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Chapter Text

If you looked at a map, surely you would miss the measly town of Niraveth, England nestled in the far corners of where the rolling viridescent hills meet the celestial heavens. However, a prosperous kingdom thrived with the fine nurturing and care of King Richard Holmes and his wife Queen Rosemary Holmes. The castle was surrounded by a crystalline waterscape, isolating the royal family on their private little island per se. A brief sail across the still waters for those who could afford it or a lengthy walk across the wooden bridge that connected the kingdom to the oblivious floating paradise.

On the main land of Niraveth, there stayed the towns people who were thoroughly pleased with the work of the king who put into assuring the safety to each and every individual. When weather was ghastly, King Richard would parcel ration books to the families in need. Families would be plentiful in grains, dried meats, and wool for the brute force of a winter to come. Then when pleasant conditions arise, the castle doors open for all to come and join the celebrations held every fortnight. Both King Richard and Queen Rosemary would make constant appearances at their events, this was their opportunity to bond with their loyal subjects.

With his heart of gold, the king would have thought he had neither enemies or jealous parties seeking revenge on his part. James Moriarty, however, never complied by the norm, as he had a personal vendetta against the king to retaliate and burn him when least expected.

Jim --as he preferred to be called-- was born before the creation of the wheel. He personally inhabited Ireland before the first Neanderthals migrated so far north. Legend says, Jim was the cause of The Black Death. Born with the genetics of a long line of dark magic warlocks, Jim Moriarty was destined for no saintly actions.

Patiently, for centuries, Jim hungrily lingered in the shadows of humanity --causing havoc here and there once in a while of course-- to find an opportune time to accomplish what he was designed to do. Terror. To make praiseworthy souls suffer and beg for mercy--twice-- if they were lucky. Moriarty lived his days on the constant adrenaline coursing through his life-less veins, awaiting the atrocity he was willing to commit.

Nevertheless, Jim couldn't just select a random innocent victim --although that would suffice, for a while. No, he had a specific mortal chosen for him in a prophecy conducted by one of his elders.

The message was read out by an oracle in a remote temple only available to warlocks of his kind. Her voice was fleeting like a wisp of dancing grey smoke slipping through frail fingers but weighed tremendously more than the heaviest burden one could carry upon their shoulders.

It stated "when the reigning king of Niraveth with a heart of wrought gold rises, your clock will tick. Although he is burdened by a vacant son, the king will desperately seek a different approach and a new heir will be born. Tick. The second son's intellect will be beyond ambit and the dark spirit's demise will soon arrive upon its grave. Tick. Unless the flower of fertility is attained and ingested before the boy reaches the age of eighteen, the life will be soon forgotten...Boom!"

After hearing his inevitable fate of life, Jim had no other choice but to start plotting what would soon become the most elaborate plan of his life. Not only did he need to kidnap the second prince of Niraveth but he needed to keep the bugger alive for eighteen bloody years. Moriarty couldn't even keep the food in his ice box fresh for more than two days, what was he going to do with a growing child? Where was he even going to put said child where no one would suspect anything and wails of hunger could be passed off as a natural occurrence? He would have to personally search for a candid spot to situate the blueprint formulating in his mind.

After two months of roaming in the outskirts of Niraveth, Jim found the perfect spot to initiate his scheme. Far enough to avoid the knights in their search for the missing prince once the royal court caught wind to his misdeeds but conveniently near the castle that at a good jogging pace due northwest it was only seven miles distance. Sometimes Jim wondered why he was so gifted and talented, it should have been a curse.

Just past a disarray of a vast forest full of unknown creatures and looming shadows, chopped trees and tangled vines laid a clearing perfect for the construction of the edifice Jim so throughly constructed with the help of some architects that were more than willing to provide their services. The tower's construction was small enough to be obscured by the rising cliff surrounding the clearing but tall enough to keep the pest in and any unnecessary visitors out. Additionally, running along the backside of the plot of land was a natural fresh spring of water. Perfect, thought Jim, now he need not have to go far to fetch water for the little rascal. That only left his worry for food.

After hiring --more like blackmailing and hexing-- a few unfortunate passersby in the kingdom, construction for Jim's home for the foreseeable future commenced. Stones from quarries from distant kingdoms were chosen as to not cause any suspicion in Niraveth. Progress was slow but present and that is all that mattered at the time as the structure grew in the years to come. Jim was aware that the king spoken about in the prophecy possibly wouldn't come to power until the next century, however, better safe than sorry he told himself.

Jim was right in the end. The next two kings to occupy the throne only had one very strong and capable male heir and the rest of their offsprings were beautiful maidens. Nevertheless, the prophecy proclaimed that the first male heir would be vacant-- whatever that meant.

This uncertainty left Jim quivering at nights, not being able to know what was happening within the castle walls or the gossip around Niraveth since he lived in a more than secluded area. In light of his problem, Jim came up with a bright idea to become employed as a consultant to King David and his family-to-be. Now it was his dutiful job to be present and well informed of every whisper or tremor occurring in or around the kingdom. Niraveth would soon be on its knees because here comes hurricane Jim.

When the news of the birth of Prince Richard was announced, a feeling of uneasiness settled in Jim's stomach. Could it be the earthling he has patiently--almost-- waited for one hundred and nine years for?

Showtime!

There was Jim throughout the young prince's life creeping through every corner and shadow that presented itself. Taking every opportunity to learn as much about the way Richard of Niraveth worked as a person. How he functioned under pressure, what set him into frenzy or caused him distress. All of this was vital information for Moriarty if he was going to face the creator of his murderer.

As soon as the prince reached the age of eighteen, his father King David resigned his position and made Richard the new King of Durham. The castle and all of its belongings --including Jim-- would be transferred to the doe-eyed boy. Although his father was the last one to admit the fact, Richard knew that King David was cursed with an incurable disease that had started crippling the royal since the prince was still in primary school.

The wedding to Princess Rosemary of Canterbury happened not even weeks after the coronation ceremony. Niraveth not only had a new king but now a young dear queen. The kingdom of Durham was in a state of pure jubilation after every celebration and called this time the era of change and prosperity. All hopes were on the young king to succeed on the throne--with the exception of Jim of course.

When Jim's time came to be introduced to the new king he needed to assert himself to seem so genuinely trustworthy within the confines of the kings presence. Not only did he have to convince his animosity to the royal court --hint, hint, King Richard--but broadcast it throughout the kingdom. Niraveth had to continue to believe the message he delivered. No need to fear the elfin man with eyes wrinkled by his smile --of pure destruction-- and innocent irish lilt.

"I, James Moriarty am your faithful friend Niraveth for now until the end of time."

Then the time Moriarty dreaded came.

King Richard was at the ripe age of twenty-four when his first child arrived. Jim of course was by his side in the whole process, until the birth. After the birth of Prince Mycroft, something changed within Jim for the worse. The cherished raven hair that once sat proudly upon Jim's head for eons began to grey day by day. His slight wrinkles by his eyes became more pronounced and profound. The pigment of Jim's skin changed from a healthy fair complexion to a frighting shade of white with unhealthy blotches of pealing skin.

What was Jim to do now?

Well of course he had to find the so called flower spoken by in the prophecy that claimed youth and fertility. Perhaps that would remedy his untimely disappearance, especially when he needed it the most. Now he only need search for that stupid old faeries tale. So, Moriarty went to work and started searching for the flower using an divination spell that detected slight traces of magic at work. His feeble state was debilitating but it did not stop him from lurching towards the patch --more like two measly plants-- of yellow flowers that lay mere yards from him.

Jim's first approach was to pick the flower alone, no roots or anything, however, the color of the flower quickly faded from it's petals and left a limp, grey flower in his hands. On the next attempt, Jim reevaluated his technique and took his time to dig beneath the roots of the delicate life and pull it up. Holding his breath, Jim waited for the moment of truth, whether the vibrant pigments of the flower would remain or his change would be permanent and his attempts fruitless.

Success! The warlock efficiently tucked the roots of the plant in a sac and walked --limped-- backed to his residence.

A niggling feeling coursed through Jim's veins as he thought about the field of flowers. Yes, there were two flowers when he began but that was not the case anymore. He accidentally terminated one of the enchanted plants and kept the other for himself. However, Jim asked himself, where was he to keep the flower growing in proper conditions and climates? On his way back to the tower, Moriarty passed by an innocent moor camouflaged with an old path road. Hidden in plain sight quite simply. Here, if any stragglers were to pass. they would just assume it was an ordinary flower blooming for spring but Jim would know. It would be his sinful secret he would keep with him until his grave, or until they discovered the location of the flower, which he seriously doubted.

Nothing could stop James Moriarty from diabolically laughing.

Back at the castle, Mycroft Holmes was seven years old yet he lived a very solitary life by his design.The king and the queen were extremely concerned for Mycroft wellbeing, since he was exceptionally bright for his age, the problem was, he was incapable of showing any form of emotion or compassion towards anything or anyone--not even his parents.

Therapist and physiatrist all over the land tried to asses the mind of Mycroft Holmes. But that was just the problem. If Mycroft shut himself out from the world, no one was capable of even obtaining a glimpse of the well lubricated cogs in his mind. What the young auburn haired boy stored in the crevices of his brain were clandestine and hair-raising thoughts. Enough to scar the mind of a experienced soldier back from a raging war. Should anyone access them he would be in a world of trouble.

Then came the day Mycroft's fears became a reality, a man named Michael Stamford who specialized in children psychology from a neighboring kingdom paid him a special visit. With a glance, the specialist was able to uncover at least seven key stressors of Mycroft. Especially his yearning need for detachment. Michael voiced his concerns to the king and queen in a professional manner as to not frighten them. Apparently, the young prince despised company but couldn't survive without the constant livelihood of it. So the queen came up with a brilliant plan. If she were to be with child, perhaps his spirits would lift and they would be a joyous family after all.

With high hopes, the royal parents awaited the birth of their second son to see if the presence of a new soul would brighten Mycroft's spirit. First came the weeks, then the months ticked by incredibly slow and the anticipation only grew as the poor boy only withdrew even further from his parents. Slamming doors after harsh rushed conversations over ridiculous matters. Defiant behavior towards any adult in the castle that directed the word towards the seven year old boy. Mycroft even refrained from showing up to dinner if not dragged out by the governess.

The queen herself was starting to become a recluse herself, becoming slightly depressed seeing her son deteriorate in such a way and not being able to assist. Rosemary began denying the company from companions or extended relatives and remaining in her room at all hours. King Richard started to fret, especially when Queen Rosemary would grow feverish at night and would wake up with no recollection of any sorts of the previous day.

When those times often arose, King Richard would often seek the advice of his on hand consultant, James Moriarty. This was when naturally the selfish man would suggest aborting the unborn fetus to save his beloved queen and try his hand at another pregnancy. However, the king would swiftly refuse this option every time it was brought up --which was every consultation-- by Jim.

As the bouncing baby boy's arrival soon came, the queen's condition worsened drastically as the seconds passed on the clock. The queen was barely able to wander on her own with out feeling faint or in other cases she would suddenly stop breathing at any given time. Every medicine man and healer in Niraveth visited the castle to attempt to diagnose poor King Richard's wife of her disease, however, no one had the faintest clue. By far, this was the most peculiar case of anything they have ever seen. A combination of symptoms so bizarre when put in sequence no doctor wanted to take responsibility for her prolonged health. Death was imminent. Most healers gave the queen at most until the birth of her second son, if not sooner.

King Richard being the stubborn man he is never took no for an answer and sent his men to the lands beyond Niraveth. His valiant knights spread throughout the twenty miles surrounding the kingdom with no avail. Yet the king still had faith in his people and especially in his beloved wife.

On the last day of the queen's pregnancy, in came a woman draped in a silk, charcoal dress and a grey hood graced upon her body. Her whole presence screamed of an dangerous aura but she claimed to be related to medicine and the king was desperate for an answer-- any answer-- so he allowed her to proceed.

Esperanza --she claimed she was -- announced that if the kings knights reached the moor beyond the path of tears before sundown (and before the awaited birth) They would find the cure they have been searching for. Simply the king's knights had to pick the flower of youth and fertility and the queen could be saved along with her son who would be born with a blessing. When the faeries of Niraveth roamed the lands one of their games to pass time included mixing and matching flower alleles. The flowers created by said mystical creatures would last through time as long as they lived undisturbed. Esperanza thoroughly explained that the only way that the knights would be able to bring back the floret in its entirety was to include the roots as well. To transfer the powers of the flower into a human transport vessel, the process required the petals to be treated like tea leaves. First to be ground up, then submersed in boiled water, and consumed by said person in desperate need of revival.

King Richard had never assembled his knights as quick as the present day when they went searching for the impossible flower over the bridge the connected the castle and Niraveth and onto the path of tears. The knight's horses trotted away with speed and determination over the grass barren hills with a mission at hand. They mustn't disappoint the king.

Back inside the castle, in the other room, the screams and wails of Queen Rosemary could be heard through the thick paved walls, shouting for liberation of pain. The king's heart yearned to go help her, however, he had to stay vigilant in the case his knights came back triumphant. He wanted to be the first one to administer the healing flower to his precious wife.

Jim sat bravely by the King's side with a poker face cemented on his face. When ever the king would glanced his way, Jim would put on an expression of mutual support and compassion towards the situation at hand. However, when Richard would turn, a sheer look of terror would inhabit Moriarty's face and make his clammy hands tremble.

The king became inpatient as sundown was fast approaching. When he heard the galloping of his men's horses, swiftly, the Niraveth castle gates opened and in rushed his most trustworthy knight Sir Dimmock donned in his silver armor caked with streaks of dried mud and the occasional tree branch or leaf. "You majesty, we found it." It only took those words for the weak-kneed king to break down into tears as he grasped the blessed flower into his hand and ran back for his wife.

No! Bellowed Jim as he pounded both of his fists against the slabs of concrete from the concealed verandah he occupied. In his mind, Moriarty doubted that the dimwit they call knights would be able to uncoil his genius ruse and discover the flower. Jim even took safety precautions for events like these that included an invisibility spell and a perception filter that altered what a person saw. It just astounded Jim that any of the knights were able to see through his perfectly crafted sorcery that has not failed him for more than a decade.

He was starting to rue the day he even placed the flower in the moor and not within his own property. Yes, he had soil, water, and sunlight by his tower but wouldn't that raise more suspicion in his favor if not when caught. All Jim could do now was wait unfortunately. He knew that the time would eventually come to this but he never envisioned the time actually coming. it all felt like a haze-- a disastrous, bone-chilling, nauseating haze. When would his peace finally arrive?

Two doors to the left from Jim's current position was the room with Queen Rosemary, the midwife was expected but Mycroft surprisingly made an appearance to aid his mother. Very calmly, the young prince talked to the queen barely above a whisper directly into her ear and soothed her a considerable amount from the astonishing pain she was experiencing. The king smiled in earnest for the first time in months, now that he had a reason to. His dear wife was going to be cured -- if this so called faery plant cured her-- and his first born son was finally showing any kind of emotion.

The cream disc of a moon had replace the fiery ball of a sun int the sky as it illuminated a vague pallid light. The birth would now have to rely on candlelight instead of natural sunlight. So, when Queen Rosemary let out another bloodcurdling scream in quick succession gripping onto the bed sheets, the midwife assumed her position between the queen's legs to await the arrival of the newborn prince. The king still had one last duty to fulfill however, as he crushed the petals of the flower into a kettle of blistering water and served it to the queen in a teacup.

On one of her rest periods when she calmed enough to take a breath, she began to drink the brew of fertility and youth. Alone the superficial results the king observed were marvelous. Rosemary's skin flourished from a pasty pale to a fresh rosy complexion within seconds. A glimmer of life and optimism arose in her glassy grey eyes after what looked like months of constant destruction festering within her. King Richard had his wife back in his grasps, and just in time because the baby would come in three, two, one...

All the king saw was a mess of raven black hair sticking up haphazardly off of a tiny little head that held the most intense piercing blue eyes he has gazed upon. Then came the urgent hungry cry from a set of plump, pink lips and both the king and queen's heart melted into a puddle of raw emotion. Even Mycroft had to admit he was a bit enthralled with the arrival of his new baby brother. Now he had someone to teach his knowledge to and perhaps bother on the off chance.

The queen was left alone with the king and their newborn boy for the baby's first feeding and naming ceremony. While the baby leeched onto his mother, together, the royal parents second time around contemplated on a name that went outside of the normal but had a significant meaning behind the stringing of letters. Of course, they could have named him after a noble king or a respected God-- but where was the fun in that? Queen Rosemary remember, growing up she was gifted with a male retriever by her father. Apparently, it was an over due favor from a good old friend who needed to get rid of a puppy litter. Unfortunately, for the young princess at the time, the pup was already named--Sherlock. How she loved that dog. Together they lasted twelve years before he passed away of heart failure in his sleep. Oh, how Rosemary wept for days now that her beloved childhood friend was gone, this was her first encounter with the Angel of Death. How ironic, thought the Lady of Canterbury, Sherlock translated in fair-haired and indeed that is what he was.

When the queen retold her story to the king along with her hopes of their son living up to the name Richard agreed with no hesitation. Lo and behold their new son Sherlock who as of now was bare for the exception of a well-worn cloth wrapped around his infantile torso. The raven hair had been smoothed down by the queen's gentle strokes across his scalp. Sherlock was sucking his fingers alternating between different ones --as if they each had their own tastes-- greedily. His eyes were blinking drowsily after just being fed but both parents gazed upon their son--their creation. All they knew, all they cared for, was that he was theirs to love, hold, and protect. no harm was to come to their child as long as they were around.

Once the news around Niraveth spread that Prince Sherlock was born, a massive celebration was planned to introduce said prince to his town's people. There would be activities for the young and the old, brave and the bold, even the poorest street urchins would be able to bless the prince a long and prosperous life. However, the most captivating event of the entire evening had to be the releasing of a lifelike gold dragon that would circle the castle and fly away into the darkness of the evening. Incredibly, it was Mycroft who came up with said plan--apparently dragons were incredibly in-style at the time with seven year old boys.

When the long awaited day arrived, Prince Sherlock was dressed in a tasteful combination of both a pastel blue and a snowy white. As he was only a mere few months old and had an enormous amount of limitations on what he could and couldn't wear due to skin sensitivities, his au pair Lady Molly. She brilliantly suggested he be adorned in a soft, white cotton shirt with a custom knit wool cardigan in a hue of blue that could have made the summer sky jealous. Sherlock fussed when Molly placed the beige corduroy shorts on him as they were a bit stiff but he seemed to settled after a while.

King Richard walked in through the french double doors as Lady Molly was taming the corkscrews that were sprouting out of the infants head. Behind the king's back in his hands, the king held a surprise for his son--his first royal heirloom. Mycroft had been given the royal ring crafted purely out of gold and encrusted in the finest diamonds and rubies, accented by subtle placements of opal. However, the king got a feeling that Sherlock wouldn't be one for rings which is why the youngest prince was receiving the family locket. Made with the same gold as the ring but instead of being gaudy with gems, it was kept simple and timeless. The locket itself was an elegant oval around four centimeters in length. What captured one's eye was the intricate honeybee that sat upon the entire golden oval as if it were a guard of sorts. Embedded in the bee's thorax was a pure, polished amber rune from the time of the mammoths. Regardless that there was no picture inside the locket even though it was centuries old, the sentimental value behind it was tremendous.

That is when the king began to lose the battle he never began fighting. As the king presented Sherlock with the sacred heirloom, as always, Jim was lurking in his natural habitat--the shadows. He saw the whole exchange between King Richard and Sherlock and his cold, soulless heart actually felt pity for them. They were making his job of burning them to ashes so much easier. How dare they get something petty as sentiment in the way of power?

At the end of the day it is the power over someones head that truly gets your blood rushing through your veins. Having them cornered and cowering at every turn, pliant and begging for a savior. Bowing down on their knees to your every whim or command, unadulterated power was sin. Love and emotions alike got you nowhere but heartbreak and confusion sometimes even death. Look where it got Romeo and Juliet, both killed before the ripe age of eighteen, and many more victims died before their time. Attachments of the heart get extremely complicated--fast. Without being seen, Jim scuttled back to his private quarters for the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place. For sentiment to finish taking its course and strengthen the potential of the prince's blessing.

At noon exactly, the castle gates where opened to all which meant that the swarm of Niraveth's people hoping to catch a glance at their new king have arrived. The courtyard was set up in which the king and queen's thrones were arranged in front of the official doors --which were still undoubtedly closed-- leading into the residency. Next to the grand exhibition of thrones sat a more demure throne for the auburn haired prince as he was the elder brother. However, the theatrics were there and all but what lacked was the actual performance of the royal family as they were nowhere to be seen yet. Then, a loud cacophony of fanfares sounded through the air and the castle doors opened in a swift movement revealing...darkness. Of course.

Always first to step out of the castle is the king's most noble night --Sir Dimmock-- to safeguard him during the day's event. Next to follow would be the king of course who appeared out of the shadows with a toothy grin, perfectly pressed clothes, and a waving, smiling Mycroft attached to left hand. Never before had the kingdom seen such emotion of the boy, let alone seen enough of the boy to know he had emotions.

Proudly trailing after her two growing men in a long silk dress that resembled a blooming pink carnation, came Queen Rosemary with her little bundle of surprise. Today was such an important day for the innocent soul yet Sherlock seemed so distant. Rosemary didn't know if the emotion Sherlock displayed on his face was one of ease or one of genuine fear. The boy would look at his surroundings at times and merely dismiss it as another dull occurrence. However, the next second he would start to get a look of overwhelming panic in his misty grey eyes if he overheard the bustling of the pages summoning the guards or servants. This sensitivity to noise and stimulation is a trait that Rosemary had picked up about Sherlock early on since she spent a great deal of time with him. Sherlock was always teetering between emotions whether he was being overstimulated by certain interactions or natural human gestures, eventually this would lead to a bout a screaming. On the other spectrum, when poor Lady Molly was trying to capture Sherlock's attention while the queen was attending urgent matters in what the petulant prince considered an unimaginative way, the shrills of tiny lungs resonated throughout the castle. Now that the queen was a measly yard from the expecting crowd, how would Sherlock greet the people of Niraveth? She daren't think of what would go through their heads when the tenacious Sherlock were to be presented with fat, miserable tears running down his flushed cheeks with miserable wails leaving his pouty lips. Queen Rosemary could only hope and pray that all would be well when the crowd and Sherlock were to meet for the first time.

Incredibly, Sherlock seemed to adore the attention he was receiving from everyone. At first he was indeed a bit apprehensive to to the situation at hand but once King Richard raised his gloved hand into the air ordering silence to announce the arrival of his new son, Sherlock stilled. His eyes widened in curiosity and flickered wildly back and forth between his father's risen hand and the effect it had on the mute townspeople --curious and curiouser. Rosemary let out a soft giggle as she noticed her son's curiosity and almost let out a peal of laughter as Sherlock's mouth gaped open when Richard spoke no less than ten words and the people ahead were suddenly on their knees. For only being a few months old, Sherlock was exceptionally bright like his older brother Mycroft. He associated from the words his father spoke and the reaction of the crowd that this get-together was in his honor. A simply breathtaking smile overtook Sherlock's face and the crowd thunderous roar of cheers and applause at the sight of this picturesque scene unraveling before their very eyes.

A gong sounded from the far right corner of the courtyard and without delay, the official Niraveth Orchestra began to play their repertoire of symphonies for the evening. The sound of laughter mingled in the air along with the ruffling sound of the women's dresses changing direction in the wind from dancing with their partners. Servants took turns going around the open area offering drinks and intricate nibbles to the attending guest. The night was soon coming to a close as the sun was stealthily slipping from the sky stealing all the colors of the day along with it.

Then the first gasp came from a owl-eyed boy no older than Mycroft as he pointed a finger at the night's sky where a burst of molten fire emanated from behind a turret. An animated, life sized dragon crafted from golden scales, unfurled its wings majestically and let out yet another breath of fire, illuminating the midnight sky. As of now, the creature was crawling alongside the walls of the castle navigating its way towards the highest crest for its final descent. Its grace and beauty unparalleled to anything ever seen by the people of Niraveth --even Sherlock was stupefied by the beast-- the mechanical dragon snaked around the guard watch tower and leaped up onto the glass dome of the observatory. The dragon held its intimidating wings in full display, the crowd held their breath in anticipation for the moments to come. With a whoosh, the creature was suspended in the air circling the area of the floating island. As the monstrosity of a machine flew into the shadows, a single lighten lantern floated into the air drifting along with the summer air.

Weeks after the announcing of the charming baby prince and the buzz still hasn't died down about the events. Mycroft was still especially hyped up as he happened to make a friend during the celebration. Greg Lestrade was a boy of decent income and honest upbringing but that had no qualms to Mycroft's attempts to rope the boy into his world. Any new toy or source of entertainment the young prince had, undoubtedly he shared with the commoner. Both the king and the queen were estatic with Mycrofts ability to accept someone other than a relative into his life so openly and without limitation. Greg was truly a blessing in disguise and how both children's parents hoped this wouldn't be just a phase --it appeared to be status building for town poeple to be in relations with royalty-- that children go through. It seemed that everyday that passed within the castle walls grew even merrier and filled to the brim with smiles from all parties--until that day came along.

The Holmes' boys --including Greg-- had a long day planned with their governess in the castle's garden. Greg and Mycroft spent some of their time analyzing the vegetation growth and precipitation cycle. Then they altered to a sort of sport that required the use of a ball and Mycroft couldn't say he was to keen with the idea, however, it made Gregory smile so that was enough to convince him. Once the older boys had declared their thirst, Lady Molly brought out a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a basket filled with goodies. In total, Mycroft had two ham and cheese sandwiches, one apple, and a pilfered piece of apple pie, while Greg had three roast beef sandwiches, two pears, and a few jammy dodgers.

Lady Molly pretended she hadn't seen the boys stuff their faces like savage animals and tended to Sherlock's nutritional needs. It went without saying that said infant was one of the most fastidious eaters she had ever seen in her years of work as a governess. Only showing Sherlock the bottle containing the milk and the wails of complaint demanded to be heard. Molly has tended to picky children before, of course, but there is always a method to pursued them otherwise. Sherlock was an unmovable obstacle and if he refused to eat at the moment, Molly had no choice but to swallow her pride and be bossed around by a six month old. Nevertheless, whether it was the gentle calm of the autumn breeze or the change of environment sound wise, Sherlock grasp onto the bottle between his lips and sucked the liquid hungrily. Finally stopping to let out a tiny content sigh followed by an erupt burp. From the time Molly artfully tucked Sherlock's bottle away back into the nursing bag with one hand holding him in place and the other preforming said task, to the time she actually looked at the baby's face, Sherlock had drifted to a deep sleep which again was another unusual occurrence as Lady Molly was certain the raven haired boy must be related to some nocturnal creature.

After their long afternoon, they decided to come indoors for a pleasant dinner being served in the family dining room. Even Grandma Hudson who was visiting for the time being made an appearance at the long dark mahogany table that might have been set for seven people but could have easily accommodated sixteen diners comfortably. Greg had the green light from his folks to stay for diner, however, he was to stay no later than that as his father was sailing to the castle to pick up the young bright-eyed boy. Mycroft sat directly alongside his friend, barely leaving any space between the two mischievous boys to share secret jokes and laughs during the meal. Lady Molly and Sherlock seemed to be having a heated stared down and by the looks of it, the grey-eyed infant seemed to have the upper hand. The governess had violet bags under her eyes and the state of her hair seemed quite disheveled meanwhile Sherlock looked as fresh as a daisy. Then, the au pair blinked her eyes and let out a groan followed by a string of mumbled sentences under her breath but Sherlock couldn't have been smiling any wider. Apparently, the young princes new fascination these days has been partaking in staring contest --which he uncomfortably never lost-- with Molly who, bless her, was wrapped around Sherlock's little pudgy finger. King Richard sat at the head of the table with his wife adjacent to him, sharing a private gleaming smile and they both just knew. This is what it meant to be a blissful family.

Once the guest were escorted out of the castle, the queen sent her precious boys to bed as she would bid them good night. As always, Mycroft's room came first since it was closest to her suite. Queen Rosemary peaked her head through the polished wooden door and caught a sight of a reading Mycroft tucked under plush duvet. His head propped up against the ivory, down pillows accentuated his fiery halo of hair. Once he recognized that Rosemary's was present in the room, Mycroft lifted his gaze from the book and offered his mother a warm smile. Apprehensively, the timid prince beckoned the queen to sit beside him on the bed with a mere patting of the bed space next to him. Rosemary gleamed at Mycroft and gently crossed the room as to not startle him. Gracefully, she sat on the edge of the sturdy full sized bed simultaniously taking her son's tender hands into hers. A look of mutual love was evident on the surface, however, if one were to dig deeper and pull of multiple layers, one could detect the exchanging of deeper emotions. Sorrow. Relief. Acceptance. Most importantly--forgiveness.

Before the queen could even bid her goodnight, she was rudely interrupted by the deafening sound of shattering glass and the piercing sound of a frightened infant. Racing through the incredibly spaced corridors, the queen barreled towards Sherlock's room hoping to find the intrusion happening elsewhere in the castle. The queen's world rapidly disintegrated into a puddle of despair, pooling at her feet. A eerie wind was entering the nursery from an ornate window --which appeared to be broken beyond repair-- not far from Sherlock's crib. Before anything else occurred, Rosemary called out for help--any help. Then she began to think, perhaps this was a petty attempt for a large sum of attention and monetary compensation. There should have been a ransom not, however, only she found the shattered remains of glass and what would be their only material memory of their lost son--Sherlock's golden locket in the

Moments later, the guards along with the king sporting his night gown, rushed into the once cherry, colorful room that now transpired into an empty whirlwind of despair. Richard sent desperate pleas to his wife demanding to be informed of the situation, knowing it was futile since Rosemary seemed despondent. On his own will, King Richard trepidatiously tip-toed over to the crib expecting to see something off with his son but that was the problem. His son wasn't there or anywhere near the vicinity. That is when the king took noticed of the violated window and just broke into a heaping pile of sobs on the floor. His precious baby boy that he adored with all of his might. The opalescent grey eyes his son had that reflected greatness stared painfully at the king in his memories. When would he see his son again?-- if ever.

It was not even daybreak and the best crime investigator of England --the king held no reservations when it came to more pressing matters-- was called to observe the scene of the kidnapping. For security reasons, all staff were forced to sit down at some point of the day with the detective to deliver their location at the time and if they had an alibi of any sort. The sly demon known as JIm passed his interrogation with flying colors. When asked of his location, without hesitation Moriarty answered that he was in the comfort of his home from the time he was relieved of his duties around late noon. Considering the had a long draining day he experienced at the castle he needed time to unwind in peace. Shrewdly, he followed his impressive lie with the coincidental visit of an old friend who need a place to rest for the night. Hence, with a location out of the castle wall (lies) and a credible alibi (lies again) Detective Inspector Anderson had no reason to hold him for any further questioning.

Later on in the investigation of the nursery turned crime scene, King Richard's greatest worry was confirmed by DI Anderson and his workers. Whomever committed the kidnapping of his precious son was indeed related to or work for him. Treachery! From the evidence collected on site, the infiltration must have taken an individual with thorough knowledge of the castle layout and guard shifts. Above all, to the degree the perpetrator executed his devious plot, it was obvious that intricate plans like these required intricate measures and controlled variables.

All of the king's horses and all of the king's men searched all over the kingdom for Sherlock, despite the fact it was deemed an act a treason. Once again the king would take no reservations and expand upon every option he had. Months passed and the royal family still had hope that the baby would appear. They even placed rewards around Niraveth, each one attempt higher than the other as their pleas grew more desperate. The citizens of the kingdom supported the royal family by holding numerous religious cervices in hopes to bring Sherlock back to safety.

Until one day. The weather alone should have been a dead give away of what terrible events lay ahead. Stormy rain-heavy clouds hung low in the grey sky while a ominous presence of the unknown prowled behind the shadows of its prey. The day has come, the day to face the truth.

It was what Sir Dimmock believed was another routine patrols around his segment of the forest when unfortunately laid eyes on a faded blue threadbare blanket. Carefully he approached the patch of fabric and grimaced almost immediately. In his hands was not only an infants blanket but the very same one bestowed with the royal crest. Nothing, however, could have prepared the 'bravest' knight from the most traumatizing scene that unfolded before him.

Wildflowers were artfully placed in a oblong oval ranging from the creamiest of whites to the richest of violets. The ring of petals and stems were meant to highlight a grotesque truth. A body in the early stages of decomposition no larger than a child of eight months of age was strewn on the ground faced up. Poor lad's face was so badly beaten that it was even hard to identify as human. However, the knight knew he had found the decomposing body of Sherlock because of the distinct raven hair the boy possessed. Nevertheless, assumptions of this magnitude should never be made, so Sir Dimmock enlisted the assistance of DI Anderson to provide a positive identification of the deceased corpse.

Samples of blood from both King Richard and Queen Rosemary were compared to the red cells found in the premature body. The test was supposed to deny or confirm the relationship of the discovered remains. There was an indisputable amount of similarities in both DNA markers and mitochondrial analysis. Undoubtedly, they had finally found Sherlock, however, not how they had to to find him.

Sir Dimmock brought the crippling news back into Niraveth feeling the obligation weighing on his back as he technically held full responsibility for the discovery of Sherlock. With a heavy heart Sir Dimmock reported directly to King Richard and Queen Rosemary and to say that they were devastated was putting it demurely. Mycroft even showed despair clear as a summer's day when he destroyed his room and burned his possessions relating to Sherlock. Up in a blazing inferno burnt memoirs of times the two boys spent together. Nothing was spared in the eyes of Mycroft as he was blinded by rage, however, a picture of a toothless, babbling Sherlock, swirled to refuge for the rampant elder prince, a memory -- a tiny one at that-- was salvaged.

Not even illustrious Greg was spared from Mycroft's ravenous crave for desolation, his brother, his poor baby brother who was at the dawn of his very destined life was never to return home. Surely Sherlock's death was to be avenged--even if it involved Mycroft himself in the process.

Nothing was ever the same in the royal family after baby Sherlock disappeared.

Chapter Text

Throughout his whole life (seventeen years and eleven months to be exact) Sherlock has spent it wistfully glancing outside the open window. Whther it was glancing at the cotton-like clouds up above or the bristling grass down below, relentlessly teasing him at all hours of the day no matter what experiment he seemed to be doing. Whether he was trying to analyze the results from his microscope or attempting to find the boiling point of different household cleaning liquids.

The opening carved into the wall was constantly providing him a bittersweet taste of the free world beyond the four barrier walls that kept him restrained hundreds of feet above the Earth floor. How badly Sherlock wished he had the courage to one day take the leap of faith he constatnly contemplated and left the wretched castle behind to rot. He wanted to see what, so called 'Mother Earth' felt like beneath his pale, unexposed hands. Supposedly the trees were capable of hibernating during cold weather much like a mammal but Sherlock believed no such thing until he saw it for himself. Seeing was believing and no theories were to be made without all information gathered, he would have to see with his own eyes and not through the scripture of a mummified book.

Sherlock wanted to romp around in the grass feeling the subtle breeze ruffle his curled tendrils of hair. he assertained the possibility of being suspended in the air like the birds he sees ever so often soar outside his window. Jealousy for the winged creatures is what Sherlock feels when he gazes upon their unlimited freedom and mobility in the vast unknown, able to gather as much information as they please. Sherlock ached to receive more knowledge besides the books he had already read and re-read multiple of times. A spark of excitement would wrap itself firmly around Sherlock's fascination as he thought of all the lessons he could learn from the world beyond if he was already a genius indoors.

To keep some company and a constant experiment at hand, so far in his observation journal, Sherlock had cataloged exactly forty-three distinct bird species that appear year round. When caught on a gracious mood, Sherlock was know to give the occasional piece of fresh bread. As long as he fed the birds they always seemed to come back, to Sherlock this predicament was as close to friends as he ever had.

In some books and reference guides he had glanced over not bothering to read in depth, Sherlock noticed that having friends or any sort of emotional tie that required sentiment from both parties ended up in disaster regaurdless the situation. Emotion --better yet sentiment-- was never on the winning side and Sherlock always had to win at the end of the day. Applying basic knowledge, Sherlock formulated an equation and then applied to practical terms or life situations. Every friendship always ended one way or the other, with a messy fight of betrayal or the common loss of interest, Sherlock couldn't bear to see himself getting caught up in the dramatics --not to mention the waterworks that came after.

Occasionally, when Sherlock pictured himself outside, he wasn't always as enthusiastic towards his possible freedom. He began thinking about the 'what ifs' of him against the big cruel world with nobody to watch over him when times got rough. Would he be able to defend himself if he ran across any inconveniences? Or would his last words be pleas of help or mercy being shouted into the cosmos waiting for an answer? The fear slowly paralyzed him like an obedient pet and deterred him from even attempting any form of escape plan from his holding tower.

Sherlock didn't consider himself as a prisoner per se, however, he thought of himself as precious china only brought out for special occasions. So far, there hasn't been an occasion for him to be used truthfully.

His father was quite young in appearance despite having a son almost at the brink of adulthood while he didn't look a day over thirty. He was the one who ingrained in Sherlock's brain that the outside wasn't as it seemed. Nothing should be trusted because at the end of the day even the shadows have secrets they intend to hide. People will do anything that benefits their needs before others and stab you in the back with a dagger if it means they get to live.

Every night by the fire his father told Sherlock another story of the day's findings  beyond the thick layer of stone and mortar and inside the bustling castle walls.

In order for the story to happen, however, Sherlock was required to perform a certain task beforehand. He was to concoct a drink out of a certain mix of herbs -- which he cultivated in a small indoor garden-- prepared and heated to the same temperature without fail everyday. If Sherlock were to falter in any of the steps he knew what punishment lay ahead for the scarred boy as it had happened before. Lets just say his father isn't the most forgiving of men, but how should he know, Sherlock has no other men to compare him to. Jim Moriarty was not a elementary man and didn't plan on changing anytime soon.

The sun was slowly meandering its way gracefully down its pedestal in the sky, making way for the moon, taking all of the daylight colors and cheeer along with it in shades of gold and scarlet with the occasional hint of a delicate violet lacing its way through the rest of the colors. Sherlock stared in marvel at the sky, wondering how this phenomena came to be, until he realized the severity of the sinificant event. It was nearing dinner time and Sherlock had barely started any preparations for said meal approaching. If his father came home to find the table empty of sustenance of any kind, Sherlock would never hear the last of his nagging.

Sherlock rushed down the severely long flight of uneven stairs in a matter of seconds and barreled into the kitchen, hardly remembering to grab his apron. He yanked at the stainless steel icebox doors to open with the tip of his black leather shoes while his hands were occupied knotting the tattered apron strings behind his back. After a quick once over of the well stocked cooler, Sherlock extracted a perfect recipe from his mind palace where he stored his extensive meal itinerary --all from cookbooks brought home by his father-- that was sure to impress Jim if everything went correctly. Sherlock revised every item he shoved into his bountiful arms to avoid any additional trips back into the fridge and waddled into the kitchen setting down the endless amount of groceries he had gotten hold of on the counter. After a brief period of produce rinsing and separation which included setting every ingredient into an efficient assembly-like order to assist his time management during cooking.

With constant smooth flicks of his wrist, Sherlock expertly minced the onions and garlic down to almost perfectly symmetrical sizes and transported them into a sizzling oiled pan letting both aromatics mingle. When the meat was tenderized and seasoned with rudimentary flavors edited by Sherlock to tease one's taste buds to what he would have considered culinary perfection and the vegetables were diced and ready for combat-- the game began. A dash of white wine here, a sprig of parsley there, and finally the "ring" of the meat timer signaled that the preparation of the meal was over and Sherlock plated the roast meat and pasta in serving bowls.

Thoughtfully and with purpose, Sherlock set out to find the most intricate table cloth he could find in the dusty linen closet tucked away in a far corner of the kitchen. He pulled out a lacy piece of white cloth intertwined with pearl dusted beads glittering under the dim candle lights. This will do, thought Sherlock. Satisfied with his choosing he trekked into the dinning room adjacent to the kitchen and began adorning the polished cedar table with a candelabra set in the center and two chairs sat opposite of each other. Sherlock set out the best china and even pulled out the silverware. He stepped back conceitedly to admire his hard work and let out a sigh of relief, wiping an actual droplet of sweat off of his brow. Sherlock surely expected to be heavily compensated for his actions.

Ever since Sherlock was old enough to reach the ledge of the window, giving him a peak of the universe, he has always stared at the stars and wondered what else was there for the world to offer him. Surely this wasn't what the universe had planned for his entire life because truthfully it was rather dull... Life in the books he read was so action packed with chariot chases and sword fights even the occasional murder. Sherlock was sick and tired of living his life vicariously through the characters in the book and so desperately wanted to have adventures of his own. That is what he believed he was destined to do in life he was most certain. Sherlock wanted to investigate the wrongful killings of the towns people or solve crimes for the ordinary minds. Finally using his unlimited knowledge to aid the justice system which he thought seriously needed his irrefutable help and fast. First, he actually needed to stop being a coward and step foot out into the world before to be exposed to the world of crime scenes and mysteries.

Perhaps tonight was the night Sherlock would be brave enough to ask the question that has been burning the tip of his tongue for the past few weeks. Asking his father for at least a brief walk amongst nature even if it was supervised. Sherlock's motivation for keeping his stellar behavior when all he wanted to do was explode more lab equipment or stay sedentary and read a book or twenty. These past couple of weeks, however, he found himself dusting the furniture twice a week or sweeping the floors daily, even doing some additional handy work around the tower with the occasional fixing of a leaky pipe or the sorts. Sherlock even bit his tongue when his father spoke lies about him and he so desperately wanted to correct him. In Sherlock's point of view he deserved an award --maybe a sainthood.

A startling unbolting and creaking sound resonated from the next room along with a sudden whoosh. Excellent. His father was finally home and now it was Sherlock's time to do what he was born to do-- show off.

"My dear, Sherlock, where is that delicious smell coming from?" asked his father still out of sight. From the trajectory of his voice, the calculation of the distance of his footsteps from the soft clicking sounds bouncing off of the floors, and the speed at which it takes the human nose to sense the smell of food depending on their whereabouts in the house left Sherlock to believe that Jim was still by the first flight of stairs reaching the main floor of the house.

Sherlock put on his most respectful face and awaited his father at the top of the stair railing with his hands locked behind his back. "Welcome back father, you were surely missed while you were gone. And yes, the scent you are detecting was indeed prepared especially for your enjoyment. I do hope you enjoy." After a cold impercise curl of his lips and a slight bow, Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve the ceramic dishes containing food.

Jim made his way to the dinning room without being told and waited at the table, seated proudly in a chair staring straight at Sherlock as he entered the room.

"Why Sherlock, you went all out! Daddy is very proud of his boy." Sherlock's cheeks were tinted pink once he heard the compliments from his not-so-easily-impressed father. "Now, how about you make me some of that special tea so I can tell you today's story during dinner?"

There was a conniving glint in Jim's eyes but Sherlock decidedly ignored it as he ran to his minuscule garden pruning the almost bare branches. It was exceedingly rare for his father to make such a proposition. Was it Sherlock's birthday or a special occasion he was not informed of?

With the task at hand Sherlock had to be extremely careful not to drop a single leaflet. Father always told him that it would be dishonoring the plant and his own integrity if he were to do so. So, when he finally reached the kitchen after a long trek around the tower corridors, Sherlock let out a tired huff of air and continue working. The kettle boiled after a few exasperating minutes and during that time Sherlock was busy tying up the herbs inside an empty tea bag. Before he combined the two elements in a mug, he made sure to sing the short little melody that his father taught him from a young age to preform.

Flower, gleam and glow
Let your power shine
Make the clock reverse
Bring back what once was mine

Heal what has been hurt
Change the Fates' design
Save what has been lost
Bring back what once was mine…

What once was mine

-------------------------------

"Ah, there you are Sherlock, Daddy was wondering where you were." His father look at Sherlock with a greedy expression on his face as he grabbed the brew into his possession and drained the cup's contents within seconds despite its scalding temperature. "Shall we begin this lavish feast you prepared? I feel it would only be fair if you would do the honors, Sherlock dear."

"Of course father, thank you for waiting." Sherlock kept his words clipped as to not slip out of context and went to work divvying the food between the both of them. Although Sherlock wasn't particularly hungry, he would at least make an effort to enjoy the ailment he so arduously prepared. When he was done rationing the portions, Sherlock sat himself back into his chair and gently cleared his throat, "Now father, how about that story you promised me? I bet it must be a ravishing one by the look in your eyes"

"Yes, very well Sherlock. You are aware that I work in the castle and am thoroughly informed about affairs involving the royal family?" Jim waited until Sherlock gave a small nod of understanding and a wolfish grin made its way across the young boy's face when he caugth wind of the stories topic. "Then lets just say that today was a doozy." His father clapped his hands together in amusement and took another forkful of his tagliatelle in mushroom sauce. JIm loved watching Sherlock squirm in his seat as he continued to chew with doll bites.

"Go on father, don't leave me waiting," Sherlock was waiting on tenterhooks for Jim to continue and finally voiced his desperation. He seemed to have an unnatural attraction towards the royal family and their stories in particular.

"So, as I walked into my work place this morning, King Richard said he had a particular task for me to preform and it involved for me to take a trip into the royal jewel room itself. Of course, I obliged and went ahead with menial task to overlook the placement of the newly polished relics. However, the hallways leading up to the secured room were everything but that-- secured. No one was standing guard at their respective door or entry." At this time his father took the time to take another mouthful of his food along with the intention to infuriate Sherlock even further.

"What happened, father? Were the guards captured by Russian spies looking to steal royal secrets? Murdered by the German Embassy who were plotting King Richards death?" The inquiries Sherlock was making were outrageous and he was aware of the fact, however, the deprived teenager was desperate for any bit of information he could grab hold of in his greedy little hands.

"Sherlock, always with the imaginations and deductions. However, daddy doesn't like when you make such ridiculous stories when I am sure I have taught you better. Never make any theories without provided data, if not you will have biased answers and your thinking will be obscured." Sherlock bowed his head in shame and tried to get the image of his father shaking his head in disapproval deleted from his memories as he had plenty already cemented in his mind-palace.

"Forgive me father, but please continue with your vivacious report of the castle if you will."

"Yes, well, when I reached the doors leading into my final destination, a horrid commotion was transpiring through every crevice available. Curious devil I am, slowly I cracked the door open to see the events unfolding within and for a second I believed my own eyes were betraying me." Jim paused once more to sip away at his wine and make Sherlock seethe with anticipation altogether.

"Every guard that must have worked on that floor was currently inside the royal jewel room running around, flailing like chickens with their heads cut off. A man...correction boy was suspended in the air with a rope knotted to a spire, climbing towards the skylight. Now if it was just the intruder, the threat would have been less immanent, however, the contents in his rucksack made the difference. For the hushed whispers around the kitchen, later on in the day I was able to piece together the purpose of the heist. The unseen gift that once belonged to the missing prince was taken by the thief during his escape. King Richard has sent his whole infantry of soldiers to find the lost possession." By this time, Sherlock's eyes were so enlarged with excitement, Jim was afraid he was going to have to place them back in their sockets.

Then Sherlock began to think, and a lightbulb lit in his head with a blinding light. This precise moment was perfect to ask his father to assist in the relocating of the valuable item. Sherlock did want to become a consulting detective, what better way to begin than with a case of this magnitude and status. If he could prove to Jim that he is in fact capable of solving a crime that sends the royal family into frenzy, perhaps he could convince his father to let him into the real world and begin his profession full-time.

Quickly Sherlock seized his only window of opportunity, "Father, do you believe it would be too much to ask to consult on the case of the missing jewelry? I mean, considering the fact I want to pursue a career as a detective, this incredible opportunity might serve as a lesson for me?"

Not even a second passed and Jim was responding in a cold, concise fashion, "Absolutely not, Sherlock. Do you want daddy to be worrying about you chasing after a criminal. After all, the world is a frightening place to be exposed to and I don't believe you are quite ready for the outside world yet. You are just a kid. Give it time dear, you shall see how it will all work out in the end."

"Father, can we at least come to a compromise of sorts! Please, I beg of you to consider my complete position." Sherlock knew his voice sounded like a petulant child being denied sweets but he couldn't care less aslong as it convinced his father how grave the situation at hand was to him.

"A compromise you say? Enlighten me with this compromise and I shall decide whether or not you shall take the case. However, Sherlock dear, listen to me closely. If my answer doesn't sway in the other direction and I catch notion of any foul play of your part of the agreement, I will burn everything you love." Jim never threatened anyone and Sherlock knew that for sure, what he did do was make promises in the form of threats. One mustn't get confused with the other.

"There shall be no false accounts on my part and to that I give my word." This statement would have been true if Sherlock childishly hadn't crossed his fingers behind his back. "The settlement I am willing to make is quite simple. You are to inform the king you have hired the best man capable of solving his dilemma since you are his confidant. When King Richard bestows upon you the information of the crime, you are to report back to me with the file for my observation and solving. In no point shall I have to leave the house to consult this case if that was your worry. I will let the chasing of lowlifes to the rightful workers of the palace."

"Very good, Sherlock its great to see you try to negotiate with me, however, my answer still stands. Under no circumstance will you be consulting on or even near this case as long as I am alive and present. You are but a boy dear, and daddy is very angry that you want to grow up so quickly. You're neither a man no matter how desperate you seem to want to grow up and how are you so sure you can solve this case. Hasn't daddy loved you enough that you want to leave and live unprotected?" Jim's eyes were furious and Sherlock swore he saw actual flickers of red resembling a raging fire, sprout from the irises of the other man. Sherlock knew that his best option for the time being was to shut his mouth and to leave with whatever shred of dignity he had left.

"That is not true father for you have cared for me more than needed, but I just feel that if I do not expose myself to the world I will never get accustomed to their cruel ways." At this point Sherlock was grasping at straws in order to keep his argument alive.

"Are you deaf son? Do you not comprehend that under no circumstance am I letting you out of this residence as long as I am head of the house? Daddy will not be responsible to pick up you pieces after the carnivores they call people tear you apart limb by limb sparing you no mercy."

"I understand you must make me accountable for my actions father and I would not hold your decisions against you. If I were in fact to be harmed either physically or emotionally outside these walls I promise to you that in no way I shall involve you in my recovery if you just gave me a chance. Father I know I was destined for something greater than being trapped insid-"

"Now, you have the audasity to tell me that you are trapped son. How dare you make such accusations when all I have done is give you my love and affection? Miles, I have walked back and forth into Niraveth to fetch you those retched books you read or the irrelevant lab equipment that mind you son, you shall never see after this day. I have a privileged job to provide you with the very best quality food and clothes to wear on your scrawny ungrateful body. So now, dare you say I have you locked up in this castle." If Sherlock looked hard enough, he could vaguely see gusts of steam shoot out of his father's ears from the boiling anger streaming through his body.

"By no means is that what I meant to say father and I know you must have picked up on my mistake. Clearly I meant to say that I posses a natural talent in solving crimes out of the ordinary and this is an exemplary chance to showcase and enhance my ability. In no way was I trying to insult your efforts in parenting and nurturing me. If at any point you misinterpreted my words, excuse me for my inability to speak correctly. Please forgive me father for being so rapt with the idea of crime solving. However, I cannot achieve my dreams from a hundred feet above ground." Again, it was Sherlock's turn to turn away in shame as Jim stared at his son with twin snake eyes boring into his head mapping out an ingenious murder.

"At least you have the decency to apologize for being an inconsiderate son who is being brainwashed by impossibilities. Be serious with yourself, Sherlock. Can you really solve a mystery of this magnitude? Daddy thinks you can't even solve who stole the cookie from the cookie jar. You are nothing but a child Sherlock--an amateur at best. Face it, you will never be anything in life and you are lucky that you have me to keep your feet on the ground." Jim always knew how to hit Sherlock's nerves when he spoke, whether he was insulting the missing heir or just immersed in a simple conversation. Now the roles were reversed and Sherlock was forced to grip the edge of the table to prevent an outburst.



"I'm sorry father, I shall never bring it up again. You are right, I over stepped the line and got too ambitious and it will not happen in the future." With his eyes stuck on the table, Sherlock wasn't able to catch a glimpse of Jim's cheshire grin appear on his face, blazing with satisfaction.

"My dear Sherlock is very lucky that daddy is feeling nice today and is willing to overlook this disastrous conversation. After you clean this mess and put out the fire like a good boy, I expect you to be in bed no later than nine." Jim stood from his chair gracefully and blew the candles out in one breath. He left the room with a confident stride to what Sherlock presumed was the master bed room.

Sherlock couldn't even begin to describe how empty he felt inside. He at least expected to leave the negotiation with some success but he was left with naught. Was his whole life meant to be condemned to the deafening silence that is the tower? Sherlock was desperate for any form of interaction besides with Jim --who truly never treated him as his equal-- and would see it happen no matter the expense. All he had to do was plan his escape, in secret nevertheless. Then, Sherlock thought, that would be the easiest aspect of the whole elaborate mission he was planning in his head. A ruse would be needed to stray the focus of Jim's attention off of Sherlock and especially now that he brought the topic of consulting a case to his father's attention.

Sherlock would bring himself true satisfaction into his life, all by his design.

No one was going to stop him or tell him he was worthless.

He was, Sherlock the boy from the tower who survived.

Chapter Text

After a quick change of his day clothes, Sherlock grabbed his observation notebook, a map --albeit outdated-- of Niraveth, and a variety of colored pencils. After he was most certain that Jim was asleep --which involved listening to his breathing and movement pattern-- the scheming adolescent tip-toed towards his study at the end of the hall. At his oaken desk, Sherlock spread his materials in a systematic order and began working. Carefully, Sherlock reconstructed the design of Niraveth, highlighting the obscured entrances to the town and especially the castle. To differentiate each strategic entrance and exit along with short cuts and alleyways, Sherlock made use of the array of colors at his disposal.

Every ounce of energy Sherlock had in his body was poured into his map replica assuring the best precision on his part. How ashamed would the so-called genius be if his plans were to fall apart from his ignorance of detail or lack of consideration on possible unknown variables. Sherlock was sure he would never live the shame down if the case were so. No self-respecting consulting detective made such trivial mistakes!

When Sherlock's plans were coming to an end, the moon was already positioned low in the sky and the first glances of rosy light were visible above the cliff's peaks. Jim would awaken soon to prepare himself for work, so Sherlock had to make the most convincing theatrics of his young life. He stealthily folded the parchment paper containing the plans into the inside of a romance novel--Jim would shiver at the thought of even picking up a book based upon two souls willing to mingle. Then, he stuffed the colored pencils into the hollowed space of his shoe and shoved said shoe into the overflowing closet. A maniacal whirlwind is what Sherlock very closely resembled at the moment. At all costs he was to escape his father's notice of any plan making against his wishes. It's not if the youth had any obligations to fulfill his commitment, Sherlock did cross his fingers when he made that promise if he remembered correctly.

Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed as Jim waltzed into Sherlock's room just as he finished fastening the brass belt on his olive tunic. From under his covers, the thespian theatrics were raised a notch as Sherlock steadied his breathing to almost sleeping perfection and ceased all flickering eye movements. His father came as close to Sherlock's face without 'waking up' the sleeping boy before he left somewhat satisfied with his discoveries. In Jim's mind, Sherlock was fast asleep, being a good boy for daddy.

A massive sigh of relief was let out when Sherlock heard the distinct click sound of the lock on the door. Now that Jim had gone for the day, Sherlock was able to commence his planning once again. Once his quick breakfast of toast and well prepared tea, Sherlock was more than ready to continue his scaled map.

He fetched the parchment from the book he camouflaged it in and spread it out on his desk for further analyzation in broad daylight. Yes, it looked incredible under candlelight, however, that would not do if Sherlock were to actually utilize this map model outside in the sun. A few corrections to certain measurements were in order, but apart from that, his plan was falling into place. Sherlock was then faced with the problem that although he knew what the town looked like, he had no idea how people normally interacted with each other or went about business. Brushing up on his etiquette looked like a very feasible idea at the moment.

After pouring hours into reading books on regards to human interactions, Sherlock glanced at the clock and noticed that noon was fast approaching. An enormous pile of books yet to be read, stared at Sherlock from across the room. Perhaps tonight he could get away with a cold dinner from yesterday's leftovers, saving him the struggle of preparing a whole new meal and leave him with more time assuring a positive outcome for his imminent escape. Using the meat, he simply carved it into paper thin slices and assembled the slices on bread along with assorted greens and rich cheeses. Easy. A sandwich for Sherlock to enjoy at his leisure and one for Jim to do as he please when he arrives home at dusk.

He retreated back into the sitting room, returning to his stack of books on the depiction of human character. The book he was currently reading was Humans: A Complex Machine. Sherlock had barely commenced reading the page he had dog-eared before the turning point began.

If you asked Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to recall which event occurred first, whether it was the bellow of a man?- or the gunshot fired into the air. All the curious boy knew was that in a matter of seconds, he was anxiously placed in front of the window waiting to catch some of the action going on below. From Sherlock's point of view, all he could see was the occasional ruffle of trees or flying bird. But his ears. How they heard such intriguing sounds. Sherlock heard the rapid pace of footsteps getting nearer and nearer while a voice somewhere far behind was yelling commands to 'stop' or 'halt.'

Then from the tangle of vines that Sherlock has always viewed as the final jail gate, emerged a man? Yes! A young man was running quite rapidly towards the tower Sherlock currently was residing in. And quite frankly in a distressed matter. From up above, the surveying boy could tell that his visitor was injured --and could possibly be the source of the scream, however, don't make theories without data he reminded himself-- and rather badly at that. The frantic male was gripping at his shoulder while a pool of crimson grew larger by the second. It was he the receiver of the bullet Sherlock heard go off earlier. What Sherlock failed to notice was the shoulder bag held protectively against the youth's side in a vice grip despite his distress.

John Watson's feet were running on autopilot as his muscles were riddled with aching pain. His bones had chiseled away into dust and ash, scattered through the wind. The knight's of Niraveth were hot on his trail and John really needed to disappear, and quick. Everything was fine and dandy as long as it was just a cat-and-mouse chase, however, the moment artillery was used, John knew the joke was over. A nice, big bullet through his shoulder was his parting gift to the royal knights as he spotted an unusual amount of light peak behind what was supposed to be a stone wall. John tried to convince himself that the pain was barely a two on a scale of one to ten, however, he was too bloody tired to lie to himself at the moment. Perhaps this was the Universe's way of saving his back and sparing him to live another day, as John ran through the tangle of vines into an open field.

John would have been foolish to stop fleeing from the guards now just because he found a hiding place. What if the knights were just as clever as he was and used common sense to spot the thing that didn't belong. No, John had to continue running even though he had no destination in mind. Mid-way through his rampant race, John's shoulder pain became so unbearable the boy almost let out an agonizing wail. At first the bullet wound rippled through the muscles in his shoulder causing a blinding pain to posses every inch of his body. By default, John faltered in his movements and almost fell face first into the sodden grass. When he was, so to speak 'picking up his bearings' the sight before him made John very agog.

An incredibly elegant monolith stood erect in the far corner of the clearing, staring at John like a beacon in the night. Smooth, grey stone called his name enticingly as he walked --crawled-- towards the doors. John expected there to be massive security measures and heavy duty locks placed upon the door seeming as the location was rather remote. Besides the standard latch, John saw no further countermeasure against intruders. Well here goes nothing, thought John, as he lifted the latch and peaked his headful of blond choppy hair into the dark, damp stairway.

Sherlock was trembling with both fright and anticipation as he saw the unknown male make his way towards the tower. Every possibility was flashing before Sherlock's eyes leaving him reduced to a puddle of nerves. On one hand, the locked away boy hoped to be found by the lost intruder and perhaps learn a thing or two from someone else besides Jim. On the other hand, Sherlock was remembering of all the tales his father told him of men who went on killing sprees upon innocent souls and abused of their naïvety.

No! Sherlock would not let this moment pass him by because a little fright got in his way. Besides, this would serve as a perfect test trial for his escape to Niraveth. Sherlock would no longer be the malleable little boy who listened to every word his father said and held no opinion of his own if not in his mind. Now, Sherlock would be who he desired to be. A strong-minded man --yes he was a man-- who put his genius abilities to work instead of dwindling away in a corner of shame.

With a rib expanding intake of air and a ruffling of his hair, Sherlock stood tall and proud to face this foreigner who happened to pay Sherlock a visit on this fine day. All he needed to do was to greet the stranger...somehow.

Curious! thought John, the entrance looked rather off-putting, however, the farther John got up in the steep staircase, the more refined and cared for the tower looked. Once John reached what he estimated to be about fifty feet above the ground, the actuals stairs shifted from cobblestone to smooth hardwood flooring with an accompanying railing. Although the passage he was traveling through was still rather dark except for the occasional cracks in the foundation letting sunlight sneak its way in, John saw a promising source of light coming from up above. Now John was truly captivated with the mysterious element surrounding what seemed to be an abandoned tower that somehow had recently polished hardwood stairs not to mention working lights.

John quicken his pace the best an injured man could manage and climbed up the last twenty steps or so. To his immediate right, there was a line of metal hooks screwed onto the wall bearing the weight of two or three rather pricy wool coats. Just ahead, there was a tall archway that led into a spacious room where John saw the beginnings of a living room peak out. John heard no movement throughout the tower so he assumed it was empty for the time being and safe to claim as his --for a while. Tentative steps towards the open room led John to see a rustic sort of couch placed awkwardly in the center.

What he did not expect, however, was there to be a young man sat in the couch with his almost translucently white hands steepled under his chin. The inhabitant had inky black curls that framed the creature's porcelain face. Cheekbones so artfully sculpted that John had never seen such perfection in human form, better yet, not even on a boy who was barely of age.

John let out a startled gasp as his opposing opened his stormy grey eyes in an analytical stare and spoke, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Chapter Text

"Excuse me?" John wasn't sure what the boy was trying to ask him, especially with a question that strange for a first encounter.

"Please, don't make me repeat my self. I find it so...dull. Do at least try and keep up with the conversation. Although, I do seem to forget not everyone uses the space between their ears. With your mediocre at best mental capacity --which seems to be compromised by you obvious gunshot wound through the clavicular head of pectoralis major, I shall repeat myself this once. I ask you not to get used to this privilege if we prolong our company. I asked you, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock felt rather proud at the way he composed his first conversation with a stranger as he let no sign of nervousness show on his face or through his words.

John's eyes twinkled with an emotion akin to amazement as he stared at this...person before him. A wicked smile unleashed itself on John's lips as he spoke in a whisper-like voice, "Afghanistan...How did you know? I mean, have we ever met before? I would definitely have remember someone like you."

"No we haven't met before." Sherlock deadpanned quickly trying to get the stupid grin off of John's face. It was begging to unnerve him how a person could just withstand his insults so easily.

"Unlike most people, I do not see, I observe what is around me. Clearly that is not your natural skin color. The tan line above your wrist shows a lighter skin tone than your face and hands. You've recently been in a place with constant sun and Niraveth is known for it's forest qualities. Your clothes say you aren't struggling financially but aren't as well off as you would like. Naturally, that means there is a stressor within the family that is destructing the dynamics and money distributions. From your shoes I would say sister because no men would wear flat shoes with such a soft sole, meant to be used for household tasks but smells of late nights out in the pub-- a drunk. Judging by the way you stand even after being shot tells me you have a military training since you are barely registering the wound that would have other men withering on the floor cowering in pain. So, you have obviously been injured drastically somewhere in the past obviously during action. Only places Niraveth is actively in war with is Afghanistan or Iraq." By the end of his lengthy speech, Sherlock had a devious gleam in his eyes as he saw John's emotions wrestle between impressed and a tad bit disturbed and being dissected by a complete stranger.

"I was deployed to Afghanistan. That was.." John had to take a breath. He couldn't even believe what had just occurred in front of him. His whole life has been picked apart by such menial details usually ignore by the average person. " Amazing" John whispered, still breathless.

"Really?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side in astonishment. Every time he unleashed his tongue like that to Jim, he always ended with a angry red mark on his back side. Then John came storming through the tower, invading Sherlock's personal space. When Sherlock was just about to protect his territory and banish John, the man had to admire his deductions. John was now considered a rare species. One of the rare few that understood the unspoken population, the ones without emotional freedom.

"Yes, definitely it was incredible. Just brilliant. I can't even...Wow!" John truly had no other words to describe his current state of emotions, so he left it at his idiotic muttering of words. On the inside, his heart was galloping faster than a horse on racing day. His nerves were tender with excitement and adoration for this poor boy who had no clue when to stop running his mouth. John had a fleeting idea of what affection towards another person felt like, but never to this point where John physically felt his heart swell every second that passed.

Sherlock felt a slight rush of blood surge to his face, trying his best to hide the flush of color and the vulnerability it signified. "Considering your peasant-like upbringing, I would say your vocabulary is not extensive so I will consider your poor conjuring of words as a compliment. Nevertheless, that's not what people usually say." In that moment, Sherlock lowered his head to face the ground, however that did not mean he was embarrassed in any way.

"What do people usually say?" John noticed that this was a very delicate topic for Sherlock when he started avoiding eye contact. Sherlock looked so unusually exposed with his inner emotions. John felt the fluttering of thousands of butterflies from within his stomach at the privilege of seeing Sherlock become more human.

"Piss off." Then a startling thought came to John's mind that made him still for a fraction of a second. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't exactly staying in this tower for a rebellious impromptu getaway. The image of a tender boy who has been denied all sorts of interaction or freedom of expression rang clear through John's brain. John felt a pang of anger surge through him. The audacity someone must have to lock up such a talented and incredible person in an isolated tower.

The raven-haired boy spoke in a rich baritone voice, "The name's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. And you are..." Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow towards the blond boy, who had traces of birch wood leaves in his hair sticking out at very particular angles. You would have had to kill Sherlock before he would have confessed that his hands itched to reach out and gently pick them out of his hair.

"Oh! My names John Watson. Sorry for 'dropping by'. I guess its not very polite of me to come uninvited." John offered Sherlock his hand for a polite shake only to be denied by an inquisitive glare from the perceptive youth. The blond teen felt his heart falter minutely at being so coldly rejected, so he dropped his hand back to his side and started to salvage the moment. Running a hand through his hair --bush of hair more like it-- John tried to flash Sherlock a cheeky grin, trying to get a reaction from the boy-- any reaction. John just received another cold stare and confused tilt of the head. Why couldn't the Earth just swallow John whole and leave him there to rot.

After a pregnant pause, Sherlock broke the silence to clear the air of some tension, "Well, John Watson, now that we are acquainted...may I ask what exactly you were running from that caused you to get that distasteful bullet wound."

"How did you...no I'm not even going to ask. Um, how 'bout I tell you once you actually use that brain of your's and help me stop the bleeding, maybe patch it up." An emotion slipped through Sherlock's mask of frigidness, however, it wasn't a pleasant one. John couldn't easily identify it. Was it one of disgust? No, questioning? Fear.

"What makes you think I know anything about proper medical procedures and wounds that correlate to your magnitude? I am only just a seventeen year old boy. Wouldn't want your life on my hands actually now that I think of it." Sherlock had a big roar, however, behind his threatening volume, he was just a tiny boy excited that someone finally saw he had potential and intuition. If one were to look even further, they would see his actual cause of fear. Sherlock dreaded the notion of being responsible for the death of such a beautiful soul. Jim had once told Sherlock that he had the curse of death nestled in his heart, what he touched would never live to see another day. Sherlock wouldn't dare to take a chance to reap John's soul by any chance.

"Bloody Christ, you're only seventeen! Well I'm nineteen and still I can't even tell if its going to rain. Anyways, Sherlock, I am sure that if you could tell me that I just returned from fighting military service in Afghanistan without meeting actually knowing me, you must know something about medicine. It could just be how to take care of a tiny bit of blood. And actually, I don't know how much I can hold on before I faint from looking at my own blood." John was in fact growing paler as the conversation progressed and if Sherlock didn't act soon, John would be dead either way.

Sherlock was in a difficult position--an impasse if you will. If he agreed to help John, he would become human with sentiment and visible emotion who voluntarily helped others without and ulterior motive. But if he denied John the help and let the boy eventually bleed out to death, what would that say of him? What would he do with the body before Jim came home? The more confusing question bouncing through Sherlock's head was, how would he live with himself after John had accepted him.

After a few more seconds of weighing the pros and cons, Sherlock voiced his decision to the slowly dissipating John, "If I agree to assist you, you will have to follow my word to the letter. Any form a deviation will lead to my banishment from the scene immediately which will force you to tend to your own devices."

"Alright! Understood, so where should we go? Do you have a sort of room or something that somewhat safe for stitching someone up?" John carefully stood holding his arm with the other to avoid any additional weight upon his strained shoulder.

With a certain boyish flair and no further word, Sherlock waltzed across the expanse of the room to a set of french doors that led into pure darkness as far as John could see. With his steps heavier than a giant trudging through mud, John crossed the room and entered the room were Sherlock was currently puttering around, rummaging through drawers for surgical materials. The injured teen now noticed the room was lit by several candles spread sporadically throughout the room and his heart ignited with the sweetest of flames. Sherlock's face looked mystical with the minimal light hitting him, and John was staring at every inch of skin he could catch. He was so scared that Sherlock would catch him staring and kick him out for being 'eccentric' when choosing his life partners, but the walls emitted an incandescent glow comforted the nagging worries swimming through his bones.

Chapter Text

Sherlock finally started to resemble a human again and not the tornado he was seconds ago, John cleared his throat to catch his attention. Sherlock was summoned from his constructed chaos as he focused in on the intruding noise. There, leaning against the door frame, was John with his crimson-tinted shirt and mud-stained trousers who was in need of quite the fixing.

Why was the young serf just standing there and not taking action to mend his shoulder as he so impolitely prompted Sherlock to help with? Did he not have any manners looking so nonchalant about everything? Sherlock was at wits end with John's strange human behavior, but he would never admit it made his heart palpitate at the novelty of the experience.

Sherlock's voice was subtlety raising in rage, "Well, what are you waiting for, John?" The last word was spat with forceful poison that the warmth John once felt settling in his bones changed into palpable fear. Sherlock watched as John straightened his posture to give himself leverage on Sherlock, and that made him upset for frightening John. Sherlock desperately tried to ignore the groan of protest ringing from his forgotten injury. With unspoken words and gestures, Sherlock beckoned a sketchy John towards a rustic wooden chair in a well lit corner next to a trestle table, a thin sheet of linen running along its length. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Sherlock had brought John into the dinning room.

John took a seat in the chair which threatened to buckle under his weight and waited for further instruction from the boy of many mysteries. When he heard no barking commands, John dared to open his mouth, "Sherlock, what would you like me to do first? I have no idea what to do, I could really use your help." Just for added assurance, John looked at the cosmic grey eyes before him and projected a sense of sincerity and dependance that left Sherlock startled.

Sherlock's wintry exterior melted and his posture loosened as he spoke calmly and not berating. "Just take off your clothing from the waist up and I will take care of the rest." John nodded at the instructions he was given and silently chuckled as Sherlock impatiently tapped his toes waiting for John to begin.

John's nimble fingers steadily started unbuttoning his cream colored shirt to give Sherlock access to the bleeding wound. Sherlock was holding wet cloths to cleanse the wounds. He was quite at ease with the sight of the blazing red gash spurting liquid life at a constant rate. John found himself seconds away for imminent death-by-disgust.

With clinical hands, Sherlock began wiping at the surrounding areas of the wound to prevent bacteria from entering the open cavity. John practically jumped out of his seat when Sherlock actually placed a new cloth on the opening with extreme pressure that almost brought tears out of John's eyes.

"Can you ease up with the pressure, Sherlock? It really hurts." Although John spoke in a biting tone, Sherlock could see he was truly in pure discomfort and pain. Sherlock felt a new emotion rise from his stomach at seeing John in so much pain because of his doing. What is this sorcery? thought Sherlock. I have never cared for the pain of others, why should I care now?

Sherlock retook his grip on the cloth, when he place it upon the open sore, there was a noticeable difference in Sherlock's treatment towards John. Sherlock wouldn't exactly go as far as saying that he was being tender with John, but if that's what people called it, then so be it. He was merely trying to spare himself from experiencing the maudlin feeling again. It was solely for selfish reasons and no one could convince him otherwise.

John was now pliant under Sherlock's hands, so he had full reigns to begin his assessment and follow up treatment. A clearer look at the gaping hole, Sherlock came to the conclusion that John needed at least a few stitches in the near future. A bullet wound like this won't heal without a helping hand along the way. Using his pale, wiry fingers, Sherlock threaded a sterile needle with the thread he used on his cadavers to suture John's shoulder. John should consider himself special. Sherlock never shared his suturing thread if it wasn't for something highly important.

"I will commence the process of stitching your entry wound with a clean needle. Do refrain from yelling, screaming, crying, or fainting, as I will not tolerate such behavior." With a upturn of his lips, Sherlock brought his hand towards John's shoulder.

John flinched away from Sherlock's hands and spoke, clearly trying to buy himself time, "Don't you have anything to give me. Maybe to help me with the pain?" Sherlock feared he was showing sympathy for John on his face and started thinking if he had any anesthetics lying around. Normally, he experimented on post-mortem body parts so painkillers weren't needed, but Sherlock had some for experimental reasons. Sherlock rose from his chair and walked over to the china cabinet to open the bottom door. The small, dark emerald bottle Sherlock extracted from within contrasted greatly with his white, spider-like fingers.

Sherlock poured a healthy dose of liquid in John's mouth to soothe his conscious and quit his complaints.

John graciously accepted the morphine toast from Sherlock and downed it in one gulp, wiping the droplets the spilled down his chin with the back of his hand. No one ever said liquid courage was bad, especially if they were in John's position.

"Will you allow me to continue or do you have any more requests?" his tone oozed discomfort, Sherlock had been caught with his filthy habit. John heard Sherlock's anxiety but was too mellowed from the opiates to bother. John simply nodded and left all of his muscles to melt into a gelatinous mess.

Sherlock picked up the needle and hesitated to make the first incision, he didn't want to hurt John anymore than he already was. John remained still besides a small wince for the remainder of operation Humpty-Dumpty as Sherlock tried to piece John back together again. When Sherlock was cleansing the wound for the last time, he looked up to see the blonde headed boy staring at his hands with a careful gaze. Sherlock felt infinite knots form in his stomach and he settled his gaze on John's soft features. When John sensed Sherlock's chromium eyes settle upon his, their eyes connected like a magnetic force.

Sherlock saw trust in John's eyes and a catastrophic swell of nausea washed over him. How could John Watson trust him if they have just met? John had literally placed his life in Sherlock's hands with no second thoughts, no doubts in Sherlock's talents. Jim had never held an ounce of faith in Sherlock, he was always deterring the teen, drowning his spirits.

Speechless at John's reaction, Sherlock busied himself at wrapping a cloth bandage over John's shoulder. At first, Sherlock focused on solely setting John's wound but curiosity won him over. John had such lovely golden skin that contrasted beautifully against Sherlock's pale hands as he found himself itching to collect further data. Sherlock innocently placed his unoccupied hand on John's upper arm to restrain his patient from rapid movement. It was definitely not so Sherlock could feel the defined muscles of the older boy under his skinny fingers.

Then, when Sherlock was trying to knot the ends of the bandages, of course he had to place his hand on John's chest to get achieve a tighter surgeons knot. John's heartbeat was gently thrumming from beneath Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's mind slowed as if he were injected by a soothing lullaby.He wasn't sure if he enjoyed the feeling or not, but he winced when he heard a voice in the back of his head.

Caring is not an advantage.

Never let the opponent see your true emotions.

Sherlock heard this religiously from Jim. Until now, Sherlock never had a reason to doubt him but then John changed his world. Jim would play cruel games with Sherlock if he caught one of his emotions, so to avoid humiliation, Sherlock learned to shove his feelings into the dusty corners of his mind palace. But now, he was feeling the volcanic eruption of his bottled emotions bubbling to the surface.

"Sherlock, are you finished with my arm? I could really use a nap." It had been the mixture of exhaustion and the morphine that had John slightly intoxicated.

"I have finished the physical part of your healing, however, your body will need approximately ten hours of rest in order to be somewhat functional. Considering the opiate levels running through your blood stream, the amount of sleep and food you eat, I say roughly in eight hours you could be on your way." Sherlock's voice lost steam as he mentioned John leaving. He knew it was inevitably going to happen, but he hoped John would be able to accompany him for a while longer.

"Brilliant! Fine um, help me over to the couch and I'll be fine sleeping there. But first maybe I should have some dried fruits in my satchel as you said. No need to worry over me anymore." John sighed contently at the prospect of getting some rest and positioned himself for Sherlock to aid him in the transition to the couch. Sherlock frowned at John. How dare John try to dismiss Sherlock's help without even hearing what he had to offer first?

Then, Sherlock had a niggling sensation in the back of his head that he constantly tried to swat at to leave him alone until he realized how mistaken he was. How could he forget the biggest flaw in this whole situation? What was his father going to do when he sees or even finds out about John? Sherlock couldn't let Moriarty see John and the couch was directly in plain sight of the entrance. Time for Plan B.

Sherlock scoffed at John before he put his two cents in, "Dull." Sherlock extended his arm to John. "The couch will make it impossible for you to receive a decent amount of rest. Therefore, extending your recuperation and pain. Also, dried fruits, that is not that kind of nutrition I meant when I brought up the topic. A person who was just been shot needs mass amounts of proteins and starches. Luckily for you, I have something prepared along with spare bed for your enjoyment."

Technically, Sherlock wasn't lying about anything he told John, he was just leaving out the fact that he was hiding the blonde boy from his father for both John and Sherlock's safety. Jim Moriarty was known for his wrath and if caught in his line of fire, he would grab your still beating heart from your chest and make it burn in his hand. Sherlock would regret the very day Jim were to focus on John Watson for he belonged to Sherlock. Nobody had the right to steal the precious gem Sherlock had discovered away from him.

John's sluggish mind mulled over the thought for a few seconds before said, " Yeah, alright. Can't beat your logic when you say it like that. Lead the way, Sherlock." Just for good measures, John threw a impish lopsided grin at the raven-haired boy and stood up.

Chapter Text

Sherlock led John into a desolate room that clearly hadn't been used in quite some time. A cloud of dust whirled around the two boys as the door swung open and both teens tried their hardest not to cough up their lungs.

John was in awe because although the room was hardly used and antiquated, it had a certain charm that made John truly believe he was living in a fairy tale. Whether it was the towering canopy bed with a silken duvet neatly folded besides a plethora of pillows. The embossed armoire sanded down to perfection gave John a nostalgic feeling of his Grandmama's house when he was a child. John had a niggling feeling that the reason he was in a state of euphoria was because of the gorgeous...he meant interesting ebony haired wonder. Whatever the reason was, John didn't seem to care as long as he got to stay.

Sherlock decided to clarify a reasonable number of regulations before he decided to leave John alone to rest. "You are to stay in this room at all times. There is a bathroom behind the door to your left and I will personally bring your meals to you. Please keep the level of noise --that includes thinking-- to a minimum as it bothers me greatly. I will not sacrifice an experiment for such trivial necessities. Am I clear?"

John sent Sherlock a questioning look. "I understand, Sherlock, but why the rules? I mean its not like your parents are gonna mind that you are helping a friend out."

If John knew how incorrect he was, he would probably faint. Most humans do since they are incapable of handling the truth, but when Sherlock thought about it, John had gone to war and escaped the castle guards. Perhaps, John was the anomaly within the human race that Sherlock had been searching for his whole life.

However, Jim would very much mind that there is a stranger in his tower when he has specifically banned any form of company.He had even strangled a young birds Sherlock had saved saying that pets were no exception to the rules. Jim would so kindly repeat the bird incident on Sherlock in a sign of his appreciation if he were to find John.

There should be no other people in the house, point blank.

The thundering sound of Jim's voice was taking over Sherlock's head but the thought of John slowly pushed the rain clouds away. The sun soon appeared from behind the stormy weather and Sherlock saw that the star now had a face, blurry but a face nonetheless. Golden hair shimmering in the rays of light, a beautiful disheveled mess that made Sherlock want to comb his hands through all day. Sparkling blue topaz eyes that envisioned peace and warmth throughout the night. A mouth so soft and pliant sang the song of love, lulling Sherlock into a deep sleep. He felt a deep seeded heat crawl through his veins while the lullaby continued its course.
Sherlock broke Jim's cardinal rule without a single regret. Finding John --or maybe it was John finding him-- was the best moment of Sherlock's life.

John's comment about being friends, Sherlock had to suppress a shiver. Sherlock wasn't supposed to have friends, but god did he want John Watson at his side. He wanted that bubbly warmth that was currently in his veins to remain there for eternity and only John was capable of bringing him that Joy.

But he knew that friends were a defect and he would eventually have to let John go. Friends were useless, distracting, dramatic, and expendable, and quite frankly Sherlock had no time in his life for such ridiculous factors like these. Sherlock had wished for someone who was on his level in all sense of the word and he had been presented with a simpleton who had surpassed his every expectation. Someone who could challenge him mentally but still allow him to be smarter. A person who wouldn't cower when he entered his black moods and put up with his insults. Lastly, John wanted to be there for Sherlock, be involved in his adventures, not a figure in the shadows.

John was everything Sherlock wanted. Even more.

Impossible, thought Sherlock. The more I accept John, the harder it will be to detach myself from him in the future. As all friendships imply messy attachments, unwanted connections, and his least favorite, the rather unpleasant dancing around each other to prevent hurt feelings. However, John didn't seem like the type to be dependent and needy, but Sherlock thought he didn't want to stick around long enough to find out.

No matter how much Sherlock changed, John could never be a permanent fixture in Sherlock's life because of Jim. His father just wouldn't allow any friendship to form between the two teens as he happily squashed their hope beneath his leather soled feet. John wouldn't be allowed to stay in the tower nor would Sherlock be able to leave with his new friend(?) so he saw himself in a stalemate.

Sherlock weighed the pros and cons heavily and decided to extend his courtesies in hope of establishing a basic friendship/acquaintanceship with John and enjoy this human experience while he had the chance. Only for experimental purposes, again it was not because of the constant hammering of his heart or the weak state of knees. Absolutely not, it had to be the morphine withdrawal finally kicking in since it had been...forty-eighth hours since his last dose.

With a cold smile, Sherlock exited the room murmuring something about coming back with food and John just stared at the closed door. With a longing gaze still on his face, John decided to settle on the bed and get as comfortable as he could with a bandaged arm. He desperately wanted to stay awake to greet Sherlock when he arrived with his food but the fluff of the down feathers against his head and the warmth of the silk covering his extremities was carefully swaddling him to sleep. I wasn't long for the morphine was in full effect as it had been stirring in his blood for quite a while and John found himself succumbing into the sands of sleep. His head lolled one last time onto the plush pillows and the last thing he saw before his sleep was Sherlock speaking to John for the first time.

Chapter Text

When John slowly started to blink himself into consciousness, he could see from behind the dusty window pane that the sun sat lower in the sky. He estimated it was roughly around late afternoon, maybe even closer to sunset now that the remmanences of sleep were wiped clean from the corner of his eyes.

John heard a low rumbling sound come from his stomach, not much later, a rolling sensation made itself present. He then remembered Sherlock had said something about bringing him food, so there should be some nibbles waiting for him. There on the small, hickory bedside, sat a silver tray with a decent spread of food.

There was a sandwich in the middle of the tray made with artisan meats and cheese. Several chewy, chocolate biscuits were lined along the plate and a shinning red apple was perched on it side.

The most surprising component of the whole meal hadn't been any of the ornate, homemade dishes, but the cup of tea that laid besides the tray. There was steam billowing from the top of the expensive china, so Sherlock must have deduced when he would be waking up from the opiate induced haze. Incredible!

John took a tentative sip out of the tea cup knowing it was impossible for Sherlock to have made it to his likings. Surprisingly, the tea had a milky color and didn't taste sweet at all. How was it possible that Sherlock knew the way he like his tea? That boy would honestly be the end of John Watson.

Once again, John's stomach began to raise complains and honestly, John knew he could have eaten rubber. In fact, he thought it would have tasted much like a dish prepared at the castle kitchen. Hunger didn't suit him, it wash;t very becoming.

It was hard enough growing up in a struggling family of  five where it everyone for themselves. John never knew when his next meal would be and being the youngest of the family wasn't much help. He this into consideration and felt slightly less guilty for eating Sherlock out of a sandwich and a few biscuits and tea. John was pretty sure Sherlock had enough money to make up for anything John took but that didn't mean John wouldn't try to repay him back in any way he could.

He took a ravenous bite of the sandwich and instantly felt pops of colors explode in the back of his eyelids. Wow! Sherlock could really prepare a proper meal. (Or John was truly the poster child for poverty that even something as simple as a bread and cheese managed to reduce him into happy tears.) To distract himself from all the negativity that was flooding his thoughts, John's mind drifted to whether Sherlock would be willing to prepare all of their meals if they were to live together in another world. John was crap at cooking and Sherlock didn't seem to mind. On a good day, he managed to burn a can of beans, however, his tea has receive incredible praise. Then John caught what he had actually been thinking about. He had been considering moving in with someone he hardly knew because they had seduced them with a sandwich and their mercurial eyes. Damn. John was screwed.

After the very imperative disicion he had with himself on keeping his thoughts and reactions to Sherlock to a minimum (well, for now at least, if Sherlock showed interest towards him, then John would gladly reciprocate those feelings), he decided to wander around the tower to pass the time. He would explore the corridors he had traveled through in his state of delirium before entering the guest room (he wanted it to be his room, even better, Sherlock and his room).

And of course not, he was not desperately hoping to find disheveled obsidian curls wandering through the halls because that would be wrong. Bad John!

John didn't know everything about the eccentric but completely wonderful and incredible boy but now he remember now the certain precautions he needed to take for the precious jewels in his possession.

John, the soldier, the Golden Boy. The boy appearantely every parent wanted their son to be like was the infamous jewel thief. The very one who snuck into the castle unnoticed and passed every guard twice his size to make his way successfully through the gates in several quick, calculated minutes. (It was refreshing to know he still remembers something from his army training)

He escaped with a very luxurious and bloody expensive locket in his possession. Sure, he barely made it out of the borders of Niraveth before the knights had caught up to him, but John was up for a good game of catch-up. That was until he received the nasty blow to his shoulder and he mentally screamed (maybe even verbally screamed, everything was a blur) sod all into the sky and cowered behind the first safe place he could find.

Careful John, your true inner coward is showing. Not really a good time to start screaming for mummy and daddy is it? 

That day, fate decided to play nice and be on his side for once providing him with a tower to recover (hide) in. The best part of all, in John's opinion there was the person living there who fixed his injury and didn't leave him to bleed to death. Oh, and the fact that the man was incredibly fit and makes John's head spin in constant whirling circles.

John was over the moon with how his plan was working out. Considering the fact that everyone he had confided in had told him it was impossible, a dream if you will. They repeatedly told him how he would never be able to pull such a stunt and manage to get away without any consequences. Some of his more imaginative friends went as far as confirming how he would come back with either missing limbs or without his fingers and tongue. He would shake his head and reaffirm, he could do this. Watch me, he said to every disbeliever. 

Look at him now. Here he was several hours later with the gold locket tucked safely under his tunic (having it in the satchel would cause greater turmoil in his drowsy brain) stepping through massive wooden doors that would lead him to continue his day in bliss.

x

Reading from his newly acquired book on fungal infection, Sherlock was interrupted mid-paragraph when he heard the a door down the hall --John's door to be exact-- open and the sound of weighed feet vibrated off of the smooth floor. It could be hours before Jim is due back at the tower, so Sherlock thought about possibly entertaining his guest a while longer before he was forced to lock him up for the nigh. Keeping him hidden like a dirty secret when all Sherlock wanted to do was study the boy, get to know him better. Why couldn't he just curl himself around the boys shorter more compact body and stay in the moment, forgetting the rest of the world?

Right now, those were details, images Sherlock couldn't let his mind delve into or he would become distracted. (Well, more distracted.) And a distracted Sherlock could equal up to disaster.

The lithe figure of the raven haired teen rose from the chair he had sat in. He had remained motionless for the better half of the day besides the repetitive turning of pages ever since John had left for a kip in the guest room. Should it be the way Sherlock's body was built or a tactic he learned over the years living with Moriarty, he soundlessly walked through the barren halls to meet a snooping John, eyeing every door curiously.

Trying not to startle the injured blond and give him a heart attack (he wasn't that sadistic. Well, not to boys who had the ability to scramble his brain like beaten eggs served at breakfast), Sherlock announced his presence with a soft hum of acknowledgment.

"I would think it rude to be wandering around other people's homes without their consent." Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the way John jumped at the sound of his voice, stared at Sherlock with owl-like eyes. "However, I would've been disappointed if you didn't feel curious enough to try. You are in a tower after all." John's face relaxed when he saw Sherlock's devious, yet playful smile. John never thought he would see the day when such a dark, sinister smile would make him breathless, his heart skyrocketing from his chest.

"Sorry. I, uh, didn't mean to pry or anything. I just wanted to get around the tower without any help." He focused his sleep-addled eyes on the ground, speaking in a timid voice. "The tower's a lot like you, you know? All mysterious and strong, yet delicate at the same time. It must've been amazing to be a here child and get to play down in that meadow all day."

Sherlock was sure John had no ill intentions when he mentioned playing in the fields below but he couldn't help but feel wounded. It felt alike to being struck in the heart with a lighting bolt that had been left, forgotten for eternity.

"It's dangerous to make assumptions when no data is provided." Now, Sherlock's voice was slightly more guarded than before. The jovial tone had disappeared and his defense mechanism was starting to rise once again.

The teen opposite of him saw the pieces coming together slowly but surely. John's face fell into a twisted mess of embarrassment.

"Oh. You were never allowed to go down there, were you?" With every word that left John's mouth, Sherlock felt sincere sorrow behind the his statement. He truly never meant to hurt Sherlock, he was merely trying to bond with him. Perhaps remembering childhood anecdotes wasn't exactly the right way to go about things but Sherlock felt touched for having John's attention even if he hadn't done anything to deserve it.

"No. I wasn't." trying to lighten the mood, Sherlock supplemented the distressed look on his face for a cheesy smile. "Quite alright though, I had books with me and that's all a boy could need. Now, if you could look at this for a -"

"Sherlock..." John cried out his name like he was trying not to burst into tears. "Don't say that like its a good thing. You deserve to have friends. To enjoy the opportunities the universe meant to give to a brilliant genius like you. The world is waiting for you out there. All you have to do is rise up and meet it."

Sherlock felt a pool of warmth in his stomach hearing how a stranger saw his brilliance when his own father neglected him. However, that didn't mean he wouldn't feel offended because the key word was stranger.

John knew nothing about Sherlock to be making such quick assumptions about what he needed to do in life or should've done already. Unbelievable, thought Sherlock. His hackles rose and anger began to bubble viciously in his stomach.

"I don't have friends, John." Sherlock practically spit into John's face. "Alone protects me from the destruction other people cause for their own amusement. I don't need your pity, nor time. I'm perfectly fine the way that I am. I have been fine for years before you decided to break in here and take over everything."

If it weren't for the slight tremble of Sherlock's lower lip, John might have believed him. John might've even left the conversation without another word and have marched out of the tower never to return again. Giving Sherlock his peace of mind even though he would miss those arctic eyes immensely.

But all he saw was a boy longing for someone to share his books with. Someone that wouldn't judge him or scream at him for being a fool and believing in certain possibilities (friendships included). A boy who wanted to seek comfort in another person when they felt scared or threatened but instead held the pain as to not get humiliated or criticized.

John saw a broken boy who could still be fixed.

Who he wanted to fix for his selfish needs nonetheless, but it would be his pleasure to restore hope in Sherlock.

Sherlock added in a broken whisper. "I've been fine so far." Even as he maid this claim with somewhat of a tone of conviction, Sherlock was incapable of looking John in the eyes.

Chapter Text

"You're right." John was currently in a defiant vein as he balled his hands on his hips. However, he knew that using conventional methods with the most unconventional person wasn't going to get him anywhere. If he wanted to get through to Sherlock, he would need to go outside the box. But that right there was the problem. How was he supposed to know Sherlock's boundaries when they've just met.

"I am?" Sherlock was momentarily baffled by John's remark, enough to quizzically stepped closer to John looking for any answers that may be written on his face. Sherlock abhorred not knowing but he mustn't let John see that chink in his armor, so he straightened himself to make his previous movements appear intentional. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be right?"

John was still sensing Sherlock's desolation radiating throughout the room. He smiled warmly before speaking, "Sherlock, your absolutely right when you say you don't need my pity, time, or attention. Because tough luck, yeah you might've been stuck in this tower for most of your life but you made the most of it. You became a genius which is much more than anyone else would've done." John proceeded onto stroking Sherlock's fragile psyche with compliments that he knew would actually get through to the broken boy.

"After that, everything else you've said has been dreadfully wrong. And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about because if you were fine like you say you are. Clearly, you would know that being alone your whole life won't protect you from shit."

Sherlock was definitely not expecting John to be so straightforward considering the little time they have spent together. But Sherlock had made the same mistake in assuming John to be like any another ordinary teen he'd read about. He'd expected John to fuss over him at the time of his grieving, pumping him full of false hope and lies. Then the second Sherlock had his back turned, John's laughter would resonate off of the wall from Sherlock's naiveté, and the spattered lies would return to reap the breath of life from it's victims.

"Friends don't protect you either. Everything is fun and games until the truth comes out and in the end, everyone does whatever they can to save themselves from blame. You're feelings will mean nothing to them if it means they get out clean from everything." countered Sherlock bitterly. "At least isolation saves you the energy of mending a broken heart. Sentiment is a putrid thing, John. Caring is not an advantage."

His grey eyes narrowed one last time in John's direction before he turned on his heel and began to walk the other way. Sherlock felt appalled with himself as he spit the words in John's direction verbatim from Jim's mouth. It was like a cold, heartless serpent slinked it's way through his skin and bone and toke hold of his body, controlled his every move. Jim had rooted himself deep into his brain to the point Sherlock was unable of making any decisions regarding his emotions. But there was one thing he was sure of, he mustn't let his stunted emotions effect his budding feelings for John.

"If caring isn't an advantage, then why did you help me with my shoulder?" Sherlock froze mid-step when he noticed the significance of John's words. "You barely know me at all, it would've been very easy to send me packing, but you let me stay. Even more, you probably fixed me up better than any doctor back at Niraveth when anyone else would've done a shoddy

With a rigid back, Sherlock remained with his back to John. "I helped you with your injury for very selfish reasons. I simply needed a live specimen to practice my sutures. You were there, needs must, that's all."

John lifted his eyebrows doubtfully regardless of the fact Sherlock was unable to see him. The blond teen was definitely not buying into the utter lies Sherlock was trying to sell. "Sherlock, we both know that's not true." Once John had said that he noticed how Sherlock slightly lowered his shoulders in defeat. "You could've let me bleed out and die unconscious. No one would've noticed but you didn't. You could've, but you didn't so I think that means something."

This was too overwhelming for Sherlock. Too much sentiment, to many emotions swarming his intellect. He was unable to process anything with the wasps flying and stinging away at his brain. All he could do was slowly shake his head and turn around to face John. "I don't know." Sherlock's voice was but a whisper. "For the first time, I don't know."

John couldn't stand seeing Sherlock look so lost, set adrift. The fist thing John had noticed of Sherlock since their initial meeting was his confidence, Sherlock had no problem proving his superiority.

But now his head hung from his drooping shoulders and his face screamed devastation. Sherlock didn't deserve pity for never being taught the value of friendship, however, he did deserve a guide in his travels of finding a friend that would treat him right. John wanted to be that guide, he would hold Sherlock's hand and navigate him towards the stars if he had to.

The teens stood in silence for several seconds until John decided to through caution into the wind. He genuinely wanted to get a smile back on Sherlock's face and it amazed him how far he would go to get it done. It was either he fixed whatever was troubling Sherlock to some extent, or he'd failed, everything was pointless. The same deep seeded need from before within lurched and pulled towards the gravitational force that is Sherlock, so John had made up his mind. He was no longer going to question the growing hunger, the burning lust, and insatiable attraction to Sherlock. Nope, he was going to lay all of his cards on the table and let the chips fall where they may.

He steadily approached Sherlock stepping lightly to prevent any future alarm from the statuesque boy. Sherlock appeared unreceptive to his surroundings and if John didn't pay close attention to the rise and fall of his gaunt rib cage, Sherlock could've just as well been a marble statue built for art galleries around the world.

John stopped when he was inches away from the solid muscle and warm heat that screamed Sherlock. He met the gaze of smoldering grey eyes bursting with trepidation. John wondered if it was safe to have that unadulterated beauty stare into the recesses of his soul.

John delicately brought his uninjured hand up to Sherlock's jaw, he gingerly cupped Sherlock's chin with his shorter, stubbier fingers. The golden tan of his skin was made for a shockingly beautiful contrast between Sherlock's translucent skin.

John couldn't get enough of the feeling of Sherlock's skin beneath his. He wanted to caress the cool, pale skin, he wanted to press kisses on to quivering thighs. But for now he settled for the sensation of his thumb whispering against the creamy skin of Sherlock's cheek. He also thought this would be an appropriate place to mention he did all of this without breaking eye contact --including the embarrassing bit with the thighs but that's for later.

"Sherlock, you don't have to know everything, all the time. It's okay if don't know, sometimes it might even be for the best."

Sherlock exhaled shakily and bleakly closed his eyes. John knew that the other boy was starting to feel lightheaded standing on his feet, so he wrapped his weaker arm around Sherlock's waist in an effort to prevent any further injuries. A impromptu operation on his shoulder was enough damage for one day and he didn't really see himself as the doctor sort.

John immediately noticed that Sherlock tensed at the added contact around his mid-section and he slackened his grip afraid, no terrified he had stepped over his place with Sherlock.

But then Sherlock leaned in towards the foreign hand on his waist and John's heart sang softly, merrily like the mockingbirds in the early morning spreading their lively songs.

Sherlock faintly shuddered, John wasn't sure whether it was Sherlock now the fact his brain had wrongfully accepted lies as facts, or that his body was in a compromising position, docile and resigned under John's tender hands. If it was the latter, however, he truly wanted Sherlock to feel safe around him but he understood that he had to earn that trust, and earn it truthfully. If this was Sherlock scared because John had managed to show him not all humans are savages at heart, how would he react when his trust is betrayed? John didn't want to know the answer to that question but it was one that would haunt him for the foreseeable future.

John felt like a lovesick puppy saying he knew Sherlock had so much more to offer on the inside than what he presented upon the first cursory glance. It made him feel physically sick to see Sherlock wholeheartedly believe that the heart and brain should never be mixed together. He saw Sherlock for the person he could be if he wanted to be, he saw Sherlock for the person he was now, and he also saw a Sherlock that was somewhere in between the spectrum. This Sherlock had taught himself that feelings wouldn't be the cause for his downfall, he felt with his heart but never let his emotions mar his intelligence.

John adores Sherlock with every fiber of his being because Sherlock has a tendency of doing that to the people who get to know him --although those are very rare and far between. Hadn't Jim become obsess with him as a babe back when he lived at the castle? John just wanted what was best for Sherlock and if Sherlock himself decided he wanted to change now that he knew what he knew, then John would be there with him every step of the way.

The seconds bled into each other and was Sherlock craving John's touch like his next hit of morphine. Sherlock leaned down to match the height of his new poison of choice and bravely lowered his forehead to meet John's. A cacophony of nerves tingled and fizzed under his paper thin skin, he wondered if there were atoms firing into the air between them. John's sultry breath was caressing his lips softer than a summer's breeze. Long , golden lashes tickled his skin like the light kisses of a butterfly's wing. Bliss. Sherlock was in pure bliss.