More Precious Than Gold

I

The dragon was restless. At times like this, it took every ounce of self-control William Sherlock Scott Holmes possessed to not let the beast loose. He was tied to a chair in the basement of a secret facility on an island somewhere off the coast of the northern tip of Britain. A facility owned and operated by the criminal network of one Jim Moriarty. Yep, the crazy bastard was alive and kicking, standing a few yards away from Sherlock with a smug smile on his face, listening to the Bee-Gees, chewing a piece of bubble gum, while his men beat Sherlock senseless.

A punch to his jaw, a kick to his shin, an elbow to his cheekbone, a knee to his gut. How dare they? The dragon inside him seethed. I am Smaug. I am magnificent. I am beautiful. I am powerful. How dare you defile me, human insects? I am fire! I am death!

But, Sherlock kept his dragon self at bay. He only had one reason. One precious reason why he didn't go dragon on these assholes, burn them all to a crisp, and eat Moriarty like an M&M. Well, okay, he technically had seven. Seven precious reasons not to go dragon, ever. Their names were John and Rosie Watson, Mycroft and Eurus Holmes, Molly Hooper, Martha Huston, and Greg(?) Lestrade. His horde. His treasure.

After a while, Moriarty ordered his men off of Sherlock's battered body and asked again, "Where are the documents?"

And as he had done for the past two days, Sherlock promptly spat in his face and snarled, "Piss off."

This time, unlike the others, rather than give him a slap for his disrespect or order his men to start beating him again, Moriarty shrugged and said, "Shame. But I have to hand it to you Sherlock, you certainly haven't made this boring." Before leaving Sherlock alone for the night with his men following close behind like a couple of dogs.

This, left Sherlock plenty of time to ponder over what in his life (or lives, he wasn't sure which phrase he should use) had led up to this point.

First, he'd been killed in his previous life by a human with a black arrow. He, Smaug, King Under the Mountain, killed by a human. Honestly, it was a humiliating thought. Then, rather than waking up in some dark pit in hell, he'd opened his eyes to find himself, rather than in the magnificent form of the last dragon, inside the body of a human child, barely a month old. At least, that was around the time he began to recall who, or more accurately, what he was.

Honestly, his first year or two as a human passed in a bit of a blur. He had a concept of time, and a rough recollection of what was going on around him (sometimes he could understand exactly what everyone was saying around him, other times he could only tell whether or not it was good or bad by their tone of voice). There were some moments when he found himself wanting to murder and devour the three humans he found himself living in a large house with, and other times that he was merely a human child. But all in all, his experiences in his earliest years were miserable and confusing. But through the blur, Smaug- no, Sherlock (as he quickly figured out his name was, according to his Mummy, Daddy, and his fat brother, Mycroft) learned something that growing up and living as a dragon had denied him in his previous life. That wonderful thing was something he heard about and laughed at in his life as a dragon, but never experienced for himself.

That wonderful thing, was love.

He learned it every time his Mummy sang to him and rocked him until he fell asleep, he learned it every time his Daddy played with him, and he learned it when his brother sat down with him in his lap, and did his best to explain the world to him (but of course, Mycroft only ever did that when he thought no one but Sherlock could see or hear him). Smaug/Sherlock didn't know where he was or why he was there rather than in hell, but by the time he was six months old, he figured out that he was loved. And by the time he was two, he realized that he loved them back. He, the dragon Smaug, actually grew to love three humans. And he grew to love the fourth too, his sister Euros, who joined the family shortly after his first birthday. Though, after the incident with Victor Trevor, he wouldn't remember that for years.

Out of all of them, though he'd never admit it, Sherlock grew to love his brother, Mycroft, the most. Sure, as he got older he picked on him about his weight and treated him like shit at times (which he was not the only one guilty of), but he did love his brother more than the others. Mycroft taught him more than Mummy and Daddy ever did. And while it was Euros who taught him to read and write music and play the violin (again, he wouldn't remember that for years)...

Who pointed at random people on the streets and taught him how to deduce? Mycroft.

Who taught him that pretty much all people were idiots except for the Holmes siblings? Mycroft.

Who taught him how to make a mind palace? Mycroft.

Who played deductions with him when they were little? Mycroft.

Who protected him from Euros when she tried to physically and/or mentally torture him? Mycroft.

Who finally taught him how to walk? Mycroft.

Sherlock started talking three months before most children did, much to the astonishment of his family, and was having full, fluent conversations by the time he was nine months old. From his life as a dragon, he already knew how to speak the tongue of man, it just took him that long to figure out how to use a human mouth and vocal cords to make words. Walking, however, was a very different story.

Most children start walking between the ages of nine and twelve months. Sherlock, however, had walking on all fours in his centuries of muscle-memory from his previous life. With feet and hind legs designed entirely differently from that of a human's, plus a tail for balance, no less. Mummy and Daddy gave up on him by the time he was seventeen months old and were looking into putting him in physical therapy, or even a wheelchair. Not Mycroft.

Mycroft sat with him for hours, telling him what he was doing wrong, catching him when he fell, and correcting his stances, every single day, for almost three months. Dealing with Sherlock's frustration, stubbornness, pride, and fits of anger that resulted from them. Then, finally, when he had just turned two, he walked on his chubby little legs, all the way across the living room floor, into the arms of his brother. It was so long ago, but Sherlock still remembered clear as day, Mycroft running his fingers over Sherlock's very short black hair and saying, "Well done, brother mine."

That, was the day Sherlock realized he loved his brother.

He loved Mycroft. The others, took a little more time to get attached to. And even when he did decide he loved his entire family, he knew that deep down, he would slaughter Mummy, Daddy, and Euros, before carving out his own heart, if it meant saving Mycroft. In this life, Smaug had no gold. No jewels. He wasn't 'King Under the Mountain' anymore. But that did not mean he did not have treasure. Sherlock did have a horde. He guarded it with his life. He'd die before he'd part with a single piece, and Mycroft Holmes was the first piece Sherlock acquired.

Even today, who always got what Sherlock asked for for his cases? Mycroft.

Who always bailed him out of trouble when he could? Mycroft.

Who always took some time out of his schedule to come and visit him, even if he didn't want to be visited? Mycroft.

Who could always be suckered into a game of deductions? Mycroft.

Who helped him fake his death and kept his secret? Mycroft.

Who helped ensure he didn't go to prison after he shot Magnussen? Mycroft.

Who would have had Sherlock shoot him so he could save John, instead during the Sherrinford incident? Mycroft. That incident proved how much Sherlock loved his horde. He'd rather shoot himself than harm even one of them.

Then, when Sherlock was four, he met his best friend, Victor Trevor, aka: Redbeard, and he added yet another piece of treasure to his horde.

Shortly before the incident in which Euros went crazy and killed his best friend before burning their mansion to the ground, Sherlock had just turned five, and he was playing in the woods around their mansion with Mycroft and Redbeard. They ditched poor Euros back at the funny gravestones, one of many times which would have severe repercussions, later. They started playing a game of hide and seek, with Mycroft being 'it' and Victor and Sherlock hiding. Sherlock apparently ran too far and hid too well, because it eventually got dark, and when it did, Sherlock couldn't recognize the way home and eventually got so hopelessly lost trying to find his way back, that he gave up and sat by a tree until his family found him. No doubt, they were looking for him. He knew they cared too much about him to let him stay out too long.

He was just starting to nod off, when a large, snarling dog jumped out of the bushes and started running at him. Sherlock ran as fast as he could, but the dog grabbed hold of his leg by his trousers and started shaking its' head to and fro viciously, snarling and growling. In his fear and panic, the adrenaline surging through his veins, five-year-old Sherlock let loose a roar that shook the trees. The next thing he knew, his entire body was put through excruciating pain. When it subsided and he opened his eyes, the dog didn't look so big, anymore. In fact, it had let go of him and was backing away, whimpering in fear with its' tail between its' legs. "GO AWAY!" Sherlock roared. And it was, quite literally, a roar. The dog ran off, yelping in terror. That, was when Sherlock realized he was a dragon, again.

He had still been a very young dragon at the time. Not a baby, but certainly not an adult or adolescent. His body was only the size of a car, his tail was about the same length as his body. His armor was like steel, his teeth were like pocket knives, his claws were like steak knives, his wings were a strong breeze. Still, Sherlock was very happy to know that his magnificent form, the form of a dragon, was not all gone after all. He flapped his wings and roared happily, a tiny puff of fire escaping his lips. Sherlock climbed up to the top of the trees and spread his forty foot wings. He beat them in a pattern, letting his muscle-memory return to him, and took off. He flew for several hours, enjoying the freedom and power of being a dragon for a while longer.

He eventually flew until he could see the lights from his home, again. At which point he was reminded of his horde, which only consisted of Mycroft and Redbeard at the time, and thought it best to return to them in human form. He didn't want to give his Mummy and Daddy a fright, after all. Nor did he want Mycroft and Redbeard to be afraid of him. Surely, if they knew what he was, Mycroft wouldn't want to teach him things anymore or play deductions with him, nor would Redbeard want to play pirates with him, anymore.

Sherlock flew off a distance so he wouldn't be seen, but kept track of where his home was, then spent the rest of the night until morning trying to figure out how to return to human form. He eventually succeeded, and returned to his frantic, sobbing parents… completely naked. His transformation ripped his clothes to shreds, and the pieces fell all over the forest throughout the night. They asked what happened to his clothes of course, and he told them he had to slip out of his trousers to escape a dog that attacked him (the bite mark on his leg clarified that story), and the dog ran off with his pants and underwear. They asked what happened to his shirt and jacket. Sherlock's response: a shrug. And that was the end of that story.

Sherlock would spend the rest of his childhood and adolescent years perfecting his intelligent mind and sneaking off somewhere at least once a week to slip out of his clothes and practice his transformations until he could go from human to dragon and back at will, and even only pull out certain dragon traits whenever he wished. He could pull out his dragon claws and/or teeth, make his tongue long and forked, make his eyes turn orange and glow, and even breathe fire, even in human form, by the time he was twelve. But of course, no one knew that but him. Sherlock never told a soul about his past life as Smaug, not even the two humans he considered to be his horde. Mycroft and… Victor.

Sherlock remembered losing Redbeard. Had his senses of smell been as sharp as they were now, had he been more practiced with his deduction skills, he could have tracked Victor down or perhaps solved Euros' riddle sooner, and saved his best friend from his dark fate at the bottom of that lonely well. But he didn't- correction, couldn't save him. Sherlock remembered the sadness, the agony, the rage that tormented his mind after losing a piece of his precious horde. Such was his despair, that he hardly cared when his childhood home was burned to the ground by a certain psychotic sister of his. Nor did he notice when his sister was taken away. In time, he would convince himself/forget that she ever existed. And to lessen his pain, he also convinced himself that Redbeard had been a dog, not a little boy. It would be decades before those memories were restored. Without Redbeard, he had no friends to leave behind when they moved.

Sherlock spent many years, for the most part, the same way he had as a dragon… alone and friendless. He had 'allies', sure. 'Acquaintances-who-called-themselves-his-friends-but-really-weren'ts', too. He had Mycroft, of course. And he practiced all the harder with his dragon form to ensure that he would be able to save Mycroft if anything ever happened to him. Sherlock lost Redbeard, he would never part with another piece of his beloved horde, again!

When Sherlock was in junior high, he read about the death of a young champion swimmer named Carl Powers in the newspaper. Something wasn't right. Where were his shoes? When the police ignored the fuss he made over it, he started investigating it himself, and… it was fun. He enjoyed doing it! It would be twenty years before he would solve that case, but it was where he began. He picked up another case from the papers sometime later and… he actually solved it! And he enjoyed the crap out of himself, doing it. By the third case, the excitement and opportunity to use his incredible IQ to solve cases and put bad people in prison was starting to become an addiction. He started listening to police scanners, solving cases that would otherwise take normal people weeks or months in a matter of days or even hours. Eventually, the police noticed and started coming to him. And so, by the time Sherlock was nineteen, the Consulting Detective was born.

That, was how Sherlock met the next three humans who would be worthy enough to join his horde. The first, he met on a case. Martha Hudson. He arranged her drug-dealing husband's execution and left her with all the money, but they kept in touch. She wouldn't officially make it onto his list of 'treasure' until he moved into 221B with John about five or so years later. Only then, would she go from being an ally, to being his good friend and landlady-not-housekeeper.

The second, was Greg Lestrade. The man was an idiot, a goldfish just like the rest of the populace, but solving cases with him over the years would make the man grow on Sherlock like a barnacle. Until eventually, Sherlock would consider the grey-haired detective to be part of his horde (definitely at the bottom of the list, but still on the list, if he were forced to part with a piece of his horde, he'd choose to save Mycroft, John, or Molly over Lestrade any day).

The third, was Molly. Oh, Molly. Sweet, kind, beautiful, loyal, intelligent Molly Hooper, who despite how horrible he was to her at times, never left his side. She grew on him a lot faster and harder than Lestrade ever did. She was always there. He always trusted her. And he only realized when he thought her life was on the line at the incident at Sherrinford, that he was pretty sure he was as in love with her as she was with him. But between the cold nature the Holmes siblings shared and his dragon side, it made understanding others' feelings difficult for Sherlock, and showing his own feelings in the 'appropriate' way even harder. He loved her. He wouldn't show it until he knew how, but he loved her. Even before he figured out he loved her, Sherlock considered her to be one of his most trusted allies, and later friends. She was one of the most precious pieces of his horde, tying with John and Mycroft.

Then, Sherlock's life was forever changed for the better the day he met one of the three most precious pieces of his horde. A short army doctor, recently retired from Afghanistan, with a psychological limp and a talent for not getting on Sherlock's nerves (despite being a goldfish) and putting up with and just rolling with Sherlock and all the craziness that came with him. His name was John Haymitch Watson. Loyal, tough, heart-of-gold, blog-writing John Watson. The first person Sherlock would consider to be a 'friend' since he lost Redbeard all those years ago. John taught Sherlock more about feelings than his family growing up ever did. More about how to treat other people. John opened Sherlock up like a dusty old book, and he was all the better off because of him. They went on so many adventures together, they had such fun! By the end of their first case together, Sherlock considered John to be a part of his horde. The fastest to make it onto the list, yet.

After the first fiasco with Moriarty and the Reichenbach fall, Sherlock faked his death and disappeared for a while, leaving and trusting Mycroft to protect the rest of his horde. Fighting as hard as he could, using his brain (and occasionally his teeth, fire, and claws, when he was sure there would be no photos, video footage, or witnesses to tell the tale) to destroy the rest of Moriarty's criminal network. Not even Mycroft knew of the sheer amount of blood on Sherlock's hands from those two years. You could surely fill a lake with it and go for a swim.

And when the right people were dead and Sherlock was sure the network was gone for good (apparently, he'd been wrong, as his current predicament proved), his brother bailed him out of Russia, and he returned. Back to England, back to London, back to his horde. John had moved on with his life, as expected. And not quite as expected, he'd been angry with Sherlock. Angry for faking his death, angry for leaving. In time, Sherlock would understand why. Did he drop the bomb on dear John while he was trying to propose to Mary? Yes, he did. Did he deserve to get punched? Absolutely. Did John eventually forgive him? Of course he did. A nudge was needed, sure, in the form of a little 'bomb-about-to-go-off-we're-about-to-die' prank, but Sherlock was eventually forgiven.

Eventually, John and Mary got married with Sherlock as John's best man. He'd been so honored! How foolish he'd been to worry that his times with his dear friend were at an end. On the night of the wedding, Sherlock officially added Mary to his horde. How rich he was!

Then, little Rosie came along! How wonderful! Yet another addition to his horde! Sherlock was on cloud nine!

Then… she was gone. Mary threw herself in front of him, took the hit meant for him, and died in her husband's arms. Sherlock had never been more low. It was like losing Redbeard all over again. To top it off, John distanced himself from Sherlock, the one person who knew John best, the one person who could help John, and help John he did. It was all he could do, it was what Mary wanted: he saved John Watson. He went back to drugs and placed his life on the line to do it, but he did it. And just like that, everything was okay again for awhile.

Then Sherrinford happened… and Sherlock was reminded yet again of how precious his horde was when both his best friend, John, and his brother, Mycroft, were nearly killed by his sister, Euros. Then there was that phone call with Molly. How was he to know that his sister was bluffing about the bomb? He'd been so terrified. So terrified that he'd lose her. It was only when she made him say, "I love you", that he realized it was true. He was in love with Molly Hooper. When she said it back, he could hear it in her words, he could see it on her beautiful face through her tears, she meant it. Every word of it. But the way he'd treated her over the years, the number of times he'd hurt her before, made her cry over the phone. She cried. Without meaning to, that phone call hurt her, yet again. And his sister had known it would. And that, made Sherlock mad. Really mad. So mad that he let the dragon loose for just a moment and destroyed the coffin that had served as Euros' little clue. He smashed it, he kicked it, and he roared with rage. And when his rage was over, he leaned against the wall and just wanted it all to end. He got lucky. John, Mycroft, and even Euros didn't see his eyes flashing between icy blue and glowing amber, nor his teeth turning into fangs.

When Euros asked him to shoot John or Mycroft, Sherlock knew he wouldn't do it as soon as he realized what the challenge was. After losing Redbeard and Mary, he knew, his heart couldn't take losing another piece of his horde. And so, he put the gun to his own head… only to be stopped by Euros. He woke up in his childhood home, solved the case that should have been solved long ago, and realized that while he'd never completely forgive Euros for her actions both in his youth and at that godforsaken prison and certainly wouldn't forget what she'd done, he did still love her. He didn't lose any of his horde that day… he gained a piece, instead.

The experience brought the truth of his past to light, and the memory of the two precious pieces of his horde he had lost, Mary and Victor 'Redbeard' Trevor, made him all the more certain that even if it was at the cost of his own life, even if he had to go dragon in front of them, even if he had to sell his soul to the devil himself, he was never going to part with a piece of his horde, again!

Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound of the door to his cell opening. He looked up, careful to keep any form of alarm off of his face as Moriarty strolled into Sherlock's cell like he owned the place (which technically, Sherlock supposed he did). Behind him, entered six henchmen, four armed with guns and two dragging a rolling table with a TV on top of it.

What are you up to, Moriarty? Sherlock wondered.

"Tsk tsk tsk, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… I really didn't want this to be difficult."

"You think I'm going to give you secrets capable of killing thousands of people?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. Talking hurt, due to his split lip. But that wasn't going to stop him.

"No. You've shown time and time again. You're smart and strong enough to be interesting, but your one downfall, Sherlock…"

The men behind the criminal finally turned on the TV. Sherlock froze, staring at the screen in horror.

"Is your heart."

John. Mycroft. Molly. John. Mycroft. Molly. John! Mycroft! Molly!

All three of them were handcuffed on their knees with guns pointed at their heads. Molly looked so terrified! Mycroft looked like he was trying to look strong. John looked like he was struggling to sit up. He had a black eye and a split lip. They hadn't taken him without a fight.

"So, let's see… either you tell me what I need to know by morning or… ooh, there are so many things I could make you watch me do to them!"

"D-don't you fucking dare." Sherlock sputtered, looking away. His heart was racing. There was an emotion gripping his soul. One that had grown familiar. He felt it every time one of his horde was at risk. He felt it the night Moriarty strapped that bomb to John. He felt it when those American dogs beat up Mrs. Hudson. He felt it the day he'd jumped off St. Barts to save John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The emotion… was fear.

The dragon stirred.

Moriarty walked over to Sherlock and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look at the screen.

"Taaaaalk." Moriarty said in a sing-song voice.

"Sherlock! Forget about us! Don't tell him anything!" John said on the other side of the screen, earning him a lick right to the gut from the armed henchmen on the other side of the screen. John doubled over.

Sherlock wanted to. He'd spill anything. He'd damn all of Britain if it meant saving them. But the truth was, he didn't know. He'd put them under the impression that he had the information they were looking for to allow the person who did know to escape. He was under protection in the United States, by now.

"Let's see… what could I do to the eldest Holmes brother?"

"Stop it."

"I read a book about torture methods, recently. Apparently drowning isn't the best way to go. How about I dunk your dear brother's fat head into a bucket of ice water?"

"Shut up."

"And there's a way to really drag it out, you know. Let him come up for air as he starts to struggle, then dunk him under again as he's inhaling to take a breath. Men have been driven insane before they finally die, that way."

"Mycroft… no. Shut up!"

"How about I take your little pathologist to bed with me? I didn't date her long enough to fuck her, but she looks like she could be good enough to ride a few times before she finally gives out."

"You touch a freaking hair on Molly, I swear to whatever God is listening, I will fucking kill you!" Sherlock snarled.

"Oooh, he's threatening me. Now we're getting somewhere! So, I fuck your sweet little pathologist until she breaks in front of you, I drown your brother, what will I do to dear Johnny boy?"

"You're not going to touch any of them! You understand?"

"Hmm… ooh, how about I turn his psychological limp into a real limp?"

"Sherlock! We'll be fine!" John yelled. A gun hit him in the side of the head.

"Ooh, Johnny boy's being awfully talkative, isn't he? How about… we break his leg a different way every time you refuse to talk… then when there's no more ways to break it, we'll just put a bullet right through his head."

"John! I swear, I won't let him!"

"No, Sherlock. You have to get yourself out! Don't worry about us!"

"Johnny boy is being talkative. Do the Iceman and sweet little Molly have anything to say?"

"Say something!" One of the henchmen on the other side of the screen barked, hitting Mycroft on the back of the head.

Mycroft hesitated, then said, "Brother mine, you know what you have to do. You tell him what he wants to know… and he can kill anyone else he wants. Three lives aren't worth it. Tell Mummy and Daddy I care about them. And I need you to know… that I always cared about you, too."

That was the closest thing to 'I love you' Mycroft had ever said. Sherlock knew that was what he meant, but he'd never actually say those exact words.

As soon as Mycroft was done, another man grabbed Molly by the throat. "How bout' you, sweetheart, you got anything to say to Mr. Holmes?" He said, uncomfortably close to her face and licking his lips.

The emotion gripping his heart, fear… was being drowned out by something else, entirely.

Rage.

The dragon inside him was seething. They'd beat up John, hit Mycroft, and now this creep was touching Molly! And the threats Moriarty was making, Sherlock knew he was dead serious. Sherlock could feel the claws on his hands and feet coming out, and his teeth were changing ever so slightly.

"Sh-Sherlock," She said, "I'm sorry. And… I love you."

That was when Sherlock realized he was crying.

"Go on, Sherlock, do you have anything you want to say to them?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to say he could save them. He wanted to say it was going to be okay. But was it? He didn't even know where they were.

But you can find out. Someone gets a question asked of them by a dragon, they tend to be a bit more talkative.

Could he get there in time?

You know how fast you can fly when you need to.

Was there anything he could say to get Moriarty to let them go?

No. You don't have the information he wants, and he would kill them anyway, even if you did.

What if they hated him for what he was?

If they're dead, it won't matter. You save them, they live. You don't, they die. If the hate you, you disappear. It's just that simple. They're your horde. They matter above all else. Even your own life. Remember what you promised Mary. Save John Watson. He's got a little girl he has to take care of. Remember Mycroft. Teaching you deductions, helping you walk, always looking after you. Remember Molly, never leaving your side.

Save them.

Protect what's yours.

You know you can.

Burn anyone and everything that tries to stop you.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "John, Mycroft, Molly, none of you are going to die. John, they're not going to touch your leg. Mycroft, they're not going to drown you. Molly, they're not going to lay a finger on you. I won't let them." And for good measure, just in case, he gathered all of his courage and added, "Molly, I love you!"

"We'll see about that." Moriarty said.

"Sherlock-" Molly started to say, but they shut the TV off.

Sherlock stared at the black screen for a few seconds. Even through the monitor, Sherlock could see the fear in her eyes. They were all scared. And Sherlock didn't like that one bit. Sherlock chuckled to himself. Then, he was laughing.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked.

"Sorry. It's just… So many people are about to die, it's funny. And you… I thought you were smart, Jim. I thought you were clever. But no, you're not. Because you've gone and done something everyone knows not to do. So you must be stupid!"

"And what's that?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, dear Jim," Sherlock closed his eyes, "hasn't anyone ever told you…" When Sherlock opened his eyes again, his pupils were slits. And the color had gone from icy blue, to flaming orange. "Never steal from a dragon."

Well, that was my first attempt at Dragonlock! What did you guys think?! This story isn't going to be very long. I estimate only three chapters, though it MIGHT end up four or five.
And a word of warning, shit's gonna go DOWN in the next chapter.
But I shall only update if I get REVIEWS!

Review at once
if convenient.
If inconvenient,
review anyway.

aa14