Fic: Snarled 1/?
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Disclaimer: Belongs to Disney and BBC. Not mitsuruaki.
Title: Snarled
Author: mitsuruaki
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Prompt: Basically, this is a BBC Sherlock/Disney's Tangled fusion inspired by this prompt. Best idea ever, really.
Rated: R (better safe than sorry later, I think)
Words: 11,000+ and counting, WIP
“[He] said, ‘I want something that I want. Something that I tell myself I need, something that I want. And I need everything I see.’”-Something That I Want from the soundtrack of Tangled, by Grace Potter
“Sherlock?”
The young man in question froze in his meticulous examination of his bedroom’s solitary windowsill, long fingers hovering over the unblemished wood.
“Come down and wash up, Sherlock. Supper’s ready,” his brother’s voice floated up from downstairs.
His fingers trailed over the sealed shutters. “I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said petulantly, and held his breath as he waited for a response.
For several long moments all he heard was silence, no sound at all, and then-
“Sherlock, come eat. Please don’t make me say it again.”
Sherlock huffed as though the words were a personal affront, stalked over to the curtains separating his room from the staircase, and ripped them apart with all the drama his seventeen years could muster. “Mycroft. I’m not hungry, and I certainly don’t want to eat with you, so if you would cease-”
“I’d appreciate it if you would set the table,” Mycroft interrupted calmly, as though his brother hadn’t said a word. “You do remember where the bowls and silverware are, don’t you?”
Scowling, Sherlock grabbed a few fistfuls of the ridiculously long curly hair Mycroft wouldn’t let him cut, not even to experiment on, and stomped down the stairs. The extra length of reddish gold trailed after him, whispering softly against the floor. “Just because I don’t eat five meals a day doesn’t mean I’m clueless as to where our kitchen crockery is, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
He brushed past his brother and yanked open the cabinet to retrieve two bowls, then snatched a section of his hair and threw it at the drawers across the kitchen. It snaked around the handle and he jerked it hard to pull it open. A second section grasped two spoons, and he wrenched them up and over to bang, skittering, on the surface of the kitchen table.
Mycroft sighed, his lips thinning. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.”
Sherlock felt a smug flash of vindictive triumph as he smacked a bowl on the placemat in front of his brother. “Yes, well I wish you hadn’t sealed my window shut,” he retorted, throwing himself into his chair.
“It was necessary,” Mycroft informed him with a disapproving gaze, as if he knew exactly what Sherlock had been up to earlier. “Clearly it was too much of a temptation, if your number of failed attempts to ‘take a stroll’ are any indication.”
Sherlock grit his teeth. “Mycroft, all I wished-”
“You’re not going outside,” Mycroft cut him off with no hesitation. “We’ve discussed this. Several times, in fact. It’s not safe.”
“Just right outside,” Sherlock argued, leaning forward in his seat. “Right here around the house. I won’t go anywhere, I just want more soil samples from-”
“No,” Mycroft said curtly, giving his brother a look that said his patience was wearing thin. “I can get you samples, if you desire, but you’re staying right here.”
“Mycroft-”
“It won’t be enough,” the older man continued, ladling soup out for both of them, “and you know it. Once you’ve looked over this area, your curiosity will get the better of you and you’ll want to explore farther and farther out, Sherlock, and I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
“Why?” Sherlock exploded, slamming his hands on the table and ignoring his brother’s reprimanding look. “Why do I have to stay inside? It’s so boring here, and I’ll be eighteen tomorrow. Surely some time outside isn’t too much to ask! What have I done so wrong that you would deny me this?”
Mycroft’s face was carefully blank, and Sherlock bristled in anger at the knowledge that he was being read like a book. His brother’s eyes softened at the corners, which only fueled his ire, because he did not need sympathy, and certainly not from him.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m aware the situation is not ideal, but I have no other options. If you have a better idea, do tell me. I’m only trying to protect you from those who would hurt you, and from yourself.”
“I do not need your protection,” Sherlock spat, fury coursing through his veins.
Mycroft delicately picked up his spoon. “You do not know the very real dangers that lie outside these walls.”
“And whose fault is that?”
His brother’s glance was sharp. “I will gladly take on your anger and resentment if it means you remain safe and unharmed. The answer is still no. Do not ask again, Sherlock.”
Sherlock dug his fingers into his knees and fought to control himself, trembling with adrenaline and vexation and the unfairness of it all. He couldn’t go outside, he couldn’t have his window, and he was bored, and Mycroft didn’t care because it wasn’t as though he was the one trapped inside all day, every day-
He shot to his feet, ignoring the burning sensation of frustrated tears behind his eyes, and strode to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he vanished into his room. Straight to the desk that served as his makeshift chemistry lab, seizing beakers and vials and test tubes in both hands and throwing them at the walls. Distantly, he thought he heard the shattering of glass, over and over and over again until there was nothing left to break, but the static-like rushing in his ears drowned out everything else.
Still no noise from downstairs-no comments, no footsteps, no clink of metal against porcelain.
Sherlock curled up on his bed with his eyes tightly shut, hair draped around him just like that bird’s nest he’d seen once, and wondered why he was longing for something he’d never had.
~*~
The gentle strains of a violin drifted quietly through the still night air, the notes soft and mournful in the dark as a lone woman stood in the center of an empty room and coaxed music from the strings. Tall, slender, and dark-haired, she held herself in the manner of one with years of experience and unshakeable confidence in her skills. There was no light in the room, save the faint moonlight that pushed through every revealing crack in the curtains it could find, but even that was unnecessary-with her eyes closed she could see the music in her mind, shifting and morphing in a way that told her arm and wrist and fingers exactly what to do.
“Violette?”
Her playing never paused for an instant as the Queen’s eyes opened and she turned, gaze alighting on the man in the doorway. She finished the last few bars of her piece, letting the last note hang suspended in the air before fading away to silence. A small sad smile passed her lips as she lowered her violin.
“William?”
The King’s expression was strained and weary, the lines of his face appearing more pronounced particularly around this time of year. The thick black hair was interspersed with gray, showing more predominantly in his beard and mustache than anywhere else. His green eyes watched her for a long wordless moment, taking in his wife’s demeanor, her instrument, and the unlived state of the room.
His room.
“What are you doing?” her husband asked, as though unwilling to disrupt the newly established quiet.
“It’s his birthday tomorrow,” she replied simply, holding his gaze, because that explained everything. Cradling her beloved violin, she carried it to the ornamental stand across the room and set it lovingly into place, letting her fingertips caress the polished wood. Her only son will age another year, and once again, she won’t be present to witness it.
“Nearly eighteen years now,” William acknowledged, his entire visage flinching at the reminder of a loss almost two decades old, and for a second, the only thing Violette saw in his face was pain.
She was drawn to him like iron to a magnet, his loss and his hurt as keenly felt as her own, but the only thing to be done was to cross the room and pull him to her, and try to hold them both together. She felt his breath stutter painfully in and out of his chest as she rested her head on his shoulder, her hands stroking soothing paths along his spine while a large hand pressed against the curls cascading down her back.
“Do you remember,” she began, but the rest of the words get stuck on their way out, so she cleared her throat to try again. “Do you remember the lullaby I used to play for him? Before he…he…”
William said nothing, but pulled her closer in response. Violette glanced over her shoulder at where her son’s crib used to sit, replaced by an empty, brand-new bed, and remembered.
She draws the bow over the strings again, because he likes this song, the same lullaby her father played for her when she was a little girl. A tiny, pudgy hand reaches up at her, little fingers grasping for the source of a sound that’s far too distant for him to reach. She smiles; her face lights up at her son’s insistent wriggling, and she thinks she has never felt as much love for another human being as she does for this one-one who can’t even talk, and drools, and chews on his own fingers.
Those are her pale blue eyes in his face, and Heaven knows where all that red hair came from, but that might-it’s a bit soon to tell-be William’s nose. He is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.
He mouths wetly at her, proving his salivary glands are functioning just fine, and then the gurgling starts. William, on the other side of the crib, lowers a finger for him to grab. Immediately, he latches on but his fingers are not coordinated enough or big enough to do anything other than flail at it.
Her heart swells with pride and love, and if he was capable of speech, if he could ask for anything, anything at all, she would give it to him without a second thought. Is this what every new mother feels?
As she reaches the final notes of the lullaby, his head tilts in her direction, yet she knows she is out of his limited range of sight. His eyes are still developing, fragile and sensitive, so she transfers her bow to her other hand, angling it across the strings, and moves in closer.
“Hello, Sherlock,” she says, meeting William’s eyes over their son’s head, and she sees that he feels the exact same way she does.
Sherlock can see her violin now and reaches out again, showing off more of his new gurgling skills.
She laughs. “Not now, Sherlock,” she tells him, delighted, “it’s too big for you now. You can learn when you’re a little bigger, if you’re still interested, alright? I promise. Mummy will teach you.”
His eyes remain steadfastly focused on the shiny metal of the violin’s fine tuners, and she knows he doesn’t recognize her words, only the sound of her voice, but that’s fine. She’ll be here for his first words, and his first steps, and if he wants, his first music lesson.
Only he wasn’t. She was, and he wasn’t, and her heart ached with the knowledge that she had missed all those important aspects of her son’s life, all those little once-in-a-lifetime moments she would never get back. But she wouldn’t cry now, because she’d spent the first two months of his disappearance crying at the slightest provocation: the squall of another infant, red hair, any name starting with the letter ‘s’. She’d had eighteen years to overcome the instinct to break down, and she certainly wasn’t going to succumb to it now.
William’s arms tightened around her, and she had never been more thankful her husband had always been able to read her so well.
“There’s always…” his sentence faded into silence and Violette knew that tone, that melancholy darkness in his voice that said he was thinking the worst.
She pulled back so she could see his face, raising an eyebrow at him so he would continue.
The King didn’t look at her, gazing off somewhere over his wife’s left shoulder. Probably at the bed their son had never slept in. “There’s always a chance he’s not-”
She pressed a finger to his lips and halted the rest of his words, warned him with her eyes not to finish that thought. Violette lifted her chin, and in that moment, she couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a queen.
“William,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “No one steals an infant to murder it.”
William blanched.
Her heart quailed at the heartrending expression on his face, but he needed to hear this, if only for the simple reason that she couldn’t afford to have him lose hope. All they had now was each other.
“That’s an unnecessary amount of work for a simple task,” she continued as she fought to keep the quaver out of her voice, taking a moment to summon a little extra strength and grasp both his hands in hers. “He is out there, somewhere. And you’d do very well to remember that.”
Her husband turned to look at the wide French doors on the far side of the room, the furniture that had never been used, all the toys and books and possessions that accumulated every birthday, for a boy who wasn’t there.
“I think I will retire for the night,” Violette murmured, following his gaze, and feeling nothing but a heavy, gaping hole in her heart. A part of her was out there, living, breathing somewhere, and without it she wouldn’t be complete. Couldn’t be complete.
“Allow me to escort you,” the King said gently, offering her his arm.
His eyes caught hers and the two shared a few grief-filled seconds for a wound that would never fully heal. Then they briefly composed themselves the way royalty were expected to be, and exited their son’s chambers. The door smoothly closed and locked behind them.
~*~
Oh, god, he was so bored.
Mycroft had left ages ago, off to do whatever it was he did during the day, something business-y and bossy, no doubt, and once again he was stuck here with nothing to do. Everything was so tedious, so mind-numbingly dreary.
He was starting to regret destroying all his lab equipment last night.
That display of childishness had sent his experiment back to square one-he’d been working on creating something acidic enough to unseal his window yet wouldn’t completely destroy his shutters. But Mycroft was very careful with the materials he provided, and Sherlock had only a few places to hide the progress he was making, and now the whole thing was for naught.
Sherlock glowered at his reflection in the mirror of his vanity table-turned-desk. His face glared back at him, furious for ruining the only true entertainment he had in this horrendous place, and what was he going to do now?
There were no books he could get lost in, as Mycroft had been overly involved in his work lately and lacked the time to bring back anything new. Sherlock lived for books, everything he knew he’d learned from books; how was he supposed to keep his brain occupied otherwise?
Mycroft had taken over his schooling when Nana left, drilling him in his letters and numbers, teaching him to read and solve puzzles and write essays and do arithmetic. He’d gone without dinner some nights for misspelled words and improper grammar, lost his lab privileges for back talk and numerically wrong answers, but Sherlock was practically a sponge for knowledge. He learned fast, remembered everything he’d been taught, and it all revolved around the books Mycroft read to him and years later, left him to study.
He hadn’t had a lesson in years.
Perhaps he’d reached the end of what Mycroft could teach him, but he suspected that wasn’t the case. The frequency of his lessons radically decreased when he first began asking what it was like outside the house. Not only that, but they’d shifted from geography and history to safer topics like trigonometry and culinary arts, the latter of which Sherlock despised. When he was fifteen, the nearest town had hired Mycroft for some exceedingly important position and the lessons had halted indefinitely, substituted instead for the occasional book or other scholarly text his brother deigned to give him.
What could the outside world possibly hold that would cause Mycroft to purposely keep him in ignorance?
The awareness of his own lack of knowledge both chafed and further fueled his curiosity. There was more out there, of course there was. There had to be. Mountains and rivers and towns to explore, people and devastation and prosperous places he was determined to see if he could find a way out from under Mycroft’s ever-vigilant thumb.
Sherlock scowled at his sealed window. It was merely a delay, nothing more.
His biggest question was when (not ‘if’, there would be no ‘if’s, only ‘when’) he did leave, where would he go?
Vaguely, he recognized there was a town nearby-the same place Mycroft worked and bought their supplies from, according to the contradictory smell of grit and baked goods clinging to his clothes-but he wasn’t entirely sure where it was. His brother was careful not to leave any papers lying around and although he was familiar with the concept of cartography, he had never laid eyes on an atlas or a map. Not once.
Fine then. He didn’t need a destination. He’d just…leave. So there.
Raising his chin haughtily, Sherlock stalked out of his room and down the staircase. He trailed a finger through the faint layer of dust building on the railing with a spiteful satisfaction-just because he was bored and trapped here all day didn’t mean he was going to resort to housework. Cleaning was dull, cooking took too long, and other than his experimenting there was only one other hobby he bothered to indulge in.
There was something powerful in expressing himself through paint, Sherlock had discovered.
He’d had a terrible row with Mycroft the first time his brother came home and found he’d desecrated the walls. There’d been no paint in the house at that time, so in a fit of intrigue he’d mashed up food of all sorts into paste and spread it on the walls. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but he certainly wasn’t going to apologize for the mess. He’d argued about boredom, and the need for self-expression, that his options for entertainment here were limited and there were only so many times he could sit around brushing all forty meters of his hair. All nonsense, naturally, but Mycroft finally gave in when Sherlock refused to clean his organic artwork from the walls unless his brother bought him proper paint.
It was the first and only battle Sherlock had ever won, so he made the most of it.
After retrieving his art box from the wardrobe he traipsed back up the stairs and gazed around his room in search of the day’s latest stretch of ‘canvas’, only to discover he was running out of space.
The thought was distressing, and he’d have to come up with a solution soon. Downstairs had been the place where he’d first started working. In a fit of bitterness, he’d wanted to begin with Mycroft’s small room off the kitchen when his window had first been permanently closed, but his brother’s door was always locked and he couldn’t get in. Gradually, he’d moved up the walls and the staircase and into his own room as he got closer and closer to the roof. Lately, he’d taken to suspending himself from the eaves with his hair looped into variations of makeshift harnesses, because honestly his hair had no other practical everyday use, and it never failed to make Mycroft fret. But maybe he should start with the floor, next?
Sherlock eyed his walls critically, examining the colours applied over the wood and masonry. His initial brushwork consisted of formulas and diagrams he needed for experiments. Then Mycroft had brought home art books for his perusal and he’d branched out into more creative areas, learning as he went and losing himself in hours of lines, contours, and colours. Animals, astronomy, and the basic human form appeared sporadically on the stone, slowly morphing from realism to the impossible to the abstract.
He painted whatever happened to catch his fancy at that moment: self-portraits that lost clarity near the bottom, dark hues bleeding together into a background for another picture; vertical curvy symmetrical lines separated by dark columns with a perpendicular line of four bright dots; green circles and other geometric shapes overlapping each other. Overall, the result was a collage of styles and shades of pigment that transformed his room into a questionably successful foray into home décor.
Hmmm, well…he could always work on the ceiling. At the very least, it would make Mycroft blink and his mouth thin in disapproval when he finally returned home.
Nodding decisively to himself, he craned his head back to scrutinize the wooden beams above him. Then he dragged the end of his trailing hair to him, the weight of it dense and warm in his hands, and lobbed it up into the rafters.
~*~
“You know, I don’t think we’ve had a day this fine in a long while.”
“Shut up, Watson,” a woman said impatiently behind him.
“Call me John,” he replied amicably, hands on his hips as he stared contentedly over the City. “Surely we’re on a first name basis by now, Sally, don’t you think?”
“It’s Donovan, to you,” she snapped.
“Cut the chatter, if you wouldn’t mind,” another male voice demanded from somewhere near Sally.
John ignored him. “I could use a place with a view like this,” he mused, stroking his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to know any flats ‘round here with one, would you Anderson?”
“None that you can afford,” the dark-haired man said bitingly.
“I’ll be able to afford anything when I’m done-er, we’re done here,” John shot back confidently. He inhaled deeply and cocked his head to the side. “I should just go for a castle of my own, shouldn’t I?”
“Watson,” Sally said, and if someone’s voice could be both frigid and acidic at the same time, John thought, it would sound exactly like this. “You can buy whatever the bloody hell you want when we’ve finished. Now move your arse.”
John wiggled his hips solely for her benefit. “You’re right. I shouldn’t leave two helpless souls such as yourselves without the assistance of my infamous self. So move aside and-”
He turned to face his partners and paused. Sally had a length of rope she was stretching casually between her hands, watching him with cold eyes. Anderson had both arms crossed over his chest and his stare wasn’t much friendlier.
“Sorry, but uh…that wouldn’t be a noose, would it?” he had to ask.
Sally and Anderson just smiled identical smiles while a shiver travelled down his spine.
John sighed, a little put out, and made a mental note not to work with these two again. A crown almost wasn’t enough to compensate for their stick-in-the-mud attitudes. He went to join his temporary conspirators by the skylight. “Alright, fine. Let’s get this done then, shall we?”
He tried to stay still as she tied the rope around him, but really, she didn’t have to tie the knot that tight. Then again, sliding out of the loop in the middle of the job was an awkward and unappealing option.
“Ready?” Anderson asked, kneeling and prepared to pry open the glass cover.
“Bit late to back out now,” John pointed out, tugging a plain cloth sack out of his inner coat pocket.
“Okay, go,” urged Sally, nodding at the other man.
Anderson silently pulled the skylight up and moved around to take position behind Sally, seizing a firm hold on the rope.
John crouched next to the open hole in the roof, no more than one meter square, and planted his hands on both sides of it. He let his arms take his full weight for a moment as he swung his legs into the gap, muscles straining, before the braided cord around his waist abruptly went taut. Pulling in his elbows to make himself as small as possible, he reveled in the potent bloom of adrenaline roaring through his veins. Nothing beat dropping from the ceiling to steal the Kingdom’s most valued possession right from under the noses of its own Guard.
His descent was steady and surprisingly soundless, so John couldn’t help but peer around curiously as the distance between him and his target rapidly vanished. The place was wide, airy, and lavishly decorated with paintings of the Royal Family and overly plush carpets that all rich people seemed to favour. His end of the room was protected by an eight man line of the Royal Guard’s brightest and most attentive-he snickered internally here-with their backs to the very object they were meant to be protecting. Shrouded in morning sunlight, the lost Prince’s crown gleamed and glittered and begged not to be left alone on a pillowed pedestal for nary a second longer. John was only too happy to oblige it.
Delicately removing the expensive circlet from its cushion, he nimbly tucked it into the bag.
Three meters away, one of the guards sneezed and rubbed at his nose.
John froze, his eyes darting to the grumbling man, and once again couldn’t resist the urge to speak. “Hayfever?” he asked sympathetically into the silence.
“Yeah,” the man answered, sniffling. “Always bad this time of year.”
“Nasty business,” John agreed, crossing his arms. He propped his chin in a hand while he observed the man’s back. “You know, some honey and a couple oranges should help clear that up.”
“Really?” the guard questioned, sounding surprised and impressed. “Well thanks, mate. Say, would you-”
John watched, amused, when the muscles in the Guard’s back stiffened at the belated realization that there shouldn’t be any conversationalists behind him. He glanced up at Sally and Anderson right when the rope around his waist jerked roughly, signaling the start of his return journey.
“Hey, wait a minute-”
“Sorry sir, you’ll have to make an appointment. I’m afraid not all good advice comes free,” John quipped as every guard present whipped around to witness his swift ascent. “A little faster, maybe?” he suggested to Sally’s furious face.
“Halt right there, thief! Hang on, you! Wait! Stop!”
The room below collapsed into panicked chaos as his comrades hauled him onto the warm tiled roof, his fingers swiftly prying apart the knotted cord wrapped around him.
Anderson was cursing in ways that would have made his mother rinse his mouth out with soap of the coarsest kind.
“You couldn’t keep your bloody gob shut for thirty seconds, could you?” Sally spat heatedly, glaring at him.
“Oh come on, couldn’t you see the way that bloke was suffering?” John protested, sliding down the tiled roof after the fuming woman. “Not helping a fellow Guard would be treason or something, wouldn’t it?”
“And this isn’t?” Anderson snarled over his shoulder, leading them in a sprint over the tops of various royal buildings until they reached the shorter ones closest to the road.
“You used to be a Guard,” Sally shot back, giving him the evil eye as they scrambled down the rough stone walls of whatever building they weren’t supposed to be climbing. “He’s not a ‘fellow Guard’ if you’re not one anymore, you idiot! And he’s going to have the rest of his comrades on our arses now, thanks to you!”
“Nuance,” insisted John flippantly, running down the road into the City with his partners on his heels. There was nothing like a good adrenaline rush before breakfast. “What’s the harm in a little game of chase? Honestly, look at what we’ve accomplished and it’s not even eight in the morning!”
This was shaping up to be an absolutely gorgeous day. Perhaps he’d get his castle after all.
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: Belongs to Disney and BBC. Not mitsuruaki.
Title: Snarled
Author: mitsuruaki
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Prompt: Basically, this is a BBC Sherlock/Disney's Tangled fusion inspired by this prompt. Best idea ever, really.
Rated: R (better safe than sorry later, I think)
Words: 11,000+ and counting, WIP
“[He] said, ‘I want something that I want. Something that I tell myself I need, something that I want. And I need everything I see.’”-Something That I Want from the soundtrack of Tangled, by Grace Potter
“Sherlock?”
The young man in question froze in his meticulous examination of his bedroom’s solitary windowsill, long fingers hovering over the unblemished wood.
“Come down and wash up, Sherlock. Supper’s ready,” his brother’s voice floated up from downstairs.
His fingers trailed over the sealed shutters. “I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said petulantly, and held his breath as he waited for a response.
For several long moments all he heard was silence, no sound at all, and then-
“Sherlock, come eat. Please don’t make me say it again.”
Sherlock huffed as though the words were a personal affront, stalked over to the curtains separating his room from the staircase, and ripped them apart with all the drama his seventeen years could muster. “Mycroft. I’m not hungry, and I certainly don’t want to eat with you, so if you would cease-”
“I’d appreciate it if you would set the table,” Mycroft interrupted calmly, as though his brother hadn’t said a word. “You do remember where the bowls and silverware are, don’t you?”
Scowling, Sherlock grabbed a few fistfuls of the ridiculously long curly hair Mycroft wouldn’t let him cut, not even to experiment on, and stomped down the stairs. The extra length of reddish gold trailed after him, whispering softly against the floor. “Just because I don’t eat five meals a day doesn’t mean I’m clueless as to where our kitchen crockery is, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
He brushed past his brother and yanked open the cabinet to retrieve two bowls, then snatched a section of his hair and threw it at the drawers across the kitchen. It snaked around the handle and he jerked it hard to pull it open. A second section grasped two spoons, and he wrenched them up and over to bang, skittering, on the surface of the kitchen table.
Mycroft sighed, his lips thinning. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.”
Sherlock felt a smug flash of vindictive triumph as he smacked a bowl on the placemat in front of his brother. “Yes, well I wish you hadn’t sealed my window shut,” he retorted, throwing himself into his chair.
“It was necessary,” Mycroft informed him with a disapproving gaze, as if he knew exactly what Sherlock had been up to earlier. “Clearly it was too much of a temptation, if your number of failed attempts to ‘take a stroll’ are any indication.”
Sherlock grit his teeth. “Mycroft, all I wished-”
“You’re not going outside,” Mycroft cut him off with no hesitation. “We’ve discussed this. Several times, in fact. It’s not safe.”
“Just right outside,” Sherlock argued, leaning forward in his seat. “Right here around the house. I won’t go anywhere, I just want more soil samples from-”
“No,” Mycroft said curtly, giving his brother a look that said his patience was wearing thin. “I can get you samples, if you desire, but you’re staying right here.”
“Mycroft-”
“It won’t be enough,” the older man continued, ladling soup out for both of them, “and you know it. Once you’ve looked over this area, your curiosity will get the better of you and you’ll want to explore farther and farther out, Sherlock, and I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
“Why?” Sherlock exploded, slamming his hands on the table and ignoring his brother’s reprimanding look. “Why do I have to stay inside? It’s so boring here, and I’ll be eighteen tomorrow. Surely some time outside isn’t too much to ask! What have I done so wrong that you would deny me this?”
Mycroft’s face was carefully blank, and Sherlock bristled in anger at the knowledge that he was being read like a book. His brother’s eyes softened at the corners, which only fueled his ire, because he did not need sympathy, and certainly not from him.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m aware the situation is not ideal, but I have no other options. If you have a better idea, do tell me. I’m only trying to protect you from those who would hurt you, and from yourself.”
“I do not need your protection,” Sherlock spat, fury coursing through his veins.
Mycroft delicately picked up his spoon. “You do not know the very real dangers that lie outside these walls.”
“And whose fault is that?”
His brother’s glance was sharp. “I will gladly take on your anger and resentment if it means you remain safe and unharmed. The answer is still no. Do not ask again, Sherlock.”
Sherlock dug his fingers into his knees and fought to control himself, trembling with adrenaline and vexation and the unfairness of it all. He couldn’t go outside, he couldn’t have his window, and he was bored, and Mycroft didn’t care because it wasn’t as though he was the one trapped inside all day, every day-
He shot to his feet, ignoring the burning sensation of frustrated tears behind his eyes, and strode to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he vanished into his room. Straight to the desk that served as his makeshift chemistry lab, seizing beakers and vials and test tubes in both hands and throwing them at the walls. Distantly, he thought he heard the shattering of glass, over and over and over again until there was nothing left to break, but the static-like rushing in his ears drowned out everything else.
Still no noise from downstairs-no comments, no footsteps, no clink of metal against porcelain.
Sherlock curled up on his bed with his eyes tightly shut, hair draped around him just like that bird’s nest he’d seen once, and wondered why he was longing for something he’d never had.
~*~
The gentle strains of a violin drifted quietly through the still night air, the notes soft and mournful in the dark as a lone woman stood in the center of an empty room and coaxed music from the strings. Tall, slender, and dark-haired, she held herself in the manner of one with years of experience and unshakeable confidence in her skills. There was no light in the room, save the faint moonlight that pushed through every revealing crack in the curtains it could find, but even that was unnecessary-with her eyes closed she could see the music in her mind, shifting and morphing in a way that told her arm and wrist and fingers exactly what to do.
“Violette?”
Her playing never paused for an instant as the Queen’s eyes opened and she turned, gaze alighting on the man in the doorway. She finished the last few bars of her piece, letting the last note hang suspended in the air before fading away to silence. A small sad smile passed her lips as she lowered her violin.
“William?”
The King’s expression was strained and weary, the lines of his face appearing more pronounced particularly around this time of year. The thick black hair was interspersed with gray, showing more predominantly in his beard and mustache than anywhere else. His green eyes watched her for a long wordless moment, taking in his wife’s demeanor, her instrument, and the unlived state of the room.
His room.
“What are you doing?” her husband asked, as though unwilling to disrupt the newly established quiet.
“It’s his birthday tomorrow,” she replied simply, holding his gaze, because that explained everything. Cradling her beloved violin, she carried it to the ornamental stand across the room and set it lovingly into place, letting her fingertips caress the polished wood. Her only son will age another year, and once again, she won’t be present to witness it.
“Nearly eighteen years now,” William acknowledged, his entire visage flinching at the reminder of a loss almost two decades old, and for a second, the only thing Violette saw in his face was pain.
She was drawn to him like iron to a magnet, his loss and his hurt as keenly felt as her own, but the only thing to be done was to cross the room and pull him to her, and try to hold them both together. She felt his breath stutter painfully in and out of his chest as she rested her head on his shoulder, her hands stroking soothing paths along his spine while a large hand pressed against the curls cascading down her back.
“Do you remember,” she began, but the rest of the words get stuck on their way out, so she cleared her throat to try again. “Do you remember the lullaby I used to play for him? Before he…he…”
William said nothing, but pulled her closer in response. Violette glanced over her shoulder at where her son’s crib used to sit, replaced by an empty, brand-new bed, and remembered.
She draws the bow over the strings again, because he likes this song, the same lullaby her father played for her when she was a little girl. A tiny, pudgy hand reaches up at her, little fingers grasping for the source of a sound that’s far too distant for him to reach. She smiles; her face lights up at her son’s insistent wriggling, and she thinks she has never felt as much love for another human being as she does for this one-one who can’t even talk, and drools, and chews on his own fingers.
Those are her pale blue eyes in his face, and Heaven knows where all that red hair came from, but that might-it’s a bit soon to tell-be William’s nose. He is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.
He mouths wetly at her, proving his salivary glands are functioning just fine, and then the gurgling starts. William, on the other side of the crib, lowers a finger for him to grab. Immediately, he latches on but his fingers are not coordinated enough or big enough to do anything other than flail at it.
Her heart swells with pride and love, and if he was capable of speech, if he could ask for anything, anything at all, she would give it to him without a second thought. Is this what every new mother feels?
As she reaches the final notes of the lullaby, his head tilts in her direction, yet she knows she is out of his limited range of sight. His eyes are still developing, fragile and sensitive, so she transfers her bow to her other hand, angling it across the strings, and moves in closer.
“Hello, Sherlock,” she says, meeting William’s eyes over their son’s head, and she sees that he feels the exact same way she does.
Sherlock can see her violin now and reaches out again, showing off more of his new gurgling skills.
She laughs. “Not now, Sherlock,” she tells him, delighted, “it’s too big for you now. You can learn when you’re a little bigger, if you’re still interested, alright? I promise. Mummy will teach you.”
His eyes remain steadfastly focused on the shiny metal of the violin’s fine tuners, and she knows he doesn’t recognize her words, only the sound of her voice, but that’s fine. She’ll be here for his first words, and his first steps, and if he wants, his first music lesson.
Only he wasn’t. She was, and he wasn’t, and her heart ached with the knowledge that she had missed all those important aspects of her son’s life, all those little once-in-a-lifetime moments she would never get back. But she wouldn’t cry now, because she’d spent the first two months of his disappearance crying at the slightest provocation: the squall of another infant, red hair, any name starting with the letter ‘s’. She’d had eighteen years to overcome the instinct to break down, and she certainly wasn’t going to succumb to it now.
William’s arms tightened around her, and she had never been more thankful her husband had always been able to read her so well.
“There’s always…” his sentence faded into silence and Violette knew that tone, that melancholy darkness in his voice that said he was thinking the worst.
She pulled back so she could see his face, raising an eyebrow at him so he would continue.
The King didn’t look at her, gazing off somewhere over his wife’s left shoulder. Probably at the bed their son had never slept in. “There’s always a chance he’s not-”
She pressed a finger to his lips and halted the rest of his words, warned him with her eyes not to finish that thought. Violette lifted her chin, and in that moment, she couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a queen.
“William,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “No one steals an infant to murder it.”
William blanched.
Her heart quailed at the heartrending expression on his face, but he needed to hear this, if only for the simple reason that she couldn’t afford to have him lose hope. All they had now was each other.
“That’s an unnecessary amount of work for a simple task,” she continued as she fought to keep the quaver out of her voice, taking a moment to summon a little extra strength and grasp both his hands in hers. “He is out there, somewhere. And you’d do very well to remember that.”
Her husband turned to look at the wide French doors on the far side of the room, the furniture that had never been used, all the toys and books and possessions that accumulated every birthday, for a boy who wasn’t there.
“I think I will retire for the night,” Violette murmured, following his gaze, and feeling nothing but a heavy, gaping hole in her heart. A part of her was out there, living, breathing somewhere, and without it she wouldn’t be complete. Couldn’t be complete.
“Allow me to escort you,” the King said gently, offering her his arm.
His eyes caught hers and the two shared a few grief-filled seconds for a wound that would never fully heal. Then they briefly composed themselves the way royalty were expected to be, and exited their son’s chambers. The door smoothly closed and locked behind them.
~*~
Oh, god, he was so bored.
Mycroft had left ages ago, off to do whatever it was he did during the day, something business-y and bossy, no doubt, and once again he was stuck here with nothing to do. Everything was so tedious, so mind-numbingly dreary.
He was starting to regret destroying all his lab equipment last night.
That display of childishness had sent his experiment back to square one-he’d been working on creating something acidic enough to unseal his window yet wouldn’t completely destroy his shutters. But Mycroft was very careful with the materials he provided, and Sherlock had only a few places to hide the progress he was making, and now the whole thing was for naught.
Sherlock glowered at his reflection in the mirror of his vanity table-turned-desk. His face glared back at him, furious for ruining the only true entertainment he had in this horrendous place, and what was he going to do now?
There were no books he could get lost in, as Mycroft had been overly involved in his work lately and lacked the time to bring back anything new. Sherlock lived for books, everything he knew he’d learned from books; how was he supposed to keep his brain occupied otherwise?
Mycroft had taken over his schooling when Nana left, drilling him in his letters and numbers, teaching him to read and solve puzzles and write essays and do arithmetic. He’d gone without dinner some nights for misspelled words and improper grammar, lost his lab privileges for back talk and numerically wrong answers, but Sherlock was practically a sponge for knowledge. He learned fast, remembered everything he’d been taught, and it all revolved around the books Mycroft read to him and years later, left him to study.
He hadn’t had a lesson in years.
Perhaps he’d reached the end of what Mycroft could teach him, but he suspected that wasn’t the case. The frequency of his lessons radically decreased when he first began asking what it was like outside the house. Not only that, but they’d shifted from geography and history to safer topics like trigonometry and culinary arts, the latter of which Sherlock despised. When he was fifteen, the nearest town had hired Mycroft for some exceedingly important position and the lessons had halted indefinitely, substituted instead for the occasional book or other scholarly text his brother deigned to give him.
What could the outside world possibly hold that would cause Mycroft to purposely keep him in ignorance?
The awareness of his own lack of knowledge both chafed and further fueled his curiosity. There was more out there, of course there was. There had to be. Mountains and rivers and towns to explore, people and devastation and prosperous places he was determined to see if he could find a way out from under Mycroft’s ever-vigilant thumb.
Sherlock scowled at his sealed window. It was merely a delay, nothing more.
His biggest question was when (not ‘if’, there would be no ‘if’s, only ‘when’) he did leave, where would he go?
Vaguely, he recognized there was a town nearby-the same place Mycroft worked and bought their supplies from, according to the contradictory smell of grit and baked goods clinging to his clothes-but he wasn’t entirely sure where it was. His brother was careful not to leave any papers lying around and although he was familiar with the concept of cartography, he had never laid eyes on an atlas or a map. Not once.
Fine then. He didn’t need a destination. He’d just…leave. So there.
Raising his chin haughtily, Sherlock stalked out of his room and down the staircase. He trailed a finger through the faint layer of dust building on the railing with a spiteful satisfaction-just because he was bored and trapped here all day didn’t mean he was going to resort to housework. Cleaning was dull, cooking took too long, and other than his experimenting there was only one other hobby he bothered to indulge in.
There was something powerful in expressing himself through paint, Sherlock had discovered.
He’d had a terrible row with Mycroft the first time his brother came home and found he’d desecrated the walls. There’d been no paint in the house at that time, so in a fit of intrigue he’d mashed up food of all sorts into paste and spread it on the walls. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but he certainly wasn’t going to apologize for the mess. He’d argued about boredom, and the need for self-expression, that his options for entertainment here were limited and there were only so many times he could sit around brushing all forty meters of his hair. All nonsense, naturally, but Mycroft finally gave in when Sherlock refused to clean his organic artwork from the walls unless his brother bought him proper paint.
It was the first and only battle Sherlock had ever won, so he made the most of it.
After retrieving his art box from the wardrobe he traipsed back up the stairs and gazed around his room in search of the day’s latest stretch of ‘canvas’, only to discover he was running out of space.
The thought was distressing, and he’d have to come up with a solution soon. Downstairs had been the place where he’d first started working. In a fit of bitterness, he’d wanted to begin with Mycroft’s small room off the kitchen when his window had first been permanently closed, but his brother’s door was always locked and he couldn’t get in. Gradually, he’d moved up the walls and the staircase and into his own room as he got closer and closer to the roof. Lately, he’d taken to suspending himself from the eaves with his hair looped into variations of makeshift harnesses, because honestly his hair had no other practical everyday use, and it never failed to make Mycroft fret. But maybe he should start with the floor, next?
Sherlock eyed his walls critically, examining the colours applied over the wood and masonry. His initial brushwork consisted of formulas and diagrams he needed for experiments. Then Mycroft had brought home art books for his perusal and he’d branched out into more creative areas, learning as he went and losing himself in hours of lines, contours, and colours. Animals, astronomy, and the basic human form appeared sporadically on the stone, slowly morphing from realism to the impossible to the abstract.
He painted whatever happened to catch his fancy at that moment: self-portraits that lost clarity near the bottom, dark hues bleeding together into a background for another picture; vertical curvy symmetrical lines separated by dark columns with a perpendicular line of four bright dots; green circles and other geometric shapes overlapping each other. Overall, the result was a collage of styles and shades of pigment that transformed his room into a questionably successful foray into home décor.
Hmmm, well…he could always work on the ceiling. At the very least, it would make Mycroft blink and his mouth thin in disapproval when he finally returned home.
Nodding decisively to himself, he craned his head back to scrutinize the wooden beams above him. Then he dragged the end of his trailing hair to him, the weight of it dense and warm in his hands, and lobbed it up into the rafters.
~*~
“You know, I don’t think we’ve had a day this fine in a long while.”
“Shut up, Watson,” a woman said impatiently behind him.
“Call me John,” he replied amicably, hands on his hips as he stared contentedly over the City. “Surely we’re on a first name basis by now, Sally, don’t you think?”
“It’s Donovan, to you,” she snapped.
“Cut the chatter, if you wouldn’t mind,” another male voice demanded from somewhere near Sally.
John ignored him. “I could use a place with a view like this,” he mused, stroking his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to know any flats ‘round here with one, would you Anderson?”
“None that you can afford,” the dark-haired man said bitingly.
“I’ll be able to afford anything when I’m done-er, we’re done here,” John shot back confidently. He inhaled deeply and cocked his head to the side. “I should just go for a castle of my own, shouldn’t I?”
“Watson,” Sally said, and if someone’s voice could be both frigid and acidic at the same time, John thought, it would sound exactly like this. “You can buy whatever the bloody hell you want when we’ve finished. Now move your arse.”
John wiggled his hips solely for her benefit. “You’re right. I shouldn’t leave two helpless souls such as yourselves without the assistance of my infamous self. So move aside and-”
He turned to face his partners and paused. Sally had a length of rope she was stretching casually between her hands, watching him with cold eyes. Anderson had both arms crossed over his chest and his stare wasn’t much friendlier.
“Sorry, but uh…that wouldn’t be a noose, would it?” he had to ask.
Sally and Anderson just smiled identical smiles while a shiver travelled down his spine.
John sighed, a little put out, and made a mental note not to work with these two again. A crown almost wasn’t enough to compensate for their stick-in-the-mud attitudes. He went to join his temporary conspirators by the skylight. “Alright, fine. Let’s get this done then, shall we?”
He tried to stay still as she tied the rope around him, but really, she didn’t have to tie the knot that tight. Then again, sliding out of the loop in the middle of the job was an awkward and unappealing option.
“Ready?” Anderson asked, kneeling and prepared to pry open the glass cover.
“Bit late to back out now,” John pointed out, tugging a plain cloth sack out of his inner coat pocket.
“Okay, go,” urged Sally, nodding at the other man.
Anderson silently pulled the skylight up and moved around to take position behind Sally, seizing a firm hold on the rope.
John crouched next to the open hole in the roof, no more than one meter square, and planted his hands on both sides of it. He let his arms take his full weight for a moment as he swung his legs into the gap, muscles straining, before the braided cord around his waist abruptly went taut. Pulling in his elbows to make himself as small as possible, he reveled in the potent bloom of adrenaline roaring through his veins. Nothing beat dropping from the ceiling to steal the Kingdom’s most valued possession right from under the noses of its own Guard.
His descent was steady and surprisingly soundless, so John couldn’t help but peer around curiously as the distance between him and his target rapidly vanished. The place was wide, airy, and lavishly decorated with paintings of the Royal Family and overly plush carpets that all rich people seemed to favour. His end of the room was protected by an eight man line of the Royal Guard’s brightest and most attentive-he snickered internally here-with their backs to the very object they were meant to be protecting. Shrouded in morning sunlight, the lost Prince’s crown gleamed and glittered and begged not to be left alone on a pillowed pedestal for nary a second longer. John was only too happy to oblige it.
Delicately removing the expensive circlet from its cushion, he nimbly tucked it into the bag.
Three meters away, one of the guards sneezed and rubbed at his nose.
John froze, his eyes darting to the grumbling man, and once again couldn’t resist the urge to speak. “Hayfever?” he asked sympathetically into the silence.
“Yeah,” the man answered, sniffling. “Always bad this time of year.”
“Nasty business,” John agreed, crossing his arms. He propped his chin in a hand while he observed the man’s back. “You know, some honey and a couple oranges should help clear that up.”
“Really?” the guard questioned, sounding surprised and impressed. “Well thanks, mate. Say, would you-”
John watched, amused, when the muscles in the Guard’s back stiffened at the belated realization that there shouldn’t be any conversationalists behind him. He glanced up at Sally and Anderson right when the rope around his waist jerked roughly, signaling the start of his return journey.
“Hey, wait a minute-”
“Sorry sir, you’ll have to make an appointment. I’m afraid not all good advice comes free,” John quipped as every guard present whipped around to witness his swift ascent. “A little faster, maybe?” he suggested to Sally’s furious face.
“Halt right there, thief! Hang on, you! Wait! Stop!”
The room below collapsed into panicked chaos as his comrades hauled him onto the warm tiled roof, his fingers swiftly prying apart the knotted cord wrapped around him.
Anderson was cursing in ways that would have made his mother rinse his mouth out with soap of the coarsest kind.
“You couldn’t keep your bloody gob shut for thirty seconds, could you?” Sally spat heatedly, glaring at him.
“Oh come on, couldn’t you see the way that bloke was suffering?” John protested, sliding down the tiled roof after the fuming woman. “Not helping a fellow Guard would be treason or something, wouldn’t it?”
“And this isn’t?” Anderson snarled over his shoulder, leading them in a sprint over the tops of various royal buildings until they reached the shorter ones closest to the road.
“You used to be a Guard,” Sally shot back, giving him the evil eye as they scrambled down the rough stone walls of whatever building they weren’t supposed to be climbing. “He’s not a ‘fellow Guard’ if you’re not one anymore, you idiot! And he’s going to have the rest of his comrades on our arses now, thanks to you!”
“Nuance,” insisted John flippantly, running down the road into the City with his partners on his heels. There was nothing like a good adrenaline rush before breakfast. “What’s the harm in a little game of chase? Honestly, look at what we’ve accomplished and it’s not even eight in the morning!”
This was shaping up to be an absolutely gorgeous day. Perhaps he’d get his castle after all.
Chapter Two