted due to his size, was coming from John's pocket. John was able to describe the scene to Sherlock and answer his questions, supplementing the information he missed through his peep-hole, and to onlookers it just appeared that John was describing the scene to the man who wasn't present. That is, until John had to run down a suspect. Sherlock clung on for dear life inside his pocket, but he was bounced around so much, he clamped his claws into John's coat in hopes of steadying himself, and only ended up ripping a hold in the fabric. John's phone, Sherlock's scarf, and Sherlock all came tumbling out, and John didn't notice.
Luckily, he fell out in a dark alley, hidden from view. He contemplated what to do- he could easily fly high up and find John, and if he maneuvered his tail just right he could be mistaken for a bat. But John's phone, and his favorite scarf would be abandoned. there's no way he could carry it and fly high enough. He decided to text Lestrade and tell him that if he saw John to have him return to the alley between the Chinese place and the arcade on twenty-fourth street "for his phone and other valuable items."
An hour later, Sherlock heard footsteps approaching quickly. He couldn't quite tell if they were John's, so he hid himself behind a trash can. But John's quiet voice, laced with fear and guilt, brought him back out. "Sherlock?"
"John," he flew out from behind the can, perching on John's shoulder and burying his face in John's messy hair. John wrapped a hand over him, stroking his back and wings gently. "God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I had no idea I had lost you all the way back here. Are you alright?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly, still scared and relieved to be back with someone he was safe with. John picked up the scarf and wrapped him in it, careful to leave plenty of space to breathe. He held the bundle close, and started walking to the road to get a cab. He nearly forgot his phone.
Back home, John drew Sherlock a bath and told him about the remainder of the case- his suspicions, of course, were correct, and the suspect was found exactly where Sherlock had suggested he'd be. But Sherlock was quiet, his mind clearly far away. As he rolled about slowly between John's hands, his situation became so much heavier in his mind. What if he was tuck like this forever? What if he could never really be present at a crime scene again? He could never face his family, or anyone else. He would never be able to finally tell John how he felt- who could love a dragon?
"Sherlock? What's wrong?"
Sherlock realized he had just been sitting for a while, head leaning against one of John's fingers, held tightly to the side of his hand. He looked up at John, and fell apart. "I-I! I just can't do this anymore, John! I'm tired of being helpless, and a burden! I hate being in this body, I feel so stupid for messing up this horribly! Those people in Australia, they had gone back to being people by now- what's wrong with me!? I can't do this anymore! I'll never be able to solve crimes, or fend for myself, or face anyone, and you'll never love me now! Look at me, I'm disgusting!"
"I do love you, Sherlock."
"That's not helpful! I want to be normal again! I-what?"
"I love you, Sherlock."
*****
The next morning, Sherlock awoke with a clear head, and a plan. The morning he had transformed, there ahd been two factors that could have contributed to the event, apart from being in close contact with the plants. So he held the leaves in his hands, sniffing them and rubbing them on any part of him he could reach. then, he entered the bathroom while John was showering, and announced himself. "John?"
"Yeah, love?"
His dragon heart skipped several beats- this had to work. Despite what John had said, he refused to carry out the rest of their relationship as a reptile. "John, I think you might find this request a bit unpleasant, but I think it's a strong contender for a solution. You see, the morning that I transformed, there were three main elements present- the leaves, steam and hot water from my shower, and..."
"...and what?"
"John, I think if you took me into the shower and- and kissed me- we could recreate the environment in which I transformed, possibly turning me back."
John peeked around the curtain, suds sliding down his head. His eyebrows scrunched, but his face was kind. "Yeah? Well, 's worth a shot then. Get over here."
Sherlock walked cautiously over to the shower, flying up to perch on John's outreached, warm and soapy hand. Sherlock immediately closed his eyes, and John moved him under the water. Sherlock faced away from John, letting the water hit his face. It was obvious he was uncomfortable, but John misinterpreted the reasoning.
"I'm sorry, I should have wrapped myself ina towel, or put something on. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No! John, no- I, I'm doing this so as not to make you uncomfortable. It's bad enough that I'm asking you to- while I'm, well, like this. I didn't want you to feel like I was trying to..."
John thought for a moment, and finally decided that he knew what the problem was. "Sherlock, I am not now, nor have I ever been, nor could I ever be disgusted by you."
Sherlock stiffened up for a bit- John had hit a nerve, and at the root. "Really?" he whispered The steam had filled most of the room by now, making it easier, less like he was being observed.
"Really." John lifted him up and kissed the top of his head gently. "We will figure this out, Sherlock, and when we do, I intend on proving that to you. "
"Oh."
"Don't worry- I like your human body too much to ever give up on the opportunity to get to know it."
Suddenly, Sherlock felt faint. "Quick, John, put me down, I think-"
*****
Sherlock woke up, dry and comfortable in his own bed. He wiggled his toes, and fingers. He felt his limbs, and his face. He saw his hands, and they were his. And he saw John, next to him, looking happy- also his.