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Chapter Text

Thank you to eatbreathedraw for the beautiful cover art! ❤︎

This is the story of how I died.

But don’t worry, this is actually a very fun story, and the truth is… It isn’t even mine.

This is the story of a boy… named Sherlock. 

And it starts with the moon.

Now, once upon a time, a single drop of moonlight fell from the heavens. And from this small drop of moon grew a magic silver flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured. The flower thrived beautifully on a secluded hill, where nobody had ever found it. That is, until someone did. A tired, ugly old man discovered it one day, and seized upon its silver glow with greedy, wrinkled hands.

Well, centuries passed and a hop, skip, and a boat ride away, there grew a kingdom. On a neighboring hill, it sat, grand and lovely, a happy castle town bustling below it. The kingdom was ruled by a beloved King and Queen. They were very smart, smarter than any king or queen anyone had known, and they loved and respected their kingdom. The queen was beautiful, gentle, and passionate. And, well, she was about to have a baby, but she got sick… Really sick. 

She was running out of time, and that’s when people usually start to look for a miracle. Or, in this case, a magic silver flower. 

Remember that old guy? The one who found the flower? He came back. You see, instead of sharing the moon’s gift, this man, James Moriarty, hoarded its healing power and used it to keep himself young, handsome, and clever for hundreds of years. And all he had to do was sing a special song. His voice, while tainted with sinister undertones, sounded suave and deep as he sang. 

“Flower, gleam and glow, let your powers shine. Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine… What once was mine.”

The silver flower, upon request, would then glow and revive Moriarty of his former glory. His wrinkles gave way to smooth, pale skin, his tired eyes perked up with a mischievous gleam, and his dull mind returned to its quick and clever hum. 

So you get the gist, he sings to it and turns young. Creepy, right?

Now, on the day that the people of the kingdom searched for this magic flower, Moriarty had failed to recover it after reaping its magic. He fled the scene with newfound agility, and the silver flower was left exposed. 

One of the kingdom’s guards then found it, just a silver glow on a distant hill. He called to the other guards, uprooted the flower, and brought it back to the queen. Mixing its gleaming petals with water, the queen drank it, and she recovered. The magic had healed her, and a healthy baby prince was born. He had beautiful, pale skin and eyes that shone as bright as the moon. His rich, thick hair was dark like the night sky, curled and soft and tickling his chubby cheeks when he laughed. 

The King and Queen loved him very much.

I’ll give you a hint - that baby boy is Sherlock.

To celebrate his birth, the King and Queen launched a flying lantern into the sky, a crescent moon adorning its light blue, almost silver glow. 

And for that one moment, everything was perfect… but then that moment ended. 

While baby Sherlock slept peacefully, a dark, mysterious figure broke into the castle, chanting with a ghostly tune, “Flower, gleam and glow, let your powers shine. Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine, what once was mine…”

The magic that lived in Sherlock immediately reacted to the tune, and behind his sleeping lids, his eyes glowed faintly silver. Luminescent streaks appeared in his curly hair and gleamed snow white. The palms of his hands, hidden in his tiny fists, bloomed with a tender light. 

Moriarty, hooded and sinister, hovered above the child, instantly smitten. His small body held such tenderness and beauty, as well as the flower’s magic. As Moriarty bent over the crib, smile as wide and threatening as a piranha’s, the gleam that emanated off Sherlock’s skin revived his tired, wrinkled state.

Greedy for both the magic and the child’s innocence, he stole the child, and just like that, he was gone.

The King and Queen could only watch him disappear into the night with their handsome little boy.

The kingdom searched and searched, but they could not find the prince. For, deep within the forest, in a hidden tower, Moriarty raised the child as his own. 

He had little practice being a father in his past life, but his devotion to the magic within Sherlock guided him in becoming the boy’s guardian. Like a father, Moriarty often sat Sherlock in front of the fireplace and ran his spider-like fingers through the boy’s curls. He’d then ask Sherlock to sing for him. The child, of course, lived to please his almost-father, and used his small voice to sing the pretty tune, never once suspecting that the magic under his skin and in his curls kept Moriarty lively, quick, and young. 

Moriarty had found his new magic flower, but this time, he was determined to keep it hidden.

He kept little Sherlock in the tower, never letting him go outside. Sometimes he asked why, as he’d inherited his parent’s intelligence. Moriarty would then pet his curly head and say, “The outside world is a dangerous place filled with horrible, selfish people. You must stay here, where you’re safe. Do you understand, moonlight?” 

“Yes, Mormor,” the small voice replied.

Years passed this way, and while the tower was secluded and high, the walls could not hide everything. Each year, on his birthday, the King and Queen released thousands of lanterns into the sky, in hope that one day, their lost prince would return. Sherlock would then sneak to the window and watch as the lanterns floated high like stars, gleaming a faint blue-silver like his eyes.

Trapped, high in the tower, he watched with glassy eyes, wondering if somehow, these floating lights were meant for him. 

This is the beginning of Sherlock’s story. It’s as wild as he is, with ethereal, otherworldly beauty to match. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock had been hidden away in Moriarty’s tower for nearly eighteen years. While everything from his true heritage to the meaning behind his magic had been expertly kept from him, his original birthday hadn’t, and he counted each, elbows on the one windowsill, eyes on the floating lights in the dark night sky. 

Every year had passed like the previous, Sherlock growing out of his chubby, innocent childlike beauty and into something much more interesting. On many occasions, Moriarty would sweep his dark eyes over Sherlock’s form and breathe, husk in his voice, “My, my, moonlight, look how you’ve grown.”

Accustomed to this praise, since it was the only he’d ever known, Sherlock would roll his pretty eyes and pass off the compliment. Lately, though, when his guardian complimented him, he’d glide across the floor of the tower and crowd up in Sherlock’s space, breathing from his mouth and craning his neck to inspect him. He’d exaggerate his features, dark brows rising into his slick-backed hairline, before feigning a gasp. “You really are magnificent, Sherlock,” he’d growl, eyes wide. He’d linger a bit too long, a bit too close, before Sherlock smiled meekly and slipped away.

And it was true - Sherlock had grown into something magnificent. Nearing eighteen now, he’d stretched long and tall, legs seeming to take up more than their fair share of inches. His thin waist, cinched in from his usual laced tunic, flared out as it melted into chest. Sturdy and masculine, his chest broadened into angular shoulders and strong arms. While his upper half was toned with what little exercise he’d practiced every morning to stay limber, his neck and jaw were delicate and thin with a grace that could only have been inherited from his parents. His body was a sight, as Moriarty had definitely noticed as he grew, but it was the strange beauty in his face that lead him to steal Sherlock away in the night. Now, the fat in Sherlock’s face had melted away to reveal sharp cheekbones and a prominent nose. Against the pale structure of his slim jaw sat perfectly plumped lips. As if formed by Cupid himself, they mimicked rose petals in their softness, full lower lip matched by the upper’s angular bow. Upturned nose climbed into a strong brow, under which were his most prominent feature, if that were possible. Everything about him was stunning and memorable, but his eyes were different. Intelligent and sharp, they flicked over everything with a quickness held in the regal elite. Rimmed by black lashes, the light blue glow was impossible and unnatural. Sometimes his eyes gleamed silver, when other times, in the dark, the color had been swept up from a painter’s brush who’d touched the night sky. And, on top of the striking gleam in his eyes, when he or Moriarty sang the song, they glowed even brighter. From light blue-grey to metallic, glowing silver, his irises changed and glowed lightly under his lids when he closed his eyes. His dark hair swept over his delicate ears and swooped over his brow, perfectly soft and fluffed with curls.

What was worse than his ridiculous beauty was how he carried it. He had no reason to be exceptionally proud, since Moriarty was the only one to mention his beauty, but he swept around the small space of the tower with agility and pride all the same. Perhaps it was just his way, since his legs went on for ages, and his eyes showed nothing but the deepest, most elaborate beauty.

Or, instead, it could have been that he stood out in such a bland place as his tower room. His room had everything he needed, a bed, a bookshelf, a kitchen, and, what he’d made for himself, what seemed to be a corner devoted to experiments. Yes, the rest of the room was practical and basic and kept clean, but in that corner, Sherlock had messy bowls of plant life and dust and mold and parchment - mixing everything and anything he could find with certain liquids to examine the reaction. 

The window which allowed Moriarty entrance granted him bugs and plant life to experiment on, and on occasion, he’d asked Moriarty to bring him back liquids from “outside.” The small, lithely man would then return with flasks of spirits or, what Sherlock assumed to be goat’s blood. 

“Anything to keep my moonlight shining,” he’d say when Sherlock asked for more.

When Moriarty was gone, as he often was, Sherlock was left to entertain himself. He awoke early and spent the day cleaning, organizing, cooking, creating, and experimenting. With so much time to himself, he’d turned the room, the only place he’d ever known, into his own private dream. He painted the walls with scenes from his fantasies and nightmares, stacked his shelves with the books that Moriarty brought him, and, on his 8th birthday, added a skull to the top of the bookshelf.

Moriarty had brought it to him when he’d expressed interest in the skeleton drawings in his fantasy books. “Where did you get it?” Sherlock asked, fascinated and rolling the starched bone in his nimble fingers.

“Mmm, somewhere.” He pitched the phrase higher in places to create an innocent, sing-song effect. He did this often when Sherlock asked him about the outside world, always withholding information and playing him with white lies.

Sherlock took his word as truth, of course, and carried the skull, which he named Pascal, to the bookshelf.

Now today, on this morning, almost ten years later, Sherlock roused beneath the silk covers of his luxurious canopy bed and awoke, blinking the grime out of his sharp eyes. Slow with sleep, he took nearly five minutes to sit up in bed and stretch. The morning light from the entrance window enveloped the room in golden film, a full square of light falling across the smooth stone floors. Sherlock spotted it and threw off his sheets, padding in bare feet across the stone and standing still and poised in the center of the sun patch. The stone was warm and the sun tickled the tops of his feet. Sherlock stretched his pretty torso and rose his long arms over his head.

If someone had been passing across the secluded grove the tower lay within, climbed a tree, and peered through the window, they’d have found a fit, pale young man stretching in the sun, mostly naked. 

Looking out across the tips of the trees now, Sherlock placed his large, warm palms on his slender hips and strained to remember what was special about today. He’d been waiting for ages now, and catching the silhouette of the castle in the distance, he remembered.

Tomorrow would be his eighteenth birthday. He was going to ask Moriarty if he could travel to see the floating lights.

Elated with nervous energy, Sherlock rushed across the room and to his closet and dresser, where he picked his favorite outfit and dressed with much care. He fitted the sheer light blue undershirt to his skin, smoothing down the arms as they stopped at the crease of his elbow with a flourish of blue lace. Sherlock added his second layer, a white satin piece of fabric that fell flat against the bend of his shoulder and tied in two halves diagonally across his taut torso. He slipped his long legs into dark blue trousers, tying them at his navel with silver string. He liked these trousers because they breathed and stretched, even as they were tight to his muscles. Stopping at his knee and revealing his creamy, strong calves, the trousers received a slide of Sherlock’s large hands to remove any dust. Now he added one of his blue tunics, which angled up stiffly at a slant on his shoulders and fit snug on his thin waist before flaring out a bit over his high hips. He popped the short collar and laced the silver string to tie it closed across his abdomen. Satisfied with his outfit for the day, he padded over to the large oval mirror beside his dresser and admired his reflection.

Sherlock tilted his head and noted how the white satin undershirt peeked under the V chest cut of his tunic and at the bottom in an asymmetrical knot. He smoothed his large hands over the dip of his waist and rested them on his hips as he admired his unique, sharp face. 

He liked the way he looked, though he supposed he had no reason not to. Moriarty had told him plenty that he was very beautiful, so beautiful that people might try to steal him away. Once learning of his healing touch that streaked white light into his hair, they’d use him for his power and hurt him. That’s why he needed to be protected. 

But protection could only go so far, and there came a point when Sherlock needed to find adventure. Just one day, one day to discover what the floating lights meant. It was his dream to find out, and today he was finally going to ask.

Straightening himself out and lifting his chin proudly, Sherlock practiced his speech in the mirror.

“Moriarty, as you may remember, tomorrow is my birthday.” His voice rumbled low in his throat as he tried to remain serious. “My eighteenth, actually. And that means I’m getting older now. …Obviously. Never mind, don’t say that. Okay. I’m turning eighteen, and I think, well, I know what I want.”

“What is it, darling, I’ll give you anything,” Sherlock mimicked Moriarty’s high-pitched sing-song voice in response.

“Well, every year, on my birthday, these floating lights appear. And, and I think I want to see them. No, no, I know I want to see them. For my birthday, I want to go and see the floating lights. In person.”

This is where it got tricky. Sherlock didn’t actually mention in his speech that this meant leaving the tower, but he assumed Moriarty would understand what he meant. He planned out what he might say and raised his eyebrows like his guardian often did. “You want to leave the tower? To see the floating lights?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think, now that you’re older… As long as I can go with you - “

Sherlock cut himself off, “Of course you’d come!”

“Then I don’t see a problem. I can take you to see the lights.”

“Good! Oh, thank you, thank you!”

He beamed at his reflection, faking his most sincere smile. He hoped that when the time came, his actual smile would reflect his gratitude. He let it fall for now, though, and turned away from the mirror, moving to make his bed and read before Moriarty returned from… wherever it was he went all day. 

Sherlock made his bed, fluffed the pillows, tied his canopy back, and flopped down into it, thinking of the floating lights.

God, he wanted to see them so badly. I feel like they’re meant for me, he thought. Every year they floated towards the sky like a flock of silver phoenixes, and every year he’d watch them until they dimmed and drifted out of sight. There was always one first, then a cascade of the others, and they were so gentle in their path. They appeared every year, at the same time of night, and only on his birthday. That had to mean something. He knew it did.

He propped his pale, delicately arched feet up on the foot of his bed and read one of his pirate books until Moriarty called.

The familiar, light voice echoed from below, and Sherlock was at the window before the sentiment had even ended. “Sherlock,” Moriarty called up, “Let down your silk.”

Sherlock gathered the rope of alice blue silk from a metal hanger beside the window and threw it down. It uncurled in the air, cascading down the length of the tower with grace. He leaned over the ledge of the window and watched as the dark, hooded figure roped a loop to put his foot in. The figure tugged on the silk as a sign and Sherlock pulled the silk up, watching it slide through the metal with ease until Moriarty was at the window, dropping his hood and stepping through. 

“My little star child,” he cooed. His pale, round face came closer, dark eyes shining with love, before he embraced Sherlock. He was much shorter and he pressed his cheek flat to Sherlock’s collarbone and shoulder, arms coiling around Sherlock’s waist. 

He returned the embrace and relaxed into the familiar frame. Moriarty pulled back then, beaming at him. “How are you?”

Moriarty hustled away, moving into the room as he placed the dark rucksack from his arm on the kitchen table and swooped off his cloak with a flourish. His Gothic long-sleeved black blouse and matching trousers glittered with little silver studs on the cuffs and lining. A purple jewel fastened the shirt low on his neck, a dark patterned purple shirt peeking from the slit. He was slim in his build, like Sherlock, but shorter and rounder in his face. Sherlock could see the similarity, he supposed, but he didn’t strain himself to mimic Moriarty’s vintage look. Where Moriarty’s appearance was black, from his eyes to his hair, Sherlock’s was light and pale, save for his dark curls.

Sherlock saw his chance as Moriarty pulled a mysterious crystal ball from his sack and rolled it over his knuckles, “Well, actually I wanted to - “

“Oh, sweetheart, Mormor’s feeling a bit run down, do you think you could sing to me?” He set the ball down on the wood with a solid thud.

“Er, sure. Then I need to - “

“You know who I saw today? That old beggar. The one I told you about? He was on the side of the road like, ‘Please sir, spare a bit?’ And I’m like, so-rry!” He slicked a spidery hand through his hair and strode across the circular room, settling himself into the grand chair beside the fireplace. He reached out a hand to Sherlock and soundlessly commanded him to sit as his feet.

Sherlock complied, folding his knees under and looking up at the one real face he’d ever known. 

Moriarty leaned forward and stroked a hand through Sherlock’s curls, “You really are so beautiful, it’s a wonder nobody’s come to steal you away.” He smiled in that wide way that Sherlock found a bit animated, but he tried his best to grin back. Moriarty’s intentions were good, even if his presentation was sometimes abrasive.

“Sing for me,” he commanded.

And Sherlock did, lacking the care and time he usually took to make the notes long and pretty. He rushed the melody a bit, not enough to be noticed, but enough for his impatience to seep through. The words of the song he’d known all his life tumbled out of his lips, Moriarty’s fingers carding through his streaked curls, his other hand pressed to Sherlock’s chest, where Sherlock held it in place with his glowing palm.

Sherlock didn’t understand the magic, really, but he didn’t have to. It was something he did for his Moriarty, his guardian who protected him from people who’d want to abuse it. Sherlock was aware that his hair, palms, and eyes glowed when he sang, and he knew of their healing powers. Sometimes when he cut or burnt himself cooking, he hummed the song and pressed his palm over the spot, clearing it instantly. Other than that and when used for perking up Moriarty, the magic was just a part of him as his plump lips were. 

Sherlock finished the song, eyes closed. He didn’t see the crow’s feet around Moriarty’s leering eyes fade, but it didn’t matter. He had one thing on his mind, and he released the lingering hand on his chest and pulled away from the touch. He stood and swallowed, tugging down the corners of his tunic nervously.

“You know that tomorrow is my birthday,” he started, Moriarty’s intense gaze on him as he rolled back into the chair and crossed his legs.

“Is that true? I distinctly remember your birthday being last year.”

“That’s… er, that’s the funny thing about birthdays. They’re kind of an annual thing.” He tugged at a loose curl that tickled his cheek.

Moriarty cocked a brow, disapproving of Sherlock’s sass. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and tried again. “I’ll be turning eighteen, and I know what I want to do. Where I want you to take me.”

“Eighteen, already? Seems like yesterday you were a little drop of moonlight.”

Sherlock chuckled nervously, growing irritated of Moriarty’s reluctance to recognize his point. “Right. Well, I know what I want.”

“I know! I’ll get you some red meat, you like red meat. I would so love another hunting…”

“Please, can you listen?”

Moriarty stiffened at Sherlock’s tone and furrowed his brows, challenging him to snap again. 

Sherlock swallowed again, heart pounding. “Sorry, I just. I know what I want to do. What I’ve wanted for a while now…”

“And what is that?”

After nervously twirling a toe in the fireside carpet, Sherlock breathed and looked his lone companion in the eye. “I want to see the floating lights.”

Something passed in Moriarty’s eyes and he paused the hands he was clasping together. Then he resumed as if it was just another request for a book. “You mean the stars.”

“No, see, I’ve charted stars, and they’re always constant. These ones are bigger, brighter, and they appear every year on my birthday. Only on my birthday.”

Moriarty stood then, and even at his shorter height, he still made Sherlock feel small with his looming presence. “There’s nothing like that around here.”

“Yes, there is, I’ve seen them.”

The patch of morning light on the floor had faded as a cloud passed across the sun, shrouding the tower in a hazy grey light. Moriarty looked even more pale and deathly than usual. “So you’ve seen them, why would this be any different?” Moriarty crossed his arms and challenged Sherlock.

This would be different, I know it. Sherlock thought to himself. “I want to be there, I want to see them up close.”

“Meaning you want to go outside.” 

Sherlock’s muscles tightened. He didn’t like the tone in Moriarty’s voice. He held his ground just the same. “Yes.”

His voice pitched up like he often did, but this time it returned to a gruff seriousness at the end. “That’s preposterous, you know how dangerous it is out there.”

“But I’m older now, and I thought if you were with me - “

“You’re not going anywhere.” Moriarty was firm with this, but lightened it up as he turned around began walking away, flitting a hand like it didn’t matter. “Let me hunt you some deer, all right, I’ll bring it back and roast it and - “

“No, I don’t want deer, I want to see the floating lights.” Sherlock’s heart beat quickly from nerves as well as bubbling anger.

With his back turned, Moriarty replied simply. “Sherlock, don’t.”

“Please, if you could just - “

“You are not leaving this tower! Ever!” Moriarty suddenly spun ‘round and shouted, blowing up, dark eyes afire. Sherlock’s stomach coiled and dropped, throat tight.

The air was tense and terrible. Moriarty often didn’t yell, but when he did, the silence of the secluded tower was more powerful than ever. That same heavy silence lingered a bit as he sunk back into his chair and rubbed his temples. Moriarty didn’t apologize, he only groaned.

Sherlock cradled his own waist, eager for a comforting embrace, and waited for the dust to settle before he spoke softly. “Deer is fine. It’s fine.”

Disappointment and fear washed over him as Moriarty sighed. He then stood, and Sherlock let Moriarty hug him and kiss his neck like he often did when he couldn’t reach the top of his head. He pulled back, hands on Sherlock’s biceps, thumbs rolling in circles, and smiled gently. Sherlock could still see the terrifying fire in this eyes, even as he lightened his expression. “All right. I’ll bring some home. I’ll return in a day’s time.”

Watching nervously as Moriarty swept himself under the dark cloak and hood, Sherlock handed him an empty sack. They moved soundlessly to the window as they prepared Moriarty to be lowered in the satin. He turned to Sherlock, one hand looped in the rope. “I love you so much, darling. Happy birthday.” 

And then Sherlock was lowering him down slowly and waving him off, watching as the little dark figure crossed the grassy clearing that he’d wanted so badly to cross himself. Once Moriarty was out of sight, Sherlock collapsed his head into his arms on the windowsill and sighed in defeat.

At least you tried, Pascal the skull said. 

Chapter Text

Leaves crunched and rustled as Jay Watson and his two companions, the Sherrington brothers, rushed through the forest and towards the castle. Watson, expert thief and charmer, ran ahead, chattering away what he’d do with the money from completing this mission. Agile and quick with a touch of self indulgence, Jay leapt over a log just as he finished describing his dream island.

“Watson,” one of the grisly, scar-faced brothers growled at him from behind. “Shut it.”

“All right, all right,” he quipped, turning back and putting his hands up defensively. “Have a little fun, would ya?”

The brothers grunted and Jay turned back ahead, laughing, smile bright with mischief. The forest he knew well, as he’d hidden there many times after a job. The earth sunk softly under his boots and the trees shaded the clearings from the bright morning sun. A smell of fresh roots and nature surrounded the area, and Jay reveled in the wind in his hair and the blood in his heart as he rushed through.

He felt himself smiling like a dope, but he didn’t care. He loved it all. They ran for a while, never breaking for air, when Jay’s dopey smile could only widen with what they came upon then. He and the brothers had come upon a grassy ledge and a view to last a lifetime.

Across the way, the kingdom’s castle rose proud and regal. It was large and magnificent and no matter how many times Jay had seen it, from a distance or personally sneaking around the sewers, it still took his breath away. The blue sky and grassy hills behind it blended into a pleasant hum as the silver windows and railings glinted sunlight into Jay’s eyes. He would so love to live in a place like this. He stared on for a bit, heartbeat quickening, fingers twitching to get a hand on the treasure. Two bulky bodies brushed by him then, one of them muttering, “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

Jay nodded and followed them down to the castle, his greedy eyes wide and soaking in the sight as they went. On quiet feet, they maneuvered around the side and to the back, where they then scrambled up the side and up to the roof. The three men padded across the top of the castle, expanse of the kingdom and lake akin to a watercolor painting. 

Jay said something smarmy as they went, the two brothers grunting as if to ask Why’d we decide to work with this guy?

The reason, of course, was Watson’s reputation. Known for his sleight of hand and nimble schemes, his expertise was necessary for their current job. The Sherrington brothers agreed to work with him (and split the profits) as he’d needed their strength and they needed his skill. Jay Watson was known for successful jobs and a history of thievery, and now, not only was his talent paramount, but his small frame as well. 

They approached the spot they’d use to trespass, a sun roof that lead directly into a castle chamber. Securing a rope around Jay’s compact waist, the two brothers lowered him through the roof and into the room where their prize sat, pretty and untouched.

Jay scoped around the room as he floated down into it. It was relatively bare, as it was a showroom. His sharp eyes darted to the wide, arched doors and moon-shaped designs on the walls. Jay swallowed his slight nervousness and looked below him at what he was meant to steal, the artifact the room was built for. The crown of the lost prince sat on a blue satin pillow, glinting and dulling as Jay’s shadow passed over the sun that enveloped it. It caught his breath as he looked down at it. This was by far the job most directly related to the King and Queen, who Jay had no spite for. He did have a lust for money, though, and this crown would fetch quite a pretty sum. 

Closer and closer to the crown now, the thief could overhear the two guards bickering in front of him. Their backs were turned, and he held his breath.

“Lestrade, please. I’m not interested in your mother’s pastries,” one of them growled.

“But she made them especially for you, Mycroft! Lemon and herb, your favorite,” said the other.

“I’m on a diet.”

Jay’s quick fingers snatched up the crown quietly, and he secured it in his grip before saying towards the guard’s back, “A diet? Sorry mate, don’t think it’s working.”

He jammed the crown into his satchel and pulled on the rope around his waist as the sharp nosed guard turned around. “Excuse - Hey! Stop him!”

Already on his way up, Jay signaled a salute to the guard’s scowling face and scrambled for footing once he was out of the opening. The brothers curled the rope quickly as Jay untied it from his waist. Wordlessly, they took off in a sprint as soon as they could.

Boots padding lithely across the castle roof, the thieves stole away into the forest, breathless, excited, and troublesome. 

They made it deep into the shadows of the forest before the familiar sounds of chase followed suit. A melody of horses’ hooves and shouting guards gained upon them as they wove through the trees and brush. Jay turned to check, thrilled at the chase, just as the brothers sped up.

The guard named Mycroft sat atop a beautiful red horse, sword in hand. Lestrade and another galloped beside him, on grey and white horses, silver crests adoring their necks. “Retrieve the crown at any cost,” Mycroft shouted to his men. He then kicked his boots into his horse’s brick-colored coat and urged him on, “Faster, Redbeard.”

Jay turned back around and urged his own feet on. Over the crunch of dirt and leaves, he could hear his own heartbeat, and he protectively put a hand to the satchel around his broad chest. 

Turning the corner quickly then, Jay darted ahead of the Sherrington brothers and dove under an arch of stone and roots. Losing the guards for a moment, they came upon a stone wall. They shared a look, Jay reaching out his hand. “I’ll pull you up.”

Stone-faced and menacing, the more talkative brother growled out, “Give us the satchel first.”

He feigned a broken heart. “You don’t trust me?” No response. “Ouch.”

A shout and shuffle of hooves in the distance quickened their actions then, Jay handing over the satchel before clambering up the brothers’ stacked bodies. He scrambled to the top and popped his blond head over the edge. “Now pull us up, Watson.”

He showed them the satchel he’d picked off them, thrilled at playing them so easily. “Sorry, my hands are full.” 

Jay rushed off then, leaving their resentful “Watson!” to ring out through the woods. He slipped the satchel over his chest and rushed through the trees, hooves distant now but sure to catch up to him soon.

Running alone now, he had a bit of time to think to himself. Fit and nimble, he easily stole things and ran from danger. He was rarely caught and seldom unsuccessful, so he’d built up a nice little life for himself. Fugitive but nice. He’d built up quite a reputation, too. Parchment sketches of his face, albeit slightly inaccurate, had littered the forest and town. The Sherrington brothers too, adorned with WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE in red text.

Jay prided himself on that, on the fact that he was so sneaky that he was wanted across the land. And, truth be told, it sort of helped with the ladies. They liked a bad boy.

And who wouldn’t like Jay? With his sharp blue eyes, suave golden fringe pushed back, a bit of cinnamon scruff on his chin, and round apple cheeks pulled taut when he smiled, he really was a catch. Handsome and rugged, the best combination.

And, with the money he’d stolen, he dressed himself well. Well enough, anyway. He’d tucked woven beige trousers into his black leather boots, and they puffed about the cuffs. These matched the shirt of the same material that fell to the crease of this elbow and revealed his strong forearms. The trusty maroon tunic he wore over it fit snug on his waist and chest and cut off at his armpits, collarless and flat on his broad shoulders. Halves of the tunic tied shut with golden twine, the beige shirt underneath revealed a glinting crystal through an open triangle at his chest. The color of a swirling, cloudy sunset, the crystal sat against his strong chest on a thin strip of black leather. It was mostly hidden, but when he ran, like he was now, it leapt against his skin and peeked its rosy head out from his shirt.

Blue eyes sharp with mischief, Jay occasionally glanced behind him to see if the triad of men and horses was still chasing him. When he heard nothing, he slowed to a walk and caught his breath on a tree, touching his crystal for support. He then reached for his satchel and pulled out the crown. 

In his tan, worn hands, the crown seemed delicate, although he knew it wasn’t. Pure silver and twined with blue and white diamonds, the crown looked fit for the prince the kingdom had lost. The prince only been in the King and Queen’s arms for a day, but legend had it that he was as instantly sweet as he was beautiful. If only that child’s laughter had remained within the kingdom’s walls and had grown into princely edicts. Chest flushed from exertion under his crystal, heart pounding, Jay breathed deeply. He rested his head against the bark of the tree and distracted himself, foolishly, from what he was currently running from.

He thought directly of the “enemy,” the kingdom and its surrounding rumors. The beautiful, intelligent King and Queen were heartbroken over their lost son, although rumor had it that they had an older son who refused to take lead of the monarchy and instead wanted to lead the defense. Jay wondered if this was the posh guard who’d chased him earlier. He certainly had the drive of a noble.

Jay then thought about the lost prince, how he’d heard of his disappearance when he was a young boy. He wondered what the prince may be like if he was still alive to this day. Was he a prisoner in his own world, or had he blossomed without the responsibility of a young ruler? 

Interested in the mystery, Jay would have loved to ponder all morning, but a shuffle of hooves and shouts stopped him. He stiffened from his spot on the tree and moved to leave. Something crinkled on his back, and before taking off in a sprint again, he ripped the parchment sketch of his own face (with disproportionate ears) from the tree and stuffed it into the satchel with the crown. 

He’d run so far into the woods that he didn’t actually know where he was. This was strange, considering how many times he’d escaped into its shadows, but he couldn’t very well stop to ask the lone guard on his red steed behind him where he was. The two other guards must have fallen away or taken different paths, because as Jay spared a look, only the guard on a diet was chasing him now.

“Stop! Thief!” he shouted as Jay leapt over a rock.

He wove through two trees before tossing back, “Real original, you get that from your training book?”

The guard grunted and the horse whinnied, unable to slip between the trees like Jay did. He didn’t stop running from them all the same, although he was once again breathing hard and a bit sore. He pushed through it with one last spurt of energy, clambering over a fallen tree. He wove through the trunks of a thick part of the forest and slipped between some large rocks. With at least one second to spare, he then leaned against a neighboring slope to check for a flash of red mane. The creeping vines and hanging willow’s leaves on the rock gave way when he rested a hand on it, and without thinking twice, he dipped behind them.

Now in a shaded cave, Jay held his breath and watched as the horse and his rider’s shadow passed across the green vines. If the guard had been the rumored first son, he wasn’t living up to his parent’s intelligence very well. Jay snorted to himself, but waited a few more seconds before moving, just in case. Then, hands protectively on the leather satchel, he turned to inspect this unfamiliar spot.

Looking about, he found that it wasn’t a cave at all. It was a passageway. A few feet in, the stone walls gave way to a grassy clearing, and Jay, curious and eager to get as far as he could from the guard, pressed on and stepped into the sunlight. He brushed a few leaves out of his eyes that covered the exit and blinked into the relentless sun. Jay shaded his eyes with his hand and craned his head at discovering an unmistakably large silhouette. He stood still and looked up high to make out what stood before him. He licked his lips and furrowed his brows

A tower?

Indeed, a large, plain tower climbed high into the sky. Seemingly endless, it eventually stopped, topped by a blue, cone-like roof. Besides that, the only other addition to its stone walls was a high open window facing the castle he’d just run from.

Approaching the tower cautiously, Jay wondered why it was hidden here, and more importantly, if there was anything valuable inside. He walked close to its base, vines coiling up the damp, grey stone. Nearby sat a pool of freshwater with a trough and bucket. Someone did live here, then.

Jay called up, cupping his mouth to direct the sound. “Hello? Is anyone up there?”

When given no response, Jay shrugged and slung the leather satchel over to his back. He took a breath, lungs still a bit tender from the chase, and placed two palms on the stone. He began to climb the tower, fingers and feet finding footing amongst the cracks and dips in stone. It was hard work, and the tower was very high, but he was fit and young and adept, and there was no way he’d give up half way.

When he reached the lone window, he pulled himself up and scrambled through. Without giving one full look to the room around him, he breathed a satisfied breath and stretched his sore back.

Suddenly, something smooth and tight had been pulled over his eyes. Everything was black and he tried to cry out, but he fell silent and unconscious when hit on the head with something blunt.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s heart beat rapidly as he stood rooted to the spot, Pascal the skull raised high after knocking the trespasser unconscious. The figure he’d just struck fell to the floor and slumped before him, facedown and covered partially in Sherlock’s blue silk. He could barely believe what he’d just done, but he’d done it, and he didn’t know what to do next. Sherlock looked down at him for a long while, intelligent mind racing through options and hypotheses. He finally settled on the fact that the best course of action would probably be to inspect him, to see if he really looked as threatening as Moriarty made everyone out there to be. 

He lowered himself gently, one hand reaching forward tentatively. Pascal gave him strength in the other hand as his fingertips brushed the soft, blue ribbon. He moved the fabric from the stranger’s head and held his breath. A wisp of air then caught in his lungs when he saw the stranger’s face.

The trespasser was interesting, different, and smolderingly handsome. He looked like the knights of Sherlock’s fantasy books, but strangely familiar. Something hot in Sherlock’s stomach and chest flared up, and he struggled to swallow it down as he looked on for a while longer, sure that this man was the change he’d been waiting for. He breathed lightly, trying to regain his heartbeat, as he raised himself up and decided to take action. He set Pascal momentarily back on his bookshelf and breathed confidence into his chest.

Sherlock hoisted the stranger up, arms looped under his armpits, and used his height advantage to drag him to a nearby chair. He plopped him in it and retrieved the smooth strip of fabric from its coil by the window and tied him up, flaring out the silk and keeping him wrapped thoroughly.

The man sat unconscious, head at his chest, as Sherlock retrieved his fallen satchel. Leather bag in hand, he returned to watch the stranger. Curiously handsome, he decided. It was the only thing he really could decide on, seeing as the situation thus presented to him was quite strange indeed. However, this person could be useful to him, as he’d come from beyond the tower. Sherlock needed someone from the outside to help him if he ever wanted to see the floating lights. It was unusual and risky, but Sherlock would have to take a chance if he really wanted to escape.

Once his logical mind settled that on the fact that yes, it could work, Sherlock knew he’d have to wait for the stranger to awaken before he proposed it… or demanded it. He also knew he needed something against him, some sort of leverage. As much as Moriarty told him to never bargain with men (they cheat and lie, he said) you needed to gain the upper hand on them somehow.

Lost in the thought for a moment, Sherlock then remembered the satchel he was holding. He looked down at it and turned it over in his hands. Worn, smooth leather, soft under his palm. Still standing in front of the stranger, Sherlock unclasped the silver buckle and reached inside.

His fingers felt something cool and smooth, and pulling it out into the light, his stomach dropped. The crown resembled those of the princes and princesses in his books, but, like the stranger’s face, oddly familiar. It glistened with silver coils, white and sky blue diamonds glinting in a pattern around the frame. Delicate and regal, Sherlock knew instinctively that this was a piece of true royalty. He looked at for a while still, pale thumb sweeping over the prongs and curves. The tower was silent, not so much as a twitch from the stranger, and Sherlock found it easy to lose himself in the crown’s beauty.

After a long moment, as Sherlock often lost track of time when thinking, he looked over to Pascal’s skeletal smile. You know you want to, it seemed to say.

The skull was right, Sherlock did want to. He wanted to try the crown on, very much. He glanced at his handsome prisoner, snug in his binds, and made up his mind. He swept across the room, crown in hand, and stood before his mirror. He looked himself once-over, from his bare feet to his wild curls, before raising the crown to his head. He set it on his head carefully and let it nestle into his dark hair. It fit perfectly, almost as if it was made for him.

He looked so strange like this. A lanky, barefoot bloke with a beautiful crown just didn’t match. But somehow, somehow something worked. He looked through the mirror behind him at his skull for some guidance. Its empty eye sockets left him with nothing but a remark of Not bad.

Sherlock breathed and closed his eyes, honing his focus to feel the crown on his head, wondering whose it actually was. And, by that thought, how the intruder came to have it.

Then, as if on cue, the man in the ropes groaned and shifted. Sherlock’s heart fluttered, and he returned the crown to the satchel before hiding it quickly.

Jay’s head hurt furiously, a dull throb in his skull. He felt tired and disoriented as he came to, the tender, pained spot the first thing he noticed. The second was the tightness at his chest, then his hands and legs. He was sitting upright and bound by… Satin? Silk? Something…

He tried to breathe against his bindings, then tugged a bit, but whoever tied him did it well. He was almost impressed. Almost. He still didn’t like it, even as he’d gotten out of worse. He tried to regain himself, telling himself that this wasn’t that bad as long as he had the - Shit. Jay Watson breathed in through his nose to calm the rising panic bubbling inside him as he remembered the satchel. He glanced around the base of his chair and around the room, but to no avail. Whoever had captured him had obviously taken it.

But then… Who was that?

Watson struggled a bit more when he heard a shuffle of feet and a scrape of something against stone. “Who - Who’s there?”

“Don’t thrash about,” a low voice grumbled from the shadows, “You look foolish.”

“Foolish or not, I don’t care. Show yourself!” He shouted then, into the direction of his assumed captor.

A quiet moment passed through the room, the only sound that of an animal chirping outside the tower. The stranger moved, sliding one pale foot out of the shadows, followed by the rest of him. Jay felt his heart flip and stomach tighten as the grey haze illuminated the tall figure. His eyes were hard and silvery-blue, cast on him with intent to hurt. Startling and intense as they were, the rest of him was ethereally handsome. High cheekbones, a prominent nose, and full lips cast him as a strange beauty, and Jay couldn’t tear his eyes away. The man loomed high as he inched forward, tight waist held strong as he raised a skull behind his head, ready to strike again.

Jay urged his heartbeat to slow and swallowed nervously. In moments like this, with someone as attractive as this, he’d usually say something stupid and flirty, but he found now that no voice came. The man took his breath away, he really did, and all Jay could do was stare on, helpless.

“Why…” The young man rumbled. He looked no more than twenty, perhaps. “Are you here?”

“I - “ Jay tried.

“You want to take me away?”

“Er, no?”

“You want to use my powers.”

Powers? “No, no I don’t.”

The stranger remained tall before him, regal as ever, eyes never wavering. It was an intense gaze, and Jay had to avert his eyes for moments at a time.

“Then tell me how you found me,” he growled.

“Listen.” The beautiful stranger pulsed his skull threateningly. Jay flinched, but urged himself to continue. “Listen, I was running away, I found your tower, and I climbed it. End of story.”

He lowered the skull a bit, brow lightening up. “You’re telling the truth?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t know anything about you, this place.” Jay breathed against his bindings. He didn’t like being tied up, especially not when under such intense scrutiny as this.

It was silent before the stranger said, “I believe you.” 

“Good, because I’m telling the truth.”

Jay gazed on at the stranger, who cocked his head and studied him up and down, then locked his prowling eyes on his. Something glinted in them. Jay thought of the moon.

“So… Mind getting me out of this?” He tried then, clearing his throat.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.” 

Jay twitched against the thick ribbon. “But you just said you believed me.”

He narrowed his pretty eyes before tilting his chin up. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

Crossing his arms, skull in his large hand, he challenged Jay, “I have you tied up, literally. I think you ought to answer me first.”

God, that voice. “Fine. It’s Watson. Jay Watson. And you?”

“…Sherlock.”

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock. It’s a name.”

“I know it’s a name.”

“Yes, well, it’s mine,” he said, eyes gliding off Jay for a moment.

Jay swallowed, “It’s just different, that’s all.”

“Hm.”

Communicating with Sherlock proved quite interesting. Even as they’d just met each other, Jay found Sherlock’s quick responses a welcome change in contrast to the simple, dumb grunts of his usual acquaintances. It was easy to talk to him, even with their glaring power imbalance. Then, of course, he’d go and shut him down with just a noncommittal hum. Like now, for instance. Jay had to break the silence in order to get some answers. 

Sherlock stood before him, looking a bit disinterested, when Jay posed the question. “Where is my satchel?”

“I’ve hidden it.”

“Clearly. Why do you want it?”

Sherlock shot back, quick as ever, “Why did you have it?” 

Jay assumed they were now talking about the crown inside it and responded plainly. “I stole it.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but Sherlock seemed to like his honesty, as he popped a thick brow and smirked.

He moved closer to Jay then, and bent over him, hand coming to rest on the chair. His face was so close, Jay could see a light dusting of brown freckles across the pale, moon-like skin of his nose and cheeks. Sherlock angled his skull right in Jay’s face. “And whose is it?”

Avoiding the skull’s empty eyes, Jay focused instead on Sherlock’s. They were so incredibly blue, tinted almost with gleaming silver, that Jay almost lost his confidence. “The crown? Well, the King and Queen’s, of course.”

“Of course…”

Did he really not know that? Jay thought as Sherlock moved back again. He sort of missed his warm breath, in all honesty. He berated himself for the stupid thought, but found himself licking his lips anyway. He looked at Sherlock curiously, one of his many questions popping out before he could stop it. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock’s lower lip twitched, “I live here.”

“Sort of… Isolated, don’t you think?”

Apparently, that question was too personal, and Sherlock stiffened defensively. Jay might have not known him for very long, not long at all, but he could see that he was uncomfortable. This was quite clear when Sherlock changed the subject. He stood at attention, skull still in one hand, long legs locked under him. His attention slipped off Jay for a moment as he said, “I need you.”

Jay tried not to flush, “What?”

Sherlock stared him down again. “I need you to take me somewhere. You’re the only person who can.”

“Yes, all right, and I would do this why?”

The threatening glint in his eyes returned as Sherlock dipped his head solemnly. “Because you won’t get your satchel if you don’t.”

Sherlock seemed to mean this threat, and Jay didn’t doubt his capabilities. So he considered the offer, taking a quiet moment to think it over. Helping Sherlock, as mad as he seemed, meant a) freedom from his binds, b) escape from the tower, and c) possession of the crown. It didn’t seem like such a bad deal. And, if he was being honest, at this point, he wouldn’t mind spending more time with him. He was interesting, and Jay liked interesting.

“Where am I taking you, exactly?” he added then, arms a bit numb from being tied so long.

Sherlock’s face relaxed, just for a moment. It looked incredibly vulnerable, really. “To see the floating lights.”

“Floating… You mean the lantern thing they do for the prince?”

Eyes afire once more, Sherlock turned the skull over in both hands. “Lanterns! I knew they weren’t the stars,” he muttered.

“Right. Okay. Hold on.” He pointed one finger at Sherlock as best he could, wrist still bound. “I take you to see the lanterns, and you give me back my satchel.”

“Correct.”

Jay held his gaze on Sherlock to make sure he was getting this right. “They’ll appear tomorrow night, you know.”

Sherlock held it back. “I know.”

“So we should probably go soon.”

Surprised, Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You mean you’ll take me?” 

Jay hissed one deep breath before responding. “Yes. It’s a deal.”

The strange smile that Sherlock’s face contorted into was large and beaming, his cheeks wrinkling up, plump lips spreading thin. Something caught in Jay’s chest at the sight, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Sherlock did a little jump of happiness. For the moment, he was incredibly unlike the man who’d threatened Jay with a skull and stepped out from the shadows. Now he looked like the young boy he must have been on the inside. 

“Sher - Sherlock, all right? Hey, Get me out of this.” Jay said then, unaware of his own dopey smile.

Sherlock felt himself blush as he leaned down to untie the knots at Jay’s legs. He was crouched before him, eyes fixed on the task at hand, when Jay asked him. “Why do you want to see the lanterns, anyway?”

Releasing the light blue knot from around Jay’s boot, he stood and began unraveling him. He didn’t answer until the satin-like strip fell in piles around the chair. Jay let out a sigh of relief and stood, rolling his wrists. He stood before Sherlock then, and for the first time all morning, Sherlock could really see him.

About a head shorter than himself, Jay stood compact and sturdy, hands on his hips, toes of his black leather boots pointing outwards. His eyes, blue with a hint of smoky grey, looked up at Sherlock expectantly. 

Sherlock turned away from him before the creeping blush could reach his cheeks. “It’s always been my dream. They appear every year on my birthday, and I want to know why.”

Jay hummed if he wasn’t actually listening as he walked away from Sherlock and towards the window. “And you’ve never gone?” His voice was ridiculously appealing, charming where Moriarty’s was often coercive.

“No. I, er, wasn’t allowed to.” Sherlock said, voice dipping a bit as he moved to gather up the fabric. Jay either didn’t hear or didn’t care, because he turned his attention to the distant view as Sherlock passed by him, arms full of smooth rope. Sherlock tied one end to the metal hook as Jay bent out the window, hands on the sill.

“You can see the castle from here,” he said.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, sun peeking out from a cloud and casting Jay in a golden glow. Sherlock didn’t know what was about to happen, how it was about to happen, or what adventuring off with Jay Watson entailed, but it didn’t matter, because it was new and exciting and so was Jay.

Sherlock tossed the handful of silky rope out of the window then, watching it uncurl and fall. Jay followed it with his eyes, and as it fell flat against the stone of the window, Sherlock spread out a hand for him. “After you,” he said.

Jay then turned and backed out of the window, using the ribbon to climb down the high tower wall. Sherlock cast his eyes towards the castle in the distance, anxious and excited all at once. He knew that leaving the rope down would signal Moriarty of his escape, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

He was so close to being free, and to finding the meaning behind the floating lights, that by the time Jay called up to him to come down, he knew there was no turning back. He followed suit, climbing out of the window and sliding down the rope as Jay had.

Sherlock escaped the tower then, rugged thief watching on from below.

Chapter Text

Immediately upon reaching the ground, Sherlock reveled in the feeling of grass between his toes. He wiggled them and walked a bit, the sensation of freedom overtaking him in a rush. After moseying about, he found he couldn’t get enough. He ran, quickly, amazed at how much space there was to do so. He spun and leapt and twirled and bounced, even managing some sort of cartwheel. It was totally and undeniably amazing, and for a few fleeting seconds, he forgot everything that had previously restricted him. Jay watched on, leaning up against the tower, as Sherlock pranced and danced in the grass.

“I see this is sort of a new thing for you.” He said, half a chuckle on his breath. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, only twirled a bit more, eventually losing his balance, thrown equilibrium catching up with him. He fell on his bum in the grass, legs splayed like a child’s. His head spun, his heart thrummed, and he beamed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting blood course through his veins and up to his brain. When he opened them a moment later, he noted Jay’s legs, blasted black boots crossed smugly. He raised his gaze to scope the rest of him, and all was handsome and rugged. Sherlock suddenly felt a bit ridiculous, sitting in the grass and grinning like a loon. 

He tried to stand to regain his calm composure, but he stumbled a bit as the dizziness returned. He heard Jay laugh at him, but he didn’t look to the wonderful sound, as he was a bit pink in the face. Sherlock kept his nose high and proud as he waited for his head to clear, before he started walking confidently, sharp and direct.

A few steps in, he heard Jay call from behind. “Wrong way, kid.”

His presence appeared beside him, and with it, Jay’s handsome face. Smug and amused, he lay one hand on Sherlock’s bicep and turned him gently. He gave a little push and, pretending the touch didn’t leave his bicep tingly and warm, Sherlock continued on towards the stone passageway.

Jay walked ahead then, short body compact and quick as he went, and lead Sherlock through it. They walked in silence, save for the soft rhythm of breath, through the cave. Jay soundlessly parted the vines at the other end for Sherlock, who ducked through his arm. He would have noted that gentlemanly act, had his breath not been taken by the sight of the forest.

Sherlock looked on with wide, blue eyes, reveling in the sight of every tree and stone. It was utterly beautiful to him, not only for the streaks of silver light falling over the scene, but for the realization that he’d done it, he’d escaped the tower. His reward: a spiritual experience of verdant woods, chirping birds, and the new smell of damp dirt. He was lost to it, wandering forward mindlessly, glassy eyes at the grey, hazy sky. Sherlock only stopped and came back to reality when he felt Jay beside him. Sherlock turned his attention towards him, and after sharing a similarly mesmerizing moment, lost in Jay’s eyes, the thief padded on ahead. 

“Well, come on then,” he said, boots crunching over fallen leaves and twigs without a care in the world. Sherlock followed.

Together, with Jay at the head, they walked for a while through the woods. Sherlock memorized everything he could get his eyes on, the bark of the trees, the falling leaves, and the soft golden hairs at the back of Jay’s neck. Sometimes, Jay would rattle on about something, which Sherlock would ignore. For the most part, they trudged on silently. Only when Jay posed a question on Sherlock did Sherlock react and quip a vague answer. He was lost to sights and, after a while, the surging internal battle that had suddenly flared up inside him.

Soon, the surrounding forest had blurred around him. He surged into hidden panic and overthinking, head down, mind replacing his previous excitement with worry.

Jay finished talking about something called the ‘ultimate jewel’ when he glanced back at Sherlock, stopping him with a warm palm on his chest, as Sherlock almost ran into him. Sherlock looked up, and Jay held him down with his steady gaze. “Hey, kid, what’s up?”

“I should never have done this.” Sherlock said, darting his eyes away. 

“What? But you said - “

“We should go back.”

“Well, if that’s what you…”

Sherlock’s abdomen clenched, and before he could stop it, he found himself spitting, “No. No, I have to do this.”

Jay looked at him in confusion then, eyes flicking from Sherlock’s gaze down to his lips and up again, brows furrowed. “Which is it?”

“It’s yes. Okay. I’m doing this. Let’s go.” Sherlock trudged on ahead, bare feet padding over a warm, flat rock.

He made it to a small stream running between two mounds of grass before he froze up and panicked again. Moriarty plagued his mind with a sing-song chime of I’m disappointed… I’m disappointed in you.

“I can’t.” Sherlock squeaked, voice suddenly very small. “This is not good.”

Jay made an exasperated sound from behind him as Sherlock continued to panic. 

He sat now, on the damp banks of the stream, knees pulled into his chest. “How could I do this to him?” He muttered to himself, mind swirling with Moriarty’s voice and dark, direct eyes. He nearly lost himself in it until he remembered what he was doing this for. Himself, the floating lights, his dream. I have to see them, he thought. I just have to. 

Sherlock stood quickly and puffed his chest out. “I have to do this. I’m doing this.” 

With another surge of confidence coursing through him, he moved to leap over the stream. Foot in the air, however, he stiffened in panic and paused, retracting his leg and cradling his waist. “He’d be so disappointed in me.” 

Burying his face in his hands, Sherlock cut off all outside influences, mind humming furiously, almost overworking itself. His body began to numb and shut down. Everything was crossing lines and snippets of voices and stormy clouds closing in on him, the same underlying eerie chime of I’m disappointed in you…

Before he could fully give into the numbness, though, he felt a solid, constant pressure on his right shoulder blade. It brought him back down, grounding him, as it never let up. Sherlock raised his face from his hands and straightened up, bones rolling under Jay’s hand. The palm then swooped around his shoulder and to his bicep, holding steady as Jay’s body followed. Soon he was standing in Sherlock’s space, looking right up at him. Sherlock watched his lips move, and when Jay squeezed his arm, his words came through. 

“Hey, hey! Are you okay?”

“Jay?”

“I was calling you, what the hell, why didn’t you respond?”

“I can’t be here. I can’t - “

Another hand mirrored the one on Sherlock’s bicep, gripping firmly. Together, they shook him a bit. It was forward, but Sherlock needed it. Jay’s eyes never left Sherlock’s as he said, “Okay? Just. Hold on. What’s going on? Tell me.”

“Moriarty...” Sherlock squeaked out, toes curling into the dirt as he said it. It felt like a heavy chain wrapped around his tongue. He realized he’d never said his name to anyone other than the man himself.

Jay released him then and ran his fingers through his golden hair, causing the front bit to stick up. He scrubbed down his face and scratched the scruff on his chin. “You keep saying that, you were muttering it. Who or what is that?”

Sherlock found himself breathing in time with Jay, and upon watching him take a big breath, expanding his solid chest, Sherlock did the same. It helped. “He... He’s my father.”

“All right, so he is. So then, what’s all the fuss? Is he going to ground you if he found out you sneaked away, what’s the deal?”

Now that Sherlock could sort through the words in his mind, he greedily talked to himself in assurance that he still had control. Ground me? I’ve been grounded my whole life. Sherlock felt his nerves come back online, his own internal voice calming him. He folded his arms over his waist like he often did and turned his face away. Jay’s eyes were too much, even as a beautiful navy reality check. “Something like that,” Sherlock said, voice low and gravelly. “He told me if I left, people would hurt me. He says people out here are liars and cheats, they can’t be trusted.”

“Can’t be! - “ Jay laughed, a deep chuckle that had him folding over, hands on his knees. He came back up with a wide smile and funny eyes. “Why on earth are you here with me, then, if that’s what you’re supposed to stay away from?”

Now that Jay’s eyes crinkled in a smile, Sherlock found them easier to meet. He held his gaze as he said, “I told you before. I trust you.”

“You don’t even know me.” 

“No, I suppose not, but you’re all I have. You’re the only way I can see the floating lights.”

Something passed across Jay’s face then, as if he suddenly remembered what it was all for. He cleared his throat and stepped back, jutting out his chin and holding it proudly as he nodded. “Right. That. Well… we should get going. That is, if you still want to.”

“I want to.”

“You won’t bail on me, now? I need my satchel, you know…”

“I know. I won’t.”

“Good. Then come on, you could use a drink. Settle your nerves a bit.”

Sherlock followed him as he trudged off through the woods, watching as Jay swayed his hips and bum as he went. “A what?” 

“I know it’s around here somewhere… Ah! There it is!” Jay said, pointing in the direction of a quaint little cottage that’d come into view as they walked along the dirt path. Sherlock looked quizzically between him and the cottage, just as confused as he’d been the whole trip there.

Jay had lead him through the forest to this place, hoping it would loosen Sherlock up a bit. And, he supposed, it might show him what sort of people were really out there in the world. Besides himself, that is.

After experiencing Sherlock’s little fit from earlier, Jay regarded him as a sensitive bloke who didn’t really know how to handle anything outside his tower walls. So, naturally, in trying to take him out for a drink, Jay wanted to help him settle into the new world. And, truth be told, Jay would love to see Sherlock’s reaction to mead or ale. It was the best way to toughen up a lamb, anyway.

Sherlock glanced now at the wooden sign that read “The Yard.” He furrowed his brows at Jay, who just smirked in response and led him towards the cobblestone steps. 

Jay gave a bit of background as they went, “This is a frequent stop of mine. Nice place, really. Rumor has it, one of the castle guards is often spotted here on his days off. Don’t know if that’s true, though.”

“Hm.” Sherlock’s pretty eyes on the door, he ignored Jay and studied the little Y-shaped crest carved there. 

Catching himself staring at Sherlock, Jay looked away and puffed out his chest. “Well!” he said. “Shall we?” 

He swung open the door in one large movement, and the previously welcoming, warm exterior had given way to a damp, dark hole. One candle burned at each table, but the low orange glow barely emit light, and the windows were so grimed up that they only struggled to glow faintly. 

Jay heard Sherlock gasp, and pushing him through the doorway by the small of his back, he laughed. “Welcome to the real world, Sherlock.”

At their arrival, all of the dark lumps sat around the place turned their weary eyes at the sound. Of various sizes and shapes, the men at the scuffed tables looked beaten-down, rough, and otherwise completely battered far beyond any former glory they might have had.

Pushing Sherlock deeper into, what most accurately could be called the pit, Jay leaned into his shoulder and whispered, “Wha’dya think? Take a good look. Now, I wouldn’t say these are the kind of people that dear old dad warned you about, but I’d say they’re pretty close.”

Sherlock squeaked and moved back against his hand. Jay tried not to notice how perfectly the arch of Sherlock’s back fit against his palm. Instead, he insisted with his voice, “Oh, no. We’re getting you a drink.”

Poor Sherlock was left to walk on ahead stiffly. He must have felt all the eyes on him, as he seemed to distract himself from it by looking about the place. Jay followed his eyes as they walked towards the bar at the far end of the cottage. Sherlock and Jay both looked at the dreary, wooden signs and various animal bits hanging from the rafters in old rope. An unlit fireplace on one side of the room, adorned with a slab of inconspicuous meat speared by a metal rod. On and around the mantel sat horns, goblets, and assorted weapons. A lone chandelier hung from the low ceiling, strange bits of fur and meat dripping from it, along with a few dusty gold and jewel-encrusted accessories. A staircase led up to a second level, where more pairs of glowing, judgmental eyes peeked over at Jay and his companion.

Obviously a bit scared, and a bit more disgusted, Sherlock backed up and into Jay’s solid chest. “Jay…” he breathed, voice small.

“Hush, now,” he cooed. Then he quipped a swift “Ah!” and fearlessly strode up to the bar. “Sally! My good woman!”

Jay turned back and watched as Sherlock approached and looked over the grimy, oily wood at the figure wiping out a mug. She raised her eyes to Jay’s call, the shadows parting to reveal a strip of dim candlelight across her face. With one eye covered in a crude patch, purple scarf tied ‘round her dark, wild hair, the woman’s expression remained staid. Her plump lips didn’t so much as twitch, though something akin to a diamond ring, imbedded in her bottom lip, glinted against her brown skin. A scar reached across her cheek and nose, and her eye burned dark and feral. Golden hoops dangled from her ears, asymmetrically decorated with a small golden iguana lounging in the curve of the right.

Setting the mug down with a thud, the woman lay one ring-glittered hand on the bar, the other on her hip. Sherlock glanced back to Jay, who had just returned his gaze to the bar, crudely sweeping his lustful eyes over her form. Tall and curved, layers of dark fabrics draped over her hips, waist cinched under the tightness of a black leather corset. Shoulders bare, crimson fabric stretched across them and dripped down her forearms, flaring out in wide sleeves. Dark and dressed to match, the woman cast an intimidatingly beautiful sight against the dusty bottles and jars behind her.

“Watson,” she hummed, full lips barely parting as she spoke. “Thought I told you to stay out of these parts.”

Jay leaned up against the bar, swirling a finger in some identifiable brown goop. He remained suave and pulled his favorite smoldering persona. “See, you did tell me that, but that was nearly three months ago. No grudges, right, Sal?”

“Get out.”

His charming smile faltered, and he raised his hands defensively. “Hey, hey, now! Give me a chance, will ya? No funny business, I promise. I’m here with a friend.”

Sally turned her eyes at Sherlock and cocked her head, rows and rows of colorful necklaces shifting on her round bosom. “Who’s this?”

“This,” Jay gestured to Sherlock’s chest, “is Sherlock. He’s new. He’s… Well, on a sort of adventure, you might say.” 

“Yeah?” Sally leaned forward on the wood, clasping her nimble fingers together so her jeweled bracelets jingled. With her one brown eye, set against a heavily painted lid, she stared Sherlock down.“Here’s some advice for you, sweetheart. Don’t hang around this bloke here. He’s trouble.”

Jay laughed heartily, hand on his stomach. He wouldn’t deny the truth in that, but for Sherlock, he had to keep it light. “Yeah, I’m big trouble. Tell me, what exactly did I do?”

Sally’s reserved composure snapped, and standing tall, she pointed a slender figure across the bar at Jay and shrieked, “You stole from me and my men!”

“Yes, all right, but I used the money for good!” Jay offered, knowing he’d been caught.

“Drinks! From here!”

“Right. Okay. Got me there.”

“Not to mention the brothels…”

Guilty nervousness bubbled up in Jay’s stomach as he felt Sherlock bristle beside him. “Yeah, actually, don’t mention the brothels.”

Sally picked up her mug and wiped it down angrily. “Get out before I sick my dogs on you, Watson. And I don’t mean the hounds in the back.”

“All right,” Jay complied. “Sorry, Sherlock. Wanted to buy you a drink. Seems I’m not wanted. Let’s go.”

They turned away from the bar and began walking back through the tables. Sally’s men had watched the entire exchange, and Jay regarded them as he tipped his invisible hat to them. “See you guys… later…”

Sherlock and Jay reached the door, Jay strutting proudly ahead. Before they could exit, however, the door slammed shut in Jay’s face by a strong, thick arm. Under its fat, meaty fist, a parchment sketch of Jay sat, posted to the wood. The slight nervousness from Sally’s reminder spiked into near-panic now, as Jay looked on at his own, crudely drawn face.

“This you?” The sack of meat with eyes and foul breath snarled.

“Well, a poor rendition, but yeah - “ 

Suddenly, two arms wrapped ‘round Jay’s waist and hoisted him a few feet into the air. “Hey!” he shouted helplessly.

“This is it, guys!” the terrible voice behind him growled “Let’s turn him in!”

“Yeah!” Someone squeaked, shrill and irritating.

“Get him back for what he stole from me!”

Jay struggled in the man’s grasp, eyes wildly darting from one ruffian to the other, who had now collected around him in a sort of mob. “I didn’t! Put me down!”

“He stole my gold!” 

“He stole my girl!”

“He stole my mum!” Various voices sounded, all doused in menace and gruff with resentment. 

His mum? Jay thought curiously. He then flailed a bit more, wondering where Sherlock had gone, before someone else grabbed him and slung him over his wide, meaty neck like a fresh kill. 

The ruffians continued to argue about reward money and getting back what they owe before the one holding him raised his voice over the others, “I need it more! I’m broke!”

Then he was grabbed again, spiking his spine with pain and knocking the wind out of him. “No, I do!”

He was tossed about, seized upon, scared, and hurt beyond belief. He ended up being tugged in all directions, every limb held in someone’s grimy hands, as they all shouted over him. It was a madhouse, and Jay, squat in the middle of it, was sure it’d be the end of him. He breathed his last pained breath as a loud crack over a ruffian’s head sounded, ringing through The Yard and ceasing the ruckus.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted from his spot on top of one of the tables. He held a cracked wooden tray in one hand. Sally looked on from behind him, horrified.

All the thugs in the pile turned their attention to Sherlock’s slender form. Jay followed, though his view was blurred with mist.

“I know you’re angry,” Sherlock said, voice pitching up higher than Jay had ever heard it. He swallowed, and it went back down to its usual baritone. “But you can’t hurt him, not today! I need him! I need him to take me to see the lanterns because I’ve been dreaming about them my whole life! Find your humanity, people! Haven’t any of you ever had a dream?!”

It was still, silence passing through The Yard’s regulars. The only sound was a small drip from a spilled drink and Sherlock’s heavy breathing. 

One of the blokes holding Jay’s left foot surprised them all then by saying, soft and sentimental, “I had a dream once.”

“Yes! See, okay.” Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Good sir, what was your dream?” Sherlock asked him, curls all wild, light eyes almost gleaming silver against the dim scene. 

Before Jay could wonder what he was up to, Sherlock had darted his eyes from his helpless form back to the thug with Jay’s boot in his fist.

Without letting go his hold of Jay, he replied, “I… Er, wanted to be a pianist.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Sherlock asked, jumping down from the table and walking right up to him. Everyone’s eyes still on him, Sherlock moved right up into his space confidently. The thug was so big, that even Sherlock looked short in comparison.

“Nothing, I guess…” 

“Then go for it! But first, if you could, maybe, release my guide?” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and rocked forward innocently, speaking softly. 

On command, the ruffian released Jay. The others followed after, and the fugitive stood on shaky legs, brushing himself off as if he wasn’t even phased.

Sherlock glanced at Jay with a small smirk and something coiled his stomach in response. Then Sherlock was back to whatever it was he was doing, raising his hand and shouting, “All right! Who else has a dream?”

What followed after that, Jay didn’t really know. Somehow, Sherlock had gotten all the thugs and ruffians of The Yard to sit around the place, drink from their goblets and mugs respectfully, and tell Sherlock all about their hopes and dreams. Jay wanted to butt in, mention that they ought to go soon if they wanted to make time, but he still seemed to be in rough waters with the men, so he just leaned back against a wooden beam and watched Sherlock work his magic.

It was fascinating, really, watching the slender, gorgeous kid nod at them understandingly, sometimes even causing a ruffian’s deep, rough laughter. They looked so human next to him, and Jay supposed, so did Sherlock. His unsure, nervous energy from earlier had given way to an assured, powerful young man. Jay noted that Sherlock was clearly able to find nontraditional means of success, a skill which he probably never had the proper opportunity to test. Grateful beyond belief for it now, Jay watched the strange scene play out until all the angry men had mellowed down.

He was lost to his thoughts when they addressed him from across the room. “What’s your dream, punk?” The pianist asked.

“Oh no, I don’t have one.”

“Oh Jay, you must!” Sherlock said, elbow bent on the table, cheek resting chubby in his hand.

Jay searched himself for an answer that wouldn’t mortify him. “Er, I suppose, being rich? I’d like to be rich.”

It was quiet after his response until someone from the corner boo’d. 

Jay shrugged. Sherlock stood from the table and walked over to him, looking taller and prouder than ever.

Faced with every inch of him now, Jay swallowed and cleared his throat. It was hard to look up at him, given Sherlock’s smug expression. “That was… Erm. Good. That thing you did,” Jay tried.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock hummed, reading through Jay’s failed thank you.

Breathing deeply, Jay looked directly up at him. In that moment, with Sherlock meeting his eyes so honestly, darkness enveloping them (save for the dancing candlelight on Sherlock’s face), Jay swore something was happening between them that he didn't yet have a name for.

Chapter Text

Jay and Sherlock were lost in each other’s gaze when the wooden door of The Yard flung open with a loud crack. A tall, muscular man appeared, yelling, “I found the guards!”

Instinctively, both Sherlock and Jay rushed to hide, some of their ruffian friends using their large, meaty bodies to conceal their escape. Sally, who half looked as if she wanted to drag Jay by the collar and present him to the palace guards who now came flooding in, directed the two towards a wooden door around the side of the bar. Hearts fluttering upon hearing the scrambling fuss of boots and swords and snarls, Jay and Sherlock ducked behind the door and held their breath.

They found themselves in a pantry, chunks of meat hanging from the dusty, splintered rafters in nets, sacks of something lumpy and sour piling up around them. It was cramped and hot, the scent of old ale and dead skin prickling the hairs on the backs of their necks. And Jay and Sherlock would have been muttering their grievances at the circumstances, if they hadn’t been scared into silence, praying that the shuffling and mumbling from outside the closet would soon disappear.

Waiting for a few moments in steamy darkness, pressed together in the small space, they tried not to think about the inches between their chests, how Sherlock’s spindly, long legs had been tucked between Jay’s, and how, should their faces have been turned, they might have been on the cusp of a kiss. Hearts pounding and faces flushing, they tried not to think about it, instead concentrating on quieting their heavy breathing, the cause of which may have been more than the chase. 

Another few tense seconds passed, before the door flung open. With a rush of air, Jay and Sherlock were pulled behind the bar and shoved down underneath it. A ruffle of fabric swooped by them as they crammed themselves among the bottles and sacks below the bar. Sally stood before them, skirts twisting and stilling as she found her spot at the bar. She ground the toe of her dark, worn boot into the floorboards nervously. “Ahoy, good man,” she said calmly. The familiar sound of wiping a mug followed, rings clinking against the wood. She leaned on her foot, pressing it down painfully. Jay and Sherlock shared a glance, uncomfortably crouched under the bar, apprehensively listening.

Someone yanked open the door they’d just been pulled from, waited a moment, and shut it with a huff. Then, confident footsteps neared the bar, along with a light scrape of sturdy boots against wooden floorboards as the guard poised himself at attention.

“Jay Watson. I was told he was here.” 

Jay recognized the voice: it belonged to the man who chased him on that blasted chestnut horse, just earlier that day. It felt like a lifetime ago. But, Jay supposed, meeting Sherlock seemed to have that effect.

Sally sighed, “That pickpocket? I haven’t seen him ‘round here. If I had, I’d have thrown him out.”

“Don’t lie to me, woman.”

Sherlock and Jay grimaced.

“Excuse you, sir, this is my bar. You don’t speak to me like that.” There was a thump above Jay’s head. Sally had set the mug down forcefully, and her skirts ruffled as she stomped her foot, holding her ground.

The two hiding under the bar heard a shift of metal, as if the guard had placed his hand on his sword, before he spat back. “I am head guard of the crown. You must tell me if the fugitive is here, or I shall have you arrested.”

“All right, all right,” Sally’s voice wavered. She sighed, and one hand fell below the bar to rest on her hip. Jay watched it grip the knot of the scarf below the hem of her corset. Then, calmly, the barkeep said, “He’s not here. I lied before, he did come in. He harassed me a bit, came onto me, y’know, so I threw him out. Don’t know where he is now. Probably stumbling around, looking for gullible merchants. If that slimy git was still in here, I’d throw him to you, sir. I swear.”

The silence that followed felt tense and heavy. Jay closed his eyes, wishing for Sally’s lie to hold, and for the guard’s ignorance to believe it. He felt a slight movement beside him, then the warm compression of Sherlock’s hip against his own. The touch calmed him a bit, and he breathed a hidden breath.

“Men!” Mycroft shouted then, “Check the back!” 

Solid, quick footsteps padded away from the bar. A scuffle of bodies, swords, and yelps sounded as the head guard passed through. His footsteps stopped, and, with a swivel, he threw his voice back to Sally. “If, Miss Donovan, I find you’re lying… It’s the gallows.” He must have smiled menacingly in the hesitation before he barked, “Dimmock! Watch those two.” Then, by the sound of it, he swept out of the room. One of his right hand men trailed behind him, creaky old lantern at the corner of the door shifting with the movement of their steps.

The remaining guard breathed in a shaky breath. Jay’s ears piqued at the sheath of a sword. “Right,” he said firmly.

It was still and quiet in the cottage bar before there was a solid crack of bone against bone, then the unforgettable slump of a body meeting the ground. A clink and snap of metal, a groan, and one of the Sherrington brothers spoke. “Thanks,” he growled. Jay grit his teeth, Damn. Not them too.

Then they were gone, padding out of The Yard with heavy footsteps. Jay let out the breath he’d been holding after a long minute, pads of his fingers damp with nervous sweat against the grimy wood of the bar. On cue, Sally’s skirts moved out of the way for them, and Jay let Sherlock crawl out first. He rose to his feet, and Jay followed. He looked at Sherlock, his calming silver-blue eyes, pleading a silent apology. It seemed Sherlock didn’t care for apologies, as he just gave a small smile and said, “Occupational hazard.”

Jay might not have felt the corner of his mouth twitch up, but he definitely felt the sharp kick at the back of his left knee. 

“You know what I do for you!?” Sally shouted as he crumpled over. “You owe me, Watson. You owe me big.”

After a wobbly moment, Jay straightened himself up and dusted off his tunic. He turned back to her, looking at her strong stance and pursed lips. He wanted to say something snarky, turn the blame on her, say that she owed him an apology for calling him a “slimy git.” Instead, he looked her right in the face, at her one feral eye, and said, sincerely as he could, “Thank you.”

Caught off guard by the sentiment, she blanched. She brushed a loose curl away from her eyepatch and shook her head, “Come on, then.”

Sally lead them down the long strip of bar to another storage area, on the opposite side, underneath the plentiful shelves of dusty bottles and kegs. The regulars had grown disinterested now, and had returned to drinking ale and polishing weapons. Jay glanced at them as Sally dropped to her knees, pulled a few sacks out from the opening, and gestured. She’d revealed a square of discolored wood adorned with The Yard’s symbol. Jay crouched down, and Sherlock followed, oddly silent throughout the entire scene. 

Pulling the trapdoor open with a strong arm, dust dancing down from the corners, Sally settled the slab of wood against the bar and looked at Sherlock.

“I don’t know you,” she said, sounds of drinking and roughhousing continuing underneath her dark voice. “But I guess this is important to you. So go, live your dream. Have an adventure.” Then she leaned in close, and Jay tried not to note how close her lips fell to Sherlock’s ear. “And watch out,” she whispered. “He steals hearts, too.”

Jay swallowed and looked away. Sherlock chuckled darkly, saying nothing.

“So, can we go, or what?” Jay grumbled as he traced the edge of the carved hole with the pad of his finger, picking up grey dust. 

“Go,” Sally said from her spot between them. “Get the hell out of here.” Then she shoved Jay by the shoulder towards the trap door. He swiveled his legs out from under him and slipped down, leveling himself with his hands as he shuffled into the hidden entrance. He didn’t know where she was sending him, or even if was safe, but if she sent Sherlock, too, then she must not have meant to harm them.

Jay heard Sherlock gently kiss Sally’s cheek from behind him, but urged himself not to turn around. Sherlock then followed him down, sliding on his bum, ’til the dim light of The Yard faded behind them as Sally, good, honorable Sally, dropped the trapdoor. 

Sherlock followed Jay down the stone slide until they reached a ledge and leapt down into a clearing. Jay dusted off his bum in front of Sherlock, and with his eyes on the beige fabric of Jay’s trousers, Sherlock did the same. Then, his guide and rumored heart-stealer moved towards a wooden beam and took the lantern that hung there. He lit it with the old, thick matches that sat in a stone ridge, and turned to Sherlock.

Against the orange light of the lantern, a hearty glow against black, he looked beautiful. Sherlock hid his excitement and affection in a cool, quick nod of his head, and followed Jay as he moved through the dark opening in the wall.

They walked then, mostly in silence, lantern lighting their way. Sherlock recounted all that had happened, all that he’d learned. Jay, apparently, was quite the infamous one. Brothels, pickpocketing, and, by Sherlock’s own deductions, a rather hopeless romance with the barkeep. She was a lucky one, indeed, as Sherlock had never met anyone as exciting and fascinating in his whole life as Jay. Every bit of life revealed to him only furthered his interest and had him wondering.

True, Sherlock hadn’t met anyone his whole life other than Moriarty. (Who, unbeknownst to him, had seen the silk Sherlock left down, climbed it in search of him, and instead found the hidden satchel, along with the crown and the sketch of the wanted thief. Panicking, he returned to the forest, where he’d followed the guards to The Yard and watched the entire scene within transpire from outside, cloaked in black and fuming, eyes menacingly dark and stuck on Sherlock’s form. And, as they were walking now, he’d ducked inside The Yard and threatened as many ruffians at knifepoint as he could until they told him where the trapdoor let out. He absconded then, a slinking shadow in the golden sun, swearing to retrieve his moonlight and the power within him.) And since Sherlock hadn’t known anyone beside his father-like guardian and the characters in his books, every and all forms of real life, real people, were most fascinating. All of the thugs in The Yard, Sally, and, most notably, Jay.

Jay padded on ahead of Sherlock, broad shoulders solid and strong, one arm holding the lantern, swaying slightly with the gait of his walk. Sherlock looked on fondly. He didn’t know where the cave let out, or even if, in one way or another, the floating lights lay at the end, but perhaps it didn’t matter. Here and now, alone with Jay, seemed a whole momentous dream in itself. 

Sherlock sped up, shuffling lightly alongside Jay, bare feet dusty and cold against the cave floor. He was about to speak when Jay cut him off. 

“That was… interesting. Got us out safe, though.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. Silence returned. Sherlock wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. It seemed a lot went unsaid between them, although he appreciated that Jay noted how Sherlock had kept him from being pulled to bits by human bears. Sherlock beamed upon remembering, then flushed at what happened after, how they’d been shoved into the closet, just a hair’s width apart. He breathed in the damp, dark air and clasped his hands behind his back, calming himself. He had to saying something.

“So,” he cooed, voice deeper than usual. “Jay. Where are you from?”

“Oh no, not happening. I don’t do backstory. I am quite interested in yours, however.”

“It’s not much,” Sherlock said, moving closer and brushing Jay’s arm with his own.

“Well, I’d say a tower and an overprotective father and a lifelong dream is definitely… something.” Jay turned to him then, eyes soft in the dark tunnel, flickering orange with firelight. Sherlock’s chest felt warm and tight, and looked away, down at his dusty toes. He squeezed his hands behind his back and breathed, parting his lips to speak. He shut them, however, when he felt a rumble beneath his feet. The cave floor vibrated and, piquing his ears, he heard the footsteps and shouts of men coming up behind them.

“Jay!” He said, gripping Jay’s bicep and pulling him along.

“Hey, what!?”

“Jay!” Sherlock shouted again, nodding his head in the direction of the sound. Jay glanced back and dropped the lantern with a shattering crack. Sherlock released his thick arm and looked back himself. Orange light rounded the corner behind them, footsteps and shouts drawing closer. The tunnel rumbled with the weight, and Sherlock picked up the pace, pulling Jay along.

They came to an opening and breached through, into the sun. A deep, dusty valley lay before them below the drop of a cliff. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he neared the edge, which came sooner than expected. A great wooden dam curved around them, holding mass amounts of water away from the dry, deep basin. He glanced down just as a boarded up hole in the basin wall burst open, two scowling ruffians breaking through. 

“Jay!?” He yelled, the mystery thugs looking up at them with intent to kill. Jay appeared beside him, along with a soothing hand in the small of his back, before they both spun at the sound of the guards behind them. Head guard, dressed in silver armor adorned with crescent moons, appeared at the tunnel opening. His two men stood behind him, swords drawn.

“I’ll have you yet, thief!” He shouted, pointing the glint of silver metal at the two of them. Sherlock found the head guard strangely familiar, as if a ghost from a previous life, but the effect was soon lost as the men from the bottom of the basin bellowed.

“Watson!”

Sherlock and Jay were trapped, panicking silently. They had no place to run and no weapons. The three guards all had swords, as well as the men below. He and Jay were left bare and vulnerable. It had fear spiking in Sherlock’s stomach, and his wild eyes darted around the place as Jay backed up into him, steadying himself against Sherlock’s height. He raised his hands defensively. “Hey now, it’s all fine.”

Sherlock used the moment in which Jay stalled to deduce the surroundings. If they jumped, they’d die. If they stayed, Jay would be captured. If they made it to the bottom alive, those two would kill him. Their only chance was to make it to the adjacent plateau across the chasm, where Sherlock could see a sloping angled path leading down to another hole in the basin wall. The only problem was, how to make it across the way?

Impatient, the head guard then made the first move, swiping his sword at Jay’s stomach. Sherlock felt him tense against his back, and on instinct, Sherlock moved in front of him. Sherlock stood tall and strong, shielding Jay with his chest. He hoped this would stymie the guard’s moves, as he had no reason to harm him. The guard, with his men behind him, looked into Sherlock’s stern, protective eyes. He must have found something there, seeing as he paused the attack. Something passed across his round, oddly familiar face, something that Sherlock didn’t understand. However, there was no time to wonder, as Jay moved out from behind Sherlock and pulled him off to the side.

“Don’t hurt him!” He yelled, pushing Sherlock away from the fight.

“I would never dream to…” The guard said, suddenly very soft and honest. Sherlock looked on, confused, as the armored man shook his head and turned his hard eyes back to Jay. He raised his sword, all softness gone. Unrelenting, he jabbed at Jay again, who leapt diagonally to miss the strike. The tip of the sword then struck the earth behind him, sinking into the basin wall and dragging the guard with it. He gave a few helpless yanks, but to no avail. He then let go with a grunt and moved to take one of his men’s swords, who stood by and watched the pathetic fight uselessly. Sherlock quickly deduced the other two men in the spare moment, his mind spinning in panic, eager to find control of something. One of them was bright-eyed and attentive, offering his sword without a second thought. The other looked dazed and sleepy, grimacing against the sun. Sherlock deduced this was the guard who’d been knocked out back at The Yard.

Looking on at them, deductions helping to refine his thoughts, Sherlock grasped onto an idea. “Jay!” he shouted. Jay met his gaze, suave, confident eyes now terrified and concerned. Sherlock darted his own down to the sword, which stuck imbedded in the wall by Jay’s thigh. He then glanced up to a stretch of wooden beams above them that stuck out from the dam. Jay understood without another word, clambering up onto the blade of the sword with one foot and kicking off the wall with the other. He leapt to the beams above them and struggled to grab hold of one.

Sherlock watched nervously, stomach tightening as Jay flailed to pull himself up. He did, fortunately, just as the guard turned back from shouting his men awake. “Hey!” he said, eyes on Jay, who now stood atop one of the beams. Then, as light-footed as a wanted thief, he leapt from one beam to the other and crossed the gap between the plateaus.  

“Get him!” The guard shouted, pointing his new sword at Jay’s quick figure.

“We don’t know how!” One of his men shouted back.

“What exactly is the point of you then, Lestrade?”

The second guard flushed under the shadow of his silver helmet and directed his boss’s attention back to Jay, who balanced like a trapeze artist on the wooden planks. “Look at this, this is not our division, Mycroft!”

Head guard, thus called Mycroft, sighed and rubbed his temples. Sherlock watched on from the wall, invisible and puzzled. For a chase that had lasted all morning, Mycroft definitely took his time in capturing his target. Although, it seemed there was nothing he could do, lest he wanted to scramble up like Jay had. And, with one look at his tired eyes and slight belly, Sherlock knew that was most likely out of the question.

Mycroft and Lestrade would have bickered some more, Sherlock was sure of it, if Mycroft hadn’t turned back to Jay, who was now kicking down a vertical beam from his spot atop them. It creaked and cracked, splintering as it broke away and fell across the gap.

Sherlock took what he was offered and crossed it quickly, hoping he didn’t get splinters in his feet.

“There, now get him!” Mycroft’s voice rang out. The guards then struggled to follow Sherlock across the beam, who was wobbly in the knees and urging himself not to fall. Luckily, he didn’t, and made it across the beam safely. He rushed to cross the plateau and looked up at Jay, silently asking if he was all right.

Jay seemed to say, Don’t worry about me, go! as he pointed Sherlock to the stone slope at the corner of the plateau. Sherlock complied wordlessly, running to his escape, periodically checking on Jay’s success at the beams above.

The fugitive then hopped across the high planks to a thin, wooden aqueduct that led water down into the basin. He leapt into it. It creaked and swayed with his weight, and Sherlock’s breath caught, watching worriedly. Jay bit his lip and lowered himself for balance, squatting and glancing back. Mycroft, Lestrade, and the other nameless guard had crossed the bridge to the plateau, but were still helpless to reach Jay. He laughed at them and stood up, preparing himself to run down the duct.

However, Jay must not have noticed the built up slime from the water and he slipped, sliding down the duct on two feet. He flailed a bit, calling out in surprise, but then found his balance as he went, crouching down and riding the slippery slope confidently. Sherlock took a moment to watch then turned back, running down the rest of the way to catch up with him.

They left the plateaus and the guards to chase them, one running and one sliding, two figures fleeing the scene. Sherlock, rushing down a slope against a golden, stone wall, and Jay, gliding down a duct like a wild man on a vine.

Said duct gave way to the ground with a small puddle of muddy water. Jay avoided it by leaping off lithely but didn’t account for its weak structure. Swaying with the change in weight, it snapped and cracked, falling away from the dam’s walls and pulling a bursting hole as it went. Water erupted from this tear in the wood, and a flash of white surged over the plateaus then, pieces of wood sent flying as it expanded. 

Sherlock was almost down from his stone ramp when he heard the crack, and looking back, he saw crashing white wave sweep away the guards. Panicking, he ran to Jay, who was dumbstruck by the broken dam and surging waves. Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him away, running quickly from the cascade of water. 

Sprinting along the basin floor, kicking up golden dust, Sherlock eyed the two ruffians charging at them. He yanked Jay by the arm in another direction, yelling “Take my hand!” over the roar of water. Jay complied, clasping Sherlock’s bare hand. Together, they ran from the charging brothers. Sherlock could see an opening in the wall ahead of them, two beams crossing over the head, leaving enough room to crouch under. With Jay gripping his hand fiercely, Sherlock looked back at the men trailing them and at the threatening tsnami-like wall of water that chased behind. 

Sherlock had never been so terrified in his life, but he pushed on ahead, Jay in hand. 

As they neared their destination, the wave crashed against a large, natural stone pillar and cracked it at the base. It moved heavy and slow as it fell. Jay and Sherlock ran, directly in its shadow, to the hole in the wall. They ducked under the wooden beams and into it just seconds before the pillar crushed its entranced, dousing them in dark and blocking their escape. Instantly, water began flooding into the cracks in the dark cave. Sherlock looked on, horrified, knowing that the entire basin had been filled, and that all that chased them had been washed away. 

Panting, scared, and desperate to escape once again, Jay and Sherlock were thrown into darkness, water rising quickly and playing at their feet. After a moment of disbelief, Jay dropped Sherlock’s sweaty hand and looked around as best he could in the dark. He found a wall patched with stones. Rushing to it, water at his ankles, He threw himself against it, scrambling to pull and loosen any rocks. He hissed in pain when he sliced his hand on a sharp rock and heard Sherlock gasp beside him. Regardless of the pain, he tried, again and again, looking for any crack or opening. He squatted into the water and searched frantically.

It was dark. The water kept flooding in. The rocks weren’t giving way. It seemed hopeless.

He glanced back at Sherlock, whose eyes were blown wide in darkness, fear, and worry. His curls were mussed and there was dust and dirt in patches around his pretty blue tunic. The water was at their waists now. Forcing himself to look away from Sherlock’s helpless, innocent eyes, Jay urged himself to try again, diving into the water. Everything was pitch black, fingers numb against the cold stone. He popped back up and wiped the wet, golden bangs from his forehead. He grimaced, breathing hard, chest heaving, pounding his fists against the stone. “There’s…” he started through grit teeth. “There’s no way…”

“No,” Sherlock whispered, desperately moving to the wall. He scrambling with pale, slender fingers for an opening. Jay sighed deep, shaky breaths as he watched Sherlock panic. Jay didn’t know why this side had been patched up, but it didn’t matter, really, as they were trapped now, cold water rising up to their ribs. 

He watched Sherlock take in a lungful of air and dive under. Quickly, Jay reached down into the water and pulled him up by the arm. He splashed a bit and sputtered, face wet, curls dripping into the angles of his face. 

“It’s no use,” Jaysaid, finding his hands at Sherlock’s shoulders. He looked across at him as they began to float. Sherlock was terrified. Jay moved a wet curl away from his face, “It’s pitch black down there.”

Sherlock breathed out, brows furrowing. The main rush of water had slowed now, as there was only one small bit left to fill. The part that allowed them to breathe, naturally.

Jay found himself feeling weak, tired, and worn from the chase. He bobbed in the water, kicking drowsily. He closed his eyes and scrubbed a wet hand down his face. He and Sherlock were going to die. They’d drown, no mercy.

Everything was quiet as the water level rose. Then, echoing off the cave walls, Sherlock’s deep voice cut through. “This is all my fault.”

“Hey,” Jay swam close to him.

Sherlock covered his face with one hand, unfinished sobs breaking his deep voice. “He was right, I never should have left… Now we’re going to…”

“Hey, I know, it’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry, Jay.”

Jay sighed. The water had them wading, the surface just at their shoulders. “John.”

He felt Sherlock tense under his hands, which somehow had landed on his waist underwater. Even through the chill, he could feel Sherlock’s warmth. Warmth that would soon be gone. John tried not to think about it as he pulled Sherlock’s body closer to his. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, if he noticed at all.

“What?” Sherlock said, turning his wet blue eyes at him.

“My real name is John. John Watson. Someone might as well know.” He offered Sherlock a sad smile, which seemed to help. 

Sherlock managed a small smile and wiped his face. “I have magic hair that glows when I sing.”

“What?”

His eyes went wide and he parted his pretty lips to yelp, “I have magic hair that glows when I sing!” John was confused, but then Sherlock sang, quickly, as the water teased at his neck and jaw. “Flower, gleam and glow, let your powers shine -“ He breathed out a few notes and tipped his head up to have one last gulp of air before they both went under. 

Jay, well, John, went down, submerged completely, and looked through the darkness for Sherlock.

What he saw instead was a gleam of white, spiraling streaks against dark curls, illuminated Sherlock’s serene face. His mouth stayed shut tight against the water, eyes closed. Behind his delicate eyelids, his irises glowed through, faintly white, almost silver in the darkness of the water.

John was taken back at the sight, stuttering out a silent yell. He closed his hands over his mouth as water flooded in, and watched as Sherlock opened his - glowing! - eyes and unfurled his palms. Those, too, glowed faintly with white light. He swam downwards, lit palms guiding him.

John looked through the water clearly from the newfound light sources, to where Sherlock swam. His hair illuminated the rocks all around him, and as he went deeper, John could see a few of his white curls tugging towards a spot through two rocks. It was the smallest movement, and he might have missed it had he not been watching closely.

He swam forward, lungs burning, and reached towards the crack in the wall. His fingers grazed Sherlock’s curls, and as he kept his eyes on the spot before him, he felt his fingers slip through the glowing white curls mixed with dark twists. Sherlock moved back and watched John. John’s brain went a bit fuzzy, eyes blurry, as he reached into the small opening. He pulled and pushed, feeling the smooth stones give, before he broke through, his hand sticking out of the wall and breaching the air behind.

The last thing he felt before the stones crumpled were Sherlock’s hands at his waist, their presence as necessary as it was comforting. 

When Sherlock broke the water’s surface, the gasp of air he pulled into his lungs was the best of his life. He collapsed on the grassy bank of the stream and heaved, coughing out water. Immediately, he thought of Jay, or, Sherlock supposed, John. He shifted himself against the grass, about to search for him, when the man himself rose out of the water and flopped onto the grass beside him.

They lay beside each other, eyes closed, shuddering with wet, needy breaths for a long, long time. Finally, when the sun had teased Sherlock’s curls, warming him back to life, he opened his eyes. John’s golden hair and cinnamon scruff looked very nice in the sunlight, Sherlock decided.

Sherlock raised one tired arm from the bank and nudged John awake. He groaned and squeezed his eyes, blinking them open and casting Sherlock in awe by their beauty. 

“Hey,” Sherlock said.

“Your hair glows.”

“…And my eyes.”

“And your eyes.”

“And my hands.”

“And your hands.”

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly and watched as John shifted himself up and leaned on his forearms, shaking his head lightly. “Mind,” he groaned as he pressed his bleeding hand into the grass, “Mind telling me why it does that?”

Sitting up, Sherlock swiveled his body and put his feet in the clear water. Curious, how water could be so deadly and powerful one moment, and glittering in the late afternoon sun, pretty and innocent, the next. Sherlock wiggled his toes, happy to have clean feet once again. “It’s kind of a long story,” he replied.

“Ah.” John threw his head back against the sun, exposing his handsome neck to the golden light. He groaned, a deep, growling vibration from his throat.

They’d almost just died, so it was very in inappropriate to think so, but Sherlock thought he might like to nudge his nose against John’s neck. Kiss it a bit, too. He caught himself staring as John spoke again.

“Backstory?” he asked, coquettish smirk playing at one corner of his lips.

“Yes, part of it.” Sherlock watched as John hummed and moved to inspect the deep, crimson gash on his hand. “But there’s something else.”

John looked at him, one of his brows quirking up. Sherlock huffed a laugh because the dark blond hairs of it were all sticking up in different directions. He composed himself and looked John right in the eyes, standing up. “It doesn’t… just glow,” he said, before trotting off and into the forest.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John, after heaving themselves out of the river and onto shore, had found a secluded spot of the woods not too far from the bank. Tall, looming trees dripped down ‘round the area, at the center of which sat a long wooden log with a gnarled stump askew in the middle. The grass was soft and warm and dry, and as Sherlock and John lay upon it, they struggled not to let themselves drift off into sleep. However, the area was so pleasant, the sky so beckoningly blue, that they couldn’t help it. Exhausted from the chase and nearly drowning, they closed their eyes against the late day sun. They slumbered for less than an hour, Sherlock on his side, John on his back, with a good three feet between them. When they awoke, not much later, John rolled his neck and sat up. He looked around the place, memories of what had happened rushing to him like the dam he’d broken. He groaned, pulling his knees in.

Sherlock was there, with him, and they’d almost died… but they hadn’t. They sat now, quiet and safe, as the late afternoon ticked on. John cast a glance at Sherlock’s sleeping form and leaned back on his hands. He winced at the sting of pain there, and brought his hand forward to inspect it.

He’d been cut, badly, as he now remembered, and he sighed in defeat. He quite liked this hand and would prefer it to be clean of injury. Luckily, the blood had dried along the gash, browning and flaky. Some of his palm was tinged with a red smear, but the diagonal cut in the middle bled no more. He traced a fingertip along the split skin, remembering the slice of rock as he struggled to escape the cave. He was lost in the thought of drowning, fingernail scraping at the dried blood, when Sherlock roused beside him. John turned to look and caught Sherlock as he sat up and blinked the sleep from his pretty eyes. He yawned sweetly and rubbed his lids with the back of his hand before twisting his body and laying down once more, curling in. 

John, with breath caught in his lungs, swore that a sleepy Sherlock was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Well, outside of all the other types of Sherlock. All of them were always so beautiful.

The thought of it was sure and confident, and John didn’t linger on it too long. After the cave, after knowing he and Sherlock would die together, he wasn’t surprised by the depth of his own attachment to him. John smiled at the sleeping figure, blessing the heavens that they’d survived the cave, thus allowing this magnificent thing to live. He turned his eyes to the sky in a silent thank you, and noted that the creeping sunset would soon be upon them.

Then he stood, quietly rising to his feet so as to let the boy sleep. He thought he ought to get a fire going, seeing as the pink sky would soon turn purple, and he trekked off into the forest in search of twigs and rocks. 

As John went, Sherlock drifted in and out of thin sleep, dreaming of rushing water and smiling villains. He twitched in fear as ice water filled his mouth and lungs, weighing him down, heavy. Through the dark water, he could see the round, pale face of his father-guardian. Moriarty’s lecherous gaze cloaked him in black, vibrant neon sparks popping all around his skeleton grin. Sherlock often had nightmares about the things he didn’t understand, but now that he’d lived (and nearly died), there was a crude realness to his dreams that sucked the hope from him. Then, as if to restore it, a shroud of golden light burned off the shadows, draining the water. Moriarty, suddenly small and mortal, shielded himself with his cloak and turned from the light, hissing like an angry snake. Sherlock felt his dream self let the sun-like rays guide him to the source. And there, like an angel, stood John. Lovely, brave John, his smile warmer and more reverent than any deity. Sherlock moved towards him unconsciously, into his strong, open arms. He knew that John would protect him from whatever punishment Moriarty was sure to inflict upon learning of his betrayal, and he buried his face into John’s solid chest to shy from it. Dreaming of the thief’s embrace, Sherlock curled deeper into himself. 

Far on the other side of the forest, unaware of the nightmares he featured in, Moriarty met with the Sherrington brothers.

They’d emerged, gasping and wet, from The Yard’s hidden exit. They clung to the edge of the trap door’s splintered wood and coughed out the water in their lungs. However, before they could even catch their bitter breath or throw a curse or two at Watson, their gaze landed on a pair of high black boots, inches from their noses. Raising their gaze up the length of the stranger’s body, the boots gave way to a confident figure cloaked in black. His pale face looked down at them, both handsome and terrifying in its intensity. The eyes were dark against pale sockets and the small mouth quirked. The voice that came from it did not, in any way, match the size or presentation of the body, but it dipped and pitched so strangely that the ruffians were helpless to its chime. They followed the sounds dumbly, rushing water still in their ears. When the stranger pulled Jay Watson’s satchel from his cloak and dangled it from his fingertips, however, their eyes went wide and they struggled to focus. 

Amused at the change in attention, Moriarty stepped back and let them clamber up and out of the hole, beckoning them with the satchel. They stood, side by side, immoral eyes stuck on the leather bag. Moriarty then laughed, strangely, and tossed them the satchel. The brothers fought a bit, scrambling to assure the crown was still intact. Then the voice cut through, truly this time, and the brothers were met with a proposition.

“You know,” the stranger said, “A crown’s all well and good… but I could, should you be interested, that is, offer you something worth one thousand crowns, making you rich beyond belief.” He rolled his eyes dramatically towards the sky before bringing them down, hard. “And oh, that’s not even the best part.”

“What’s the best part?” one of them asked, water trickling down his bulbous nose, meaty hand fisted ‘round the delicate crown.

“Revenge on Jay Watson,” Moriarty sang, presenting a crumpled parchment sketch of the thief.

Back at Sherlock and John’s campsite, John kneeled in the dirt as he rubbed the stick between his hands quickly, friction causing swirls of grey smoke to spiral up towards Sherlock’s curious, watchful eyes. He blinked, brows furrowed, as he studied John’s hands. John leaned down and breathed into the small ember he’d created and kept breathing ’til orange flames licked at the twigs. He pulled his face back just as they grew, swallowing the wood greedily. 

He sat back on his haunches and dusted his hands proudly. Then he winced. 

“Ah! Keep forgetting about this…” He looked down at his hand again, still very much wounded.

“Here,” Sherlock said, reaching out and pulling John up by the bicep. John let him, the tiniest spark curling in his stomach at the touch.

Sat beside him on the log now, John looked at Sherlock’s face as the night darkened around them. The orange flames danced on his pale skin, paints on a blank canvas, the icy silver of his eyes tinting green in the yellow light. All the angles of his face stood out more prominently than John had ever seen them, and John watched as the flickering heat cast Sherlock as both beautiful and strange. Sherlock looked down at his lap, pressing his lips together in what John, as he’d been studying Sherlock’s body language, might call shyness. 

It was, like everything about Sherlock, completely fascinating. How, John wondered, could someone so brave and clever and mysterious be so… clueless? Well, he supposed much of it had to do with Moriarty and how he hid him from the world.

John hated Moriarty in that moment, actually. He’d kept such a wonder away from a world which fascinated Sherlock as much as Sherlock fascinated him. 

He raised his eyes at John then, the smallest smile gracing his plump lips. 

“Give me your hand,” he said.

John reached out his healthy hand, brows twitching curiously.

“No, the other one. The injured one.” 

John complied, confused but interested. He moved his hurt palm forward, and as soon as it neared Sherlock’s thigh, he trapped it gently between his long, pale fingers.

The touch was intimate and incredibly romantic. John hoped Sherlock couldn’t hear the quickening beat of his heart. 

Navy night dark around them, fire keeping them warm and lit, Sherlock parted his lips and said, so small, “Don’t… Don’t freak out.”

“Okay…” John agreed. His own voice was just as small.

Then Sherlock breathed deeply, turning John’s hand over and bringing it forward towards his chest.

“Sherlock, what are you-“ John stammered, suddenly very embarrassed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, “Shhh…”

He pressed John’s hurt palm against his chest, right above his heart, and closed his own palms over it. John felt his heartbeat under his hand. Trapped in awe, he said nothing, only blessed that the blood had dried and crusted over, lest he would have left a red stain on Sherlock’s lovely tunic.

It was silent, just the crackle of the fire and the whistling wind in the distance. A moment passed between them, John watching Sherlock breathe, hand pressed to his chest. Then, just as John was about to speak again, Sherlock began to sing. His lips parted, eyes still closed, singing the tune that he had in the cave. Now, sitting with John in the silent woods, he was able to truly enjoy it. He rolled the melody through his deep, lovely voice, words coming through in time with the beat of his heart.

“Flower, gleam and glow. Let your powers shine. Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine.”

John watched, hand still pressed to Sherlock’s chest, as lengths of Sherlock’s hair gleamed white. Glowing against the night, a mysteriously unnamed breeze fluffed his curls. Able to really admire the feat now, John observed as the stripes of white grew in intensity against the beautiful twirls and curls of Sherlock’s dark hair. Then, as his voice continued to sing, his delicate eyelids began to glow faintly. Orbs of light shone behind the thin skin, and while completely entrancing, John found its beauty a bit spooky.

John, still paralyzed by Sherlock’s serene voice and magical glory, barely registered that his hand suddenly felt very warm. Sherlock pressed him harder against his chest as he finished the song.

“Heal what has been hurt. Change the fate’s design. Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine. What once was mine.”

The heat of John’s hand felt comforting, healing, in a way. A strange sensation passed through the gash on his hand, but it wasn’t painful, just different. He swallowed, throat dry.

The last of the white stripes disappeared from Sherlock’s hair, and John was suddenly aware that a glowing light in the cracks of Sherlock’s fingers dulling. Sherlock kept John’s hand there a few moments after the song and the glowing faded, and John wondered if he even noticed, as his eyes were still closed. Then, with John’s eyes still on his hands, Sherlock pulled their hands from his chest.

John darted his gaze back up to Sherlock’s face, confused, and watched as Sherlock dipped his chin down and opened his eyes. Immediately upon opening them, Sherlock focused them on John’s face, and John couldn’t deny the coil of heat it unfurled in his stomach, as well as the flip of his heart. And, to make things worse, Sherlock then spoke his name in that dreadfully wonderful voice.

He pushed John’s hand towards him, which John realized had lightly gripped the pads of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock turned his hand over before he released him, settling his own hands on his thighs. 

John inspected his hand. His palm was perfectly healed, not so much as a scratch against the wrinkled skin. He felt a scream bubble up inside him, but before it could escape, Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips. 

“You promised,” he said. 

Sherlock released his mouth and took a deep breath, brilliant eyes still burning into John’s. John felt himself breathe in time with the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. It calmed him, just as he’d calmed Sherlock that morning. At the memory, he looked back down at his hand and traced a fingertip where the deep cut had once been. 

“How,” John started. His voice was a bit raspy. “How long have you been able to do that?”

“Forever, I guess.” Sherlock’s turned away from him, gaze at something in the distance, but John couldn’t look away from his strong profile. Everything about Sherlock was surprising, of course, but this… This was something else.

John didn’t think he’d speak again, but, naturally, Sherlock surprised him. “Moriarty said that when I was a baby… People tried to take my curls… They’d try to cut them, hoping to put one in a locket and sing to it when they needed strength… but once cut, they stop growing and lose their magic.” He pushed some of his loose curls away from the base of his long, pale neck to show John where one of them was shorter. Still curled, but small and thin, not as glorious as the fluffy, thick twirls that framed Sherlock’s head in a luxurious halo. He fluffed the curls back over the spot and clasped his hands in his lap. “They wanted to keep themselves healthy and young, but my fath… Moriarty… knew that I would surely suffer if the magic got into the wrong hands. So… he said I had to be protected. That’s why he never let me…” Something passed across Sherlock’s face, he looked down at his lap. When he looked back up at John, his eyes were a sad cerulean. “That’s why I never…”

“That’s why you never left that tower,” John finished for him.

Sherlock bowed his head.

“And you’re still going back?”

“No,” he said firmly, snapping back up, sadness replaced by ferocity. He changed his mind, “Yes.” His eyes couldn’t stay in one place. “I don’t know. It’s… complicated.”

“I see,” John said, truly seeing Sherlock in all his complexity. All his tenderness, all his vulnerability. He looked so fragile, there on the log, but John knew he wasn’t. There was a strength, a fire in him that he’d never seen in anyone. “Well, you don’t have to think about it right now. Just… be here.” With me, he added to himself.

“I will.”

The look Sherlock gave John then was unlike anyone had ever given him. It was friendly, compassionate, and grateful. John never thought anyone would be grateful for him. And yet, here was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen, looking at him like he was the world.

Silence settled in before Sherlock raked a hand through his hair. He was overwhelmed with the intimacy of the moment, of the sentiments between them, the feel of John’s hand on his chest, the slight curl of the tips of his fingers as if reaching for his heart. He felt wonderful, being here with John, of course he did, but he also didn’t want to be the only one strung out by emotion. So, with his fingers tugging out of his warm curls, fluffing them playfully, he cocked his head.

“So… John Watson?”

“Ah,” John said, pretty red mouth twitching in the orange firelight. “I’ll spare you the story of poor abandoned baby John…”

Sherlock scooted closer and quirked a brow as if to urge him on. John huffed a small laugh before swinging one leg over the log to sit as he would atop a horse, turning his body so it faced Sherlock. Sherlock felt color rise to his cheeks at John’s position, but he didn’t know why.

He didn’t have enough time to question it, though, because John was pressing his solid hands into the wood beneath him and taking a breath. 

“I don’t know who my parents are, but I know they didn’t want me. They left me, or so I’ve been told, in a bread basket outside an orphanage when I was just a baby. I grew up fine, I guess, but it was always like I wasn’t wanted. My own parents didn’t want me… So why should I take the name they gave me? I couldn’t very well change Watson as a little kid, you know, but I could force people to call me Jay.” He laughed, cheeks pulled taut by his brilliant smile. Sherlock liked it quite a bit, even as it hid a deep sadness. “Well, you can imagine how that went. It took a while, but finally, the ladies of the orphanage gave in and told the all the other children to call me Jay. It felt better to... have my own name. It wasn’t the remnant of… Well, anyway.”

“The remnant of what?” Sherlock found his voice was barely a whisper. 

“Of people who didn’t want me anymore.”

Sherlock leaned back, raising his chin. He looked down his nose at John, and God, he looked so sad. Sherlock couldn’t bear to see it. John, who was so smart and witty and nimble and sneaky and strong, had felt like nobody ever wanted him. Sherlock fingers twitched on his thighs, and part of him was so tempted to assure John that he was wanted. To tell him, I want you.

“I want you…” he started. Embarrassed, unsure even how the words escaped his lips without permission of his brain, he tried to cover it up. His eyes darted down to the peeking rose quartz crystal that hung on a black strip around John’s neck. It swayed slightly in the movement of John’s nervous fidgeting, fingers raking the bark off the log. It was so beautiful against the golden tint of John’s skin, just above the maroon and beige folds of his clothes. It was beautiful and mysterious. Like John. “I want you to tell me about that crystal, the one ‘round your neck.” Sherlock said then, saving himself, tensing his own fingers to stop them from taking John’s restless hands.

John looked down at his chest, “This?”

“Yes. Is there… a story there?”

Huffing a wispy laugh, John touched the crystal with bark-dust covered fingers. “Well, yeah. I didn’t… I didn’t steal it, you know. I wasn’t always like… this.”

“I know.”

“I found it. I mean, someone must have lost it… You don’t find perfectly shaped quartz in the woods like this… But I took it and… This is silly.”

“No, tell me.”

Sherlock’s assurance seemed to calm him, and his darting eyes found comfort in Sherlock’s neck. He went on, “Well, having it my hand, I felt like it would make me strong. It was so neat, and I… I felt like it would make me stronger. Make me different than the baby left in the bread basket.”

“Oh, John.”

“So I took it back to my room and set about carving a hole in it.” His fingertip rubbed over the crude nub and hole that the black leather laced through. “It took a long time, but I felt like when I was done, I’d earned the right to wear it. So I did. And it’s just been… A comfort.” He paused, rolling the geometric spike through his fingers. “Sorry, that was too much.”

“No, John -“ Sherlock reached out a hand instinctively. “It’s fine.”

John reached back. 

They touched hands, gently, the crystal falling in the dip of John’s chest. They both looked at their hands, mirroring each other, palm to palm. Sherlock was about to curl the tips of his long fingers over John’s when John darted his eyes down to the fire.

He pulled his hands back abruptly and stood. “I should… I should get some more wood.”

“Okay…” 

“I’ll be back.”

“Okay.”

And then he was trotting away, into the dark of the forest, leaving Sherlock alone on the log. 

It was quiet. Sherlock’s hands felt empty.

Then, “Good grief, I thought he’d never leave.” 

The voice sent shivers up Sherlock’s spine with its eerie pitch. He knew the voice at once, and as he turned, he found Moriarty, as menacing as death himself in a black cloak.

Sherlock should have been happy to see him, but the dream from earlier flickered through his mind and he found himself shrieking, “Moriarty?” as if he’d just intruded on a very private moment.

“Hello, moonlight.”

Standing at attention, more out of shock than anything, Sherlock rose tall above him. Still, he stuttered, “You - I - I was going to -“

“Ah, still stuttering like a fool. Seems my eloquence lessons didn’t pay off, then.”

“Why are you -“

“Here?” Moriarty swept ‘round the back of Sherlock, cape flaring out as he went. “Simple. I came to find you.”

“How?”

“I listened for the sounds of complete and utter betrayal, as well as bit of whining, and followed them. Come, we’re going home.” His voice pitched down at the end, and it made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable.

“You don’t understand, I can’t go back. I’ve had the best time. I… even met someone.” Sherlock hoped this fact would make him understand, but his guardian’s eyes were unwavering, uncaring. Sherlock stood, paralyzed. He was scared, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He clasped them behind his back and pretended he had a cloudy blue crystal hanging from his neck, giving him strength.

After a moment, “Oh yes, the wanted thief. I’m so proud.” Moriarty hopped atop the log, leaning forward and husking a lewd breath down the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock turned and stepped back, thinking of what John would do in this situation. He’d have courage. 

He had to make Moriarty understand. He couldn’t go, not when John was… 

“I think…” Sherlock started. “I think he likes me.”

Moriarty laughed, high and villainous. “Like you? Sherlock, that’s demented!” Poised above him, he spread out his arms, opening the cape against the moonlight, and gestured to Sherlock. “Look at you! You think that he’s impressed? With your twig body and bulging eyes, you think he finds you handsome? Is that it?” 

Moriarty was relentless. Sherlock hated it, but he was frozen in rage.

He continued, balancing down the log, pointing one booted foot in front of the other. “And your personality, so whiny, so needy. You really think he likes you?”

“But I thought -“

“Yes, you thought, you thought!” Moriarty was giddy in his taunting. “That’s what kids like you are always doing, thinking. But you don’t know… This whole romance that you’ve invented. How desperate are you?”

“Please!” 

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. Come back with me.”

“NO!”

Moriarty’s acrobatics stopped. He turned towards Sherlock and leapt from the log. He walked towards him slowly, sharp with intent. “No?” He swept his eyes down Sherlock’s body and back up again. “No… I see.” He rounded Sherlock like a vulture. “I understand, I do! …Sherlock knows best, Sherlock knows best! Doesn’t he? Of course. He’s so mature now, he doesn’t need anyone.” Moriarty reached behind his back, and from the folds of his cloak, he presented the satchel. “Fine, if you’re so sure, go ahead, give him this!” He thrust it at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it, large palms clasping the worn leather. “How did you…?”

“This is why he’s here! This is what he wants! Don’t let him play you, Sherlock.” He slinked closer. His breath was warm and moist. “He’ll play you like the little boy you are. And you’ll let him, thinking it’s because he wants you. Don’t believe me? Give that to him and watch,” Moriarty snapped his fingers in Sherlock’s face. “That’s how fast he’ll leave you.” His words were strangely melodious but definitely sinister. Sherlock backed away.

“No, I trust him. He wouldn’t.”

“Oh? Because you know best? Sherlock knows best…”

“No.”

“If he’s such a dream boat, if he’s so rugged and handsome and daring, put him to the test!”

“I will!”

“I won’t say I told you so, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s eyes never left Sherlock’s face, and every twitch of his mouth or brows weighed upon Sherlock as judgement. “But when you’re left with nothing, when it turns out you aren’t so clever after all, don’t come crying!”

And then he was gone, just twist of a dark cape in the night, spiraling into the shadows. Sherlock was fairly certain he heard a high, eerie chuckle from the bushes, but he couldn’t be sure. Moriarty was so in his head that he never knew. Still, he knew for certain that he was left with the satchel, gripping the leather so tightly that his knuckles went white. He was angry, insecure, and stiff, crinkling his nose to withhold the tears.

He heard a rustle behind him, and, snapping out of his trance, he quickly moved to hide the satchel in the hollow of the log.

“So…” John said in the distance, “I was thinking… Am I going to have like, super strength in my hand now? Because that would be fantastic.” 

Sherlock, with his back towards him, replayed the taunting, ghostly tune of Moriarty’s warning.

“Hey, you okay?” John, by the sound of it, had set the firewood down and seemed to move towards Sherlock. He turned before he could touch him.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just… lost in thought.” 

John didn’t seem convinced, but, as he was a good man, he knew when not to ask. “Okay. Anyway…”

John went on in comparing the magic in his hand to his rugged looks and impeccable body and brilliant agility as Sherlock sat down beside him. They talked a bit more, as much as they could with Sherlock so distant, until they grew tired and drifted off in the same positions they’d been at before the sun set. 

Now, however, they were tucked a little closer, hands near in the grass, pinkies just barely touching.

Should one of them had awoken to explore the woods, he’d have found Moriarty and the two Sherrington brothers watching from the bushes. One of them stirred, and Moriarty put a hand out to calm him as if he were a dog.

“Patience, boys…” he chimed. “All good things to those who wait.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock awoke first. He blinked into the golden sun and sat up, wincing through the woozy dizziness in his skull as he remembered the night before. John had been so close, so solid and warm and gentle. Sherlock had healed him, sang to him in the dark, and they’d touched palms. Sherlock pressed his lips together as giddy warmth bloomed in his chest, fingers tingling. It was all real, it was all really happening.

And, as it’d happened, Sherlock remembered that Moriarty had found them. Sherlock furrowed his brows and pushed the black, purple, and white of Moriarty’s nightmare out of his head. The chime of his ghostly voice forced its way back in, though, and with a terrifying husk, it curled into Sherlock’s stomach and reminded him that the satchel containing the crown was still with him, hidden.

Careful not to wake John, Sherlock crawled over to the hollow opening in the log and reached for it. His heart sank at feeling the worn leather and buckle, as he’d prayed it’d have disappeared, and with it, the truth of why John was still here.

Still, Sherlock retrieved it and turned it over in his hands. All of what had happened was riding on this crown, payment for John to take him to see the floating lights.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. John was taking him to see the floating lights today. That was happening today. Because today was… “My birthday.”

He closed his eyes, rolling the leather strap between his fingers. Today was the reason this whole thing started. Today was why all that had happened had… happened. Yet, even after everything, the original promise still stood. John was going to take him, and Sherlock was going to give him the satchel in return. Nothing had changed the original proposal, the agreement.

Sherlock understood that. He knew that a bargain was a bargain. He just didn’t want to deal with it right away. So, as quietly as he could, he took the satchel and wrapped the strap around it, holding it close to his side. He’d have to keep it from John until the right moment, and right now, glancing at his sleeping form, Sherlock knew that moment hadn’t come.

Nothing had to change. They could still go along as they had. All Sherlock had to do was hide the satchel. He’d find a way. He had to.

Crawling back to his spot beside John, he kept his eye on his handsome face as he angled the satchel behind him. He sat back on his bum, nearly on top of the thing, as he watched John sleep. Sure that the satchel was hidden, he remembered that he was here with John, and that was enough.

He wanted to wake him, see the beige lace of his lashes pull apart as he focused his dreamy eyes on him. Sherlock wanted to remind him that they were here, in the woods, on his eighteenth birthday. And, needy as he was, he wanted to ask him to take him to the lights as soon as possible. He wanted to get there early and discover the process, watch what exactly made them float up into the stars. But John was still asleep, a bit of drool at the corner of his smart mouth.

Sherlock looked down at him, feeling as though they’d done a lot of sneaking around and hiding in the last day. He thought again. They’d done a lot of everything, really. They’d crossed the land, fled from criminals, nearly died, bared their souls, and maybe even fallen in -

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock shifted against the satchel, sure it was hidden from view. “Good morning.”

John sat up beside him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Some of his hair stuck up at an angle and he used his other hand to push it back into place, picking a leaf out of the blond strands. Glancing at Sherlock, he chuckled nervously and cleared his throat. “So. What’s on for today? Fire monsters? Ice cliffs?” When he spoke, his voice was still deep and raspy, and Sherlock thought he might like to hear it like that every morning.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, looking towards a clearing in the woods just ahead of them. “I was thinking something more along the lines of celebration.”

As he pulled his knees in, John looked at Sherlock curiously. “Yeah? What for?”

Sherlock’s heart went heavy. He didn’t remember.

John seemed to understand his silence as disappointment, and after a quiet moment, he said, “Your birthday, of course. I’m sorry. Today’s the day. I’m going to take you to see the floating lights.”

“Yes.”

John stood, brushing the dust off the seat of his pants. Sherlock glanced at his bum before standing, raising to his full height, nearly a foot above John. He held the satchel behind his back, following the path of John’s eyes.

John only glanced up at his face, smiling so his eyes crinkled, before he stretched his arms high over his head and arched his back. Sherlock’s fingers dug into the leather of the satchel as he caught a hint of John’s musk. He tried not to let it show that he actually fancied the smell of it, as strange as that was.

“I almost forgot about it, actually,” John said, hands going to his solid hips. “So much has happened, I forgot why we’re doing this.” His blue eyes went towards the morning sky, and the red line of his mouth quirked. He didn’t seem to mind at all that Sherlock was watching his every move, nor did he notice that Sherlock’s hands never came out from behind his back. Perhaps he was used to Sherlock’s curious behavior, his intense gaze and rigid posture. Maybe he didn’t mind at all.

Sherlock let himself believe it.

John ran his fingers through his hair and down over the cinnamon scruff on his chin. “Well,” he huffed. “Shall we? Castle’s just this way, I think.”

Sherlock followed as John started off, hands now behind his head, fingers laced. “You think?”

“You’ve followed me all this way, and you’re only just now questioning my lead? Have a little faith, would you?” John turned ‘round and smiled at him, brilliant and handsome. Sherlock clenched the satchel behind his back.

Sherlock gave him a small smile, letting John’s words fall into his silence. John turned back around without a fuss, understanding Sherlock’s silence as compliance. And Sherlock was grateful for it, as he felt there was nothing else to say. John knew he did in fact, have faith. He trusted him with his life. They’d almost died together, anyway. There was little left for them to face.

Together, they trekked on through the woods, John in the lead, Sherlock behind, still hiding the satchel behind him. They may have left the clearing and the fire pit behind, but certainly not the memory.  As they went, Sherlock thought of orange flames on John’s bearded jaw, and the soft, warm compression of his palm against his chest. He forced himself not to think of Moriarty’s appearance and warning, or the weight of the satchel behind his back. He breathed confidence into himself, thinking only of the time they’d spent together, how they had another whole day before their agreement came to a close and Sherlock would hand over the crown. It was hard, actually, to think only of sweetness with the pang of Moriarty’s taunt still in his head. Fortunately, John’s occasional glance, a lovely smile on his lips every time, calmed him. Maybe Moriarty was wrong. Maybe everything would be fine.

Yes. Things would be fine.

Sherlock assured himself of this as he followed John. And, while the woods may have passed by in swatches of green and brown, Sherlock thought only of silver and gold. He relaxed into the fantasy of just the two of them, together on an adventure, going along with no threat of capture, no bargain. He willed himself to believe that they’d still be friends after everything, maybe even more. He spent the the short walk out of the woods lost in his own head, blushing slightly as John’s voice or striking smile reminded him that there was a chance for his dreams to become truth - escaping the tower, seeing the floating lights, being with him, everything. Sherlock rode that hope all the way to the stone bridge that lead into the castle town, which wasn’t very far out of the woods.

John stepped across it first, his golden, maroon, and beige color scheme immediately complimenting the paper-white buildings, blue rooves, and silver windowsills. They walked over the stone bridge, Sherlock’s bare feet padding softly across the cool stone. The silhouette of the castle rose high above the archway which led into the town, and Sherlock’s stomach tightened. He’d seen it every day from his tower, but here it was, so regal, so close. John continued confidently up towards the entrance and stopped just before it. He turned back to Sherlock and motioned him forward, urging Sherlock to look past him and into the town. Sherlock felt John’s eyes on him as he stepped up beside him and observed.

There was so much life, so much color. The square was filled with bustling people, working around each other like clockwork. Vendors presented their wares from their shops, mothers snuggled their children, and pups and kittens pounced across the square, darting between legs. There was music, too, light and pretty under the roll of wooden wheels and the rumble of peoples’ voices. Sherlock spotted a small band in the corner, a few men jamming to the pluck of a mandolin, two of them following along with a violin and a tambourine. Another was singing, his smooth voice lolling through indecipherable words, making the song pleasant and easy, perfect as the background to such a scene. Sherlock continued to admire, noticing a fountain at the center, a little boy sitting with his two sisters on the rim. Farmers displayed their harvest in wooden crates, dust spiraling up into the blue sky as they set them on the stone. Sherlock followed the swirls up, eyes wide in wonder as they danced across the long stretches of twine strung between rooftops, blue flags with silver crescent moons tied to them swaying in the breeze. There were hanging bunches of plants, verdant leaves and flowers enveloping the entire square in a sweet, floral scent. With it, were various smells of food, warm home cooked bread and meats and soups. Sherlock had forgotten how hungry he was, but now, with a plethora of fare before him, he remembered.

John said something, but Sherlock didn’t hear him, as he was lost in the scene. He’d never seen so many people all at once. After a life of isolation, such a bustling community was a bit overwhelming.

A solid thump on his back brought him back, and he found John smiling at him brilliantly. “Are you going to check it out, or are you just going to just stand there?”

Sherlock swallowed. “You go on ahead, I’m thinking.”

John quirked a brow, “All right. Come and find me, then.” And with that, he was trotting off into the crowd, swallowed up by the spectacle.

Sherlock waited a moment before rushing to the right of the archway and placing the satchel in the large brown clay pot he found there. He looked at it a moment, half-hoping someone would come and find it and steal it, and that he could pass it off like he’d lost it. While the thought was tempting, he owed it to John to follow through, and he gave it one final look before crossing under the archway and into the town. He’d come back for it later, after he’d seen the lanterns.

He weaved through the people, brushing up against thick women that smelled like hearty food and tall, handsome men with sturdy arms and chests. There were so many kinds of people, but it wasn’t hard at all to spot the perfect one, stout and muscular and blond, leaning against a stone wall, arms and legs crossed nonchalantly.

Sherlock waved to John, and felt a bit foolish, but was immediately reassured when John’s face lit up in a smile. They worked through the people, meeting in front of a jewelry shop. It was too loud in the square to speak, so John just ushered Sherlock through it with his soft eyes, hand on the small of his back. The walked along, John winking at some of the ladies who glanced at them. Sherlock didn’t notice, of course, as he’d spotted something to his left that had entranced him.

A mother and two children sat on a flat stone step beneath a large, colorful mosaic. Geometric tiles painted a scene of a family, a woman, a man, and two young boys. One of them stood at the foot of his father, while the other was just a babe, wrapped in a light blue blanket in the arms of his mother. He wore a crown of silver, nestled in his dark curls. Sherlock was lost in the baby’s familiar, wide blue eyes before one of the children at its base spoke, her small voice hinting a bit of a lisp.

She placed a white lily amongst a collection of flowers as she said, “It’s for the lost prince.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to figure out the meaning before John was tugging on his arm and directing him elsewhere.

They walked back past the fountain, where three more children were picking flowers out of a woven basket and placing them in each other’s hair. Well, the two girls were. The boy was playing with a cup and ball on a string. John watched as Sherlock approached them gently, pointing at one of the purple flowers in a little girl’s tiny hands. Her eyes went wide as she and her sister spotted his thick, luscious curls, and they begin to smile and wiggle, pulling flowers of all colors out of their basket. The little boy with the cup-and-ball just rolled his eyes. Sherlock looked back at John, bemused. John waved him on with a smirk before turning his attention to a fat man with a mustache selling silver goblets and rings. His fingers itched to steal one, and he let the instinct carry him over.

He sneaked around, popping his head around the customers waiting in line. He admired the gleaming silverware, watching as the people handed over bit coins and tucked away their purchases safely into their satchels.

Seeing their pouches, he remembered his satchel and the crown, and how Sherlock promised it to him. He stopped sneaking around and moved to lean up against the stonewall as he pondered the bargain, wondering if it still stood.

At this point, he didn’t even want the crown. Well, that wasn’t true, he did. But he didn’t want it in exchange for helping Sherlock, not anymore. He realized now that the entire day they’d spent together had been absolutely ridiculous, but he wouldn’t give it back for anything. And he certainly didn’t want it to be tossed off as just extra trouble he’d gone through to get the crown of the lost prince. It wasn’t worth it. Hell, nothing would be worth more than the time he spent with Sherlock. Not anything.

John thought of their endeavors, how his thievery had brought them so much strife. He wondered if there was another world in which they didn’t meet on the cusp of danger, where they didn’t run from baddies and nearly die together. Maybe there was, somewhere. A world where they could just meet like two normal blokes, go for some warm bread, stroll through the town together.

However, Jay Watson had lived a furtive life, and now John Watson felt the repercussions of it, along with the people he cared about. Which, truth be told, wasn’t many. Not until now, anyway.

John looked down at his black boots and rubbed the dust off his toe with the back of his calf. He would, without a doubt, give up a life of crime for Sherlock. He’d give it all up for him. Anything.

He looked up now, realizing he’d been lost in thought for quite a while, and searched for the fountain. He saw Sherlock’s blue tunic, his broad back and trim little waist. The little girls had him bending over, and John couldn’t see his head. The two sisters spotted John then and giggled, swatting Sherlock’s biceps to get him to stand up. He did, and just as he turned around, a wide-bellied man with a sack of potatoes passed in front of them.

Once the view had cleared, John spotted Sherlock across the plaza. He sauntered towards him, hands behind his back sheepishly. He came closer, stepping out of the shadow the fountain cast and into the late morning sun. He was looking at the ground, at his bare feet on the stone, a crown of flowers sitting pretty in his curls.

John’s breath caught, his nerves going warm and tingly as Sherlock stood before him. His beautiful, silver-blue eyes shot sparks into John’s heart, his pink lips pulling into a small smile. His high, pale cheekbones flushed as he flicked an errant curl off his forehead. The flowers, blue and purple and white and pink and yellow, wove around his head, sitting beautifully against the soft twirls of hair. It looked so naturally gorgeous, the crown in his hair, that John felt he was in the presence of royalty. Standing meekly, heart hammering, at the foot of the flower prince.

They stayed like that, just staring at each other, before Sherlock cocked his head. The sun caught in his flowers just so, and he looked absolutely angelic. “Well?” he said, raising his nose high into the air proudly.

“It looks, um. Good. You look good.” John struggled, heat rushing to his cheeks.

Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head, his curls momentarily gleaming mahogany in the golden sun. “Thank you.” Then his eyes darted around the town again, as excited as a child’s. “Now. Where to?”

John cleared his throat, as it’d gone a bit tight. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“I saw a pub of sorts down over there.”

“Not like The Yard, I hope,” Sherlock smirked.

“Mm, maybe,” John answered, stepping around a man with a basket of fish. Sherlock followed.

They fell into step, Sherlock padding through the square, a floral, barefoot beauty, while John walked beside him, brawny and hardened by adventure. Every few minutes, John would point at something and Sherlock would follow his hand, smiling and commenting on whatever there was to see. John took the moment to admire Sherlock instead, his strong profile and crown of flowers. It was pleasant, just going through the town together, enjoying the celebration. Of course, they had to dip into dark corners to hide when they spotted a castle guard, but they didn’t mind one bit. In fact, both of them were giddy at having to press together, crowded up in a corner, chests touching, breath hot and damp. The guard would pass, and they’d pop back out, blush at each other, and continue on.

They passed various buildings and stands, and outside one of the shops, a man sat with a thick white canvas. A father and his daughter posed for him on a stool, and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as the man swiped the brush down through the paint, adding a shadow to the heart of stone in the little girl’s hands. Sherlock was transfixed by the painter, and John waited as he stared on. Eventually, John had to tug him away and continue down the street.

Sherlock stopped again when he found two grandfathers playing a game of chess. John followed Sherlock’s eyes as they twitched over the pieces. He then pointed to an ivory piece shaped like a horse and turned to John, smiling. John just raised his eyebrows and nodded, absolutely adoring Sherlock’s amusement. Sherlock then waved the players goodbye and trotted away, lightly swaying his hips. John just followed, smitten.

When they finally made it to the pub John had mentioned, Angelo’s, they had to wait in line to order at the window. As they waited, they played a game in which Sherlock would look at the people around the square and tell John about their lives. He talked of mothers and wives, single dancing girls and the boys that fancied them, and the sad, lonely people who sat on stone benches and fed the birds. He was so detailed in his assumptions, down to every stain and wrinkle. He seemed to love doing it, too, especially as John husked compliments and amazement as he went. He lit up at the praise, spouting off wild strings of words, cheeks going a bit pink. John just watched him. In fact, it’d be safe to say that John Watson was falling harder for the mysterious kid from the tower with every deduction.

Once they were at the window, John pulled a few coins from the pouch at his hip and bought two meat pies, two candy apples, and two mugs of sweet fruit juice, whatever that was. It cost him quite a hefty sum, and he’d have loved to pinch at least some of it, but he wouldn’t. Not for Sherlock. Sherlock was worthy every cent.

They found a round stone table in the shade, and they sat on opposite sides, silver crescent moon candle at the center. They ate happily, chatting away about the scene, the celebration, and a story from John’s past.

One time, he said, he had tried to steal from the cooks at the orphanage. They’d set out two berry pies on the windowsill to cool, and he tried to take them. Foolishly, he burned himself on the tin, and, stubborn as he was, tried again by grabbing a handful of innards. He was discovered by the purple stains on his hands and mouth, and they didn’t let him have any dessert for two months. John said he didn’t mind it, in fact it was those two months which made him the “lean, dashingly handsome” man he was today.

Sherlock had laughed, hoping to match his story with one of his own. He’d baked pies up in his room, perfecting them until they were expertly sweet and flaky. Unfortunately, he had nobody to share them with, as Moriarty didn’t like sweets, and he had to eat them all by himself. He’d gotten sick and stopped baking pies after that.

John sucked the caramel off his fingers, apple core lying in the parchment from his meat pie, as he said, “Seems we had different childhoods. I was a misfit criminal in a crowded orphanage, and you were hidden away in a tower, alone.”

“Yes, but we did have something in common.”

“What’s that?”

“We were lonely.”

John was about to retort, but he realized that even as he’d grown up with dozens of kids just like him, he was still lonely as anything. And the fact that Sherlock figured that meant he really considered it, really thought about John’s history. Appreciating Sherlock more every second, John then looked at him across the table, at his sad eyes and downturned mouth, still sticky from the caramel and the fruit juice. He thought he might want to kiss the sweetness off his lips. Instead, he said, “Maybe not so much now, though, yeah?”

Sherlock caught his implications and smiled, eyes going light and pretty once more. “Yeah. Not anymore.”

John raised his mug. “Cheers, Sherlock.”

“Cheers.” They clinked their mugs together before finishing the last of the drink, feeling sated and happy.

They left Angelo’s and continued down the strip, popping by shops to get little trinkets or taste candies or cakes. John paid for it all, even as Sherlock complained, but John had only pressed a hand to his waist and said, “Yeah? And how are you going to pay? You’ve no money.”

Sherlock huffed. John just chuckled, squeezed his waist reassuringly, and moved along, stopping only to buy Sherlock a kingdom flag. Sherlock held it up to the sky, spreading the light blue fabric open to see the silver thread crescent moon within it. He tucked it into the satin around his waist as they went on. It was only when Sherlock spotted the library did they quit their mingling. Sherlock rushed inside, John trailing behind.

Fortunately, the library was open, and absolutely nobody else was inside. Everyone was out in the square, shopping and eating and selling. John and Sherlock had the place to themselves, and they used it to their advantage. They weaved through the stacks, popping out to scare each other behind shelves, or chase each other through the aisles. Soon, they realized that they were still heavy from lunch and decided to find a clearing and sit before they lost it.

Sherlock sat in the center of a round room as John brought him books by the armful, books about history and politics and nature, books about all the things outside of his tower walls. They sat together, flipping through books, getting distracted halfway and moving onto another. They stayed in the library for hours, surrounded by words. At one point, John lay on his stomach, just watching as Sherlock went from book to book. He’d point to an illustration and ask John what it was, and John would tell him. It wasn’t belittling that Sherlock didn’t know much about the culture in which he was raised, it was just a part of his history. It was a part of him that John got to unlock, to reveal to him. And when he did, Sherlock blossomed. He retained information so easily, and so much of it, too. By the end of their visit, he could link parts of history with each other, proving cause and effect without even reading about it. And, John found, he knew more about stars than anything.

“I’ve charted them,” Sherlock had said, knees pulled into his chest as he flipped through a book on botany. “And experimented on plants, too.”

“Quite the scholar, then,” John replied, nudging his hip with his shoulder.

“I’d have to attend school to be a scholar, John.”

“Hm. Well, we can settle in the middle and just say you’ve intelligence, then. You really are brilliant, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had flushed, burying his face in his knees.

It went on like that, just pleasant talking and learning and flirting. They’d been alone together plenty in the last two days, but this was different. Enveloped in the quiet of the library, in the presence of only each other and the dusty bookshelves, a deep intimacy settled between them. John almost resented that Sherlock looked out the library window at the sky, and dragged them back out onto the square, leaving the books behind in a messy circle. But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. It was Sherlock, and Sherlock was excited to get back to the celebration, so John was excited, too.

What he didn’t expect was when Sherlock stood, eyes on the now empty square by the fountain, and turned to him with a playful grin.

“I love dancing,” he said. “I’ve always loved it.”

And then he was off, crossing the stones and telling the band at the corner to kick it up. Then he started twirling, tapping along to the beat, all alone. He raised his hands above his flower crown and swiveled his waist. John could feel himself staring openly, face soft and smitten, but he didn’t care. He just watched Sherlock dance, and God, it was beautiful.

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He hadn’t danced in so long, and never with other people. He’d always just danced alone in his room to the music in his head, and on occasion to the music of the traveling bands that went through the woods. Nobody came to his tower, though, and only once did Moriarty play the flute for him on his eleventh birthday.

Now, the air was buzzing with electricity, life, and celebration. He was determined to bring the town together in a dance, and he was going to start with the little boy with the cup-and-ball. Hopefully people would be more keen to join if a child did.

He danced now, barefoot and light, over to the boy and his mother. She smiled at him, and he reached out his hand for her son.

“Go on, Archie,” the mother said, giving the boy a little shove between his shoulders.

He was reluctant at first, but as Sherlock took his hands and leaned down, he said, “Just smile and bounce along.”

Archie complied, catching onto to the beat of the music quickly and moving along with Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock released him and mouthed his thanks. Archie looked at him like he didn’t understand, and Sherlock glanced over to the people who’d caught on and circled ‘round them, clapping along to the music.

Sherlock then moved over to a woman and brought her into the dance, and then a man who’d linked arms with two of his friends and dragged them in as well. Soon, people were willingly joining, clapping and stepping along to the band’s beat, to Sherlock’s lead.

More and more people joined in, until the square was filled with dancers, all moving together as a group, making circles and lines and partnerships, sweeping Sherlock along into one as the music swelled. He glanced over the woman’s shoulder at John, who was standing coolly off to the side, leaning against the stone with his arms crossed. He was the only one in the kingdom that wasn’t dancing, and, naturally, the one Sherlock wanted to the most.

The boisterous woman in his arms spun him ‘round the square, pulling him farther from John, though his eyes never left his lopsided smirk and magnificent body. Then, as if someone had heard his prayer, one of the vendors from the nearest shop danced away from her post, tugging John into the group. He was about to protest, Sherlock could see it, but the woman was so jubilant and excited that John couldn’t escape.

Sherlock and John were thrown into the flow, lead by happy villagers, brought close together, but were whisked away just as they reached out.

The kingdom danced through the late afternoon, and by the time the sun had set, casting the castle town in an orange glow, the band was nearing its final song. John and Sherlock danced and danced, until finally, the band strummed the last hearty note and they went spinning towards each other, colliding by the chest, John’s hand fell on Sherlock’s waist, Sherlock’s on his shoulders, their other hands held together gently. The song ended just as they met, and they breathed heavy against each other’s body, a glow on their cheeks, a fire in their eyes. They waited a moment, pressed together, warm and solid and lovely, before they blushed and untangled.

People clapped, cheering on Sherlock for starting the dance, and once the applause fell, someone in the crowd named the kingdom’s next move.

“To the boats!” he bellowed.

Chapter Text

Townspeople flooded the square in response to the call, buzzing with celebratory energy and eager to continue the festivities. John and Sherlock, still pressed together, were shoved even closer as the crowd tittered and thrived, finally settling down enough to collectively move through the streets. It seemed John and Sherlock had no choice but to follow, and they untangled as best they could before they shuffled along the current. As they went, both John and Sherlock remained a bit pink in the face and tingly with dancing energy. Luckily, the sun had set, and the warmth of day had mellowed into a pleasant evening breeze, their red cheeks cooling as they turned their faces to the sky. The stars were nearly out, just faded twinkles in the purple and blue brushstrokes of the galaxy above them. The kingdom and its surrounding woods would soon be blanketed in navy, and when they were, the floating lights would appear. That’s what Sherlock assumed, anyway.

Speaking all at once about their hopes for the coming year, the townspeople brought them back towards the arched entryway and continued to move towards what Sherlock figured was “the boats.” They pressed up against him and John, warm and solid and real. It was nice, actually, to be around so many people. Kind people, too, people who liked to dance and rejoice. Sherlock, the boy who’d grown up alone and hidden from the world, strangely found himself feeling at home in the kingdom. He didn’t let himself question it too much, and instead, he only watched, eyes wide in wonderment, as the people herded to an area he and John had yet to explore.

They stopped to observe the space, people swerving around them, one of them even patting Sherlock’s back jovially. Sherlock just nodded awkwardly at him as he went off, rump jiggling like he still wanted to dance. John laughed at him and looked to Sherlock, biting his bottom lip and raising his eyebrows. Sherlock went warm as he smiled back.

They took a much needed moment just to seek comfort in each other’s presence before they came back to reality and observed their surroundings. Just outside the snug streets of the castle town, the main road opened up into an area at the edge of the lake. There, under the quickly darkening sky, sat massive wooden ships with large, white sails. They were docked at piers, long ramps filling with people as they filed up and into the ships. While the ships were impressive, the lake was most incredible, the water calm and glassy as it stretched far towards the woods. Everything was a blur of dark blue, purple, and green, the only light that of the lamplit streets, a few orange lanterns, the white sails, and the peeking stars. The people moved beneath the night sky effortlessly,  packing as many bodies as they could into the ships. Sherlock would have loved to be amongst them, resting his elbows on the ledge like he had his windowsill, eyes at the floating lights, but John seemed to have other plans.

He put his hand at the small of Sherlock’s spine and guided him back around, heading off and away from the ships. Sherlock, swept up in the scene and the feel of John’s solid touch, didn’t quite register what John said.

“What?”

“I saw another dock over there.”

“Oh.” Sherlock walked with him through the stone streets, but as they passed once again by the arched entrance, Sherlock remembered the satchel in the clay pot. He stopped abruptly, John’s hand trailing around his waist as he kept walking. “Wait, you go,” Sherlock said. “I have to do something.”

John paused, turning back to look up at him. His eyes were soft and a bit concerned, but his lovely lips parted all the same. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back,” Sherlock confirmed, desperate to get that awfully kind look off John’s face. “I’ll find you.”

Nodding, John let him go. Sherlock turned and moved quickly through the streets. The houses had all gone dark, and the pathways were now empty as Sherlock backtracked. His bare feet padded across the warm stone as he went back to the entrance and dipped through, immediately spotting the large pot. He looked inside it, and, unfortunately, the leather satchel had not been stolen. Sherlock let out the smallest defeated sigh and retrieved it, setting off back to John, satchel in hand.

He hurried as best he could as the sky continued to darken. He found the spot where he’d last left John and looked around for a glimpse of water. Finding a glassy blue strip between two houses, he swept the satchel behind his back once more -Tedious - and hustled down to it.

There, he found John already hanging a glass and metal lantern from the curved wooden nose of an elegant gondola. His back to him, Sherlock took the opportunity to climb delicately into one end, shoving the satchel into the space between the seat and the wall. He settled in nervously and breathed before clearing his throat. John turned, the orange glow of the lantern on one side of his face. Upon seeing Sherlock, his expression went soft and he gave a small, lopsided smile.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” Sherlock replied.

John sat at the seat opposite, and a moment passed between them in which they just stared. John looked absolutely beautiful with the lake and forest behind him, the navy night casting his blue eyes deep and dark. Sherlock felt he could get lost in them, drown in them.

Before he could, though, John pointed behind him and commanded, “Untie that and push off the dock.”

Sherlock obeyed, swiveling around and looping the rope off the beam. He reached for the wood to push, but his fingers just barely reached it. Determined, he raised his leg and kicked off with his bare foot. The boat began to drift away from the dock, and as it did, Sherlock moved back around and watched John take an oar in hand.

As the gondola sailed farther from shore, Sherlock asked, “Where are we going?”

“Well,” John started, strong arms pulling the oar with powerful strokes. “Best day of your life, I figured you should have a decent seat.”

He rowed them deep into the center of the lake and turned in a wide arch, finally putting the oar away as the boat coasted to a steady stop. The lean, small boat was now parallel to the shore, secluded from the townspeoples’ ships. Sherlock looked around as the boat sat, still on the water. John had picked a wonderful spot, as he could see the magnificent castle, a perfect silhouette in the night sky. The houses and shops of the castle town peppered the sloping hill, just little squares of blue and white and grey.

Sherlock stared on, heart swelling. He was here, he was going to see the floating lights. He was finally here.

And… so was he.

Sherlock looked to John, who admired the view, tight column of his neck prominent with his turned head. The profile of his face was handsome as ever against the lake, attractive and masculine with his strong jaw and rugged scruff, his shaggy hair that stuck up, and his perfect nose  The corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes swept over the kingdom, and Sherlock concluded, definitely not the first time during their travels, that he’d never tire of looking at him: his ears, his lashes, his nose, his lips, his chin, and his neck, rose quartz crystal safe against his clavicle. Over the last two days, John’s face and body had become familiar and welcoming in the same way it was still so new, unlike anything Sherlock had seen.

And, as of their adventure, he’d seen plenty. John had dragged him all over the land, bringing him to a seedy bar, a dark cave, the woods, and now, the castle itself. Sherlock had never done so much in all his life. It was exhilarating and terrifying and necessary - absolutely necessary if he was to follow his dream. His dream, which now, was so close to being real. Indeed, so real that Sherlock was nervous. What if it wasn’t what he’d thought? What if it was disappointing?

Sherlock let his gaze fall to the water, lost in thought. He must have looked sad, because John’s low, velvet voice found him.

“You okay?”

Looking to him, Sherlock saw that John’s eyes had gone soft, only gentle concern in the navy rings.

“I’m terrified,” Sherlock said with as much honesty as he could bear.

“Why?”

Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands. “I’ve been looking out a window for eighteen years, dreaming about what it would feel like when those lights rise in the sky. What if it’s not everything that I dreamed it would be?”

“It will be.”

The night breeze touched Sherlock’s cheeks and the tip of his nose as he found John’s eyes again. “And what if it is? What then?”

John took a breath, his voice tender as he said, “Well, that’s the good part, I guess. You get to find a new dream.”

Sherlock relaxed, the smallest smile on his lips. John matched it, just a tug at one cheek.

As it often did, weighted silence went between them. With it, Sherlock was suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment. He was here with John, alone on the water, far away from anyone or anything. The sentiment of it was almost overwhelming, and after taking a calming breath, Sherlock shifted against the seat and draped his arms over the edge of the boat. He trailed his fingertips along the surface of the water and made little paths. After a moment, John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder, showing him a handful of flowers. Sherlock faintly remembered picking them earlier that day, which, truth be told, had been a blur of color and dancing and John.

Sherlock gave him an honest smile before taking one flower at a time, setting them carefully on the surface of the water. They floated gently against the castle’s dark reflection, perfectly delicate and sweet. He continued to do this as the quiet between them hummed comfortably.

It was only when a single silver glowing orb on the castle’s silhouette appeared in the water did Sherlock look up again. When he did, his eyes went wide, watching the floating light climbed higher into the sky. The area that it had come from then glowed faintly with white light as a fleet of luminous pinpricks followed. They rose from the castle grounds like silver droplets of moonlight, gently drifting ever higher.

Sherlock’s breath caught as he scrambled to the end of the boat, wrapping his arms around the curved wooden shaft, his eyes never leaving the sky.

The floating lights increased in number, flooding in waves up from the kingdom and the large ships docked on the lake. Like round, white stars, the lights left the hands of the people in the streets and the boats all at once, joining the others until the dark sky was littered with luminescence. What seemed like thousands of silver phoenixes lit the sky, rising in masses as they drifted on the breeze and spread out over the lake. Sherlock’s stomach tightened, and he felt himself gasp in amazement as the lights came closer to his boat. As they neared, he realized they weren’t stars at all, but glowing paper lanterns. He felt like he’d already known that, but it didn’t matter. They were so different than what he’d expected, and somehow perfect in their familiarity, too. They looked solid, unlike the dots of white he’d see every year on his birthday. They were real and strange, some cylindrical where others were completely round or vaguely square. They gleamed in different shades of white, silver, and blue, enveloping the kingdom in their grace. They painted the sky, and as Sherlock clung to the wood, he let out a content sigh and rested his cheek against his hand, blinking in the starlight. The world seemed to shift as he watched the floating lanterns dance, climb into the sky, and drift and float around him. All at once, everything was different, and Sherlock took it all in, wonder in his wide eyes. As he observed, he could see they were all patterned with coils of swirling ink around the rim, some adorned with a crescent moon design in the center. It was the same moon that decorated the town - in the mosaic, the banners, and the piece of fabric John had bought him.

John.

Something in the deepest part of Sherlock’s heart roused, and with a swell of emotion, he remembered that he was here with John. John had been the one to make this dream real, to endure whatever trials they faced and bring him here. Here and now, he fulfilled his dream. He’d finally seen the light, he’d finally seen what he’d been waiting to, but everything was different… now that he saw John.

With the luminous lanterns dancing ‘round the boat and enveloping them in a silver glow, Sherlock turned to find John sitting at his end with two of them lit, one in each hand. The light against his skin cast him in a bewitchingly handsome, and his eyes seemed to twinkle with a silver spark as Sherlock moved to sit across from him. John was offering him a chance to be a part of his dream, and Sherlock felt he ought to give back.

He hummed in content and smiled before he said, “I have something for you, too.”

Sherlock reached for the satchel as it lay snugly hidden. He brought it forward and watched John’s eyes dart down to it as he said, “I should have given it to you before, but I was just scared. Thing is, I’m not scared anymore. You know what I mean?”

John set one lantern on his knee and reached out a hand to push the satchel down and away. “I’m starting to,” he said.

Sherlock beamed, glowing as warm and real as the lanterns around them.

There was nothing that could describe the way Sherlock looked here with him, under the glowing lanterns, except for absolutely breathtaking. His eyes were wide in fascination, and his smile was soft and genuine on his plump, pink lips. The silver glow brought out the otherworldly paleness of his skin, and his high cheekbones were touched with sparkling stardust. The angelic flower crown in his dark, thick curls cast him as an enchanting, ethereal beauty. Shadows played in the dips and valleys of the skin at his open collar, and all of his harsh lines blended sweetly into a masterpiece of blue, white, and black.

John gazed openly in adoration as Sherlock carefully took one of the lanterns from his hand and cast him a soft glance. Together, they raised their lanterns to the sky and set them free, watching as they drifted up together, two perfect partners in a dance, rising to the heavens. John kept his eyes on Sherlock as the lanterns climbed, and when it seemed they blended into the flurry around them, Sherlock went back to studying those that surrounded the boat.

John went tingly, heartbeat present in his solid chest as he watched Sherlock lean over the edge of the boat and point. A stray lantern had drooped, skimming the surface of the lake and drifting towards them. Sherlock leaned even farther, bare foot popping up behind him as he reached out a slender arm, knuckles barely touching the water. The lantern met his fingertips, and he lifted it back up into the air in one graceful motion. Sherlock followed the path with his eyes, the sweetest, most wonderful expression on his beautiful face. He looked like a prince of the stars, wrapped up in glowing silver and topped with a crown of petals.

John felt warm and full as he watched Sherlock smile and thrive under the lights, feeling for the first time in a long time like he was doing something right. He’d never seen things the way they were; the life he’d lived seemed to string him along from one worthless crime to the next, and he’d spent his days talking meaningless banter and losing peoples’ trust. Here and now, however, he realized he was finally where he was supposed to be, finally with someone who would trust him enough to let him in. It was crystal clear. Wherever Sherlock was, that’s where he was meant to be, too. And he knew, right there, in that moment, that Sherlock was everything he’d yet to find. And here he was, shining in the starlight.

Without thinking twice, John reached forward and took Sherlock’s hands. They faced each other, more intimate and open than they’d been yet, hidden from the outside world by a flurry of floating lights. John and Sherlock sat together in their boat, two moon children beneath the vast night sky, enveloped in a shroud of luminous white embers.

Lost deep in Sherlock’s honest gaze, John felt the sentiment well up in his chest and come out his blushing lips. “I never truly saw…” he offered, voice quiet and low. He hadn’t said much, but he knew that Sherlock would understand, as he said it only for him, only for the warm hands in his and the deep, dark eyes before him.

John pulled Sherlock’s hands closer, thumb tracing his soft skin. He felt Sherlock respond, a rumble in his chest that bloomed warmth through him.

Sherlock’s lips parted, “Everything is different.”

Just as Sherlock had understood him, John did, too. Everything was different. Something changed along their journey, and, as ridiculous as it was, John felt reborn, witness to a shift in the world that he’d never have seen if he’d not met Sherlock. The fog had cleared, and everything made sense. Sherlock embodied all the magic and wonder John’s life had lacked, and now he willingly offering to share it with him.

The weight of the moment nearly swallowed him whole, and before John lost the chance to embrace what Sherlock had offered him, he raised a hand to gently tuck a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. He let his hand linger there in the warm space between his neck and shoulder before his palm sought the perfect curve of his cheek, fingers sweeping into the dark curls at the base of his neck. He leaned as he pulled Sherlock into him, his eyelids drooping heavily. John let the moment enchant him, guiding him and Sherlock into the path of a kiss.

But they didn’t reach it. A green glow from the bank at the other side of the lake caught John’s eye, and his attention drifted from the perfect, pliant lips before him and to the woodland shore. Over Sherlock’s shoulder, John spotted the two thugs that he’d once worked with, one holding up an eerie green lantern.

Dread curled in his stomach and, with his hand still on Sherlock’s jaw, he stared, paralyzed, at the Sherrington brothers.

Sherlock, kind, lovely Sherlock, sensed his hesitation and lightly prompted him. “Is everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yes.” John took his hand from Sherlock’s face. “Uh, yes, of course. I just…”

The light in Sherlock’s eyes went out, and his face fell in disappointment. John hated it.

John struggled, “I’m sorry, everything is fine. There’s just something I have to take care of.”

Sherlock was left stranded and helpless as John moved away, the kiss that once lingered between them broken, gone. “Okay…” he said.

John took up the oar and paddled closer to shore, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes all the while. This time, the silence between them was uncomfortable, tense, and awkward, but there was little John could do to save it. He’d ruined the moment, and now Sherlock’s heart was closed once more.

Irritated and disappointed, John paddled until they hit the shore with a soft bump. He set the oar down before reaching for the satchel that held the crown of the lost prince. He took it and stepped out of the boat, already loathing the weight of it in his hands. Sherlock remained sitting, swiveled at the waist and watching with sad eyes as John backed away.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised.

Then he turned and left before he could see the magic of the previous moment shatter, leaving Sherlock alone in the boat, the lake cold, dark, and empty behind him.

Chapter Text

John felt heavy and anxious as he stepped away from Sherlock, away from the almost-kiss. The worn leather in his hands was nothing now but a weight, a weight that tied him to his life of thievery and could, when in the wrong hands, sink and drown him, leave him lifeless at the bottom of the kingdom lake. So he had to get rid of it, he had to give it up. He wanted to be with Sherlock, and no part of a life with him included crime. Well, at least not anymore. Crime may have brought him to Sherlock, it may have had him scurrying up his tower and hiding from the Sherrington brothers, bringing him not only refuge but the best thing to ever happen to him, but life couldn’t be like that anymore. Everything had changed. The crown had to go, and with it, his life as Jay Watson.

The lakeside bank was navy, blanketed in a low-hanging layer of fog. It was eerie and chilly, completely unlike the silver warmth he and Sherlock shared in their little boat at the center of the lake. Now, as John stepped around a large boulder, the silhouette that met him was anything but. It was large and still as it sat on a rock, and a sharp, rhythmical slicing noise told John he was carving something with a knife. He prayed the next thing that knifepoint found wasn’t any part of him.

Wary but walking steadily, he drew closer, leather satchel almost burning his hands with how badly he wanted rid of it. But he stood strong, stopping before the hunched figure and adapting his flippant persona.

“Ah, there you are! Thought I’d never see you again, mate! I was really missing you since we got separated. Hey, you look real good, the sideburns are coming in nice. Gotta be excited about that.”

The Sherrington brother (John didn’t know his name, and between the two, he supposed it didn’t matter) stopped his sharpening and fixed only his eyes on him. His strong profile and large jaw remained still, as if he couldn’t even be bothered enough by John’s presence to turn his head. John swallowed and cleared his throat. Obviously, he was not a popular choice of comedian at the moment.

John continued, seemingly unfazed. “Anyhow, just wanted to say - I shouldn’t have split, the crown is all yours -“ he tossed the satchel at the brother’s feet, the silver crown revealing itself by sliding partially out of the opening. “I’ll be sad to see you go,” John continued as he began to step away, “but I think it’s for the best.”

As he turned, he bumped into the broad, solid chest of the other brother. He looked up at the scowling, scarred face as his heart leapt to his throat.

Behind him, he heard the growl of the first brother. “Holding out on us again, eh Watson?”

John turned. “What?” he said, seriously confused. He’d given back the crown, what more did they want?

The thug rose to his full height as he said, “We heard you found something.” He flicked his knife towards the ground, so hard it stuck in the dirt, point-end down. He walked forward menacingly. “Something… much more valuable than a crown.” He stepped over the satchel, kicking the crown of the lost prince dismissively. He came upon John, right into his space.

Sandwiched between the two massive thugs, they towered over John as the first looked down and grumbled, “We want him instead.”

Now, John had been through a lot in the past two days. Physically, he’d seen enough turmoil for a lifetime. He’d crossed a castle roof and had hung from a rope ‘round his waist; he’d scaled a tower, only to be hit over the head with a skull; he’d nearly been torn limb from limb by drunken bar rats; he’d run from baddies (these baddies); he’d ridden a crumbling water shoot; he’d cut his hand on a sharp rock and then nearly drowned in a cave; and he’d been on the verge of a kiss with someone who, it might have been safe to say, was the love of his life, and truth be told, breaking that kiss might have hurt worse than anything else. However, something trumped all of it. It wasn’t the roughness in which the thugs beat him and tied him up, and it wasn’t the way he was dragged over sharp lakeside rocks towards a mysterious ship. It was that in the last moments before he was knocked unconscious, he knew, with more certainty than anything, that Sherlock was in danger. That thought alone was worse than one thousand lifetimes of pain.

Sherlock hadn’t held his breath for John’s return. He’d started to, but after a few minutes of nothing, his heart, which had sank the moment they docked on shore, felt heavy in the low pit of his stomach. He sat, lonely and expectant, in the boat until he couldn’t take it and had to stand. He stood and clung to the curved wooden nose of the gondola, eyes at the mist John had disappeared into.

Then, just as he was about to follow, a dark silhouette stepped through the fog. Sherlock’s heart leapt back to its spot in his chest and began fluttering happily. He let out a relieved sigh and smiled. “John! I was starting to think you ran off with the crown and left me.”

John’s blurred figure drew closer, splitting into two, advancing on Sherlock and out of the fog. The Sherrington brothers came upon him, and Sherlock’s poor, tormented heart sank once more. In the dark of the night, the large men looked even more terrifying than they had when chasing them across the dam. Sherlock was alone and terrified, even moreso when one of the brothers confirmed what Sherlock had feared.

“He did.”

Sherlock countered it quickly, despite his creeping anxiety. “No. He wouldn’t. John’s not like that.”

The thug raised an eyebrow and gestured a thick arm towards the lake. “See for yourself,” he said.

Sherlock eyed the Sherrington brother’s face, spouting off a thousand panicked deductions, before he turned his gaze on the lake. There, on the still water, a ship sailed smoothly towards the castle. A figure at the steering wheel stood determined and stiff - a figure that looked a lot like John.

Panic, fear, and disappointment flared in Sherlock’s stomach, traveling up to tighten his throat. Still, he called. “John… John!”

As he stood, struck with horror, he felt the brothers slither behind him. One voice, eerie and deep, curled around him and bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. “Fair trade,” it said, a clammy hand following suit, trailing across Sherlock’s slender shoulders. “A crown for the boy with the healing touch.”

He turned, glancing between them as the one continued.

“How much you do think someone would pay to stay young and healthy forever?”

Sherlock was truly afraid now, and as he cried out, the ruffian raised a coil of thick rope, stretching it between his meaty hands in a taut line. “No, please, no!” Sherlock raised his hands and fled, running with bare feet towards the rock and brush that John had left him through. He glanced behind him as he ran, the Sherrington brothers advancing on him in a slow, determined walk, one with the rope, both with nasty, creepy smiles on their hard faces. Just as Sherlock rounded the rock and the brothers slipped behind it, his right foot caught on something, and he tripped. He fell to his knees and elbows, his ankle twisting and snagging. He shouted in pain, scrambling in the dirt and rocks to sit up and pull his foot out from under the log, knowing the Sherrington brothers were soon to come upon him. However, something slowed his struggling. Around the corner, he heard a series of shuffles, some yelps of pain, and two solid thuds, as if the brothers’ bodies had fallen against the rocky shore. He stopped and held his breath, listening.

Then, “Sherlock!”

That voice… Sherlock leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Moriarty?”

Calm now, he pulled his foot from the crevice. Luckily, it only been slightly twisted, and he stood gently, trying to put most of his weight on his other foot as he carefully stepped over the log. He moved between the opening, his eyes on the shore. Past the rock, he found his father-like guardian slightly slumped, the two ruffians’ bodies grossly mangled and lying prostrate on the ground. Moriarty tucked something away into his dark cloak as he looked up. His eyes flashed with menace, but they turned gentle as they spotted Sherlock. “Oh,” he sighed, “My precious moonlight.”

As best he could, Sherlock limped over, relieved. After everything that had happened, his short, lithely guardian was a sight for sore eyes, and he gratefully let Moriarty embrace him and wrap his wiry arms around Sherlock’s middle, pressing the cold tip of his nose into the spot under Sherlock’s ear at the corner of his jaw. He gave him a light kiss, and Sherlock went warm with the love of it. Then he pulled back, his hands on Sherlock’s waist, inspecting. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“My ankle…”

Immediately, Moriarty dropped to his knees, his spindly fingers going to the pale, delicate joint of Sherlock’s ankle. He held it out as Moriarty checked it, pressing into his bones and massaging the parts where it’d been twisted. Sherlock looked down at him as his cold hands worked. “How did you…?”

Moriarty looked up, his hood falling back to reveal stripes of grey in his black hair. Too, were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, as if he’d aged twenty years since Sherlock saw him last. Moriarty flicked his eyes over Sherlock’s face before he stood, taking Sherlock in his arms again.

“I was worried about you, so I followed you. I saw them attack you and oh! - I’m here now, love, I’m here.”

They embraced again, a strangely sentimental moment as the two still bodies lay at their feet. It seemed to take Moriarty a moment to remember the brothers were there, and he pulled his hands away from their place at Sherlock’s back and moved one to cup his cheek. “Let’s go, before they… come to.”

Moriarty swept away, his cloak just a swish of black in the corner of Sherlock’s eye as he stayed, rooted to the spot, staring at the ship on the water. Tearing up, he took in a shaky breath. John had left him. He never liked him, and nothing had changed during their time together. He took Sherlock to see the floating lights, then stole away with his prize. There was nothing between them, no beautiful silver pheonixes, no adventure, no relationship.

This whole romance you’ve invented…

It was all a lie.

This is why he’s here…

He took the crown.

That’s how fast he’ll leave you…

And left.

Moriarty was right. He was right about everything.

Sherlock turned back, finding Moriarty waiting for him with his lantern. Sherlock let the tears fall as he hobbled over and back into Moriarty’s arms. He sobbed into his chest as Moriarty seemed to read his mind. “I know, moonlight,” he cooed. “I know.”

He then led Sherlock off the lakeshore and into the woods, back to their tower, back to a world without John Watson.

However, John Watson himself wasn’t even part of the world which included John Watson, at least, not until he awoke. His ship had bumped against the dock at the other side of the lake, and he came to, the sky bright and blurry. The first word out of his mouth, slurred, was Sherlock’s name. He went to move, but found his hands had been tied to the steering wheel and his waist to a wooden beam behind him. He struggled in his binds and called again, “Sherlock!?”

He panicked, confused and afraid, as he looked around. It was day, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John was about to call again when someone beat him to it.

“Look!” they shouted. “The crown!”

John looked towards the dock, where the guards that had chased him earlier came upon him. Two jumped down into his ship as the third, the head of the guards, taunted him. He looked down his pointed nose, silver armor glinting in the morning sun. “Ah, Watson, glad you’ve finally decided to do the right thing.”

“Where is he?”

“Who? Your accomplice? Couldn’t pull this feat off on your own, could you?” The guard was smug as he looked down at John, his two minions roughly prying the crown from his hand and untying him from the beam, purposefully hurting him in the process. John let them, he had no will to fight back. Sherlock was gone.

The guards unbound his hands from the wheel only to bind them together at the wrists. Forcefully, they shoved him up and onto the dock. John tried to reason with the head of the royal guard, but he would have none of it. Mycroft, the gloating bastard, had gotten his crown and his thief, and nothing else John could say would convince him he wasn’t at fault. John wished he had more leverage, some other excuse to get them to understand so he could find Sherlock, but he had none. He had stolen the crown, the first time. It was impossible to try to persuade them that he wasn’t conscious the second time, that it wasn’t his fault. So he let them drag him away, shove him and tug him towards whatever awful treatment they had in store. With his hands bound and his fate sealed, he glanced back at the lake helplessly, wondering if he’d ever see Sherlock again.

Sherlock would never see John again, and as much as Moriarty tried to convince him that it was a good thing, Sherlock was heartbroken nonetheless.

As soon as they’d gotten back, Moriarty drew a basin of warm water and let Sherlock sit in bed and soak his feet and sore ankle. He had removed his cloak and sat beside him, fatherly and strangely soft. He’d sung to Sherlock as he pet his head and tangled his fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock felt the warmth of the healing magic course through him as Moriarty sang, he watched his palms glow, the curls that had fallen into his face gleaming with white light. Though, no matter how much magic Sherlock could emit, not one moonlit drop could heal his broken heart.

Moriarty, happy to have Sherlock back with him, touched him delicately, dancing his fingertips across his shoulders. The room was quiet as he went to remove the flower crown and the petals that had fallen loose and into Sherlock’s curls. He set them on Sherlock’s bedside table and swooped his hands over Sherlock’s forearms. Sherlock paid him no heed as he said, “There now, it’s like it never happened.” Sherlock only looked solemnly at his feet in the basin, his hands clasped in his lap.

Moriarty stood, “Now, wash up for dinner. I’m making sirloin.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He felt Moriarty bristle, a warning sign of what was coming. Now, the sadness had really sunk in,and  Sherlock was prepared for whatever “I told you so” his near-father would grant him.

“I really did try, Sherlock. I tried to warn you of what was out there.” His voice was cold and proud, but it didn’t sting at all. Not anymore. “The world is dark and selfish and cruel. It’s full of old-fashioned villains and baddies, people who will skin you alive should they get the chance. People are difficult and the world is awful, Sherlock. If it finds even one sliver of something beautiful, it destroys it.”

And then he was gone, leaving Sherlock with nothing but a few harsh words and a kiss to the forehead.

Not two moments after Moriarty had disappeared into his section of the tower, Sherlock fell back against his bed, his feet raising slightly out of the lukewarm water. It felt strange to be back in this tower, in this bed, after everything. It felt much too small, much too confining. Even though his bed was large and he had plenty of space livable in the round main section of the tower, it was tiny compared to woods, dams, caves, lakes, towns, castles and the too-big-for-his-britches personality of one, John Watson.

John.

Sherlock sighed, his chest heavy and hollow all at once. He’d thought of nothing but John since he left the lake, but he had to stop. I shouldn’t pine, I shouldn’t feel for him.

Sherlock shouldn’t have thought of his devilish smile or the warm presence of his hand in the small of his back. He shouldn’t have remembered the bravery, the softness, the ferocity, he shouldn’t have recalled dancing in the square or the color of his eyes against a steady campfire. And he definitely, definitely should not have replayed the moment in the boat, every moment leading up to a kiss that never came, a kiss that never would. He shouldn’t have thought of any of it.

He did though, obviously.

Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his chest. He rubbed his thumbs on the fabric in his palms, the square of soft cloth he’d had balled in his fists all night, hidden from Moriarty until this moment. He peeked through his eyes and revealed the soft blue fabric, silver threads woven in an embroidery of a crescent moon. He spread it out between his hands and held it up above his face. It was proof that he’d had an adventure, that it’d really happened. They went to town, they spent the day together, and John had bought it for him. And now, here it was still, holding all the memories in its beautiful thread, without John.

Sherlock looked at it so long it began to blur, just as the walls and ceiling of the towers did.

Then, though his brain was slow with sadness, something teased him, something almost clicking. Sherlock furrowed his brows as he looked between the ceiling and the royal emblem, holding it up and pulling it down. There was something similar about the patterns, the shape. Something…

Sherlock sat up abruptly, his eyes on the ceiling, his feet kicking over the basin, water flooding the foot of his bed. He didn’t notice it. He climbed out of bed and stood still, darting his attention from one wall painting to the next. Something was begging to be figured out, and it had him stuck in observation.

The ceiling and walls were decorated with animals and plants, a figure of himself sleeping in his bed, and some abstract designs that Sherlock had painted. In the swoop of a wolf’s howl or the round edge of a fortune teller’s ball, Sherlock could see it. A crescent moon. The same crescent that was on his fabric, on the flags all around the castle town. It had the same curling tips, the same stardust patterns dancing ‘round its base. As he stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, the pattern almost began to glow with silver light, moons appearing all over Sherlock’s room where he’d never seen them before.

Suddenly, in a rush of memory, Sherlock remembered another moment in which he lay on his back, staring up at a crescent moon. It was spinning slowly, stars hanging on chains that he could brush with his fingertips. A crib mobile? For a baby? He heard young laughter - mine? - and voices, sweet and loving. Three faces appeared in the haze of Sherlock’s memory - they were blurry but so familiar, and Sherlock’s quick, connective brain compared them to the mosaic he saw in the castle town. A king, his queen, and their older son. Colored tile pieces fell in place against the blur of Sherlock’s family - wait, what? - but the baby in the mosaic was still without a face to his name. Sherlock, head spinning, tried to solve the mystery, connect the pieces. He remembered the child’s wide blue eyes and dark curls and the silver crown, the crown of the lost prince, and he knew that the child depicted was the lost prince. And the crown… the crown that he’d set in his dark curls, looking at his reflection with his wide blue eyes…

Sherlock was hit with the weight of his realization so powerfully that he yelped, losing his balance as he stumbled backwards into his vanity, causing it to slam and wobble, a few trinkets falling to the floor. He was breathing heavy, his eyes focusing on nothing as they darted wildly through his memory. He didn’t hear Moriarty call him the first time.

“Sherlock, what’s going on down there?” he’d said, emerging from his personal room at the top of the staircase. Sherlock’s bed was square in the center of the main room, and as Moriarty walked down towards him, he called again. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock moved to grip one wooden beam of his bed, steadying himself, his eyes on the wet floor as Moriarty neared him. “I’m the lost prince,” he muttered.

“What was that? Sherlock, sweetheart, you need to speak up, you know I hate when people -“

Sherlock cut him off, raising his eyes to meet Moriarty as he stood before him. He was firm, direct, and clear as he repeated what he’d finally realized. “I am the lost prince, aren’t I?”

Something Sherlock had never seen crossed Moriarty’s face then - fear.

“Have I figured it out, Mormor? Or should I even call you that?”

Moriarty blanched, his pale face going even paler. He then raised his eyebrows and made a face, turning away and regarding an invisible audience. “Sheesh, can you believe this!? I just don’t know what’s up with kids these days. Asking ridiculous questions. You think there’s something in the water.”

His voice adopted that same irritating, mocking sing-song tone that Sherlock had put up with for eighteen years. Now, as he released the wooden beam of his bed, he stood firm at the foot of it, hands balled into fists at his sides. Sherlock shouted, “Look at me!”

Moriarty snapped to attention, his eyes burning dark and wild and trying, but Sherlock glared back, matching in power. Moriarty said nothing, only made a quick movement towards him to go in for a hug, but Sherlock pushed him off.

“It was you!” he snarled. “It was all you.”

Looking up at him, Moriarty adopted the same terrifying control he presented whenever Sherlock resisted anything. His dark brows knit in anger, and were no longer playfully teasing at his hairline. “Everything I did was to protect you.”

Sherlock scoffed and pushed past him, shoving him with all his height and weight. Moriarty stumbled back and turned as Sherlock stormed away. “All my life,” Sherlock said, talking over Moriarty as he called his name, “I’ve been hiding from people who would hurt me and use me, when I should have been hiding from you!”

“What will you do now?” Moriarty chimed, “That boy, that dreamboat? He won’t be there for you.”

Sherlock’s voice went low and raspy. “What did you do to him?”

“That criminal is to be hanged for his crimes.” Moriarty taunted him, pleased, pitching his voice up and enunciating hanged, a curling smile at his thin lips.

Sherlock gasped, “No…” His confidence fell, sadness taking over once again.

Moriarty took his opening, knowing to go for the kill when his prey was most vulnerable. He swooped down in front of Sherlock and got in his space, raising on his tiptoes to meet Sherlock’s height. “It’s all right, my little moon boy, listen to me. All of this has already been written. This fairytale is as it should be.” He raised his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, but Sherlock countered it and grabbed his wrist. Moriarty’s gentle touch arched into a claw.

“No!” Sherlock found his strength, even as Moriarty squirmed in his grip. “You were wrong about the world, and you were wrong about me. And I will never let you use my powers again!”

Finally, Moriarty wrenched himself out of Sherlock’s hand and stumbled backwards, knocking over the large oval mirror and causing it to fall and shatter on the tower’s floor.

Sherlock puffed his chest out and gave Moriarty one final look before he walked away, but Moriarty wouldn’t have it. He made a giddy noise and broke into a terrifying smile, muttering under his breath, “You want me to be the bad guy? Fine, now I’m the bad guy.”

Of all the times John thought he’d be arrested, he didn’t think he’d actually have anything he’d want to break out for. He assumed he’d just be restless in his cell, working to escape by nothing but his wild streak. But now, as he was being tugged along the dimly lit prison corridor by two ruthless guards, he realized there might actually be someone waiting for him, someone who needed him outside the prison walls. He wouldn’t let himself rot, like he may have before, knowing now that Sherlock needed him. He was in danger, and as capable as the young thing was, John had to go to him. He had to.

He thought only of Sherlock and the danger he faced as they passed by multiple cells on their way to John’s, and though John’s gaze primarily stayed on his shoes, he did look up just in time to see one of the Sherrington brothers in a cell, thick hand pressed to his neck, blood dripping from the spaces between his fingers. Filled with white-hot rage, John wrenched himself from the guards’ grip, slamming himself against the cell’s bars. He reached his tied hands through and pulled the brother by his lapels up against the metal pillars. John didn’t know why there was only one of them, but he didn’t question it.

He didn’t have much time, as the guards were clawing at his shoulders, but he held on. The brother cried in pain, his face digging hard against the bars. John pulled again, earning another cry.

“How did you know about him!? Tell me, now!”

“It wasn’t us,” he rasped, something akin to sadness or regret passing in his beady eyes. “It was the old man!”

“Old man?” Moriarty?

Before he could ask more, the guards pulled John from the bars, shoving him back into place. The lone Sherrington brother slumped back against the corner, his face dented from the metal, his neck red from a deep, mysterious gash.

“Wait, no!” John called, the guards dragging him down the hall. “You don’t understand! He’s in trouble!”

The head of the royal guard, who’d been watching him calmly from a safe distance, rolled his eyes. “Give it up, Watson. Whoever you care for is surely better off without you. Come along now, we have a hanging to get to.”

John fell silent, heart going heavy with worry. The guard stepped in front again, going on and on about finally capturing the esteemed thief Jay Watson, and how he was finally going to get what he deserved. John said nothing, not even so much as a growl of resistance, as they pushed him along the way. His mind was on Sherlock, on “the old man.” If his hypothesis was right, if the old man was indeed Moriarty, then John knew what he was up against. A creep, a creep who kept free-spirited kids holed up in towers. True, he didn’t know what Moriarty was capable of, or what he would do to Sherlock, but based on the ruffian’s fear - and wound - it couldn’t be good. Whatever it was, though, John would stop it. He’d defeat Moriarty if he had to. He’d get to Sherlock, he’d save him.

However, as he looked around the stone corridor, he feared there was little to no chance of that. He bit his lip and furrowed his brow, hanging his head in defeat. He willed himself to be strong and capable and brave and smart, all the things Sherlock thought him, but it was difficult. So, when he looked up again, he tried to be like Sherlock, to ground himself by observing, to figure something out. He looked around the prison passageway, at the metal lanterns resting between wooden doors. He wondered how many criminals had been down here, how many had been falsely accused, how many had gotten out alive. As he thought, something green caught his eye, something that looked a lot like jade beads hanging from the loop of one of the lanterns. When he looked again, it was gone.

He didn’t have time to ponder, though, because as they drew closer to an open wooden door at the end of the hall, it slammed shut abruptly. John flinched, looking to the sound of another slamming shut beside him, as well as the entrance at the back.

“What’s this?” The head guard said, his two underlings lightening their grip around John’s biceps in confusion. The three of them stood and watched as Mycroft stood a little stiffer, calling in his most proud voice through the closed wooden door. “Whoever you are, open up.”

A familiar, feminine voice called back, but the sliding metal grate remained closed. “What’s the password?”

Sally?

Mycroft glanced between his guards and the door, raising his brows as if to say, A woman? “Who’s there?” he asked, then furrowing his brows and raising his chin.

“Nope.” The woman in the cell replied.

The guard pressed on, his voice flat but powerful. “By order of the crown, I demand you to open this door.”

“Not even close!”

“Miss, you have three seconds.”

The woman laughed, but said nothing.

John watched the guard bristle in annoyance. Strangely, John wondered if this guard was someone’s big brother, based on his demeanor. He felt sorry for that someone, should they even exist.

With his back turned to John and his two men, Mycroft regarded the door stiffly and began counting. “1…”

Something then fell from the rafters and snatched the guard on John’s left. Startled, John looked at the empty space beside him.

“2…” Mycroft continued.

Following the first, the second guard then disappeared as well, this time by a meaty hand dragging him into the open cell to their right.

“3!” When the head guard turned, he found nothing but John standing in the corridor, alone. John offered a meek wave as best he could with his wrists bound. The guard darted his eyes over John and the empty places where his crew had been, momentarily stunned. In his hesitation, the door behind him opened, and, as John had suspected, out stepped Sally, barkeep of The Yard and near-pirate queen.

She didn’t so much as spare John one look as she kicked the back of the guard’s knee, taking him down. He crumbled to the floor, silver armor clinking against stone. Sally wasted no time and pressed one booted foot in the spot between his shoulders to keep him down. She leaned all her weight on her knee and peered at the guard under her foot. “Hey mate,” she said, “You look like you could use a drink. Stop by my place sometime, yeah?” And then she was stepping over him, grabbing John by the bicep, and fleeing down the corridor. The guard called after them as he struggled to get up, but they didn’t look back.

Now, John might have been head over heels in love with Sherlock, but at that moment, he’d never been so happy to see an old flame. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as they ran together out of the prison, Sally’s layered skirts fluttering as she held them up in both hands. He had to look away only to figure where they were headed, as the passageways and corridors were unfamiliar. The prison had been built low in the castle, and once they were out and breaking into the daylit square, John assumed they’d stop. They didn’t. They kept on, sounds of clattering silver armor and weapons chasing them in the distance. They were after him, and there was no time to stop. So they kept running, across the stone, all the way to the nearest road which led down into the town. John picked up the pace and looked ahead, spotting a few of Sally’s regulars waiting for them with a large, black horse. John put the pieces together - they were rescuing him. Again.

They rushed to join Sally’s men in a shadowy archway beneath a high stone wall.  John could see the town, the lake, and the woods through the opening, and his heart sparked. Sherlock was in those woods, and he was going to go to him. Restless, he moved towards the horse, but Sally stopped him.

“Hold on, loverboy.”

“There’s no time!” John said, knowing that the guards were after him and getting closer.

“Just hold on. Give me your hands.”

Confused, John held out his hands to the barkeep. He looked at her, really looked, as she pulled a dagger from her belt and sliced the rope still binding his wrists. She was flushed from running, her eyepatch askew, the shiny scar on her face glistening with sweat. She was dressed just as she had been when he last saw her, complete with corset, heavy skirts, and long strands of beads. The jaded beads on the lantern must have been hers, then. A sign of presence. 

John smirked. She would do that, wouldn’t she?

“This is the last time I’m saving your bloody arse, Jay.” Sally said, tucking the dagger back in her belt as John pulled the halves of rope from his wrists.

“It’s John, actually.”

She widened her eye at him, full lips parting. “He’s got you that whipped, has he? You’re all good and pure now, are you? No more life of a thief?”

His stomach flipped, and he must have blushed, because Sally laughed at him.

“Yeah, you’re not that slick.” She crossed her arms. “Now get out of here. …He needs you.”

John looked at her. She was sincere - it was strange. He was about to tease her, ask her if she was finally over him, if she’d gone soft, but he didn’t. She had come to help him, and he owed her a matching sincerity. Moreover, her one dark, painted eye challenged him, a steely, unspoken promise that if he said anything, anything at all, she’d throw him back to the guards. So he just nodded, to her and her large men, and put a hand on the horse beside him. “Thank you, Sally.”

She nodded back. It was settled. All their debts were paid. Then, to finalize the rescue, she uncrossed one arm and flicked her jeweled hand at him and the black horse. “Go.”

John didn’t need to be told again. He climbed up and onto the saddle, pulled at the leather rein, and kicked off. The mare resisted a bit, as she didn’t know him, but eventually, she turned and galloped down the passage. John didn’t look back at Sally or the men, as he knew they’d be gone. He only looked ahead, at the woods past the lake, the blue sky and green treetops, urging the horse to bring him to Sherlock faster. The horse complied, flying down the road and towards the town. John pressed on, determined, as they tore through the streets, the bustling town he’d so recently enjoyed. Now, it felt too cluttered, too far. He couldn’t get through it quick enough.

He did, though. The horse brought him all the way through the town, over the stone bridge, and towards the woods. They didn’t falter once as they rushed through the forest, past the trees, over streams, galloping hooves on soft earth. They only slowed when they came towards a clearing. He leapt from the horse, tied it loosely to a tree, and gave it a loving pat. “Thanks, girl.” She whinnied and shook her head, raven mane fluffing.

Then John was off, slipping between the trees like he had when first chased by the guards only a few days before. He moved between the same rocks and came upon the same slope, shaded by the same vines. This time, he pressed on between the hanging leaves confidently, rushing through the cave and into the clearing. His heart sparked at the sight of the tower, and he prayed to any and every God he knew of that Sherlock was up there, that he was safe.

He ran across the grassy space and stood at the foot of the tower, looking up, heart hammering wildly in his chest. “Sherlock!” he called. “Sherlock, let down your silk!”

John waited. At first, there was nothing. He felt panic curl in his stomach, fearing the worst. Then, thrown from the high tower window - a stretch of blue silk. It passed across the high sun and hesitated on the breeze before unfurling and falling down to John. John walked forward as it stilled, laying flat and long against the stone of the tower. He took it in his hand. It was smooth and delicate, like Sherlock’s skin, as well as a beautiful, iridescent blue like his eyes. But there was no time for admiration, and John quickly scrambled up the side of the tower, satiny ribbon in hand.

When he got to the top, Sherlock was not the one to greet him. The cold, dead, merciless eyes of a ghostly pale face met him instead, and he only caught a glimpse of Sherlock over Moriarty’s shoulder. He was chained to the wall, his mouth tied, a muffled scream coming through, blue eyes widening as a sharp, searing pain cut into John’s abdomen.

Chapter Text

Sherlock watched helplessly as the man he thought his father stabbed the man he thought his friend in the stomach - a sharp, quick thrust - leaving John to keel over and crumple to the tower floor. He writhed and gasped in agony as Moriarty held up the long dagger’s blade against the incoming light. It was tinted red. Moriarty looked down at John and snarled.

“Now look what you’ve done, Sherlock,” he said, gesturing the blade towards the squirming man at his feet. He regarded John only for a moment before he looked towards Sherlock, a terrifying, detached gleam in his eye. He stepped over John and continued, “Oh, don’t worry dear, our secret will die with him.”

John. Sherlock screamed John’s name through the cloth over his mouth and struggled against the chain cuff binding his hands behind his back. His knees scraped the tower floor and his shoulders stretched as he tried to go to him, but the chain was unbreakable. Panicked, broken, and horrified, Sherlock wailed and writhed and thrashed. He never thought that anything would or could harm such a force as John. He thought he’d be safe and brave and sturdy forever, that Sherlock would be the the weak one, the one to need saving. Now, with John gasping Sherlock’s name, hands on his wounded stomach as he curled in on himself, Sherlock realized he was wrong. John was going to die, and it was all his fault.

As he struggled, Moriarty had sauntered towards him and around the back to where the heavy metal chain met the wall. He said something cruel in a cheerful tone, but Sherlock didn’t catch it. It was only when he felt the chain give did he let his captor’s words come through.

“And as for us,” Moriarty continued, pulling on the chain with great force, Sherlock resisting as much as he could. “We’re going where no one will ever find you again.”

Sherlock screamed John’s name once more as Moriarty dragged him backwards, his shoulders aching, chain squeezing his arms together. The main room of the tower, which had been Sherlock’s sweet, comfortable home for much of his life, was now dark and horrible as muffled cries and the awful scrape of metal against stone echoed off its isolating walls. Moriarty yanked Sherlock back, grunting as Sherlock pulled in the opposite direction, causing them to move in bursts of force. They neared the escape hatch in the tower floor, Moriarty steadily dragging Sherlock back with every tug. Still, Sherlock fought.

“Sherlock, really,” Moriarty growled, jerking the chain hard, Sherlock backing up against his chest. “Enough already!”

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder. Moriarty looked horrific, with furrowed brows creasing deeply in a scowl. His lips were thin, his teeth were bared, and he shouted at Sherlock, “Stop fighting me!”

With one powerful tug, Sherlock drew back, strong enough to cause the fabric at his mouth to slip. He cried out, turning his eyes on Moriarty and condemning him directly, his voice pained but clear. “No! I won’t stop. For every minute of the rest of my life, I will fight!”

Moriarty grimaced, clenching his teeth as he looked down at him and past the large grey chain in his small, wiry hands.

Sherlock was scared beyond belief, but he surged with an anger he’d never felt before. He spoke, chest heaving. “I will never stop trying to get away from you!”

It took all his might to say it, really say it, after so many years of pretending Moriarty didn’t make him feel small and weak, pretending that the doting sweet nothings and the neck kisses weren’t just as uncomfortable as the snide comments and condescending behavior. However, knowing now that Moriarty was, in every sense of the world, awful, Sherlock let himself be angry, he let himself be hurt. He hurt for himself, for not knowing he’d been mistreated, but mostly, he hurt for John. John, who didn’t deserve any of this, and who especially didn’t deserve to die.

At Moriarty’s feet, still bound, Sherlock took a very small moment to think. His wild mind was overworking itself in panic, threatening to shut off completely with fear, mere inches away from giving into Moriarty and letting him take Sherlock away. Sherlock forced the thoughts away as best he could. He knew he had to be brave. John needed him to be brave, John needed him to be smart, to find some way to keep him alive. Sherlock thought. Perhaps he could bargain, trade one life for another. Moriarty liked bargains, and Sherlock would do anything to keep John alive. Anything.

He kept his blue gaze steady on Moriarty’s black and willed his voice to go soft. “But… If you let me save him… I will go with you.”

John’s voice came though, pained and difficult. “No, Sherlock…”

Sherlock couldn’t bear to look back at him, he couldn’t lose his strength. “I’ll never run, I’ll never try to escape. Just let me heal him,” he pleaded. “And you and I will be together, forever, just like you want. Everything will be the way it was. I promise. Just like you want. Just. Let me. Heal him.”

Moriarty’s face remained contorted in a scowl, but something crossed his skeletal features, and his brows lightened. Then, without a word, he dropped the chain loudly against the stone floor and reached in the front of his shirt, pulling out the twine which held the key. He worked quickly, silently, as he unlocked Sherlock and moved across the room towards John. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and held himself, wrapping his arms around his waist as he watched from a painful distance. Moriarty tugged John’s weak body towards a square beam and pressed him, hard, up against it. He then knelt down, right in John’s space. John kept his eyes shut, still grimacing from the pain, as Moriarty jeered. “Handsome… But so foolish. And a bit useless, too. The pretty ones always are.” Moriarty then leaned over him, and Sherlock couldn’t see what he was doing until he moved back. He’d chained John’s hand in the metal cuff, and he pulled it tight, painful on purpose, before tossing it away. It fell heavy against John’s stomach. He jerked in pain.

“In case you get any ideas about following us,” Moriarty said. Then he stepped back, and Sherlock rushed forward.

“John!” Sherlock knelt beside him, unsure where to touch him, if he was even allowed to. He decided not to, and instead sat on his haunches, taking a selfish moment just to look, just to see the dreadful state his friend was in. The sturdy, solid shape of John’s body now seemed so fragile and broken as it sat, slumped against the beam. His thin brows were knit in pain, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and nose. With eyes screwed shut, John breathed out of his slack mouth in groans. Sherlock looked from his lips to his collar, at the dip in his clavicle and the thin black leather strip leading down into his shirt. As John writhed, the rosy pink head of his crystal peeked out, and Sherlock huffed a pained breath. Not even the familiar presence of the crystal could have saved him from this. Still, something might. Maybe Sherlock. No. Definitely.

Sherlock knew they were running out of time, so he turned his attention to John’s hand where it clenched around his bleeding stomach. He touched it with trembling fingers and pulled at it gently, revealing a dark crimson stain in the golden beige lacing of his maroon tunic. Sherlock felt panic rise in him again as John coughed and slumped deeper against the beam.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat before saying, “I’m so sorry. Everything is going to be okay, though.”

“No, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his hands and clenched his palms, ready to work his magic. “I promise, you have to trust me-“

John pushed his hands away. “No.”

“Come on, please…”

“I can’t let you do this.”

Sherlock’s throat went tight, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “And I can’t let you die.”

John struggled to say the next words, his eyes closing, his breath coming ragged. Sherlock tried to shush him, calm him, and even let himself cup John’s cheek in his hand, but John pressed on. “But if you do this… Then you will die.”

“It’s going to be all right,” Sherlock whispered as he kept steady in John’s eyes. He then looked away, down at the wound in John’s stomach, and pressed one palm to it. It was wet and warm, John’s body shivering in spasms of pain beneath his hand. Sherlock took a small breath and closed his eyes, about to sing the first word of the healing song -

John stopped him. “Sherlock…” He raised a hand to Sherlock’s face, “Wait,” and brushed the dark curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. He leaned in, and Sherlock matched it, but once again, John broke the kiss. This time, however, John had slipped his hand into Sherlock’s heavy, thick curls, swept his hand across the width of his skull, and collected as much hair as he could in his palm. Then, while Sherlock was distracted by the promise of one last (and first) kiss, he moved his other hand up and sliced Sherlock’s hair with something sharp. John released Sherlock, and as he pulled away, little coils of loose curls fell from Sherlock’s head, fluttering to the floor around them. Sherlock gasped at the loss, and he moved back just in time to see John’s hand fall against the stone, a shard of broken mirror bouncing from his palm. “John, what-“

Sherlock raised his fingers to his head, feeling his once thick, luxurious curls go thin and limp, shortening into small strands. Confused, Sherlock touched his hair and looked down at the cut curls shriveling as they lay scattered over John’s body.

Moriarty screamed from behind them, rushing forward and falling to his knees, scrambling to collect the pieces of Sherlock’s hair. “No! What have you done?”

Sherlock watched in horror as Moriarty went frantic, mumbling as he tried to save the last of the magic. In watching him, Sherlock saw that his hands were turning white and thin, the bones of his fingers and wrists going old and wrinkled. He raised his hands to his face, which was also aging quickly, the skin around his quick eyes drooping and crinkling, his raven hair going stark white. He gasped and thrashed, and Sherlock shielded John’s body with his as Moriarty kicked away and scrambled towards the broken mirror that had fallen across the room. Gasping and growling and panting, screaming meaningless sounds, Moriarty crawled up to the shattered glass, leaning down on all fours to see himself. His reflection, split into many triangle shards, was ghostly pale - old, wrinkled, and ugly. Screaming, he clawed at his face, raking long, yellowed fingernails down his skin, as he slumped forward and let his head fall against the stone floor. His wrinkled, spotted hands scratched wildly at his head, his white hair thinning and falling out. He then reared up with a terrible, painful sob, and struggled to his feet. Hunched, he swayed to a hobbling walk, the last of his hair coming out in strands in his bony fingers. He then pressed his hands over his eyes and stumbled around the room before bumping into the wall by the window. Sherlock watched, terrified and confused, as Moriarty stopped abruptly and reached out one trembling, aged hand to the stone wall. He uncurled his claw-like fingers against it and heaved a shuddering sigh when it pressed flat. He moved to stand before the window, blocking the natural grey sunlight with his small, stooped body. Moriarty was shaking, silent, as he turned back towards Sherlock. Sherlock’s stomach sank at the sight of him.

He’d gone beyond old, now he was falling apart. Bald and decrepit, bits of skin fell from the creases in his face, his eyes clouding into deep, empty sockets. His clothes, his black, long-sleeved Gothic shirt, went loose on his shriveling body, the skin peeking at his chest hollowing, revealing bones. Sherlock had never seen something so disgusting, so frightening.

Even without eyes, Moriarty pointed his vacant face towards Sherlock, now standing square in front of the entrance window. Both hands lay at either side, skeleton fingers gripping the stone edges, flecks of dried skin falling from his hands and wrists.

When he spoke, his voice was ancient, dusty, rumbling, and raspy like that of a dead man. His jaw moved unnaturally, nothing but a maw of teeth and bone where his mouth had once been. “It’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock,” he husked, raising his hands off the stone and out straight at either side of him. Sherlock held his breath. “It’s the landing.” And then James Moriarty, or what was left of him, leaned back, letting his trembling legs catch on the windowsill, forcing himself to lose his balance. He fell back gracefully, surely, and slipped from inside the tower and out the window. Sherlock reached for him, a part deep inside that still loved him like a father calling out, but he was gone. Sherlock didn’t move to the window to look down, terrified of what he might see. He just let the silence settle in, the breeze coming in and picking up the flakes of skin that were now turning to dust and swirling up, away, and into the sky.

Sherlock stared out the window, at the empty space where Moriarty had stood, and felt a morbid lightness come over him, knowing that the villain of his story was gone for good. Breathing heavy, he blinked in confusion, wasting a second before remembering that John was there, that John was dying. He turned back and found that John had slipped from the beam and lay on the stone now, limp and pale. Anxious, he pulled John up into his lap, his heavy head in his hands. “No, stay with me. Come on John, stay…”

John coughed. He was deathly weak. Sherlock stroked his hand against his cheek and felt it going cold. “Look at me, look at me, I’m right here. Don’t go, stay with me, John.” Sherlock pulled one of John’s limp hands and pressed it to his chest, just like he had as they sat beside the campfire. He closed his palm over it and began singing, strained and fast, willing his powers to come. Nothing happened. He didn’t feel the magic in him anymore - no tingling, no coursing energy. It was gone. Although he knew it was hopeless, Sherlock kept singing. He only got through a few verses before he began to sob.

John was calling to him, softly, but with increasing intensity. “Sherlock… Sherlock.”

Heart breaking, tears in his eyes, Sherlock pulled John’s hand up to his face and nestled into it. “What is it?”

“You were my new dream.” It was quiet, barely a whisper of a voice, but it was John, and it meant everything.

Sherlock gave a watery smile and half a sob. His lips were trembling and John’s face went blurry with the tears trapped in his eyes. Sherlock closed his hand around John’s tighter, willing him to stay. “And you were mine.”

Then, slowly, John’s face fell slack, and he slipped away.

Sherlock stared down at him in disbelief. He didn’t want to accept it, but the deep, creeping sadness that made his whole body ache confirmed it. John was dead.

With his body slack and unmoving before him, Sherlock made a thousand silent wishes. He willed John to come back, spring to life, make some cheeky comment, and whisk him away on a white horse and into the sunset. But it wasn’t like that. John was gone, the tower was cold and empty, and Sherlock was alone.

He stayed like that, with John’s body in his lap, even long after his arm fell away from Sherlock’s face, and all Sherlock could do was return the sentiment by a gentle hand to John’s lifeless cheek. He stroked his face lovingly, knowing for certain now that John loved him back. If only he’d known it sooner, if only they’d had that sealing kiss. Maybe it would be different, John would be alive, and they’d have taken out Moriarty together.

Of course, that’s not how it happened. They couldn’t have had such an incredible adventure and both come out of it happy, safe, and alive. The world was cruel, and Sherlock should never have thought otherwise.

Nobody outside the tower knew of what happened inside it. Not the castle guards, not The Yard, and not the King and Queen. Only Sherlock and Pascal, his skull, were witness to what had happened. Knowing that, the soundless room felt distant, as if Sherlock was a thousand miles away from it, but still grounded, with John’s head in his hands. He was so distant but, unfortunately, still present. Yes, his heart still beat, still ached. Sherlock was still here, looking at John’s face, brushing the blond hair from his forehead, feeling the most disconnected he’d ever been. He was still here, still living, and every second without John was another second he wished he wasn’t.

The tears had yet to fall, but they were there all the same, hot and prickling at Sherlock’s eyes. He wanted to be numb, but the pain demanded to be felt, and he pressed his face close to John’s, just so their noses brushed. And then, as if to put John to sleep, Sherlock began to sing.

“Heal what has been hurt, change the fate’s design… Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine…” He pressed his forehead to John, his voice dipping into a whisper. “What once was mine…”

Sherlock let the sadness well up inside him, and with a small, plaintive sob, one tear finally fell. It slipped down his cheek and onto John’s. Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled John closer, just a bit, wishing for John to make one more dream come true.

In losing John, Sherlock lost himself, and he was oblivious to the fact that the tear, which had fallen onto John’s cheek, had soaked into his skin and had become a soft glow of silver-white light. The orb disappeared before blooming into a somewhat floral shape, swirling with magical animation against John’s skin. It diffused into streaks of light that slipped down John’s face, disappearing as quick as they had come. Sherlock, with his head still pressed to John’s, blinked his eyes open and caught a surge of energy, and as he raised himself up, he found a blooming white glow at John’s wound. His eyes went wide, curls of light rising from John’s abdomen and creeping into the air. More and more beams joined their brothers and sisters as the light rose higher, illuminating the room. They surged in power quickly, growing in intensity, John’s wound the heart of the blossoming coils. The luminescent streaks went high all around them, sweeping through the air and enveloping Sherlock and John in radiant light. Sherlock watched, awestruck, as the magic went to him, dancing over his palms, chest, and wrapping up around his head, fluffing his newly shortened curls. Sherlock’s mouth fell open in wonder, and he was breathless as the silver vines bloomed into a moonlit flower over John’s wound. The flower’s petals swayed in an unnamed breeze before the wisps of light cleared, the flower faded, and all that was left was a glow at John’s stomach. It sank into him, disappearing, and Sherlock reached out a hand delicately over John’s torso. He glanced to John’s face and went to ruffle the thick curls that weren’t there, his eyes darting frantically across John’s features for any sign of movement. He waited, expectant. John’s eyes slowly opened.

John felt sleepy and heavy and sore, discombobulated and strange when he awoke. He opened his eyes slowly, the figure leaning over him blurry but sweetly familiar. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock - Sherlock - gasped, tears in his wide, blue eyes, a blue that didn’t seem as ethereal as John remembered, no longer sharp with a tint of silver, but more pleasant, more clear. John loved it all the same. Just as he loved the way his name sounded in Sherlock’s voice, a bit husky but wonderfully happy to see him. “John!”

John could see now, really see, that Sherlock loved him. His face, strange and angular with high cheekbones and full, cupid’s bow lips, looked down at John with more love than anyone had ever offered him, and as breathtaking as his beauty was, John’s slow, sleepy brain honed in that something was different. Sherlock’s hair, which had been thick and messy and long and heavily curled, falling around his head, untrimmed and wonderfully wild, was now cropped in a shorter style. It was short on the sides and longer on the top, but still curly. These new curls were round and sweeping, fitting against each other at the top of Sherlock’s forehead, sticking up in a fringe, save for a wild, perfect twirl that defied the rest and sat handsomely on Sherlock’s forehead. It was different, but it looked good.

John smiled softly, his heart warm and happy. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for him to say something, and he didn’t want to let him down. John didn’t overthink it as he said, “I like it short.”

Sherlock grinned and breathed a wisp of a laugh before he said John’s name once more and threw himself into John’s arms. His body fit against John’s perfectly, and John rolled them together until Sherlock was draped over him, his arms tight around his neck and shoulders. John held himself up with one hand and hugged Sherlock with the other, burying his face into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. Sherlock was trembling, so John hugged him tighter. After one blissful, miraculous moment, Sherlock sat up and pulled John with him, giving him a wide, crinkly smile before tugging on John’s lapels and meeting his mouth in a soft, quiet kiss. John put a hand in Sherlock’s hair and deepened the kiss, pressing their lips together like there was nothing else in the world as important as this, nothing as important as kissing Sherlock.

But really, was there?

Chapter Text

They stayed together in the tower for long, quiet moments, just holding each other and kissing. Sherlock kept telling John he was so happy that he was back, that it was absolutely awful without him. John just stroked his head and told him he was there, that he’d never leave him again.

I wish I could tell you that as soon as John awoke, they were completely happy and at peace with all that had happened, but that’s just not the truth. What really happened once John awoke was an incredible avalanche of terror, guilt, and confusion. They were strung out and nearly broken, and it was all they could do to sit together and untangle the mess of their adventure, leaving only warm, eager hearts.

So that’s how it went, for about two hours after John came back. The first hour they spent sitting on the stone floor, talking about everything they’d been through in quiet, heavy affirmations.

First, they regarded the issue of Moriarty. He was gone, truly, and as good as it was, Sherlock felt awful. He confessed to John that he did love him, or had at some point in the past, even though he probably shouldn’t have. John kissed his forehead and told him it was okay, as Moriarty had raised him and been a father to him. Still, John said, he was manipulative and cruel and kept Sherlock hidden from the world for selfish, materialistic gain. He was not a good man. He had lived more lifetimes than he was allowed, and he spent most of them being terrible. Moreover, John continued, it seemed Moriarty had killed before, including but not limited to one of the Sherrington brothers.

Sherlock cast his newly natural blue eyes at John’s hands in his and took in all that had happened. He understood that he was treated unfairly, that his life and everything he’d known had been a lie. It would have been difficult to accept, if he’d not seen first hand what Moriarty was capable of. With the memory of John’s death still fresh in his mind, he knew, without a doubt, that Moriarty had been the fear in his life, had been what he should have run from. When he looked back up, John’s eyes were soft and understanding, as if any question or problem Sherlock had, John would be there to help him, solve it. Grateful for John’s friendship and support, Sherlock asked John if Moriarty really did get what was coming to him, even if he seemed to know the answer. And John, as he was a good and gentle man, didn’t mind telling him, no matter how long it took, his face honest and his voice soft every time.

“He was bad, Sherlock. It’s best he’s gone.”

After a while, Sherlock finally believed it, so they moved on to something else. With their hands and legs entwined, sitting against the beam in the tower, they told each other everything.

They recounted meeting, what it felt like, and if they knew for certain right then and there that something was going to change. They told each other how scared they were when the caved filled with water, and John confessed that the moment by the campfire was the most honest he’d ever been, that with his hand on Sherlock’s chest, he’d already known he was falling. Sherlock retold his experience of going through the town and dancing in the square, how happy and at home he felt. They talked of the people in the town, eventually touching on the celebration and mural. With the mention of it, they discussed how Sherlock was actually the lost prince, and how it was that neither of them figured it out sooner.

“I guess we had other things on our mind,” Sherlock said, his fingers dancing up John’s arm playfully.

John quirked a brow, “I think you’re right.”

Sherlock shuffled in to lay his head on John’s shoulder, fitting his lean legs between John’s. “But there is something I’ve been thinking,” he said, curious fingers going to tug on the lacing of John’s tunic.

“What’s that?”

“What about the King and Queen… Are they…?”

“Your parents?” John finished. Sherlock looked up at him, his big eyes so clear, so beautiful. John raised a hand from Sherlock’s waist and ruffled his newly shortened curls. “Let’s go find them.”

“What?”

“I think you should meet them. Like, right now.”

John untangled himself from Sherlock’s arms and legs and popped up, standing for the first time since he’d come back to life. His bones creaked, resisting the strain, but after a moment he felt like his old self, full of life and ready to lead Sherlock on another adventure. Sherlock remained on the tower floor, and John looked down at him.

“You need a family, Sherlock. And you have one, you just need to meet them.”

“But John-“

“Come on. I’ll take you to the castle. If they try to arrest me, we’ll tell them that you’re the lost prince, and you’ve finally returned. That way they can’t harm me because, well, technically, I brought you back, and they said they’d reward anyone who returned their son.” John’s eyes gleamed happily, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he might just be in it for the royal riches. He didn’t stand up.

John felt his hesitation, and he bent down before him and put a hand to his cheek. “Hey, I don’t want the money. I don’t care about the reward, I just want to see you happy. I want you to have a home, a real one. Okay?”

Sherlock searched his face, looking for any hint of dishonesty. Of course, it was John, and he found none. He nodded quietly and stood, John taking him by the hand. They swayed to their feet, Sherlock raising to his full height above John. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, finally allowed to, and kissed the underside of his jaw. It would have been too forward or too quick for anyone else, but not them. Sherlock and John had saved each other so many times, in so many ways, and they were going to take every second of life they were given and make the best of it. Sherlock rested his chin on John’s head.

“It’ll be fine,” John said against his clavicle. “I promise.”

Sherlock sighed, and John could feel his breath in his chest. Then he huffed, “Do we have to go right now?”

John pulled back and looked up, “Why? Got something to do?”

Sherlock’s high cheeks went pink and he slid his bashful eyes away. “Well, no… I just…”

John watched Sherlock fumble for a bit, his nervous gaze glancing at something over John’s shoulder. John followed the look and turned, his body going hot and tingly at spotting Sherlock’s large bed, complete with a draped canopy, in the center of the room. John blushed and licked his lips. “I think we can spare a little time…” he husked.

Sherlock’s full mouth quirked into a tiny smile, and not a moment later, John and Sherlock spent their second hour hidden by the bed’s canopy.

This time, the journey through the woods felt different. Sherlock and John felt different when they climbed down the silk, they felt different when they passed by the empty, dusty remains of Moriarty’s clothes, and they felt different as they climbed onto the back of Sally’s big black horse, who had been dutifully and patiently waiting just outside the hidden cave, busying herself with any surrounding clovers she could munch on.

When Sherlock met her, his eyes adopted that same curious gleam they had when he first step foot outside the tower. John untied her and watched as Sherlock pet the mare’s big, twitchy nose, giggling as she shimmied her head. As much as John wanted to watch Sherlock smiling at the massive creature, he wanted Sherlock to meet his family, so he told him, softly, that they should head out, before helping Sherlock up and onto her back. He then got in front, and with Sherlock’s arms wrapped ‘round his waist, kicked off and into the woods.

John and Sherlock galloped through the trees, over the earth, less hurried now, trying as best they could to enjoy it. Sherlock leaned into John’s back as he kept his eyes on the sky, taking big, freeing breaths of forest air. He’d wished that John would wake from quiet death and whisk him away on a white horse and into the sunset, but a black horse was just fine, just fine indeed.

When they approached the stone bridge leading into the castle town, John held his breath. Sherlock squeezed his middle reassuringly, and they pressed on through the streets. As they clip-clopped along, Sherlock took it all in once again. The celebration for the lost prince - well, for him - had passed, and the town had simmered back into its steady form of life. They trotted over the stone roads, past the vendors and houses, wide-eyed children looking at them, no doubt wondering who the two princes on the big horse were. Sherlock wished he could tell them that it was their lost prince and his knight, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He’d only just convinced himself, and before anything else, he had to convince the King and Queen.

They neared the large castle doors, and once again, John panicked. Sherlock leaned into him just as the guards spotted them, telling John’s shoulder that it would be okay. One of the guards shouted John’s name, but before he could come charging up, Sherlock slipped from the mare’s back and stood before him.

“Please,” he said, holding his hands up. “This man saved my life. He brought me back.”

The two guards, one of whom John had been caught by, glanced at each other. The guard who Sherlock spoke to now went quiet and his face softened. His dark eyes widened, and he looked at Sherlock from head to toe. He’d seen him before, but with Sherlock’s words - He brought me back - the guard seemed to put the pieces together. Then, suddenly, he was taking off his helmet and dropping to his knees, dipping his head so Sherlock could see every inch of his short, silver hair. Sherlock glanced back at John, who only smiled smugly. Unsure what to do, Sherlock put his hand on the man’s shoulder and told him to stand up.

“Sir,” Sherlock said as the man rose to meet his eyes. “I’d like to see my parents now, if you please.”

The guard nodded, and if Sherlock hadn’t known any better, he’d have sworn there were tears welling in his kind eyes. Sherlock turned back to John and the mare, and motioned them forward. The silver-haired guard put his helmet back on and told his second to take John’s horse to the stables. He came forward just as John jumped down, and, hesitant, John handed him the reins. He joined Sherlock and they moved towards the large castle doors. The entrance opened for them as if someone above was looking down, and the guard led them into the foyer. There, he told them to wait, and that he was going to alert the King and Queen.

The Queen was sitting in her chair, reading, her husband at his desk, when their sitting room doors burst open. Faithful, good Lestrade, with two hands on either door, looked at them with a deep, honest sincerity. He said nothing, only nodded, and it was all they needed. The King and Queen looked at each other, hearts swelling, and stood from their seats.

Eighteen years of waiting, of matching lonely hearts and painful birthdays. Eighteen years of lighting a silver lantern and releasing it into the sky, hoping that one day, their lost prince would return. Eighteen years, and it all ended now. It all started now.

They walked through the long halls towards the stone overlook, tingling with nervous energy. They stopped before the entrance and sought comfort in each other’s blue eyes before facing it head on, pushing open the doors and revealing two figures standing in the sun, looking out over the kingdom. They turned, slowly, and the King and the Queen stepped into the light.

The figures in Sherlock’s mind, blurry and familiar, went sharp and real as the King and Queen stepped from the doorway. They were hesitant and gentle in their walk, but the Queen was more bold, and she came forward, leaving her husband to watch. Sherlock stepped forward as well, letting John stay behind. The two royals came closer, staring at each other with curious amazement.

The Queen was beautiful and elegant, with high cheekbones and gentle, oceanic eyes. Her dark, curled hair was halfway up, leaving glossy waves to fall past her slender shoulders. She was not wearing a crown, nor was the man behind her. Like Sherlock, she was tall and angular, but there was a feminine softness in her form. Her bosom and hips were small, but her elegant blue gown draped over them perfectly, and the royal jewels around her neck were classy. Sherlock admired her in all her glory, and while her patterned dress deserved further admiration, he couldn’t take his eyes from her face as she came closer.

She was hesitant as she neared, her eyes searching Sherlock’s face for any sign that he remembered. There wasn’t much to remember, but of what Sherlock did, he found love. He remembered love. And her eyes, big and glassy and rimmed in a lace of long, black lashes, were full to the brim with it.

The Queen reached out a hand to Sherlock’s face, cupping his cheek delicately. She looked deep into his eyes before she heaved a happy sigh and broke out in a watery smile. Sherlock matched it, mirroring the smallest movements in her face as if they were two silver apples fallen from the same branch. She then swept Sherlock up in a big hug, wrapping her arms around his long, slim body and laying her head on his shoulder. He hugged her back, feeling safe and loved and at home, feeling like he was where he was meant to be. His mother stroked his head and held him close, protecting him, honoring him, and respecting him all at once.

Over her shoulder, he looked up with blurry eyes at his father, who was also welling up, his own gaze so soft, filled with a happiness that nobody else would understand, save for those few lucky parents who got to see their children after so many years of hurting.

His father chuckled softly and moved around his wife and child to hug Sherlock from the other side. They sandwiched him in a sweet embrace, enveloping him in love. They spent a happy moment like that, quietly celebrating the return of their lost son, before Sherlock’s mother pulled back with a grateful smile. Her eyes were honest and tender, and they seemed to ask him how he was feeling.

“It’s strange…” Sherlock whispered, sure that she would know that he meant no disrespect.

Being his mother, she understood exactly what he meant, and she nodded, her husband stepping back and joining her. “I know.”

Sherlock smiled gratefully at her, before remembering that John stood just beside them. He turned to him and reached out a hand, “Oh.” John took it and came forward. “This is John. He brought me to you.”

Sherlock’s mother looked upon John and gave him a generous, lovely grin before going to hug him. His small frame fit nicely against hers, and when she pulled back, she disregarded his surprised expression and spoke to Sherlock. “I also have someone I’d like you to meet.” She turned back towards the crescent moon-encrusted double doors and called. “Lestrade!”

The guard peeked his head out from the open doors, pretending as if he hadn’t witnessed an incredibly personal moment. “Yes, your majesty?”

“Call my other son in. Call Mycroft.”

Lestrade nodded and turned, leaving the royal family and John to chat lightly until their guest arrived. The King and Queen asked John and Sherlock about their adventure, about how John came to find him. They told them that it was a long story, and that they’d save it for another day, as there would be plenty of time to tell it later. They had gotten comfortable, so comfortable even, that John’s hand had sneaked its way to the small dip in Sherlock’s back by the time Mycroft arrived.

“Watson…?” he cried as he stepped through and onto the overlook. He scowled at him, helmet under one arm.

“Mycroft, please, this man is the kingdom’s hero.” The Queen said, walking over to the head guard with incredible grace. Sherlock looked to his father in her absence, feeling as though there was something there that hadn’t yet been explored. A father-son bond that had yet to be discovered.

“Hero? This man is no hero. He’s a thief, a thief who won’t stay caught.”

“Calm yourself, Myc.”

“My name is Mycroft, if you could be bothered to make it all the way to the end.”

“Mycroft.” The Queen’s voice was firm and she took Mycroft’s arm, leading him towards Sherlock, John, and the King. “Must you be so stubborn? You call yourself the most observant man in all the kingdom, and yet you fail to truly see.”

As they approached, Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John and glanced at Sherlock, who he’d seen run across the dam with John, but who he’d never really looked at. Now, there was something familiar about him, and the tone in his mother’s words implied that he was missing something of great importance.

She moved forward and gestured to Sherlock. “You fail to recognize your own brother.”

Sherlock watched as the head guard’s eyes went wide and he swept his gaze from Sherlock’s bare feet up to his curly head. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared back. Mycroft looked so different now, rather than when he was snarling at John and chasing them all over the place. Without his helmet, he looked like anyone else, anyone at all. Now he looked vulnerable and surprised, like he’d been missing something all his life and he’d just found it, something he would have cared deeply about and worried over should he have had it. He came forward hesitantly, just as Sherlock’s mother had. But unlike his mother, Mycroft didn’t touch him. He just stood and stared with an intelligent, calculating gaze. Sherlock was a bit annoyed at the inspection, actually, and he rolled his eyes and snarked.

“If you could apologize to John first, I’d be more keen to meet you.”

“John?” Mycroft furrowed his brows in confusion and looked between them. John, who had taken his hand off Sherlock’s back when Mycroft had appeared, put it back in its rightful place and gave the older brother a challenging glare. Mycroft caught the motion and raised his pointed nose in judgement. “I see.” He stepped towards John and gave him a swift once-over before holding himself tall and adapting back into his persona as head guard of the kingdom. He crossed his hand over his body and put it on his helmet, reminding John that he had incredible power over him. “I do believe you are at fault for stealing the crown of the lost prince, but seeing as now you have returned him to his family, I suppose all debts are paid.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

Mycroft leaned in, his voice going low and threatening. “I may know you as a thief and a rival, Watson, but it seems now that I may come to know you as family, an extension of Sherlock. I can accept that. But, I’m warning you now, if you ever, ever, hurt my brother… I won’t hesitate to throw you back out to the wolves. Got it?”

Sherlock, who’d heard every word, watched as John swallowed nervously and nodded again. “I understand. I won’t.”

Mycroft backed away and looked down his nose at him. “Good. Then I see no problem here. Sherlock? It’s good to meet you, last I saw you, you were chubby and bubbling spit all over the place.”

“I can assure you I’ve grown since then,” Sherlock joked, John moving his hand to rest on his waist, pulling him closer to his side.

Mycroft smiled. A teasing, smug sort of smile, but a smile all the same. Sherlock understood it.

Now, Sherlock had spent his whole life being “protected.” Moriarty had abused him and told him it was “for his own good,” that he needed to hide him away from the evils of the world. But now, standing above the kingdom with his parents, his brother, and his love, Sherlock realized that protection shouldn’t be overbearing, especially when coming from family. It should be a blanket of warmth to come home to, a promise that should something harm you, there will be people there to fix it. It shouldn’t limit you, scare you, or make you feel unable to handle yourself. And witnessing his birth parents hold him like he was so loved, truly protected, he knew that this love was one he was meant to have. Even with Mycroft threatening John, a bit overbearing, Sherlock knew it wasn’t the same as what Moriarty had given him. This was a true family, a true place of love and safety. And he was overjoyed and overwhelmed just knowing it could only get better from here.

But Sherlock was ready. He’d seen it all - he’d had a ridiculous, fantastic adventure, and now, he was ready for this one.

Chapter Text

After I met Sherlock’s parents and brother, news traveled quick through the kingdom, and well, you can imagine what happened next.

The kingdom rejoiced, for their lost prince had returned. Like they had celebrated Sherlock’s eighteenth birthday, the celebration they threw for his return was even bigger and better than before. The party lasted an entire week and, honestly, I don’t remember most of it.

I do know, however, that dreams came true all over the place. Sally, barkeep of The Yard, had come to an agreement with Mycroft and Lestrade (with special help from me, thank you very much), and her shady little bar bloomed with many new customers once word got out that she aided the lost prince in his adventure home. She had all the greedy drunks she could ask for and more, but of course, she never booted her regulars, no matter how many red-nosed tourists came for some of her famous amber ale. After I returned her horse, along with the money she’d gained from her newfound popularity, she felt that all of the personal debts I owed her had been paid, and as it stands now, we’re on good terms.

Most of the kingdom’s crime disappeared overnight, which, again, might have something to do with me, as well as the disappearance of the Sherrington brothers. I won’t scare you with the gruesome details of what happened to them, but just know that neither of them will be a problem anymore.

As Sherlock moved into the castle, he brought Pascal with him, though he did have to tell the dusty skull that he was no longer his only friend. I don’t think Pascal seemed to mind, as his skeleton grin never told me otherwise.

At last, Sherlock was home, and he had finally found a real family. He adorned his crown, the crown that had brought us so much trouble, and cast quite a sight in it, if I do say so. He was a prince worth waiting for. Beloved by all, he led his kingdom with all the grace and wisdom that his parents did before him.

And, as for me, well, I started going by John again, stopped thieving and basically turned it all around, but I know what the big question is: Did Sherlock and I ever get married? Well, I’m pleased to tell you that after years and years of asking and asking and asking, I finally said yes.

John…

All right, I asked him.

And we’re living happily ever after.

Yes, we are.