igrab
in
grabi_hands
White Mage of Radiant Garden (Sherlock/John, PG)
Sherlock/John . 1,291 words . written for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic . Kingdom Hearts crossover . possibly TBC!
He'd locked his Keyblade away. The Keyblade Wars were over, they said, but it didn't make a difference to him because he'd been shot out in the first round. Bolt of darkness in the shoulder; it was going to leave a scar. He couldn't wield a Keyblade if he couldn't lift anything heavier than a spoon, and if he couldn't wield a Keyblade, he couldn't damn well fight in a war. Even if he'd mostly been a white mage, resetting hearts and using Cure magics. It didn't matter. He still needed his Keyblade. His injury still made him a liability.
Still, the war was over. The worlds were disconnected, never to be joined. He found that out the hard way, one day when it had all been too much and he'd donned his armor and prodded at his Keyblade, willing it into its cross-worlding craft. It obliged, if hesitantly. (That was before he'd locked it away. First, it had gotten thrown into a corner behind stacks of books he was too injured to hold in his right hand.) But then he'd tried to leave, and discovered - there was nowhere else to go.
So he was stuck, he was injured, and the war was probably over. That was when the Keyblade got locked away, into a trunk with all his spellbooks and bits of this and that from his days in the Land of Departure. No more Keyblades. No more of that. From here on out it was normal life, whatever that meant, and it was far more terrifying than the prospect of a cataclysmic war.
+
"I heard you're looking for a roommate," one of his old friends said when he finally got the courage to leave his flat. He'd gotten himself banged up or something, or perhaps he just thought the eyepatch looked cool - John wouldn't put it past him.
"I didn't actually say that," he pointed out.
"You said you can't afford your rent and I know you don't want to leave Radiant Garden."
It was true. He didn't.
"Listen... I know a guy. Works at the castle, sort of... he gets called in when the Ice Queen can't figure it out. Consultant, that's the word." Braig snapped his fingers and gestured widely, as he was wont to do. "You'll get along great! Look, let me bring you around to the lab, you can meet him and see how you feel."
John didn't see as he had much choice in the matter, generally speaking. He went.
+
"You're a Keyblade Warrior."
John frowned. It was the first thing this supposed potential-roommate had said to him; he didn't even know his name. "You can sense hearts, then."
"I didn't sense, I saw."
Sherlock Holmes looked physically like no one John had ever seen, all midnight curls and blue eyes and cheekbones and far too many sharp angles. He was rude and mocking and incisive, he smiled constantly like he knew something you didn't, and he had an annoying habit of interrupting the ends of John's sentences. He was everything he had always despised and should have hated now.
He thought about the Keyblade, locked in a trunk at the base of a pile of boxes, and thought, I have nothing left to lose.
"The address is 221b Baker Street," Sherlock told him, the words tossed casually over one shoulder. "I will see you there."
+
John knew hearts very well.
He was a Keyblade Warrior, he'd been trained. He hadn't had time to go for his Mastery (he'd wanted to, of course, so many of them had) so he didn't have full training, but he had a good sense of a person's heart and when it was susceptible to darkness. He was out of practice, though, which was why it took him so long to realize an important fact about his roommate.
He didn't seem to have one.
It also wasn't possible, which was perhaps why John had been so remiss in noticing. He'd seen people with their hearts removed, on the battlefield - they were lifeless dolls, motionless and still, or they became Heartless. It was that simple. People didn't walk around without their hearts. It wasn't done.
But the facts remained, Sherlock simply didn't have one.
What did you say to something like that? How did you bring it up? His shoulder was healing and his pride was, too, bit by bit, as Sherlock dragged him off on adventures all across the city and occasionally into Twilight Town. He used to travel to all the worlds, he'd said, solving mysteries. Exploring what darkness does to a world. He didn't say how he traveled, exactly, but there were a lot of things about himself that he didn't offer and John didn't ask.
But he had to ask about the heart.
"...Sherlock, I've got - kind of an important question," he ventured, one morning over breakfast in their tiny kitchen.
"I'm aware of that," Sherlock said. He'd gotten better about talking over him, at least. Either that or John had gotten better at not bothering to say what Sherlock already knew.
"...Why don't you have a heart?"
Sherlock froze, and John could tell - he'd wanted this, hadn't he, but not like this, not for this reason - that he'd actually taken him by surprised.
His lips pressed into a thin, white line and he shook out the paper in his hands, attempting to appear to read more of it, though his eyes didn't move. John waited. He was very good at waiting.
"I had mine removed," he said, in a tight, irritable voice.
"I'm aware of that," John said with not a small helping of sarcasm, throwing his words right back at him.
Sherlock sighed, and finally he put the paper down. "I had it removed so I could study darkness objectively. So I wouldn't succumb to it. I, unlike you, am not a purehearted golden soul, and had my heart remained in my chest it would have undoubtedly crumbled at the slightest touch. My work is important. It's for good causes. It's - "
John reached out a hand, suddenly, and grasped Sherlock's upper arm. The man almost jumped - almost - but he still vibrated under the touch, like he would flee if John would let him. John's own heart felt like it was spilling over, just a little.
"I know," he said. "You're brilliant, you know. You've saved so many lives, mine included. I was curious. I don't think less of you."
Sherlock stopped shaking, John let go, and they silently resumed their breakfast. Neither could possibly put their thoughts into words at the moment, though John knew this wasn't the last time they would talk about it. He didn't understand how it was possible, didn't know what it would mean now that Sherlock could share secrets with him, but he did know one thing - heart-less or no, Sherlock was a good person, and, despite their rough beginnings, what they had was strong enough to last.
He was a Keyblade Warrior and he knew about destiny, too. For the first time, he thought back to the Keyblade locked in a chest at the foot of his bed and didn't feel like the world was ending.
It was only beginning.
He'd locked his Keyblade away. The Keyblade Wars were over, they said, but it didn't make a difference to him because he'd been shot out in the first round. Bolt of darkness in the shoulder; it was going to leave a scar. He couldn't wield a Keyblade if he couldn't lift anything heavier than a spoon, and if he couldn't wield a Keyblade, he couldn't damn well fight in a war. Even if he'd mostly been a white mage, resetting hearts and using Cure magics. It didn't matter. He still needed his Keyblade. His injury still made him a liability.
Still, the war was over. The worlds were disconnected, never to be joined. He found that out the hard way, one day when it had all been too much and he'd donned his armor and prodded at his Keyblade, willing it into its cross-worlding craft. It obliged, if hesitantly. (That was before he'd locked it away. First, it had gotten thrown into a corner behind stacks of books he was too injured to hold in his right hand.) But then he'd tried to leave, and discovered - there was nowhere else to go.
So he was stuck, he was injured, and the war was probably over. That was when the Keyblade got locked away, into a trunk with all his spellbooks and bits of this and that from his days in the Land of Departure. No more Keyblades. No more of that. From here on out it was normal life, whatever that meant, and it was far more terrifying than the prospect of a cataclysmic war.
+
"I heard you're looking for a roommate," one of his old friends said when he finally got the courage to leave his flat. He'd gotten himself banged up or something, or perhaps he just thought the eyepatch looked cool - John wouldn't put it past him.
"I didn't actually say that," he pointed out.
"You said you can't afford your rent and I know you don't want to leave Radiant Garden."
It was true. He didn't.
"Listen... I know a guy. Works at the castle, sort of... he gets called in when the Ice Queen can't figure it out. Consultant, that's the word." Braig snapped his fingers and gestured widely, as he was wont to do. "You'll get along great! Look, let me bring you around to the lab, you can meet him and see how you feel."
John didn't see as he had much choice in the matter, generally speaking. He went.
+
"You're a Keyblade Warrior."
John frowned. It was the first thing this supposed potential-roommate had said to him; he didn't even know his name. "You can sense hearts, then."
"I didn't sense, I saw."
Sherlock Holmes looked physically like no one John had ever seen, all midnight curls and blue eyes and cheekbones and far too many sharp angles. He was rude and mocking and incisive, he smiled constantly like he knew something you didn't, and he had an annoying habit of interrupting the ends of John's sentences. He was everything he had always despised and should have hated now.
He thought about the Keyblade, locked in a trunk at the base of a pile of boxes, and thought, I have nothing left to lose.
"The address is 221b Baker Street," Sherlock told him, the words tossed casually over one shoulder. "I will see you there."
+
John knew hearts very well.
He was a Keyblade Warrior, he'd been trained. He hadn't had time to go for his Mastery (he'd wanted to, of course, so many of them had) so he didn't have full training, but he had a good sense of a person's heart and when it was susceptible to darkness. He was out of practice, though, which was why it took him so long to realize an important fact about his roommate.
He didn't seem to have one.
It also wasn't possible, which was perhaps why John had been so remiss in noticing. He'd seen people with their hearts removed, on the battlefield - they were lifeless dolls, motionless and still, or they became Heartless. It was that simple. People didn't walk around without their hearts. It wasn't done.
But the facts remained, Sherlock simply didn't have one.
What did you say to something like that? How did you bring it up? His shoulder was healing and his pride was, too, bit by bit, as Sherlock dragged him off on adventures all across the city and occasionally into Twilight Town. He used to travel to all the worlds, he'd said, solving mysteries. Exploring what darkness does to a world. He didn't say how he traveled, exactly, but there were a lot of things about himself that he didn't offer and John didn't ask.
But he had to ask about the heart.
"...Sherlock, I've got - kind of an important question," he ventured, one morning over breakfast in their tiny kitchen.
"I'm aware of that," Sherlock said. He'd gotten better about talking over him, at least. Either that or John had gotten better at not bothering to say what Sherlock already knew.
"...Why don't you have a heart?"
Sherlock froze, and John could tell - he'd wanted this, hadn't he, but not like this, not for this reason - that he'd actually taken him by surprised.
His lips pressed into a thin, white line and he shook out the paper in his hands, attempting to appear to read more of it, though his eyes didn't move. John waited. He was very good at waiting.
"I had mine removed," he said, in a tight, irritable voice.
"I'm aware of that," John said with not a small helping of sarcasm, throwing his words right back at him.
Sherlock sighed, and finally he put the paper down. "I had it removed so I could study darkness objectively. So I wouldn't succumb to it. I, unlike you, am not a purehearted golden soul, and had my heart remained in my chest it would have undoubtedly crumbled at the slightest touch. My work is important. It's for good causes. It's - "
John reached out a hand, suddenly, and grasped Sherlock's upper arm. The man almost jumped - almost - but he still vibrated under the touch, like he would flee if John would let him. John's own heart felt like it was spilling over, just a little.
"I know," he said. "You're brilliant, you know. You've saved so many lives, mine included. I was curious. I don't think less of you."
Sherlock stopped shaking, John let go, and they silently resumed their breakfast. Neither could possibly put their thoughts into words at the moment, though John knew this wasn't the last time they would talk about it. He didn't understand how it was possible, didn't know what it would mean now that Sherlock could share secrets with him, but he did know one thing - heart-less or no, Sherlock was a good person, and, despite their rough beginnings, what they had was strong enough to last.
He was a Keyblade Warrior and he knew about destiny, too. For the first time, he thought back to the Keyblade locked in a chest at the foot of his bed and didn't feel like the world was ending.
It was only beginning.