Fic: Snarled 2/?
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: 14,000+ and counting, WIP
Notes: Also, if anyone is interested, I've signed up for help_japan and you can find me here! Help us out!
~*~
Sherlock had been painting for about two hours when the bell downstairs started ringing.
He huffed impatiently, because it was just like Mycroft to ruin any fun he’d found for himself at the most inconvenient of times. Muttering darkly under his breath, he set aside his paintbrush and lowered himself to the floor, untangling various limbs from his hair as he went. He tripped out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen and dropped to his knees, feeling with his fingertips for the tell-tale cracks in the floor. Digging in with a hiss, he levered up the loose tile and glared down into the darkness.
“Take the stairs!”
A pointed silence was his only response.
Grumbling furiously, Sherlock tossed his hair over the hook in the ceiling and toed the rest of it into the gap in the floor with his bare feet. The blackness swallowed the reddish gold locks immediately, and Sherlock waited for the familiar tug before he started pulling.
Oh hell, he was heavy.
Mycroft, at twenty-five, was bigger and probably weighed twice as much as he did, and you’d think he’d get used to this whole ‘hauling Mycroft into the house’ business since it happened every day, but no, not really. Sherlock's hair, unlike him, handled the strain easily, pooling in a shiny mass at his feet as he used his own weight to raise his brother through the floor. He scowled at it and entertained the idea of just letting go.
He was tired, sore, and trying really hard not to pant in exertion when Mycroft set foot on the tiles. His brother nodded at him in greeting. Sherlock glowered and sulkily shoved the loose tile back into place with his heels, delighting in the older man’s reflexive flinch as it banged loudly. His eyes zoomed in on his brother’s carefully wrapped right hand while he unhooked his hair.
“New letter opener?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at his hair on the floor and back.
“Not necessary,” Mycroft answered his unasked question.
“Hmph.”
Mycroft eyed him, deciphering his entire morning from the wrinkles in his clothes and paint on his hands, noting the smouldering resentment and dissatisfaction in his face.
Sherlock stared back defiantly. “What are you doing back so early?”
His brother waited with irritating patience.
He narrowed his eyes. Not a speck of dirt on his clothes, so there’d been no rush. If he’d returned for additional documents, he wouldn’t be standing here watching him and it was several hours too early for lunch. So he planned on staying, then.
“Taking the day off?” Sherlock asked, frowning.
“It is your birthday,” Mycroft acknowledged, walking to the kitchen and opening the pantry to examine its contents. “I had some things to finish up, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the day.”
“Mmm.” He picked up the last metre and a half of his hair and combed through it with his fingers, scrutinizing it for dirt and other debris from Mycroft’s shoes. What did it matter if his brother was here? It only served as a stinging reminder that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.
Mycroft half turned to look at him wearily like he’d spoken his thoughts out loud. “Sherlock, you know-”
“Yes, I do,” Sherlock agreed sharply, pinning the other man with an icy stare. “As you’re so fond of saying, ‘we’ve discussed this’. It doesn’t matter. I’ve changed my mind.”
A lie, and Mycroft knew it. They were stubborn men. Stubborn men don’t change their minds; they just come up with other ways to occupy themselves until they get what they want. And that’s not even mentioning sneaky stubborn men.
“Oh?”
“I need a new set of experimental equipment,” Sherlock announced, still lazily tending to his hair.
“Do you?” Mycroft inquired simply, as though he hadn’t heard the ruckus of the previous night .
“I had a bit of an…accident, last night,” he continued, ignoring his brother. “My glassware needs to be replaced.”
“All of it?” Mycroft asked dryly.
Sherlock glared at him.
His brother turned back to the pantry for several long moments. Edgy, Sherlock waited for a response.
“That’s two days journey, where I bought your first set, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally said.
“Your point?” said Sherlock caustically, releasing his hair. “Unless you leave the door wide open behind you, I won’t be going anywhere.”
Mycroft’s fingers paused on the shelves. A heavy silence fell between them like a solid barrier that Sherlock refused to be the first to break.
“I’d prefer not to leave you here alone,” his brother said eventually.
He grit his teeth. “I can take care of myself,” he declared fiercely, rising to his feet. “What am I supposed to do here without my lab?”
“Practice improving your self-control, I should think,” Mycroft remarked reprovingly, a warning underlying his words.
Sherlock turned away and dug his nails into his palms. The last thing he needed to do right now was throw more breakable objects. It wouldn’t help his case.
“Very well.”
He glanced at his brother, brow furrowing. “What?”
Mycroft pulled out a loaf of bread and looked over the fruit on the counter. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I return. I trust you won’t burn the place to the ground in my absence?”
“Possibly,” Sherlock allowed. He watched as the food was wrapped in a cloth and knotted.
“If you lose this second set to another ‘accident’,” Mycroft informed him as he pried up the loose floor tile again, “there will not be a third one.”
Sherlock looked up to meet his brother’s steady gaze. He inclined his head in acceptance, re-hung his hair, and surveyed the older man as he readied himself for departure. At his nod, Sherlock carefully began the process of lowering him back down.
“Happy birthday, little brother,” came Mycroft’s voice from the darkness.
Their eyes locked for a fraction of an instant-blue on blue with a flash of understanding-because even when they fought and drove each other mad and Sherlock periodically decided he hated him, they were still brothers. Then Sherlock uncomfortably averted his gaze, observing the hair moving under his hands, and seconds later, Mycroft’s weight disappeared.
~*~
John had had better days, really.
Stealing was only a good hobby if you were smart about it, and this whole ‘game of chase’ thing was starting to get a little tedious, to be perfectly honest. Running in a bid for his freedom was poetic and fine and dandy, but things seemed to have changed in the Guards since he’d left its ranks because these wankers were fast.
John stumbled to a halt by a sturdy-looking tree, Sally and Anderson following, when his eyes caught sight of slip of paper pinned to the bark. With a suspicious feeling curling in his ribcage, he straightened it out and looked at it.
His shriek startled birds from the treetops and made Sally kick him in the shin.
“The hell is wrong with you?” Anderson demanded, already in a sour mood from running more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last month.
Deeply distressed, John flipped the paper around and held it up next to his face. “They still can’t get my ears right!”
Anderson rolled his eyes.
“Really?” Sally asked in disbelief even as her eyes roved over the inked sketch, where John’s ears were far too small for his head. “That’s what’s got your knickers in a twist? Not that your face's on a wanted poster?”
“It’s easy for you to scoff at,” John pointed out crossly, re-examining the distorted un-likeness of himself. “It’s not your face they’ve mangled and put up all over the forest, is it? And I’ve been number one on the Royal Most Wanted list for the last year and a half; of course my face is on a wanted poster.”
“How do you make that sound like something to be proud of?” Sally massaged her temples with her fingertips.
“Well who else do you know who can say that?” asked John indignantly, stuffing the poster into his inner coat pocket.
“That is a bit impressive,” Anderson grudgingly agreed.
John tipped his head in acknowledgment of his greatness.
Sally muttered about stupid bloody bastards under her breath.
The staccato pounding of hoof beats filled the air, steadily growing louder as they automatically turned to each other.
“The game is on,” John informed them with deliberate solemnity.
“’Game’,” Sally snorted derisively, sounding like she wanted to throttle him.
Then they were running again, taking the easy ground because the foliage wasn’t sufficiently dense to provide enough of an obstacle to make the hard way worth the effort.
“Watson!” Sally called behind him, but he ignored her; couldn’t she see they were busy at the moment? He had no intention of spending time in Her Majesty’s company and this was not the occasion for sarcastic commentary.
And that was how they ended up facing a dead end wall of dirt that had no natural right to be anywhere, let alone randomly set in the middle of a forest like a U-shaped patch of land had decided to raise itself four meters in the middle of the night on a whim.
Huh. So that’s why the path forked back there. Figured. It was a shame backtracking wasn’t an option.
“Right, I forgot about that. Give me a leg up?” suggested John, looking back at the other two.
He got nothing but flat stares in response.
“You're not serious,” he demanded, thoroughly insulted.
“Well, give us the crown first, then,” countered Anderson, holding out a hand challengingly.
“I-wh-after all the hard work I suffered through to get it, you want me to just hand it over?” John protested, horrified at the very thought. “You don’t trust me?”
“Most Wanted list,” Sally coughed into her hand.
“You don’t trust us?” Anderson returned, narrowing his eyes.
“Not really, no,” John said as he looked from one to the other.
“No deal then,” Anderson told him, crossing his arms. “We’ll be seeing each other in prison, I expect.”
Clenching his jaw, John thought it over quickly. He had more at stake here than Sally or Anderson-while stealing from the Royal Family was no laughing matter, neither of them were well-known and could easily claim he’d manipulated them into it. On the other hand, he had a list of offences longer than he was tall, and it didn’t take a genius to work out how quickly he’d be executed if the Guards got their leather gauntlets on him. Nothing for it, then.
“Fine,” he ground out reluctantly, glaring at the other man. Anderson held out his hand again and John tossed the bag to Sally, just to be a prat. And because she was lighter than Anderson.
The dark-haired man gave him a dirty look but John ignored him, listening to the thundering of the Royal Guard’s approaching horses as Sally climbed up on Anderson’s shoulders. The second she was ready he scrambled up their backs like a ladder, though he tried to be more careful with Sally because she was a woman after all, and it was important to be considerate to women.
Except when they had what he wanted, of course.
Under his hands, the ground was unstable and crumbly as he hauled himself up the rest of the way, dragging himself along on his stomach and grasping at grass and roots and whatever else he could put his hands on until he could get his legs up under him.
“Pull her up already, would you?” Anderson grumbled from below.
John rolled his eyes. Twisting sharply, he kicked the heel of his boot into the edge of loose earth he’d just climbed over, spraying Sally’s face with dirt and dead vegetation. She cursed as her hands reflexively flew up to swipe at her eyes, the movement throwing her off balance and forcing Anderson to move with her. Lunging forward, John smoothly snatched the cloth bag from her lax fingers and grinned charmingly.
“Sorry, my hands are full,” he responded mock regretfully, dangling the protected crown over their heads. “Been nice working with you two, though not really. With any luck, I won’t be seeing you!”
He was up and moving, congratulating himself on a job well done, before Sally was even finished trying to restore her sight.
“WATSON!” Anderson roared, fury in his voice, but honestly-with a man of his reputation, they hadn’t really not expected to be double-crossed, had they? In this line of work, betrayal was as standard as giving a false name.
“Grab those two!” A new male voice commanded over the din of neighing horses and stomping hooves, loud and full of authority. “Don't let them run off! The rest of you lot with me; Watson can't have gone far!”
A loud whinnying cry followed his words, spurring John to pick up his pace and start heading deeper into the forest. He'd wasted too much time with those two idiots back there and now, maybe, it was going to cost him. That voice was new but clearly in charge, probably the Commander of the Guard-they must have changed up the ranks in the last few months or so because he didn't sound familiar. The old Commander had been so aged he'd hardly remembered how to sit in his saddle, let alone ride and give orders and fire a weapon at the same time. Damn.
He resorted to cutting through the trees, ducking suspicious-looking vines, and leaping over fallen branches just to make things that little bit harder for his pursuers. Of course, this only prompted them to use those crossbows they liked to carry around, and didn't that bring back memories, but they were lousy shots really so as long as he kept moving he didn't have a thing to worry about. For the most part his tactic worked, forcing the men behind him to fall back until the one man left tracking him was the one man he didn't want tracking him.
“Watson!”
And blast it all, he was going to have to do something about this, because as amazing as he was, he still couldn't outrun a bloody horse.
Adrenaline burned under his skin, the ground shaking under his feet as he ran, and judging by the feel of it, he had less than ten seconds to make some sort of decision.
The vines dangling at the edge of the path seemed to be waiting for him in answer. He didn't hesitate as he grabbed one and launched himself off the path, his own momentum swinging him around in a wide arc back towards the approaching grey and black horse.
And really, he must have timed that perfectly because what he could see of the shocked expression on the Commander's face was just priceless before John knocked the older man off his ride.
Releasing his improvised rope and barely managing to stay upright, John grappled with the saddle and the horse's reins, a triumphant laugh spilling from his lips. He had the crown, he had a horse, he'd lost the Commander's men a ways back with no way to catch up, and if he could just make it over the bridge up ahead-
His horse skidded to a bone-jarring halt, throwing John heavily into its neck and giving him a face full of dark mane.
“What?” John sputtered, pushing himself upright with indignant confusion and digging in with his heels. “Oh come on, not now!”
The beast had the nerve to snort at him and turn its head, refusing to move while it glared at him with one dark eye.
“Don't give me that look; you're a horse,” John protested, vaguely concerned with how he was conversing with an animal, but the way it was looking at him...
Even more disconcerting, the horse's gaze narrowed before darting away to stare at something lower and off to the side. Bewildered, John followed its gaze and realized it was staring at the bag in his hand.
“Oh no,” declared John, glowering menacingly at the dapple grey head in front of him. “I've been through far too much for this today.”
With an abrupt twist, the horse snapped at the bag with its teeth.
“No,” he repeated firmly, lifting the bag higher and out of the way. “This is not for you.”
Well. His new equine not-friend didn't seem to like hearing that very much.
Moving startlingly fast, the horse lunged forward like iron drawn to a magnet and John's reflexes almost weren't quick enough to pull the cloth sack out of range. But the horse didn't stop with just once-it kept on with a dogged-minded persistence, chasing the bag in circles and ignoring John's curses until he started to feel dizzy.
“Jesus,” John snarled, trying to gather some sort of control of the reins with one hand and keeping the other as far away as possible. “You're off your head, you know that? Would you just-”
Teeth snagged the cloth and panic surged violently in his chest for a oddly long, almost slow-motion moment as the fabric stretched-no goddamit it's mine bloody horse don't-and his first instinct was to flatten his palm against its muzzle and push. He could have lost his fingers, he realized later, if it'd decided to take a nip at him instead, but all he really wanted was for it to let go.
“No-stop it, you-if you don't let it-”
With a vicious tug the cloth slipped free from under his hand, but the horse obviously hadn't expected him to lost his grip since the bag slingshot away from them like it had rocket boosters attached to it. They both watched in horrified, breathless silence as it clattered and rolled onto the old wooden footbridge John had been aiming for earlier, miraculously avoiding any gaps between the uneven slats.
There was a pause as they both took an instant to appreciate the fact that the crown was relatively unharmed. Which quickly turned into relentless plotting on how to get there first without being mauled.
John dove out of the saddle and made a break for it because this was a race now, and he was already at a serious disadvantage simply by virtue of being human. Immediately, four hooves thundered after him but no, that was his crown now, he stole it fair and square-
A sharp pull at the heel of his boot was the only warning he received before it sent him face first into the dirt. A high-pitched whinnying followed as the horse trotted by him, swishing its dark-haired tail just above his head.
That-the horse was laughing at him.
No. Oh no.
No one laughed at John Watson, least of all a saddle-carrying animal that couldn't even talk. Two could play at that game, yessir.
Scowling, John shoved himself to his feet and sprinted after his four-legged competitor, aiming a flying tackle at the horse's two front legs that brought them both collapsing to the ground. He scrambled determinedly to his hands and knees and ran, avoiding the bite the evil mammal attempted to inflict on the back of his leg and crossed onto the bridge, ignoring the empty space around him and the scattered patches of forest he could see far, far below his feet.
He was more than halfway there when the already unstable contraption supporting his weight started shuddering and shaking hard enough to throw him off-balance. His hands grasped uselessly at the flimsy rope railings as he twisted around to see what the hell-
That damn horse was stomping with excessive strength in every step it took onto the bridge, watching him with piercingly calculating eyes, undoubtedly trying to throw him over the side. Unbelievable.
John stumbled unsteadily forward, now fuelled by stubbornness and a familiar bull-headed desire to be contradictory, and grabbed his new most prized possession just as the bag began sliding for the edge of its wooden plank. Spinning around, he brandished it in front of him victoriously, smug with the knowledge that whatever happened next, he had won.
“Ha!” he declared imperiously, taking in the horse currently sending him eye daggers, his gaze darting briefly over the nameplate strapped to its chest reading D-I-M-M-O-C-K. “How do you like that, you flea-bitten, bloody awful-”
An ominous creaking sound ripped through the air like a gunshot, making them both freeze in place. Their wide eyes met for less than a second before they looked over at the end of the bridge. The aged rope securing it to the ground continued fraying rapidly before their eyes.
“Oh bugger-”
Far too much physical exertion involved in today's heist, John thought furiously, once again running, this time for the other end of the bridge. Their combined weight was far too heavy for this simple little creation of rope and wood; the horse's fault really, he would have made it across just fine on his own. There was no way he was going to make it, none at all, there was too far to go and not enough-
A definitive snap echoed in his ears as the rope gave up on anchoring itself to solid soil. Fear gripped his chest in a cold fist because he still had a good seven or so metres to go, and he could sense the bridge swiftly dropping away behind him. The horse let out a terrified cry as gravity caught up to it, and seconds later, there was nothing at all under John Watson's feet.
He felt weightless for a moment, hanging suspended in the air as though time had stopped just for him, but that wasn't right because if he wasn't moving the rest of the world certainly was. Colours blurred around him in a confusing mass as he dropped out of the sky in a terrifying free-fall, and nope, that was definitely him moving; the air flying past in a deafening rush that drowned out the pounding of his heart and let him know his stomach had been left back where the bridge used to be.
His body smashed through branches and leaves at an alarming velocity, and he lacked even the time to attempt curling into a ball when he slammed into the ground with enough force to cause an instant ache all over.
Groaning, John closed his eyes and ran a quick self-inventory. He could feel the bag and its contents still in his hand, and there didn't seem to be any major damage other than minor pain- the grass grew wild and tangled here, making a natural cushion that protected him from serious injury. He opened his eyes and sat up, noticing he'd landed about ten centimetres from a boulder nearly as tall as he was that could have broken his spine.
His luck was just amazing today, wasn't it? God, he was brilliant.
The noisy rustle of underbrush nearby made him press closer to the rock in front of him as he tried to peer around it without giving away his hiding place.
The Commander of the Guards' grey and black horse leapt out into his clearing, head shifting minutely as it suspiciously examined the surrounding vegetation.
John cursed fluently in his head and held his breath. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation with it. What would it do next, throw him in a river?
Abruptly, the horse lowered its nose to the ground and started snuffling away as though it thought it was a pig searching for truffles, walking quickly and vanishing from sight.
He heaved a silent sigh of relief, creeping out from behind his cover. The trees were a little more dense here, full of shadows and a spartan amount of sunlight, but it was just enough for a silvery glinting from the forest floor to catch his eye. A few lone arrows littered the grass, most likely lost when the horse fell and upended their holder. Couldn't hurt to take them with him; at the very least it'd reduce the ammunition the Guards could fire at him.
The second he pocketed the three arrows there again came the loud crunch of shrubbery, closer this time, prompting John to look frantically around for a better place to hide. Spying a wall of green behind him, he hurried to investigate the ivy hanging over the wall of rock not far from the boulder he'd used before. And it wasn't just growing along the wall, there was an opening back there, even better. Excellent.
He slipped through just as the horse reappeared with its head held high, holding the intimidating pose as long as possible for maximum effect, before bounding off again like an animal possessed.
Stupid, crazy horse.
Rolling his eyes, he turned away from the ivy curtain since he had to keep moving; he couldn't stick around here with wild horses on the loose and more Guards were sure to turn up sooner or later. He was expecting more forest or maybe even a cave of some sort, but not...not an even larger clearing with a picturesque stream and the highest tower he'd ever seen in his life framed against the mountains.
Who on earth would live in a tower out here in the middle of nowhere?
Well, it'd be a good place for him to hide out for a while until all the ruckus died down, at least. Nevermind that he'd kicked it all up in the first place.
He jogged towards it, a little uneasy as the closer he got the taller it seemed to grow. It didn't seem like much though-just solid stone with an abundance of the same flowering ivy growing all over it. Circling the bottom, he searched for a door or some way to access the place, but there didn't seem to be anything. There was nothing but ivy.
Frowning, John retreated a ways and craned his neck back to take in the building again. If there wasn't a door down here, then where did-wait. Was that a window, up there? Really? Was he going to have to climb all the way up to that window? He could feel an eyebrow climbing for his hairline as he stared up in disbelief. People were mad these days, they really were. Mad as hatters.
John resolutely pushed up his sleeves and tied the bag with the crown to his belt, then pulled out the arrows he'd just collected. They appeared sturdy enough, strong and well-made. He reassessed the tower walls, eyeing the narrow gaps between the stones with a critical eye.
Yup, looked do-able. Better get started, then.
Seven minutes later, John doubted whether this had been a good idea. The muscles in his arms and stomach felt like they were on fire, as he had to rely almost entirely on his upper body strength to make any progress, but there, just above him, were the striking support beams of dark wood where the liveable part of the tower flared out from stone column. And he was going to reach them if it killed him.
His fingertips scrabbled against the old, weathered wood, insistently searching for purchase. Once he reached wood the rest was simple: the very design of the place had grips everywhere and wood gave far more easily under the arrowheads than cracks between stone did.
It didn't take long after that for him to haul himself onto the large, ornate wooden window ledge, thankfully wide enough to sit on for a few moments as John let himself rest in relief. He was getting quite the workout today, it seemed. That whole Most Wanted list business could be an awful pain, at times.
A quick glance over the clearing showed it was just as empty as when he'd started, so he turned his attention to the heavy-looking shutters in front of him. Most were hooked from the inside to keep them closed, which gave easily enough under the right amount of pressure, but that required effort.
With a sigh, he put a cautious hand on the centre seam and shoved.
No give at all, was there? That was a bit odd.
Frowning at his latest predicament, John maneuvered himself carefully into position so he could pull up his legs and press the sole of one boot against the painted wood. He took a deep breath, anchored himself to either side of the window with his arrows, and hoped he wasn't about to knock himself off the ledge.
His foot hit the wood with a bang that ricocheted through his calf, making him grumble obscenities under his breath. Had someone sealed the bloody window shut? Because that's what it felt like.
Good Lord. How paranoid were people nowadays?
Well, chances were the shutters had only been sealed from the inside, especially at this height, so if he applied enough brute force it should give. Theoretically. Probably. Hopefully.
Nothing was ever easy, was it?
Success greeted him on the fifth try, the heavy, decorated panels flying inward with a decisive crack that inspired a flood of elation he hadn't felt for a long while. He jumped down from his perch and unknotted the cloth sack at his waist, relaxing as the cool inside air brushed over his skin as he lifted the beautiful, extravagant crown in front of his face without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
“You, my dear,” he told it sternly, “have caused me more than your fair share of grief today-”
Then there was a sudden blinding pain at the back of his skull, and the world went black.
~*~
There was a person in his room.
He'd been working on restarting his experiment-Mycroft would be furious when he discovered Sherlock had commandeered most of the dinnerware as substitute lab supplies, but it was a sacrifice for science he was willing to make-when a bang on the shutters of his window had startled him into dropping the cup he was holding, shattering on the unforgiving stone floor and nearly followed by the frying pan in his other hand.
Frozen with disbelief and something else, something that clawed sharply in his chest and made his heart pound, he'd stared at the window as his mind raced dizzyingly with possibilities that made no sense and only served to further confuse him. He was a good ways off the ground, and not even the birds were dim enough to fly into the house, so what could it be? Eighteen years and he'd never had this happen, even when the window hadn't been sealed.
For an uncertain moment, he'd almost wished Mycroft was still there.
At that point the noise had suddenly started up again, intensifying the tight clawing sensation that made it difficult to breathe. He'd retreated into the shadows of his room, made laughably easy due to the fact that his window was the only source of natural light unless he took the time to open the tiny skylights in the roof, which he never did. When Mycroft permanently shut it, he'd had to make do with lanterns and candles.
Then the shutters had snapped open, someone climbed through, Sherlock discovered an alternate use for frying pans, and now he was staring at the collapsed body on his floor, completely nonplussed in a way he hadn't been since Mycroft had tried to convince him that sewing was an essential life skill back when he was five.
Gaze irresistibly drawn to the sunlight blazing in from outside, his eyes automatically squinted against the brightness as he moved around the...someone...on his floor. It'd been ages since he'd been exposed to open air, and the light playing across his walls now seemed almost surreal. Although there were two windows downstairs, there was no way to open them; they were just panes of glass built into the wall.
But this...this was magnificent. It was like really seeing, really breathing, for the first time. And now that the window was open-
He glanced down abruptly at the unmoving form at his feet.
Mycroft had warned him that there were all sorts of people in the world, most of them selfish and either only looking out for themselves or searching for what didn't belong to them in the first place. People looking out for themselves generally didn't climb into other people's houses, so this person wanted-or, Sherlock amended as he eyed the small bag next to the body, already had-something that didn't belong to it.
What drove those sorts of people? Was it just greed? He was quite familiar with greed himself; Mycroft never gave him what he wanted and the few concessions his brother made were never enough, but was that it? Why was this person here? People had been after his hair since he was born, Nana had told them both that constantly, so was that why this stranger was here?
He cast a lingering look at the window before striding back to his makeshift lab table and snatching up a new pair of gloves, pulling them on with a practiced motion as he returned to crouch next to the unknown person. The frying pan stayed at his side as added security.
It was a man, obviously, the style of dress and width of his shoulders made that clear. Sherlock's eyes skimmed over him from toe to head: worn brown boots, dark grey trousers, a belt worn around the waist that matched the boots, pale grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, and a black…well, it looked like a cross between a vest and a jacket-tailored to his measurements, thick fabric, low collared, and short-sleeved. They were all of good quality, if a little dirty with a few tiny tears here and there. Though if he was right about this man, they had probably either been stolen or the money to buy them had been stolen. Judging by the fit, probably the latter.
Faintly intrigued now, he brushed a hand over the smooth yellow-brown hair on the man's head, so different from his. Straight, darker underneath, lighter and brighter as it neared the top. There was a word for yellow hair, he was sure. He used to know but it hadn't been important, he didn't know anyone with yellow hair after all, so he'd deleted it. But he supposed it didn't matter because this man's hair wasn't the same-a sort of light-but-dark, and for all his experience with colour he didn't have a name for it. Mycroft and Nana had dark hair, and his hair fell under the category of ginger, but...his brother never talked about work, or other people at all really, so he hadn't even considered...were there other hues out there? Like light-but-dark?
And it was short, too. Longer than Mycroft's, curling slightly over his forehead, around his ears, and the back of his neck, but it was nowhere near as long as his. It had obviously been cut. Did all people cut their hair? Did they just not know how to use it? Nana used to tell him his hair was special, but it was statistically unlikely that he was the only one with such unique hair, wasn't it?
He leaned closer, staring avidly at the man's face. His eyebrows and eyelashes were a similar colour, maybe a little darker, and even their skin was different. Sherlock carefully lifted the man's left hand from the floor and examined it, feeling foreign body heat even through his gloves. The skin was a little browner than his, the colour fading abruptly as it disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. Pushing back the sleeve revealed more skin and a fine dusting of light hairs up the arm, marred only by the occasional faint freckle.
He moved back to the hand in his grasp, gently bending each finger and scrutinizing each nail before flipping it over to stare at the palm. It was dusty with dirt and scratched in places, but there was no blood anywhere. The bones were solid under his inquisitive fingers, the overlaying flesh firm although there were no calluses. He traced a fingertip over each line engraved in the skin with a frown, mentally comparing it to his own hand.
With critical eyes, Sherlock pressed his right hand to the limp one he was holding, aligning the heels of their palms and observing them closely. His fingers were longer and a little narrower, but it hardly mattered with their hands lined up like this because the other man's hand was still larger. The palms were broader and heavier than his own, making his hand look smaller in a way that irritated him for no logical reason. He dropped the hand and instead turned the man's head so he could see his face better.
The pale eyelashes were distracting-not that they were unusually long or curled or anything like that-but simply because he'd never before seen them as any colour other than black. He set his thumb carefully to the stranger's eyelid and lifted, peering closely at the iris.
Blue. Dark blue. Interesting.
Sherlock lowered the fragile skin and ran a few fingers down the bridge of the man’s nose, feeling the smooth change from bone to cartilage, the way the end of his nose turned up rather than lie flat. The skin at his jaw was slightly rough, catching on his gloves as his hand travelled from chin to ear. The man was older, then, if he shaved; Mycroft shaved in the mornings before work too, but it wasn't something he himself had to worry about yet. Even the cheekbones were different, softer and less defined than his own, and the shape of his ear-
The body under his inspection gave a shuddery inhale, eyelids flickering, and before he could fully register anything beyond the sudden suffocating pressure rising in his throat, Sherlock scrambled for the frying pan and swung.
Silence fell again as his roaring pulse gradually returned to its normal rate and his eyes darted between light-but-dark hair and the improvised weapon in his grip. He scowled. That was not what he'd wanted to do, but his hand had just moved, and...damn and blast. He hadn't done anything that impulsive in years.
Furious with himself and fully prepared to indulge in another sulk, Sherlock threw himself onto his arse and relinquished his frying pan to the floor. Then his eyes landed on the abandoned bag innocently lying not too far away.
What had this man stolen that made breaking into an unknown house seem like a good idea?
He snatched up the bag with a fair amount of curiosity, grabbing warm metal with one hand and tearing the cloth off with the other.
What on earth...?
It was obnoxiously bright, reflecting the sunlight streaming through his window in pointedly painful ways until Sherlock scooted out of range so he could see it properly. Undoubtedly horridly expensive, the metal was most likely that silver material his brother had told him about before, a curved, almost triangular plane of thin, intricate whorls forged into a not-quite circle and dotted with deep blue and green...things. Were those stones? The larger three at centre front were pale blue, but he'd never seen stones in colours this pure, blue, green, or otherwise.
The piece was obviously decorative, but what was it for? What was its purpose? Nana used to have jewellery that looked somewhat like this, delicate and fancy, but without the stones. It must be some sort of fashion thing then, to be worn on the person. Built wrong for a necklace or bracelet, but it had the same shape as a ring if on a much bigger scale, so it must...
He twisted around to stare at the mirror over his desk.
No. People didn't really wear such gaudy things on their heads, did they? That was ridiculous. What use was that?
Pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock headed over to his desk and paused in front of his reflection. There was scepticism written all over his face as he reached up and settled the silver whatever-it-was over his hair and stared.
It looked...odd, to say the least. The metal's weight felt abnormally heavy on his head, and the blue stones made his eyes stand out a bit more, but why anyone would want to wear this for any period of time was beyond him. The thing seemed overly dressy and useless and if it had been his, he'd have been happy to have it stolen. Good riddance.
Annoyed now, he yanked it off and returned it to the bag, then briefly analysed the prone figure on his floor. If the man had gone through even half as much trouble as Sherlock suspected he had, then this absurd trinket clearly meant something to him, for whatever reason. Which meant it could potentially be used as leverage.
He deliberated for a brief moment, casting his eyes around his room for an appropriate hiding spot before deciding downstairs had better options. All he had here were the drawers in his desk and his wardrobe, and those places were in plain sight. No good at all.
Perhaps under the loose second step? No, there was a noticeable gap in the construction; anything could be seen there if you looked at the right angle.
What if he didn't hide it downstairs?
A smirk spread over his features as he stole out of his room and down the staircase, hair snaking quietly behind him as he headed straight for the loose tile in the kitchen. Unless the man had some secret knowledge of their floor plans, which he obviously didn't since he'd entered through the window and not the door, there was no way he would ever find...wait. How had he even reached the window?
Sherlock froze in the process of setting the bag and its contents on the stone stairs under the floor that his brother always refused to climb.
That was the first thing he should have looked at! This whole situation was throwing him off-balance. Just because this was the first human being he'd ever laid eyes on besides Mycroft and Nana didn't mean he had to be all out of sorts about it.
How did that man get to his window? He had to have climbed, but he didn't have nearly enough hair, so how did he do it?
He shoved the tile hurriedly into its proper place and raced back up the stairs two at a time, hair flying behind him as he crossed the room and stepped over the stranger to lean excitedly out the window. Glancing up automatically, he checked the wrought iron hook secured in the support beam overhead, the one he utilized in order to bring Mycroft inside before the window was closed, but there was no evidence of it having been used. How did-there!
There were two lengths of wood, one jammed into either side of the expansive wooden frame. They were extremely small in diameter and cylindrical in shape, with a dark tip at one end and some kind of feathered material at the other.
Staring closely at the left one, Sherlock gave it an experimental tug. It resisted, but a second effort released the sharp, triangular point embedded in the older wood. More metal, it looked like, strong and durable and containing several wicked-looking barbs. Barring the existence of unscientific powers, these must have also been used not just on the window's frame, but also on the walls somehow.
The stone blocks surrounding his windowsill didn't appear very accommodating for that purpose, really.
He ran a hand over the uneven, sun-warmed surface, feeling out the edges and pushing into crevices with the pads of his fingers. So he'd taken advantage of the spaces between the blocks, then? And climbed the entire way like that? Brilliant.
A grin flashed across his face, excitement flooding through his veins as he glanced from the peculiar object in his hands to the man who'd used them.
It was interesting that these things had been capable of holding the man’s weight, even with their sturdy construction. Although he was shorter than Sherlock, by quite a lot if his estimate was correct, the stranger still weighed a good deal more. Not to mention the design of these sticks were patently intended to be aerodynamic and launched at high velocity by another contraption, as they were rather useless on their own. They weren't meant to be used for scaling walls at all.
Oh, that was brilliant. Mad, but brilliant, and now things were really getting interesting. A little chat with the man wouldn't do any harm, surely.
He smirked, eyes bright, and peeled off his gloves.
Chapter Three
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: 14,000+ and counting, WIP
Notes: Also, if anyone is interested, I've signed up for help_japan and you can find me here! Help us out!
~*~
Sherlock had been painting for about two hours when the bell downstairs started ringing.
He huffed impatiently, because it was just like Mycroft to ruin any fun he’d found for himself at the most inconvenient of times. Muttering darkly under his breath, he set aside his paintbrush and lowered himself to the floor, untangling various limbs from his hair as he went. He tripped out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen and dropped to his knees, feeling with his fingertips for the tell-tale cracks in the floor. Digging in with a hiss, he levered up the loose tile and glared down into the darkness.
“Take the stairs!”
A pointed silence was his only response.
Grumbling furiously, Sherlock tossed his hair over the hook in the ceiling and toed the rest of it into the gap in the floor with his bare feet. The blackness swallowed the reddish gold locks immediately, and Sherlock waited for the familiar tug before he started pulling.
Oh hell, he was heavy.
Mycroft, at twenty-five, was bigger and probably weighed twice as much as he did, and you’d think he’d get used to this whole ‘hauling Mycroft into the house’ business since it happened every day, but no, not really. Sherlock's hair, unlike him, handled the strain easily, pooling in a shiny mass at his feet as he used his own weight to raise his brother through the floor. He scowled at it and entertained the idea of just letting go.
He was tired, sore, and trying really hard not to pant in exertion when Mycroft set foot on the tiles. His brother nodded at him in greeting. Sherlock glowered and sulkily shoved the loose tile back into place with his heels, delighting in the older man’s reflexive flinch as it banged loudly. His eyes zoomed in on his brother’s carefully wrapped right hand while he unhooked his hair.
“New letter opener?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at his hair on the floor and back.
“Not necessary,” Mycroft answered his unasked question.
“Hmph.”
Mycroft eyed him, deciphering his entire morning from the wrinkles in his clothes and paint on his hands, noting the smouldering resentment and dissatisfaction in his face.
Sherlock stared back defiantly. “What are you doing back so early?”
His brother waited with irritating patience.
He narrowed his eyes. Not a speck of dirt on his clothes, so there’d been no rush. If he’d returned for additional documents, he wouldn’t be standing here watching him and it was several hours too early for lunch. So he planned on staying, then.
“Taking the day off?” Sherlock asked, frowning.
“It is your birthday,” Mycroft acknowledged, walking to the kitchen and opening the pantry to examine its contents. “I had some things to finish up, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the day.”
“Mmm.” He picked up the last metre and a half of his hair and combed through it with his fingers, scrutinizing it for dirt and other debris from Mycroft’s shoes. What did it matter if his brother was here? It only served as a stinging reminder that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.
Mycroft half turned to look at him wearily like he’d spoken his thoughts out loud. “Sherlock, you know-”
“Yes, I do,” Sherlock agreed sharply, pinning the other man with an icy stare. “As you’re so fond of saying, ‘we’ve discussed this’. It doesn’t matter. I’ve changed my mind.”
A lie, and Mycroft knew it. They were stubborn men. Stubborn men don’t change their minds; they just come up with other ways to occupy themselves until they get what they want. And that’s not even mentioning sneaky stubborn men.
“Oh?”
“I need a new set of experimental equipment,” Sherlock announced, still lazily tending to his hair.
“Do you?” Mycroft inquired simply, as though he hadn’t heard the ruckus of the previous night .
“I had a bit of an…accident, last night,” he continued, ignoring his brother. “My glassware needs to be replaced.”
“All of it?” Mycroft asked dryly.
Sherlock glared at him.
His brother turned back to the pantry for several long moments. Edgy, Sherlock waited for a response.
“That’s two days journey, where I bought your first set, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally said.
“Your point?” said Sherlock caustically, releasing his hair. “Unless you leave the door wide open behind you, I won’t be going anywhere.”
Mycroft’s fingers paused on the shelves. A heavy silence fell between them like a solid barrier that Sherlock refused to be the first to break.
“I’d prefer not to leave you here alone,” his brother said eventually.
He grit his teeth. “I can take care of myself,” he declared fiercely, rising to his feet. “What am I supposed to do here without my lab?”
“Practice improving your self-control, I should think,” Mycroft remarked reprovingly, a warning underlying his words.
Sherlock turned away and dug his nails into his palms. The last thing he needed to do right now was throw more breakable objects. It wouldn’t help his case.
“Very well.”
He glanced at his brother, brow furrowing. “What?”
Mycroft pulled out a loaf of bread and looked over the fruit on the counter. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I return. I trust you won’t burn the place to the ground in my absence?”
“Possibly,” Sherlock allowed. He watched as the food was wrapped in a cloth and knotted.
“If you lose this second set to another ‘accident’,” Mycroft informed him as he pried up the loose floor tile again, “there will not be a third one.”
Sherlock looked up to meet his brother’s steady gaze. He inclined his head in acceptance, re-hung his hair, and surveyed the older man as he readied himself for departure. At his nod, Sherlock carefully began the process of lowering him back down.
“Happy birthday, little brother,” came Mycroft’s voice from the darkness.
Their eyes locked for a fraction of an instant-blue on blue with a flash of understanding-because even when they fought and drove each other mad and Sherlock periodically decided he hated him, they were still brothers. Then Sherlock uncomfortably averted his gaze, observing the hair moving under his hands, and seconds later, Mycroft’s weight disappeared.
~*~
John had had better days, really.
Stealing was only a good hobby if you were smart about it, and this whole ‘game of chase’ thing was starting to get a little tedious, to be perfectly honest. Running in a bid for his freedom was poetic and fine and dandy, but things seemed to have changed in the Guards since he’d left its ranks because these wankers were fast.
John stumbled to a halt by a sturdy-looking tree, Sally and Anderson following, when his eyes caught sight of slip of paper pinned to the bark. With a suspicious feeling curling in his ribcage, he straightened it out and looked at it.
His shriek startled birds from the treetops and made Sally kick him in the shin.
“The hell is wrong with you?” Anderson demanded, already in a sour mood from running more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last month.
Deeply distressed, John flipped the paper around and held it up next to his face. “They still can’t get my ears right!”
Anderson rolled his eyes.
“Really?” Sally asked in disbelief even as her eyes roved over the inked sketch, where John’s ears were far too small for his head. “That’s what’s got your knickers in a twist? Not that your face's on a wanted poster?”
“It’s easy for you to scoff at,” John pointed out crossly, re-examining the distorted un-likeness of himself. “It’s not your face they’ve mangled and put up all over the forest, is it? And I’ve been number one on the Royal Most Wanted list for the last year and a half; of course my face is on a wanted poster.”
“How do you make that sound like something to be proud of?” Sally massaged her temples with her fingertips.
“Well who else do you know who can say that?” asked John indignantly, stuffing the poster into his inner coat pocket.
“That is a bit impressive,” Anderson grudgingly agreed.
John tipped his head in acknowledgment of his greatness.
Sally muttered about stupid bloody bastards under her breath.
The staccato pounding of hoof beats filled the air, steadily growing louder as they automatically turned to each other.
“The game is on,” John informed them with deliberate solemnity.
“’Game’,” Sally snorted derisively, sounding like she wanted to throttle him.
Then they were running again, taking the easy ground because the foliage wasn’t sufficiently dense to provide enough of an obstacle to make the hard way worth the effort.
“Watson!” Sally called behind him, but he ignored her; couldn’t she see they were busy at the moment? He had no intention of spending time in Her Majesty’s company and this was not the occasion for sarcastic commentary.
And that was how they ended up facing a dead end wall of dirt that had no natural right to be anywhere, let alone randomly set in the middle of a forest like a U-shaped patch of land had decided to raise itself four meters in the middle of the night on a whim.
Huh. So that’s why the path forked back there. Figured. It was a shame backtracking wasn’t an option.
“Right, I forgot about that. Give me a leg up?” suggested John, looking back at the other two.
He got nothing but flat stares in response.
“You're not serious,” he demanded, thoroughly insulted.
“Well, give us the crown first, then,” countered Anderson, holding out a hand challengingly.
“I-wh-after all the hard work I suffered through to get it, you want me to just hand it over?” John protested, horrified at the very thought. “You don’t trust me?”
“Most Wanted list,” Sally coughed into her hand.
“You don’t trust us?” Anderson returned, narrowing his eyes.
“Not really, no,” John said as he looked from one to the other.
“No deal then,” Anderson told him, crossing his arms. “We’ll be seeing each other in prison, I expect.”
Clenching his jaw, John thought it over quickly. He had more at stake here than Sally or Anderson-while stealing from the Royal Family was no laughing matter, neither of them were well-known and could easily claim he’d manipulated them into it. On the other hand, he had a list of offences longer than he was tall, and it didn’t take a genius to work out how quickly he’d be executed if the Guards got their leather gauntlets on him. Nothing for it, then.
“Fine,” he ground out reluctantly, glaring at the other man. Anderson held out his hand again and John tossed the bag to Sally, just to be a prat. And because she was lighter than Anderson.
The dark-haired man gave him a dirty look but John ignored him, listening to the thundering of the Royal Guard’s approaching horses as Sally climbed up on Anderson’s shoulders. The second she was ready he scrambled up their backs like a ladder, though he tried to be more careful with Sally because she was a woman after all, and it was important to be considerate to women.
Except when they had what he wanted, of course.
Under his hands, the ground was unstable and crumbly as he hauled himself up the rest of the way, dragging himself along on his stomach and grasping at grass and roots and whatever else he could put his hands on until he could get his legs up under him.
“Pull her up already, would you?” Anderson grumbled from below.
John rolled his eyes. Twisting sharply, he kicked the heel of his boot into the edge of loose earth he’d just climbed over, spraying Sally’s face with dirt and dead vegetation. She cursed as her hands reflexively flew up to swipe at her eyes, the movement throwing her off balance and forcing Anderson to move with her. Lunging forward, John smoothly snatched the cloth bag from her lax fingers and grinned charmingly.
“Sorry, my hands are full,” he responded mock regretfully, dangling the protected crown over their heads. “Been nice working with you two, though not really. With any luck, I won’t be seeing you!”
He was up and moving, congratulating himself on a job well done, before Sally was even finished trying to restore her sight.
“WATSON!” Anderson roared, fury in his voice, but honestly-with a man of his reputation, they hadn’t really not expected to be double-crossed, had they? In this line of work, betrayal was as standard as giving a false name.
“Grab those two!” A new male voice commanded over the din of neighing horses and stomping hooves, loud and full of authority. “Don't let them run off! The rest of you lot with me; Watson can't have gone far!”
A loud whinnying cry followed his words, spurring John to pick up his pace and start heading deeper into the forest. He'd wasted too much time with those two idiots back there and now, maybe, it was going to cost him. That voice was new but clearly in charge, probably the Commander of the Guard-they must have changed up the ranks in the last few months or so because he didn't sound familiar. The old Commander had been so aged he'd hardly remembered how to sit in his saddle, let alone ride and give orders and fire a weapon at the same time. Damn.
He resorted to cutting through the trees, ducking suspicious-looking vines, and leaping over fallen branches just to make things that little bit harder for his pursuers. Of course, this only prompted them to use those crossbows they liked to carry around, and didn't that bring back memories, but they were lousy shots really so as long as he kept moving he didn't have a thing to worry about. For the most part his tactic worked, forcing the men behind him to fall back until the one man left tracking him was the one man he didn't want tracking him.
“Watson!”
And blast it all, he was going to have to do something about this, because as amazing as he was, he still couldn't outrun a bloody horse.
Adrenaline burned under his skin, the ground shaking under his feet as he ran, and judging by the feel of it, he had less than ten seconds to make some sort of decision.
The vines dangling at the edge of the path seemed to be waiting for him in answer. He didn't hesitate as he grabbed one and launched himself off the path, his own momentum swinging him around in a wide arc back towards the approaching grey and black horse.
And really, he must have timed that perfectly because what he could see of the shocked expression on the Commander's face was just priceless before John knocked the older man off his ride.
Releasing his improvised rope and barely managing to stay upright, John grappled with the saddle and the horse's reins, a triumphant laugh spilling from his lips. He had the crown, he had a horse, he'd lost the Commander's men a ways back with no way to catch up, and if he could just make it over the bridge up ahead-
His horse skidded to a bone-jarring halt, throwing John heavily into its neck and giving him a face full of dark mane.
“What?” John sputtered, pushing himself upright with indignant confusion and digging in with his heels. “Oh come on, not now!”
The beast had the nerve to snort at him and turn its head, refusing to move while it glared at him with one dark eye.
“Don't give me that look; you're a horse,” John protested, vaguely concerned with how he was conversing with an animal, but the way it was looking at him...
Even more disconcerting, the horse's gaze narrowed before darting away to stare at something lower and off to the side. Bewildered, John followed its gaze and realized it was staring at the bag in his hand.
“Oh no,” declared John, glowering menacingly at the dapple grey head in front of him. “I've been through far too much for this today.”
With an abrupt twist, the horse snapped at the bag with its teeth.
“No,” he repeated firmly, lifting the bag higher and out of the way. “This is not for you.”
Well. His new equine not-friend didn't seem to like hearing that very much.
Moving startlingly fast, the horse lunged forward like iron drawn to a magnet and John's reflexes almost weren't quick enough to pull the cloth sack out of range. But the horse didn't stop with just once-it kept on with a dogged-minded persistence, chasing the bag in circles and ignoring John's curses until he started to feel dizzy.
“Jesus,” John snarled, trying to gather some sort of control of the reins with one hand and keeping the other as far away as possible. “You're off your head, you know that? Would you just-”
Teeth snagged the cloth and panic surged violently in his chest for a oddly long, almost slow-motion moment as the fabric stretched-no goddamit it's mine bloody horse don't-and his first instinct was to flatten his palm against its muzzle and push. He could have lost his fingers, he realized later, if it'd decided to take a nip at him instead, but all he really wanted was for it to let go.
“No-stop it, you-if you don't let it-”
With a vicious tug the cloth slipped free from under his hand, but the horse obviously hadn't expected him to lost his grip since the bag slingshot away from them like it had rocket boosters attached to it. They both watched in horrified, breathless silence as it clattered and rolled onto the old wooden footbridge John had been aiming for earlier, miraculously avoiding any gaps between the uneven slats.
There was a pause as they both took an instant to appreciate the fact that the crown was relatively unharmed. Which quickly turned into relentless plotting on how to get there first without being mauled.
John dove out of the saddle and made a break for it because this was a race now, and he was already at a serious disadvantage simply by virtue of being human. Immediately, four hooves thundered after him but no, that was his crown now, he stole it fair and square-
A sharp pull at the heel of his boot was the only warning he received before it sent him face first into the dirt. A high-pitched whinnying followed as the horse trotted by him, swishing its dark-haired tail just above his head.
That-the horse was laughing at him.
No. Oh no.
No one laughed at John Watson, least of all a saddle-carrying animal that couldn't even talk. Two could play at that game, yessir.
Scowling, John shoved himself to his feet and sprinted after his four-legged competitor, aiming a flying tackle at the horse's two front legs that brought them both collapsing to the ground. He scrambled determinedly to his hands and knees and ran, avoiding the bite the evil mammal attempted to inflict on the back of his leg and crossed onto the bridge, ignoring the empty space around him and the scattered patches of forest he could see far, far below his feet.
He was more than halfway there when the already unstable contraption supporting his weight started shuddering and shaking hard enough to throw him off-balance. His hands grasped uselessly at the flimsy rope railings as he twisted around to see what the hell-
That damn horse was stomping with excessive strength in every step it took onto the bridge, watching him with piercingly calculating eyes, undoubtedly trying to throw him over the side. Unbelievable.
John stumbled unsteadily forward, now fuelled by stubbornness and a familiar bull-headed desire to be contradictory, and grabbed his new most prized possession just as the bag began sliding for the edge of its wooden plank. Spinning around, he brandished it in front of him victoriously, smug with the knowledge that whatever happened next, he had won.
“Ha!” he declared imperiously, taking in the horse currently sending him eye daggers, his gaze darting briefly over the nameplate strapped to its chest reading D-I-M-M-O-C-K. “How do you like that, you flea-bitten, bloody awful-”
An ominous creaking sound ripped through the air like a gunshot, making them both freeze in place. Their wide eyes met for less than a second before they looked over at the end of the bridge. The aged rope securing it to the ground continued fraying rapidly before their eyes.
“Oh bugger-”
Far too much physical exertion involved in today's heist, John thought furiously, once again running, this time for the other end of the bridge. Their combined weight was far too heavy for this simple little creation of rope and wood; the horse's fault really, he would have made it across just fine on his own. There was no way he was going to make it, none at all, there was too far to go and not enough-
A definitive snap echoed in his ears as the rope gave up on anchoring itself to solid soil. Fear gripped his chest in a cold fist because he still had a good seven or so metres to go, and he could sense the bridge swiftly dropping away behind him. The horse let out a terrified cry as gravity caught up to it, and seconds later, there was nothing at all under John Watson's feet.
He felt weightless for a moment, hanging suspended in the air as though time had stopped just for him, but that wasn't right because if he wasn't moving the rest of the world certainly was. Colours blurred around him in a confusing mass as he dropped out of the sky in a terrifying free-fall, and nope, that was definitely him moving; the air flying past in a deafening rush that drowned out the pounding of his heart and let him know his stomach had been left back where the bridge used to be.
His body smashed through branches and leaves at an alarming velocity, and he lacked even the time to attempt curling into a ball when he slammed into the ground with enough force to cause an instant ache all over.
Groaning, John closed his eyes and ran a quick self-inventory. He could feel the bag and its contents still in his hand, and there didn't seem to be any major damage other than minor pain- the grass grew wild and tangled here, making a natural cushion that protected him from serious injury. He opened his eyes and sat up, noticing he'd landed about ten centimetres from a boulder nearly as tall as he was that could have broken his spine.
His luck was just amazing today, wasn't it? God, he was brilliant.
The noisy rustle of underbrush nearby made him press closer to the rock in front of him as he tried to peer around it without giving away his hiding place.
The Commander of the Guards' grey and black horse leapt out into his clearing, head shifting minutely as it suspiciously examined the surrounding vegetation.
John cursed fluently in his head and held his breath. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation with it. What would it do next, throw him in a river?
Abruptly, the horse lowered its nose to the ground and started snuffling away as though it thought it was a pig searching for truffles, walking quickly and vanishing from sight.
He heaved a silent sigh of relief, creeping out from behind his cover. The trees were a little more dense here, full of shadows and a spartan amount of sunlight, but it was just enough for a silvery glinting from the forest floor to catch his eye. A few lone arrows littered the grass, most likely lost when the horse fell and upended their holder. Couldn't hurt to take them with him; at the very least it'd reduce the ammunition the Guards could fire at him.
The second he pocketed the three arrows there again came the loud crunch of shrubbery, closer this time, prompting John to look frantically around for a better place to hide. Spying a wall of green behind him, he hurried to investigate the ivy hanging over the wall of rock not far from the boulder he'd used before. And it wasn't just growing along the wall, there was an opening back there, even better. Excellent.
He slipped through just as the horse reappeared with its head held high, holding the intimidating pose as long as possible for maximum effect, before bounding off again like an animal possessed.
Stupid, crazy horse.
Rolling his eyes, he turned away from the ivy curtain since he had to keep moving; he couldn't stick around here with wild horses on the loose and more Guards were sure to turn up sooner or later. He was expecting more forest or maybe even a cave of some sort, but not...not an even larger clearing with a picturesque stream and the highest tower he'd ever seen in his life framed against the mountains.
Who on earth would live in a tower out here in the middle of nowhere?
Well, it'd be a good place for him to hide out for a while until all the ruckus died down, at least. Nevermind that he'd kicked it all up in the first place.
He jogged towards it, a little uneasy as the closer he got the taller it seemed to grow. It didn't seem like much though-just solid stone with an abundance of the same flowering ivy growing all over it. Circling the bottom, he searched for a door or some way to access the place, but there didn't seem to be anything. There was nothing but ivy.
Frowning, John retreated a ways and craned his neck back to take in the building again. If there wasn't a door down here, then where did-wait. Was that a window, up there? Really? Was he going to have to climb all the way up to that window? He could feel an eyebrow climbing for his hairline as he stared up in disbelief. People were mad these days, they really were. Mad as hatters.
John resolutely pushed up his sleeves and tied the bag with the crown to his belt, then pulled out the arrows he'd just collected. They appeared sturdy enough, strong and well-made. He reassessed the tower walls, eyeing the narrow gaps between the stones with a critical eye.
Yup, looked do-able. Better get started, then.
Seven minutes later, John doubted whether this had been a good idea. The muscles in his arms and stomach felt like they were on fire, as he had to rely almost entirely on his upper body strength to make any progress, but there, just above him, were the striking support beams of dark wood where the liveable part of the tower flared out from stone column. And he was going to reach them if it killed him.
His fingertips scrabbled against the old, weathered wood, insistently searching for purchase. Once he reached wood the rest was simple: the very design of the place had grips everywhere and wood gave far more easily under the arrowheads than cracks between stone did.
It didn't take long after that for him to haul himself onto the large, ornate wooden window ledge, thankfully wide enough to sit on for a few moments as John let himself rest in relief. He was getting quite the workout today, it seemed. That whole Most Wanted list business could be an awful pain, at times.
A quick glance over the clearing showed it was just as empty as when he'd started, so he turned his attention to the heavy-looking shutters in front of him. Most were hooked from the inside to keep them closed, which gave easily enough under the right amount of pressure, but that required effort.
With a sigh, he put a cautious hand on the centre seam and shoved.
No give at all, was there? That was a bit odd.
Frowning at his latest predicament, John maneuvered himself carefully into position so he could pull up his legs and press the sole of one boot against the painted wood. He took a deep breath, anchored himself to either side of the window with his arrows, and hoped he wasn't about to knock himself off the ledge.
His foot hit the wood with a bang that ricocheted through his calf, making him grumble obscenities under his breath. Had someone sealed the bloody window shut? Because that's what it felt like.
Good Lord. How paranoid were people nowadays?
Well, chances were the shutters had only been sealed from the inside, especially at this height, so if he applied enough brute force it should give. Theoretically. Probably. Hopefully.
Nothing was ever easy, was it?
Success greeted him on the fifth try, the heavy, decorated panels flying inward with a decisive crack that inspired a flood of elation he hadn't felt for a long while. He jumped down from his perch and unknotted the cloth sack at his waist, relaxing as the cool inside air brushed over his skin as he lifted the beautiful, extravagant crown in front of his face without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
“You, my dear,” he told it sternly, “have caused me more than your fair share of grief today-”
Then there was a sudden blinding pain at the back of his skull, and the world went black.
~*~
There was a person in his room.
He'd been working on restarting his experiment-Mycroft would be furious when he discovered Sherlock had commandeered most of the dinnerware as substitute lab supplies, but it was a sacrifice for science he was willing to make-when a bang on the shutters of his window had startled him into dropping the cup he was holding, shattering on the unforgiving stone floor and nearly followed by the frying pan in his other hand.
Frozen with disbelief and something else, something that clawed sharply in his chest and made his heart pound, he'd stared at the window as his mind raced dizzyingly with possibilities that made no sense and only served to further confuse him. He was a good ways off the ground, and not even the birds were dim enough to fly into the house, so what could it be? Eighteen years and he'd never had this happen, even when the window hadn't been sealed.
For an uncertain moment, he'd almost wished Mycroft was still there.
At that point the noise had suddenly started up again, intensifying the tight clawing sensation that made it difficult to breathe. He'd retreated into the shadows of his room, made laughably easy due to the fact that his window was the only source of natural light unless he took the time to open the tiny skylights in the roof, which he never did. When Mycroft permanently shut it, he'd had to make do with lanterns and candles.
Then the shutters had snapped open, someone climbed through, Sherlock discovered an alternate use for frying pans, and now he was staring at the collapsed body on his floor, completely nonplussed in a way he hadn't been since Mycroft had tried to convince him that sewing was an essential life skill back when he was five.
Gaze irresistibly drawn to the sunlight blazing in from outside, his eyes automatically squinted against the brightness as he moved around the...someone...on his floor. It'd been ages since he'd been exposed to open air, and the light playing across his walls now seemed almost surreal. Although there were two windows downstairs, there was no way to open them; they were just panes of glass built into the wall.
But this...this was magnificent. It was like really seeing, really breathing, for the first time. And now that the window was open-
He glanced down abruptly at the unmoving form at his feet.
Mycroft had warned him that there were all sorts of people in the world, most of them selfish and either only looking out for themselves or searching for what didn't belong to them in the first place. People looking out for themselves generally didn't climb into other people's houses, so this person wanted-or, Sherlock amended as he eyed the small bag next to the body, already had-something that didn't belong to it.
What drove those sorts of people? Was it just greed? He was quite familiar with greed himself; Mycroft never gave him what he wanted and the few concessions his brother made were never enough, but was that it? Why was this person here? People had been after his hair since he was born, Nana had told them both that constantly, so was that why this stranger was here?
He cast a lingering look at the window before striding back to his makeshift lab table and snatching up a new pair of gloves, pulling them on with a practiced motion as he returned to crouch next to the unknown person. The frying pan stayed at his side as added security.
It was a man, obviously, the style of dress and width of his shoulders made that clear. Sherlock's eyes skimmed over him from toe to head: worn brown boots, dark grey trousers, a belt worn around the waist that matched the boots, pale grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, and a black…well, it looked like a cross between a vest and a jacket-tailored to his measurements, thick fabric, low collared, and short-sleeved. They were all of good quality, if a little dirty with a few tiny tears here and there. Though if he was right about this man, they had probably either been stolen or the money to buy them had been stolen. Judging by the fit, probably the latter.
Faintly intrigued now, he brushed a hand over the smooth yellow-brown hair on the man's head, so different from his. Straight, darker underneath, lighter and brighter as it neared the top. There was a word for yellow hair, he was sure. He used to know but it hadn't been important, he didn't know anyone with yellow hair after all, so he'd deleted it. But he supposed it didn't matter because this man's hair wasn't the same-a sort of light-but-dark, and for all his experience with colour he didn't have a name for it. Mycroft and Nana had dark hair, and his hair fell under the category of ginger, but...his brother never talked about work, or other people at all really, so he hadn't even considered...were there other hues out there? Like light-but-dark?
And it was short, too. Longer than Mycroft's, curling slightly over his forehead, around his ears, and the back of his neck, but it was nowhere near as long as his. It had obviously been cut. Did all people cut their hair? Did they just not know how to use it? Nana used to tell him his hair was special, but it was statistically unlikely that he was the only one with such unique hair, wasn't it?
He leaned closer, staring avidly at the man's face. His eyebrows and eyelashes were a similar colour, maybe a little darker, and even their skin was different. Sherlock carefully lifted the man's left hand from the floor and examined it, feeling foreign body heat even through his gloves. The skin was a little browner than his, the colour fading abruptly as it disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. Pushing back the sleeve revealed more skin and a fine dusting of light hairs up the arm, marred only by the occasional faint freckle.
He moved back to the hand in his grasp, gently bending each finger and scrutinizing each nail before flipping it over to stare at the palm. It was dusty with dirt and scratched in places, but there was no blood anywhere. The bones were solid under his inquisitive fingers, the overlaying flesh firm although there were no calluses. He traced a fingertip over each line engraved in the skin with a frown, mentally comparing it to his own hand.
With critical eyes, Sherlock pressed his right hand to the limp one he was holding, aligning the heels of their palms and observing them closely. His fingers were longer and a little narrower, but it hardly mattered with their hands lined up like this because the other man's hand was still larger. The palms were broader and heavier than his own, making his hand look smaller in a way that irritated him for no logical reason. He dropped the hand and instead turned the man's head so he could see his face better.
The pale eyelashes were distracting-not that they were unusually long or curled or anything like that-but simply because he'd never before seen them as any colour other than black. He set his thumb carefully to the stranger's eyelid and lifted, peering closely at the iris.
Blue. Dark blue. Interesting.
Sherlock lowered the fragile skin and ran a few fingers down the bridge of the man’s nose, feeling the smooth change from bone to cartilage, the way the end of his nose turned up rather than lie flat. The skin at his jaw was slightly rough, catching on his gloves as his hand travelled from chin to ear. The man was older, then, if he shaved; Mycroft shaved in the mornings before work too, but it wasn't something he himself had to worry about yet. Even the cheekbones were different, softer and less defined than his own, and the shape of his ear-
The body under his inspection gave a shuddery inhale, eyelids flickering, and before he could fully register anything beyond the sudden suffocating pressure rising in his throat, Sherlock scrambled for the frying pan and swung.
Silence fell again as his roaring pulse gradually returned to its normal rate and his eyes darted between light-but-dark hair and the improvised weapon in his grip. He scowled. That was not what he'd wanted to do, but his hand had just moved, and...damn and blast. He hadn't done anything that impulsive in years.
Furious with himself and fully prepared to indulge in another sulk, Sherlock threw himself onto his arse and relinquished his frying pan to the floor. Then his eyes landed on the abandoned bag innocently lying not too far away.
What had this man stolen that made breaking into an unknown house seem like a good idea?
He snatched up the bag with a fair amount of curiosity, grabbing warm metal with one hand and tearing the cloth off with the other.
What on earth...?
It was obnoxiously bright, reflecting the sunlight streaming through his window in pointedly painful ways until Sherlock scooted out of range so he could see it properly. Undoubtedly horridly expensive, the metal was most likely that silver material his brother had told him about before, a curved, almost triangular plane of thin, intricate whorls forged into a not-quite circle and dotted with deep blue and green...things. Were those stones? The larger three at centre front were pale blue, but he'd never seen stones in colours this pure, blue, green, or otherwise.
The piece was obviously decorative, but what was it for? What was its purpose? Nana used to have jewellery that looked somewhat like this, delicate and fancy, but without the stones. It must be some sort of fashion thing then, to be worn on the person. Built wrong for a necklace or bracelet, but it had the same shape as a ring if on a much bigger scale, so it must...
He twisted around to stare at the mirror over his desk.
No. People didn't really wear such gaudy things on their heads, did they? That was ridiculous. What use was that?
Pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock headed over to his desk and paused in front of his reflection. There was scepticism written all over his face as he reached up and settled the silver whatever-it-was over his hair and stared.
It looked...odd, to say the least. The metal's weight felt abnormally heavy on his head, and the blue stones made his eyes stand out a bit more, but why anyone would want to wear this for any period of time was beyond him. The thing seemed overly dressy and useless and if it had been his, he'd have been happy to have it stolen. Good riddance.
Annoyed now, he yanked it off and returned it to the bag, then briefly analysed the prone figure on his floor. If the man had gone through even half as much trouble as Sherlock suspected he had, then this absurd trinket clearly meant something to him, for whatever reason. Which meant it could potentially be used as leverage.
He deliberated for a brief moment, casting his eyes around his room for an appropriate hiding spot before deciding downstairs had better options. All he had here were the drawers in his desk and his wardrobe, and those places were in plain sight. No good at all.
Perhaps under the loose second step? No, there was a noticeable gap in the construction; anything could be seen there if you looked at the right angle.
What if he didn't hide it downstairs?
A smirk spread over his features as he stole out of his room and down the staircase, hair snaking quietly behind him as he headed straight for the loose tile in the kitchen. Unless the man had some secret knowledge of their floor plans, which he obviously didn't since he'd entered through the window and not the door, there was no way he would ever find...wait. How had he even reached the window?
Sherlock froze in the process of setting the bag and its contents on the stone stairs under the floor that his brother always refused to climb.
That was the first thing he should have looked at! This whole situation was throwing him off-balance. Just because this was the first human being he'd ever laid eyes on besides Mycroft and Nana didn't mean he had to be all out of sorts about it.
How did that man get to his window? He had to have climbed, but he didn't have nearly enough hair, so how did he do it?
He shoved the tile hurriedly into its proper place and raced back up the stairs two at a time, hair flying behind him as he crossed the room and stepped over the stranger to lean excitedly out the window. Glancing up automatically, he checked the wrought iron hook secured in the support beam overhead, the one he utilized in order to bring Mycroft inside before the window was closed, but there was no evidence of it having been used. How did-there!
There were two lengths of wood, one jammed into either side of the expansive wooden frame. They were extremely small in diameter and cylindrical in shape, with a dark tip at one end and some kind of feathered material at the other.
Staring closely at the left one, Sherlock gave it an experimental tug. It resisted, but a second effort released the sharp, triangular point embedded in the older wood. More metal, it looked like, strong and durable and containing several wicked-looking barbs. Barring the existence of unscientific powers, these must have also been used not just on the window's frame, but also on the walls somehow.
The stone blocks surrounding his windowsill didn't appear very accommodating for that purpose, really.
He ran a hand over the uneven, sun-warmed surface, feeling out the edges and pushing into crevices with the pads of his fingers. So he'd taken advantage of the spaces between the blocks, then? And climbed the entire way like that? Brilliant.
A grin flashed across his face, excitement flooding through his veins as he glanced from the peculiar object in his hands to the man who'd used them.
It was interesting that these things had been capable of holding the man’s weight, even with their sturdy construction. Although he was shorter than Sherlock, by quite a lot if his estimate was correct, the stranger still weighed a good deal more. Not to mention the design of these sticks were patently intended to be aerodynamic and launched at high velocity by another contraption, as they were rather useless on their own. They weren't meant to be used for scaling walls at all.
Oh, that was brilliant. Mad, but brilliant, and now things were really getting interesting. A little chat with the man wouldn't do any harm, surely.
He smirked, eyes bright, and peeled off his gloves.
Chapter Three