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lemonconfessions · 7 years

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Enslaved by Kings and Dragons- [Your Heart Is Mine] - ENDING TWO

[note: please catch up on what happened in the prior chapter, or read the full fic so you know what’s going on ;)]

Your king. Your love.

Legolas is on his feet, brandishing his father’s elven blade. Anon yanks him back, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

"...Give me the ring," Anon screams at Legolas. "GIVE ME OROPHER'S RING!"

Dazedly, Legolas wrenches at his finger and presses the ring it on her palm. The emerald flashes black as Anon slides it onto a slender finger. For a second, she stands there, admiring the ring she had coveted for so long.

"Thranduil is gone. I have mothered his heir, and hold his father's ring of power. I claim Mirkwood as its rightful Queen."

"No!" You moan.

With her head held high, she surveyed the soldiers with coldly, daring them to challenge her. None did.

Sauron smiles, perfect teeth gleaming white.

You have done well, Anon. You shall be my queen, rule by my side. Together, we will raze Middle Earth and build a new world in its place.

"...Will we, now?" Anon closes her eyes and barks out a harsh laugh. "My dreams, my ambitions have withered and died. They have fallen rotten, their corpses festering in the glare of your might. For centuries I have let you sap me dry, allowed you to wring and ruin me. All I have ever done, I did for you. For what?"

She points Oropher's ring at Sauron, dark energy crackling down her hand.

"What is power, when I can never have your love?"

I love you as a dark star loves the shadows. As ash clings to dying embers. Name your heart's desire, and I will grant it a hundred times over.

Anon shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I have tasted love, tasted it in the gleam of honeyed starlight, seen it reflected in the eyes of the now dead elven king. That is something you can never give me."

Dark energy shoots from Oropher's ring, and wraps around the Dark Lord like a coil of jagged thorns.

"...As I woke you from your slumber, I now send you back to sleep," Anon whispered, a tear trailing down her cheek.

How dare you betray me? Do you not remember what I am capable of?

Raging winds sweep dust into a mad frenzy. The air rumbles like thunder, with ear-splitting cracks of electricity. And suddenly the Dark Lord is gone, reduced to smoke carried by the winds towards Mount Doom. He is asleep, biding His time to be awakened once more.

The relief is short-lived. Legolas runs to his father, pulling his cold body into his arms. You run to him, and fall to your knees.

“Bring him back to life!" You shout at Anon, lips trembling. "Use Oropher's ring-"

She flings the ring at you. The wooden band is black and broken, the emerald a dull, milky grey.

"It is a broken, dead thing now. Banishing Sauron sapped it of all its magic."

"...No," sobs Legolas. "I would give my life, to bring him back..."

Anon's expression softens, and she gently clasps Legolas' shoulder.

"There are spells. Dark, terrible spells to bring him back."

"Then do it!" You shout. "What are you waiting for?"

Anon bends down and yanks Sauron's blade from Thranduil's chest. There is a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

"Sacrifice," she murmurs, running a finger against the blood-slicked blade. "That is what it means to love, is it not?" She looks at you then, a cruel smile playing at her lips. Your throat is dry as she hands you the blade.

"Carve out your heart, and place it in his chest. It will beat as his once did, and he will live again."

Your eyes widen as her words sink in. You feel the thorns of the hilt dig into your palm.

Love.

Sacrifice.

A warm, familiar hand take the blade from you. It is Cumbersmaug, his eyes soft and full of sorrow.

"Use my heart. Bring him back."

"No!" You cry, hysterics rising in your chest. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"

He smiles crookedly. "My heart is yours to do as you please. I cannot live without your love. And if bringing him back will finally bring you a life without darkness, if it means that you will forever love some part of me-"

"NO NO NO NO NO!" You smack the sword from his hands, and it clatters dully against the ground.

"I would give my heart for you a thousand times over! I love you! Why don't you understand?" You sob uncontrollably, and he takes you in his arms and clasps you tightly.

"But I know your heart," he murmurs. "You love him as well. I would rather perish than to allow you such sacrifice for him."

Legolas calmly reaches for the sword, but Anon grabs it.

"No, my son. It is time I made things right."

Before anyone could react, she plunges the sword into her chest. The thorns around the hilt wrap around the blade, and suddenly the blade disappears. Anon's heart floats from her chest, glowing in a soft, red light. Legolas catches her before she hits the ground.

"Why?" You whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

"No one will ever love me as he did. No one ever will. But now-" She chokes, blood dripping from her lips. "...Are you crying for me? Foolish girl. I have taken him from you, now and forever. He will love me with every beat of his heart, for his heart will be mine. He will never love you again."

You close your eyes. "If that's what it takes to bring him back. That is all that matters to me."

She smiles slightly. Then she is gone, her body cold and limp in Legolas' arms.

Anon's heart bobs in the air, and you guide it into Thranduil's chest. It nestles, veins spreading out like roots of a pulsing, sprouting seed. There is a flash of brilliant light, and Thranduil's wound closes. You see the rise and fall of his chest, the flush of life slowly creeping back into his limbs. He stirs, long lashes fluttering. Then he opens his eyes, and gazes up at you with eyes of the deepest blue.

"...You," he whispers, his voice trailing off as he touches your face with a gentle hand. Then his eyes are wide, and he yanks his head towards Anon. He sees her, bloodied and lifeless. He staggers to his feet, shoving past you.

"What have you done?" He rasps, gathering Anon in his arms. "My love... my emerald..."

You know there are no words that would make this right. You have lost him to Anon. He will never love you again.

Cumbersmaug takes your hand, and pulls you to him. He is warm, his arms strong and comforting. You lean into him, breathing in his scent.

"...Let's go home," you murmur.

Cumbersmaug is asleep in the grass, with Juniper curled in a ball on his chest, her little scarlet wings stirring with every teeny snore. Cypress pulls himself from his daddy's arm and yawns.

"Mommy," he murmurs, and totters over to hug your leg. "You're back! We waited for you forever."

You pull tangled bits of dandelion fluff from his unruly mop of dark hair.

"I told you I'd be back before sunset," you laugh. "Want to see what I got from Laketown?"

From your knapsack you pull out a tight bundle of cinnamon sticks, a sack of roasted cacao beans, a thick slab of spiced jerky, two leather-bound notebooks, and some gold, eagle-feather quills. Cypress' amber eyes are wide with excitement.

"Are these all for me?" He asks, breathlessly.

"...I'm hungry." Juniper complains croakily as she wakes. She crawls from her daddy towards the knapsack and sniffs at the venison jerky, then at the notebooks. She pokes the notebooks with a finger. "...Can we eat these too?"

You tuck everything into the knapsack and pull the straps onto Cypress' little square shoulders.

"Take your sister back to the mountain and you can have a bit of jerky. And remember to share."

Cypress rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, a flicker of flame shooting from his nostrils.

"Come on, squirt," he mutters and starts towards Erebor.

"Jerky! Jerky!" Juniper chants as she skips after him. You smile as you watch them run up the beaten path towards home.

Cumbersmaug is still fast asleep, dark lashes fluttering. A scattered pile of fresh lilies and daffodils and a half-finished wreath lay near his outstretched arm. You plop down beside him. He smells of wood-fire and grass, with the familiar tinge of sulphur. You lay your palm against his smooth, chiseled chest, trailing your fingers against the tan lines of his muscular abdomen. He stirs slightly and grunts, blinking blearily at you.

"...Hello, beautiful," he murmured throatily, pulling you into a kiss.

"Someone got worn out," you chuckle.

"Little rascals," he sighs, shaking his head. "Couldn't get them to sit still for one second. Are they heading home?"

You nod, nestling against him. "I bought jerky; hopefully they'll remember to leave some for us."

He snorted. "That jerky is as good as gone. Dragons aren't big on sharing."

"I guess we'll have to make-do without it."

Ever so gently, you tease the edge of his trousers, slipping your fingers beneath the drawstrings.

His breath catches slightly in his throat, and he bites his lip.

"...How far are they...to the mountain?"

Your fingers wander low, grazing the length of him and stirring him into rigidity. "They're on the rock path now. Steps away from the entrance." You kneel between his knees, and slip him free. The cold air heightens the warmth of your grip, and he stifles a groan.

"...You don't think...they can hear us?" He mumbles, eyes glazed. "These canyons...echo."

You trail your fingers along the dark veins, the shimmer of scale-like patterns, brushing the edges of his ridged tip. He lets out a hoarse moan.

"Shhh..." you laugh, flicking your tongue across the glistening tip. "They’ll come running back to check what happened to their daddy."

"...I scarcely know...what is happening...myself-" His word catch in his throat as you envelop him in your hot, tight mouth, tongue swirling wickedly. His fingers are in your hair clenching desperately.

"Aaaaaughh..." He groans audibly, unable to contain himself. The hum of your laughter adds to the delicious sensation. He is grasping your head, his hips unconsciously thrusting and grinding into your mouth. You feel his excitement swell, feel him strain and pulse and grow hot against your tongue.

“...You’re going to be the end of me,” He breathes, and he pulls you into his arms. Your dress shreds under his anxious fingers, your underwear pulled from your legs. Your aching breasts mold perfectly to his warm, rough grasp, and he ravishes them relentlessly with rasps of his tongue. He draws his trembling desire against your own dripping heat, the friction sending shockwaves through your body. Back and forth. Slow, maddening burn. You want to cry out, but he drags his thumb over your lips, and presses his mouth over yours.

“Shh,” he laughs, eyes bright.

He sinks into you, and you are consumed by his fire. He draws music from your flesh like bow against strings.Thick and deep. Rich and rewarding. Dark, fiery perfection with every generous plunge, every decadent twist. Like flint, like stone, you spark as one, until you are nothing but wave after wave of crackling electricity dancing through and between you. You are no longer certain where he ends and where you begin. You buck and shake, unable to contain the firestorm rippling and searing through you. And yet he does not stop, stoking the flames in delirious fervor until the very sensation pushes you deeper and deeper into oblivion. You clutch at him desperately, feeling as if you were on the verge of flying apart. He clasps you protectively against him.

“I love you,” he whispers, gaze tender yet fiercely possessive.

You unravel in his arms, your screams of pleasure singing in his mouth, your body shaking and clenching and sending him soaring with you. Now and forever, he is yours. Everything you have built together with your bare hands, the family you have created. Nothing could take that from you.

Across the lake, a white elk stares at Erebor in the distance, his heart empty but for a slight pang of unexplained emotion. He turns away, and heads home to Mirkwood.

Legolas is on his feet, brandishing his father’s elven blade. The Dark Lord lifts his hands, casting snarling shadows towards the elven prince. Anon throws herself before her son, gathering the shadows to her in a mad embrace.

“You have prevailed, Sauron,” Thranduil says slowly, stepping forward. “But it is not her you desire. It is the might of Mirkwood unified with a dragon that you want. Release her, and the might of Mirkwood is yours to command.” He falls to one knee, and offers his sword to Sauron. “For her freedom, I pledge my allegiance to you.”

You stare in horror as the rest of Thranduil's men follow his lead, knees in the dirt and weapons in the air in surrender.

"There is no freedom, under the shadow of Mordor!" Cumbersmaug growls, eyes flashing. "You think surrendering the might of elves will keep her safe?"

Of course it will, Sauron purrs, his voice as soft as a blade across one's throat. The world will burn with the inferno of Mordor; all that stand against me shall be reduced to ash. Follow me, and the girl shall be spared. All that she loves will be spared.

"...Shall you stand by my side, and protect her?" Thranduil asks quietly, staring unflinchingly at Cumbersmaug. "...Or shall we perish here together?"

They stare at one another, the silence between them as heavy as death. Finally, Cumbersmaug closes his eyes, and jerks his head in a curt nod. In that instant, Thranduil leaps in the air and slashes down on the Dark Lord with violent hatred. On cue, Cumbersmaug yanks you away, shielding you with his body. His men whirl into formation, swords flashing, slicing away at the Dark Lord.

"You know nothing of Mirkwood elves, Sauron!" Thranduil hisses through clenched teeth as he hacks away mercilessly. "We will die before we surrender to evil!"

Sauron laughs, his form fading in and out like wisps of smoke. Then DIE!

A black thorn shoots from the sifting darkness, straight into Thranduil's heart. There is a shuddery gasp as he falls to his knees, staring disbelieving at the gaping hole in his chest. Then his eyes rolls back, and he falls over, lifeless.

"NO!" You scream, lunging for him, but Cumbersmaug holds you back. Legolas lets out gut-wrenching cry, and tries to grab a sword from one of the soldiers. Anon yanks him back, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

"...Give me the ring," Anon rasps at Legolas. "GIVE ME OROPHER'S RING!"

Dazedly, Legolas hands her the ring. She slips the ring on her finger, and dark power crackles about her like fire. Cumbersmaug curses under his breath, and his arms tighten protectively around you. The Mirkwood elves back away in uncertainty, swords raised defensively.

Anon slowly turns towards the Dark Lord, green eyes gleaming.

"I have served you for many, many years, my Lord," she breathes. "I have given you my body, my soul. All I have asked for in return is your love. You do love me, don't you?"

Sauron smiles, perfect teeth gleaming white.

All gods love their creations, no matter how wretched they may be. I have kept you alive, despite your many failures. Is that not testament enough?

Anon closes her eyes and lets out broken laugh.

"My son has taught me love to be unconditional sacrifice. I know now that neither you, nor I, will ever be capable of such true emotion."

With a shout, she directs a dark fireball into Sauron. There is a ear-splitting roar as Sauron dissipates into ash and is blown away.

"Is he gone?" Cumbersmaug demands sharply. Anon closes her eyes and shakes her head.

"You know He will awaken again, in time."

She kneels down, and carresses Thranduil's cold, white cheek.

"...Bring him back!" You shout, lips trembling. "That ring has the power-"

"-to bring back the dead? Banishing Sauron sapped it of all its magic. It is a broken, dead thing now." She holds out her palm. The wooden band is black and broken, the emerald a dull, milky grey. "But I have no need of the ring. I know spells. Dark, terrible spells that can revive your precious king."

"Then do it!" you snarl angrily.

Anon bends down and takes Thranduil's dagger, tracing the sharp blade with her fingers. "Sacrifice. That is what it means to love, is it not?" She looks at you then, a cruel smile playing at her lips. "My heart is bound to his; he will live, if I give him my heart."

Your throat is dry as you watch her raise the dagger to her breast. "...You will die."

"Yes. But his heart will be mine, and he will never love you again."

Anon smiles cruelly. She pulls the dagger from Thranduil's sheath and examines the sharpness of the blade. "Unconditional sacrifice. He would give his life for yours. What would you give for his?"

"Anything," you say firmly, and Cumbersmaug grips your shoulders.

"I will not allow it!" He growls. "I will not have your sacrifice your life for another!"

"As if I would kill her and make her some sort of martyr for him to pine over for the rest of eternity," Anon snarled. "I merely ask for what is rightfully mine."

You stare at her uncomprehendingly, and she smiles cruelly.

"I will bring him back to life. In return, you disappear from his life forever. I will be Queen of Mirkwood, unhindered and unchallenged. I will resume being the singular light in his life, and you will be nothing but a distant memory."

Legolas staggers over and clutches at your arm, eyes red and frantic. "I cannot lose him," he pleads. "If you ever loved him, please..."

You close your eyes. You know you must let him go, if he is to live again. You lean down and kiss his forehead, whispering the words in your heart you never had the chance to say to him and never will have the chance to. Then you stand up and take Cumbersmaug by the hand.

"Let's go back to Erebor."

Thranduil woke with a horrible pain in his chest. Beside him lay Anon unconcious, a bloody mess at her chest.

Legolas: "Ada, she took a piece of her heart and placed it in your chest. It almost killed her, but we were able to revive her and you."

He staggers to his feet. "...What about the girl?"

"She's gone. She left with her dragon. Your wife risked her life for yours. Please don't speak of the human again. For my sake, please do not find her again."

Sometimes you feel as if you are being watched, catching a glimpse of a snowy white elk from the corner of your eye.

Did you think I would be so easily betrayed?

Thranduil's cry is choked by the gurgle of his blood.

He falls to his knees, his hand reaching out for you. Then he falls backwards, his eyes wide, his hair splayed about him like a halo. Then he is still, staring lifelessly at the skies above.

Your king. Your love.

Legolas is on his feet, brandishing his father’s elven blade. Anon yanks him back, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

"...Give me the ring," Anon screams at Legolas. "GIVE ME OROPHER'S RING!"

"Thranduil is gone. I have mothered his heir, and hold his father's ring of power. I claim Mirkwood as its rightful Queen."

"No!" You moan.

With her head held high, she surveyed the soldiers with coldly, daring them to challenge her. None did.

Sauron smiles, perfect teeth gleaming white.

You have done well, Anon. You shall be my queen, rule by my side. Together, we will raze Middle Earth and build a new world in its place.

She points Oropher's ring at Sauron, dark energy crackling down her hand.

"What is power, when I can never have your love?"

I love you as a dark star loves the shadows. As ash clings to dying embers. Name your heart's desire, and I will grant it a hundred times over.

Dark energy shoots from Oropher's ring, and wraps around the Dark Lord like a coil of jagged thorns.

"...As I woke you from your slumber, I now send you back to sleep," Anon whispered, a tear trailing down her cheek.

How dare you betray me? Do you not remember what I am capable of?

The relief is short-lived. Legolas runs to his father, pulling his cold body into his arms. You run to him, and fall to your knees.

Bring him back to life!" You shout at Anon, lips trembling. "Use Oropher's ring-"

She flings the ring at you. The wooden band is black and broken, the emerald a dull, milky grey.

"It is a broken, dead thing now. Banishing Sauron sapped it of all its magic."

"...No," sobs Legolas. "I would give my life, to bring him back..."

Anon's expression softens, and she gently clasps Legolas' shoulder.

"There are spells. Dark, terrible spells to bring him back."

"Then do it!" You shout. "What are you waiting for?"

Anon bends down and yanks Sauron's blade from Thranduil's chest. There is a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

"Carve out your heart, and place it in his chest. It will beat as his once did, and he will live again."

Your eyes widen as her words sink in. You feel the thorns of the hilt dig into your palm.

Love.

Sacrifice.

A warm, familiar hand take the blade from you. It is Cumbersmaug, his eyes soft and full of sorrow.

"Use my heart. Bring him back."

"No!" You cry, hysterics rising in your chest. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"

"NO NO NO NO NO!" You smack the sword from his hands, and it clatters dully against the ground.

"I would give my heart for you a thousand times over! I love you! Why don't you understand?" You sob uncontrollably, and he takes you in his arms and clasps you tightly.

"But I know your heart," he murmurs. "You love him as well. I would rather perish than to allow you such sacrifice for him."

Legolas calmly reaches for the sword, but Anon grabs it.

"No, my son. It is time I made things right."

"Why?" You whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

You close your eyes. "If that's what it takes to bring him back. That is all that matters to me."

She smiles slightly. Then she is gone, her body cold and limp in Legolas' arms.

"What have you done?" He rasps, gathering Anon in his arms. "My love... my emerald..."

You know there are no words that would make this right. You have lost him to Anon. He will never love you again.

Cumbersmaug takes your hand, and pulls you to him. He is warm, his arms strong and comforting. You lean into him, breathing in his scent.

"...Let's go home," you murmur.

Cumbersmaug is asleep in the grass, with Juniper curled in a ball on his chest, her little scarlet wings stirring with every teeny snore. Cypress pulls himself from his daddy's arm and yawns.

"Mommy," he murmurs, and totters over to hug your leg. "You're back! We waited for you forever."

You pull tangled bits of dandelion fluff from his unruly mop of dark hair.

"I told you I'd be back before sunset," you laugh. "Want to see what I got from Laketown?"

"Are these all for me?" He asks, breathlessly.

You tuck everything into the knapsack and pull the straps onto Cypress' little square shoulders.

"Take your sister back to the mountain and you can have a bit of jerky. And remember to share."

Cypress rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, a flicker of flame shooting from his nostrils.

"Come on, squirt," he mutters and starts towards Erebor.

"Jerky! Jerky!" Juniper chants as she skips after him. You smile as you watch them run up the beaten path towards home.

"...Hello, beautiful," he murmured throatily, pulling you into a kiss.

"Someone got worn out," you chuckle.

"Little rascals," he sighs, shaking his head. "Couldn't get them to sit still for one second. Are they heading home?"

You nod, nestling against him. "I bought jerky; hopefully they'll remember to leave some for us."

He snorted. "That jerky is as good as gone. Dragons aren't big on sharing."

"I guess we'll have to make-do without it."

Ever so gently, you tease the edge of his trousers, slipping your fingers beneath the drawstrings.

His breath catches slightly in his throat, and he bites his lip.

"...How far are they...to the mountain?"

"...You don't think...they can hear us?" He mumbles, eyes glazed. "These canyons...echo."

You trail your fingers along the dark veins, the shimmer of scale-like patterns, brushing the edges of his ridged tip. He lets out a hoarse moan.

"Shhh..." you laugh, flicking your tongue across the glistening tip. "They’ll come running back to check what happened to their daddy."

“Shh,” he laughs, eyes bright.

“I love you,” he whispers, gaze tender yet fiercely possessive.

Across the lake, a white elk stares at Erebor in the distance, his heart empty but for a slight pang of unexplained emotion. He turns away, and heads home to Mirkwood.

#benedict cumberbatch #cumbersmaug #ebad #ebak #ending #lee pace #thranduil #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #ff #reader #lord of the rings #hobbit #smut

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willsherjohnkhan · 6 years

Text

Here Be Dragons

Chapter 1: Consumed By One's Inner Dragon

***

“I consider myself married to my work.”

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

“All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.”

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

These were a few, but by no means all, of the ridiculous mantras Sherlock Holmes, world’s only Consulting Detective, and all round pain in the arse lived by.

The more he espoused these stupid statements, the more they became fact, in his mind at least.

And as such, they proved to be his ultimate downfall...

***

221B BAKER STREET – BEDROOM

Sherlock opened his eyes, and groaned. He felt like he’d been on a drug-fuelled bender after running a marathon, maybe several marathons. His whole body ached, and the more he tried to get comfortable the more pain he felt.

Even getting himself up into a sitting position proved extremely difficult, but once he’d managed it, he became aware of the smoke-haze that hung over his bed. And yet he had no memory of smoking the night before.

Unable to twist himself around to get out of bed, he ended up getting on all fours to crawl to the end of the bed, where he promptly lost his balance, plunging headfirst.

As he toppled off the end of the bed he automatically braced for impact. Instead however he managed to perform an impressive summersault that ended with him landing on his feet. It was only then that he realised how unbalanced and top heavy he felt. Taking an unsteady step forward he felt something wrap itself around his legs, impeding his momentum forward, and he fell face-forward to the floor.

His overriding thought, once he could formulate one was, ‘What the bloody hell did I take last night?’

Raising his head he looked around to see what had tripped him up. And that’s when he spotted something that looked suspiciously like a tail, a highly unusual tail.

With some effort he managed to struggle to his feet, and began to walk towards his chest-of-draws. But as he passed the full length mirror something extraordinary caught his eye, and he paused to investigate.

What he saw in the reflection left him momentarily stunned. He felt like he was looking through someone, or rather something else’s eyes. His face and upper body still looked familiar, but even so there was no disguising the fact that he had undergone what could only be best described as a radical transformation.

His hair had been flattened, save for a few errant curls that fell across his forehead. Keeping his hair down was a crest of horns that had also elongated his ears. His skin around his now pointed ears had a golden brown hue to it. A colour that was also reflected in his eyebrows and eyes, although if he looked close enough he could still make out a flicker of familiar blue and green.

Golden brown also covered his shoulders. The skin here was covered in an elaborate pattern of scales of varying sizes that although soft to the touch were extremely strong, like armour. These same scales were visible all over his body, some light, others dark.

Two magnificent wings protruded out from his shoulder-blades. The membrane looked very thin, but was flexible and incredibly strong. Keeping the membrane in place was a patchwork of delicate, hollow bones, three of which extended past the membrane to form a thumb and two finger-like appendages.

The tail extended out from his tailbone. It was long and thin, with thorny spikes all along its entire length, ending with an arrow shaped tip. The tail was strong and flexible, and like the wings was prehensile.

Around his neck and upper arms were items of jewellery. They were made from the finest gold, inserted into the gold were sparkling rubies and garnets.

His nose, lips, arms, hands, legs and feet at least still appeared human. And although he still remained slim, his shoulders were now broad, while his chest had expanded to become much more powerful.

Abruptly Sherlock turned away and let out an agonised roar that resulted in a plume of flame emerging from his mouth. And with an audible ‘WHOOSH’ the chest-of-draws with its impeccably maintained sock index, was instantly incinerated.

Sherlock stared aghast at the little pile of smoking ash.

“Well shit,” he muttered, before making his way over to the bedroom door.

But when he tried to walk through, he discovered that couldn’t fit through the doorframe. Having no control over the appendages that had sprung out from his shoulder-blades, and as they stubbornly refused to fold back to allow him through he ended up having to take the matter into his own hands, quite literally. With the only way to deal with them requiring Sherlock to reach behind and take hold of each wing, pulling them close together so that he could fit through the door.

221B BAKER STREET – SITTING ROOM

Once out he made his way to the sitting room. He opened his mouth, intending to call out to Mrs Hudson, when he remembered what happened in his bedroom. So instead he walked over to the door to his flat, opened it, and called out as loud as he dared. “Mrs Hudson!”

To his relief only smoke emerged through his lips.

Shortly after the familiar footsteps of his elderly landlady could be heard coming up the stairs.

To her credit Mrs Hudson didn’t bat an eyelid upon discovering that her tenant had transformed into a dragon. But given what she had to put up from him: body parts in the fridge, unsavoury types coming and going at all hours, bullets being fired into the wall because he was bored. This no doubt was the least of her worries.

“I need food now,” Sherlock demanded, feeling unusually ravenous.

“Of course dear, you sit and relax, and I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she responded calmly, in a soothing motherly tone.

After Mrs Hudson had gone back downstairs to make his breakfast, Sherlock realising just how exhausted he was from the mornings events, decided to take his landlady’s advice and attempted to sit down in his chair, only his newly acquired tail and wings made it almost impossible.

“What is the point of you?” he snarled, immediately becoming irritable when the wings continued to refuse to co-operate. A deep, rumbling growl of frustration emerged from his lips, as he attempted to do all he could to not lose his temper.

As he continued his struggle a cheerful voice from the doorway noted. “Wings are quite handy actually. They allow you to fly.”

*** NB - The fanart that inspired this story can be found at: http://cumberbum.tumblr.com/post/63210349920/cumberbums-manips-cumbersmaug-inspired-by

***

Chapter 2: Not Your Ordinary Case

***

Molly Hooper had a most unusual problem that needed solving. But she knew she was going to need someone very particular to help her out.

For this was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill type situation. It required someone who could look outside the box in order to find the solution.

She then remembered hearing rumours about a man who had made a career out of specialising in the type of cases that were beyond the scope of Scotland Yard. The type of problems generally categorised as surprising, funny or odd. It was also said that he defended those regarded as different.

And that was precisely the type of man she needed.

As she set out for Baker Street, she could only hope that all she had heard about him turned out to be true.

***

BAKER STREET, LONDON, W1

Making her way along Baker Street, Molly began to have second thoughts.

Her story was just too incredible, and completely unimaginable to comprehend. Why would anyone, let alone one purported to be of the calibre of Sherlock Holmes believe anything she had to say.

As she approached the famed detectives address, she was overwhelmed by a need to turn tail and go back the way she had come, when she became aware of something taking place from the upper level flat. An inhuman roar filled with agony and despair filled her ears, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of expelled flame.

These sounds were music to Molly’s ears. Everything might be all right after all.

221B BAKER STREET

Molly made her way up the stairs. As she reached the landing she could hear down below the landlady making preparations for breakfast. She was also aware of the presence in the upper flat.

As she walked over to the already open door, she saw that her conclusions about the detective were spot on. Pride, arrogance and a supreme sense of his own superiority over others had led to him being currently in the process of transforming into a dragon.

He was still in the dragon-kind midpoint stage of his transformation.

And he clearly wasn’t happy about it.

“What exactly is the point of you?” the exasperated question was directed at the wings he was attempting to get out of his way, having still not yet learned how to control them.

His predicament brought a smile to Molly’s lips, as she noted cheerily. “Wings are quite handy actually. They allow you to fly.”

There was barely any warning, just a snap and a flick, and then the sensation of a dragon’s tail wrapping itself around her, before she was lifted in the air and held up for inspection.

With his head cocked to the side, Sherlock took his time to peruse the woman, his gaze taking inventory of everything about her, head to toe.

Lifting her even higher, he queried curiously. “And who might you be, may I ask?”

“Molly Hooper,” Molly responded.

Sherlock frowned, something wasn’t adding up. Leaning forward, he sniffed her cautiously. Pulling back, he appraised her once again.

“You appear human,” he sniffed her again carefully to confirm his assessment. “Yet you don’t smell like one.”

Unwise as it was to look a dragon in the eye, Molly felt confident enough that Sherlock wasn’t aware of that particular power as yet, to do precisely that. “You’re right,” she answered honestly. “I’m not human, I’m fae. Or at least I was.”

“By fae, you mean as in fairy?”

Molly nodded.

“And why does a fairy require the services of a Consulting Detective, pray tell?”

“I was placed under a curse by...”

Before she could finish her explanation, Sherlock had already made his mind up.

“Boring!” he pronounced, and promptly threw her across the room.

Thanks to her still reasonably quick reflexes, Molly managed to ensure that she landed safely on the sofa.

Getting to her feet, she decided she’d had enough of his attitude, whether human or dragon, Molly was about to give Sherlock a piece of her mind when an outraged ‘yelps’ had her rushing over to see what the problem was.

His transformation thus far had taken place while he had been sleeping. But now he was seeing it in action, and the visual, let alone the sensation had Sherlock as close as he’d ever come to an all out panic attack as he observed and felt claws and talons replacing his finger and toenails.

“What the hell, this cannot be happening?”

Molly heard the panic in his voice, and made her way over to him. She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Sherlock, you need to calm down,” she instructed. “Take deep even breaths, and concentrate on the thought ‘retract.’”

Sherlock does as she suggests, and to his surprise, and great relief his fingers and toes return to normal.

Molly stepped back.

“Will that work to get rid of the rest of all this?” he asked, his question showing true vulnerability.

“No,” Molly replied. “A stronger magic is required to reverse such a transformation.”

‘What type of stronger magic, like Fairy magic?’ It suddenly occurred to the dragonised detective that helping her out would benefit him greatly.

“All right I’ll take the case,” he announced, making his way towards the doorway.

“Whoa there, where do you think you’re going?” Molly enquired.

Sherlock turned back to her, his expression one of annoyance, “To hail a taxi, obviously.”

Molly shook her head, as a delightful giggle escaped her lips as she pointed out. “There’s no way you’ll fit in a taxi, or a train carriage for that matter.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Sherlock huffed out impatiently, a small trickle of smoke emerging from his nostrils.

Molly indicated his newly acquired appendages with a nod of her head. “You fly.”

“I don’t fly,” he huffed indignantly.

“You are Dragon-kind now Sherlock,” Molly reminded him, her tone turning serious. “You have wings. It’s time you learned to use them.”

***

Chapter 3: Learning to Fly

***

HYDE PARK – LONDON – EVENING

“Whoa! Whoa! No! No! No!” Sherlock bellowed as trees emerged as if from nowhere, forcing him to duck and weave the end result sending him spinning out of control twisting and turning like a whirling dervish.

“You’re losing altitude Sherlock. Flap your wings faster or you’ll...”

The instructions from below went unheeded, with the inevitable result.

“Oh shit!” and then the all too familiar sound of impact as Sherlock crash landed, yet again.

Molly rushed over to assist him, but Sherlock would have none of it.

“Are you all right?” she asked, giggling in obvious amusement as she attempted to help him to his feet.

Sherlock tore his arm from her grasp with an angry snarl. “You think this is funny?”

“A little bit,” Molly admitted, while doing her best to appear contrite. Laughing at one’s pupil was bad form. But seeing the funny side of things was part of her fae nature.

That she found his predicament humorous didn’t help Sherlock’s temper, in fact it only served to enrage him further.

He stood straight and tall, towering over the diminutive woman before him. The dragon-like aspects of his personality coming to the fore, having been triggered by his increasingly foul mood.

Sherlock began circling Molly in an unmistakably predatory fashion, becoming more bestial as he worked himself into a rage, growling and snarling and baring his teeth, his tail flicking and snapping like a whip as his agitation grew. His crest of horns stood to attention, while his eyes glowed hot, going from golden to red with only the barest hint of his original blue/green colour remaining.

Standing with his wings spread wide, his chest heaving as his breathing sped up, causing a hissing sound to emerge as smoke poured from his nostrils. This was followed by the telltale glow of ignited flame, coursing through his veins, moving with lightening speed from his abdomen, over his chest and up his throat, giving fair warning that it was about to emerge from his mouth.

It was a truly terrifying spectacle, but all Molly could think was how magnificent he appeared in all his serpentine glory. It was an astounding transformation.

But she knew she needed to remain professional. “You need to learn control,” she instructed sternly.

Molly felt the full blast of his heated breath as he turned his frustration on her. “Well you could help by giving a demonstration. But wait, oh no you can’t can you, you no longer possess wings!” Sherlock pointed out petulantly, his tone sarcastic.

Molly’s response was immediate, and totally unexpected. The first Sherlock knew of it was the sharp, stinging sensation when the palm of her hand connected with first his left cheek, then his right, and back to his left again Tears of hurt poured down her face but the hurt she felt helped to fuel her own anger. She was damned if she was going to let him take his aggression out on her. And time was of the essence.

Taken aback Sherlock reared back in shock, surprised by both her vehemence, and her spunk.

“You need to focus Sherlock,” Molly instructed bringing them back to the task at hand.

“I was,” he interrupted, a pout forming on his cupids bow lips. “I was calculating all the permutations and variables of atmospheric pressure, and...”

“And that’s your problem right there,” Molly interjected, as she reached up to lay her hand against his chest. “Flying is intuitive. It comes from the heart not the head. Constantly thinking about what may happen due to external factors only distracts from the innate ability that will guide you if you freely give yourself over to its care.”

“That’s fine for you,” Sherlock huffed dejectedly. “You were born able to fly. I wasn’t.”

Molly didn’t take offence, she sympathised with him. As things stood, both were learning to deal with things that were completely out of their control.

“But you have that ability now. You just have to learn to trust it,” she said in an encouraging tone.

Sherlock still didn’t look convinced.

“If you can’t trust it, will you at least trust me?” Molly asked.

Sherlock considered her request for a moment or two before nodding his agreement.

The smile that lit up her face, coupled with the feel of her hand still resting on his chest caused a particular sensation in the region where the heart he always claimed he didn’t possess resided.

***

Chapter 4: The Professor of Baskerville Hall

***

GRIMPEN VILLAGE – DARTMOOR

It was a dark and stormy night. Not that unusual in this part of the country at this time of year. And yet, the residents in the small village were wary and on edge. All doors and windows were bolted firmly, and no-one dared step out of doors after nightfall.

Not since Baskerville Hall had become occupied once more.

***

BASKERVILLE HALL

The house glimmered like a ghost at the end of the avenue. The centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient battlements, pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.

James Moriarty, failed professor of mathematics and inept criminal mastermind was in desperate need of a change in fortune. Regarded with disdain in his first choice of career, and as a joke in his second, he was determined to excel at something so devious and unorthodox that it would send shivers up and down the spines of those that had taken great delight in mocking him.

And then one day opportunity fell into his lap as he read an article about the fearsome history of the abandoned manor of Baskerville Hall. The article ended with...

‘There are certain things here which are impossible to reconcile to the settled order of nature. Tis a worthy setting if the Devil did decide to dabble in the affairs of man, where the powers of evil are exulted.’

“It is indeed...” Moriarty murmured to himself, his black eyes sparkling with an unholy glee as the beginnings of a devastatingly diabolical plan began to take shape in his evilly twisted mind.

Several weeks later in the company of his faithful companion and fallen peer of the realm, Sebastian Moran, and armed with the knowledge they had acquired on the occult they set off for the infamous Hall of the doomed Baskervilles.

Along the way they picked up a stray waif, in the form of former chemist, now drug addict Billy Wiggins.

GRIMPEN VILLAGE

Moriarty’s presence was immediately felt, even though he rarely made an appearance in person in the village.

On the few occasions when he did, those he interacted with were left feeling queasy in the pit of their stomachs, and troubled and uneasy in their minds without quite comprehending why. When pressed all they could say was that it had something to do with the unnerving way he had looked at them.

For the most part it was Billy they dealt with, as he was despatched on any number of errands, while Moriarty and Moran set about putting their plan into action.

And once they had the villagers cherished feelings of security vanished forever.

***

BASKERVILLE HALL

The gates were a maze of wrought iron, with weather bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surrounded by boars’ heads of the Baskervilles.

Strong they may have been, but they were of little deterrent to anyone game enough to scale them. But no one from the village was fool enough to try.

In reality there was little need for the gates at all, not since Moriarty had used the information he had gathered on the occult. He used it to call upon the Devil himself, willingly exchanging his soul and that of his co-conspirator Moran for the ability to perform the darkest of dark magic.

The Devil granted the former Professor his request, before offering him the use of his most trusted sentinels...

Gigantic black hyena-shaped monstrously brutish beasts born in the bowels of Hell itself now patrolled the grounds of Baskerville Hall.

Their fur glowed red in the dead of night, as did their fiercely burning eyes. They possessed powerful shoulders and legs, which allowed them to move with the speed and unpredictability of lightening. Their equally powerful jaws capable of crushing bone like they were made of sticks of celery. Smoke poured from their nostrils, while their slavering mouths released a lava-like substance capable of inflicting third degree burns should it make contact with human or animal flesh.

All this unnatural activity had caught Molly’s attention. Her curiosity to learn what was going on drawing her closer than she should ever have come. Too late she realised her mistake when her presence was detected, and she was caught.

Moriarty had just been on the verge of beginning some new experiments when the fairy was brought before him. And it was then that inspiration struck. Instead of using the hapless Billy as the guinea pig, Molly would make a more suitable candidate.

Using the dark powers the Devil had given him, Moriarty stripped the fairy of her fae magic, and destroyed her wings. Once finished he mercilessly threw her outside, where the hounds soon caught a whiff of her scent. In her weakened state she didn’t stand a chance.

It was entirely thanks to the swift and timely actions of Billy Wiggins that she was able to get away safely.

It had been several weeks since that incident, and Billy was still alive, and reasonably unharmed, but it came at a terrible cost.

Moriarty had been initially furious, and Billy was certain he was about to meet his maker, when without warning he was ordered to go to the main road and bring back any tramps or gypsies he encountered along the way.

Knowing his own life was on the line he had reluctantly done as he had been instructed. And he had continued to do so whenever the Professor needed his next batch of unwitting lab rats.

Tonight however he had been told to go to the Grimpen Mire to collect an assortment of mosses and the like.

As he approached the dreaded mire he turned on his torch. Everywhere he looked was bleak and uninviting, and incredibly dangerous. Many an unlucky Moor pony had been sucked under due to a misjudged step.

Making his way into the murky depths Billy wondered, not for the first time, if this nightmare was ever going to come to an end.

***

Chapter 5: On a Wing and a Prayer

***

HYDE PARK – LONDON – EARLY MORNING

After a shaky start Sherlock, having put his faith, not to mention his life into Molly’s capable hands, mastered the basic tenets of flying. To his relief his wings indeed knew what they had to do, seeking out the air currents and using them to soar high above the clouds, before swooping low enabling Sherlock to appreciate the incredible view all around him. And as his confidence grew, his wings began to feel more a part of him.

Molly was impressed by how proficient and adept he had become in such a short period of time. She was also relived. With that invaluable skill mastered meant they could get to their destination much faster.

And time was of the essence. To that end she needed to bring the dragonised detective back down to earth.

“Sherlock!” she called up to him. “We need to get moving.”

Sherlock swooped down once more, making a perfect landing. By the time he made his way over to Molly, he had his wings securely tucked away.

“So where exactly are we headed?” he asked, eager for the opportunity to really stretch his wings.

“Dartmoor,” Molly responded.

***

EN ROUTE TO DARTMOOR

Molly sat astride Sherlock as he ploughed through the clouds, the rhythmic beat of his wings reminiscent of a hurricane.

Her emotions at that moment were of extremes. She felt exhilarated being high off the ground in the fresh air, the feel of it caressing her skin, rekindling treasured memories. But those memories left her feeling heartbroken for what had been so cruelly stolen from her.

Perhaps sensing the turmoil of emotions, Sherlock chose that moment to intrude upon her thoughts to enquire. “Don’t you think now would be a good time to explain what happened to you?” he asked as gently as he could.

“I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me and paid the price,” came her bitter reply.

“Explain,” the Consulting Detective was on the case.

“I became aware of some unusual, and by unusual I mean supernatural, goings on at an old abandoned manor house,” Molly explained. “But when I went in for a closer look I was captured.”

“Who by?”

“I don’t know their names, but there were two men. One of whom was referred to as Professor.”

“What happened next?”

A sob escaped as Molly replied. “They performed various experiments on me.”

“What type of experiments?” the question was direct, and may have been regarded by some as cruel, but Sherlock needed data.

“In the use of dark spells and curses,” Molly said. “But it was clear they were armatures, they weren’t well acquainted with how magic works. So it took a number of attempts before they achieved their ultimate goal.”

Sherlock felt anger rising through him for what had been done to the fairy. He was no more the expert in magic than those she had been unfortunate enough to encounter. But he knew torture when he heard it. “How did you escape?”

“With the aid of a poor soul they treated more like a slave than a servant. If it wasn’t for him I dread to think what would have become of me.” Molly shuddered at the very thought of the terrible experience she had been forced to endure.

“So why come to me?” Sherlock asked genuinely curious. What Molly had told him thus far was well out of his realm of expertise. And then a worrying possibility crossed his mind. “Do you think my transformation is linked to one of their wayward curses?”

Molly gave his question some serious thought. He was right to ask why an ordinary, human investigator, even one with his reputation could help her in this matter.

Had the professor of Baskerville Hall been the conduit of Sherlock’s mysterious transformation? Or had her need for someone quite extraordinary been the cause? Or was it something else completely?

In the end all she could offer him was, “To be honest Sherlock, I really don’t know. But maybe we’ll find a more definitive answer once we get there.”

***

#Sherlolly #Dragonlock

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