Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter One
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter One
'Wakey, wakey Sherlock.' The voice was high and lilting, it had a vague Irish accent, possibly Dublin, but Sherlock's head pounded far too loudly to narrow it down properly. 'You definitely don't want to miss this.'
Sherlock struggled to get his bearings. The surface beneath him was soft, crumbly and uneven. Dirt, then. Soil, by the feel of it. Vegetation as well. His ears were full of skritching, skittering, bird calls and the thousand other sounds that only ever meant 'forest'.
'You can open your eyes, Sherlock. It's okay.' Young, too. Very young. Or at least he sounded very young.
Sherlock struggled to prize open his eyelids. By the feel of the crust gluing his eyelashes together, he'd been asleep for quite some time. He tried to locate his last memory, and found he could recall nothing past getting into the car with Mycroft to return to Sussex.
He managed to get his eyes open, and was relieved, if only slightly, to find that it was dark. Very little light pierced the thick canopy, but there was enough that he could make out the blurry shapes of a small man beside a larger one.
'Oh good, you're awake. I was getting bored.' The voice came from the smaller man. He gestured to the larger man, who disappeared from Sherlock's field of vision. 'You're gonna love this. Well, no, I lie. You're going to really hate this. But eventually, and you can't tell me I'm wrong, you'll just have to be impressed. I mean, I've resurrected an entire science for you.' There was a brief pause in which Sherlock felt strong, rough hands slip under his knees and back, before the voice returned. It was lower this time, serious where it had been playful. 'And it is for you, Sherlock. All of it. It's for you, and it's for me, and it's for us.'
The hands lifted him up in a bridal carry, and Sherlock tried to struggle, but his feeble attempts only made the arms tighten their hold.
'Careful, Seb. He's a bit delicate at the moment.' Back to playful now, but with a dark undertone. 'But not for long.'
Sherlock's head was clearing, his body was slowly returning to his control. He didn't struggle, he wasn't a fool. The last thing he needed was for this Seb person to drop him. Instead he waited.
'It's not long now, Sherlock. Oh, just wait till you see what I've done. I've been so naughty. You'll approve, one day. You'll love it.'
'Who are you?' Sherlock really wished his voice were stronger.
The small man froze. 'Oh. Right. You never found me, did you?' He sighed in disappointment. 'And you were so close, too! You had it right about the shoes, Sherlock. Carl had eczema. I couldn't risk anyone finding traces of the poisoned medicine in his shoelaces.'
'You…killed…'
'Yep. Little Jimmy's first game. That's my name, by the way. Jim Moriarty. I know you're clever enough to work out what that means.'
Sherlock licked his lips, and the act made him think of John, and that hurt. 'You…you're not worried about me escaping.'
'Nope. And I'm not going to kill you, either. Try and guess how I'm going to keep you, Sherlock. Just try and guess. You never will.' He clapped his hands at that. He actually clapped like a giddy six-year-old at Christmas.
They emerged from the trees into a vast clearing. The space was dominated by a large, glittering lake. The moon's reflection shimmered on the surface of the water. It was low in the sky, and the sky to the East was just beginning to pale. It made everything grey and flat-looking, though it was still beautiful. Wildflowers and foliage surrounded the thin shoreline, and a decorative stone archway marked the beginning of a footpath leading up to a towering mansion, larger than the Holmes Estate in Sussex, perhaps larger than Vernet as well. It was hard to tell.
'My home away from home, Sherlock. And now, yours too.'
Sherlock was gently lowered to the ground. He got his feet underneath him and stood. He felt stronger already. Whatever he'd been drugged with must have mostly worn off. Quick, that.
Sherlock slowly turned in place, eyeing Seb warily before settling his eyes on Jim.
'If I run, your man here will follow me. I'm still too weak to evade him, and he knows the area. I don't.'
'Obvious, Sherlock. Get to the good part.'
Sherlock licked his lips again. He was thirsty, probably a little dehydrated, too. 'You killed Carl Powers. Somehow you learned of my interest in the case. You've been following me ever since. You've been planning this for…months? Years?'
'Good. But still child's play.'
'You're confident, no, you're certain I won't be able to get away from you. More to the point, you have no doubt I'll join you. You want me to be like you. You intend to do something to me that will render me incapable of escape. You plan to manipulate me, you think you can get inside my head.'
Jim smiled, and it was a reptile's smile. 'Oh, Sherlock. There's always something, isn't there?'
Sherlock tilted his head. 'What?'
'You were doing well. Very well. But you missed one crucial fact.' He smiled wider, and Sherlock fancied he knew what prey animals experienced right before the fatal bite. 'The thing that keeps you here, renders you powerless to escape me?' He chuckled darkly. 'I've already done it.'
Panic flared in Sherlock's chest. He looked down at his body, examined his arms, patted his torso and legs. He found nothing amiss. He considered. His mind was still clearing, his body growing stronger. He didn't feel drugged, but then, whatever Moriarty had given him could have a delayed effect.
'Nothing so obvious, my dear. And nothing so mundane. Get in the water, if you would.'
'What?' Sherlock snapped.
'The water. Wade in. Go ahead. It's cold, but trust me, it's better than the alternative.'
Sherlock looked at the lake, then back to Jim. What was he getting at? What could the lake possibly have to do with anything?
Jim sighed. 'Seb, dump him.'
Seb immediately stepped up to Sherlock and scooped him back into the bridal hold. Sherlock flailed and fought, but Seb's grip was unyielding, and a moment later Sherlock was dropped into the shallow water with a loud splash.
Sherlock sputtered and coughed, his body desperate to rid itself of the water he'd breathed in. He was soaked through and it was freezing. He clasped his hands to his upper arms and rubbed them furiously as he shivered.
'See? This would have gone so much better for you if you'd just done as you were told.'
Sherlock struggled to his feet, murky water dripping from every strand of his hair, from his nose, his chin, his fingertips, everything. He took a step, and Seb appeared in front of him, blocking his way.
'I'd stay put if I were you. You don't want to know what happens if you leave the lake.'
'What happens if I don't?' Sherlock stammered through chattering teeth.
Jim smirked and strode up to him. Without hesitation he reached up and grabbed the necklace around Sherlock's throat and yanked. Reflexively, Sherlock went with it, allowing Jim to drag his head down until he was nearly bent double to keep the chain from breaking.
'A swan.' Jim huffed, eyes twinkling. 'I'd thought maybe a cat, possibly a wolf. I considered a stork for a bit, but this!" He shook his head with a fond smile. 'It is perfect.'
'Please, let go of it.'
'Interesting animals, swans. Breathtaking, really. Gorgeous birds but get too close," And Jim released the pendant before shoving hard at Sherlock's chest and sending him back into the water, gasping and choking again. "And they're vicious little buggers.'
Sherlock cleared his lungs and managed to prop himself up with his arms, gasping in lungfuls of air and blinking water from his eyes.
'Go on, stand up. Face this like a man, Sherlock.'
Sherlock stood, pushing his soaked hair off of his forehead with one hand and trying to maintain a sliver of dignity even as he shivered in the fading moonlight, his white shirt all but transparent against his skin.
'Beautiful.' Moriarty breathed. 'Now brace yourself. It's your first time, and, total honesty: this is really gonna hurt.'
Sherlock peered at him quizzically. 'What's goinAAGH!' He didn't get to finish the question as a bolt of sheer, mindless pain shot through his body. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach though the pain was everywhere. And he tried, he struggled so hard to remain quiet and impassive, to take it with dignity and grace, but good God it hurt. No, no there was no word to describe the overwhelming agony seizing his limbs. He screamed. He could no more stop screaming than he could stop his heart beating, though that felt like it would give at any moment.
He didn't know when his knees gave out. He couldn't tell when he'd begun to clutch desperately at the reeds and the rocks on the shoreline. He had no idea when his senseless shrieking had evolved into desperate sobs of please and no more and anything, Christ, anything you want just make it stop!
But the moment he looked at his hand, that would be burned into his memory forever. It was after he'd stopped screaming, not because the pain had ebbed but because his vocal cords had failed him. In his flailing, he caught sight of his pale hand, and what he saw made him freeze.
The pain still surged and churned through his body, but his awareness of it took second place to what he saw on his hand. Because what he saw, was feathers. He saw an intricate latticework of feathers outlined on his skin. He tried to pull back his sleeve, but his body was unmoving, locked in an agonised rictus, so all he could see was the pattern growing smoothly into more detail, the image gradually shifting from two dimensions to three. He saw the sleeve of his shirt melt into his skin before adopting that same pattern. After that, things were harder to classify. He could hear a sick scraping sound inside of his body, and he tried not to imagine bones shifting and sliding. He looked up, and he saw Moriarty moving away from him without taking a step. He stared into his captor's eyes, and he knew his own were begging, knew he could do nothing else.
'Magic is only science we don't understand yet.' Moriarty quipped. 'I'm sure someone terribly famous and clever said that, but I don't much care who it was. The point is: I do understand it. It's amazing the attention you catch when you kill somebody at the age of fifteen and get away with it. Particularly if it was as elegant as what I did. All sorts of people take an interest.'
His vision was changing now, dimming as though he wore tinted contacts. His neck was shot through with the same stabbing pains he'd once experienced in his legs as a child going through his first growth spurt, only far more intense. His shoulders were doing things which, frankly, defied description. The best he could come up with, later after his brain was functioning again, was something akin to grinding bone into meal and then solidifying it again.
'I didn't want to do this, Sherlock. At least, not so soon. I was going to wait until you were older, more of a challenge. But then you had to go and fall in love with one of them. And not just your ordinary cattle, no. You had to fall for one of those oh-so-charmingly altruistic bastards. A "good man".' He scoffed. 'He would have ruined you. He's done too much damage already.'
Sherlock was struggling to breathe. He could barely hear Jim's voice anymore, but he clung to it. He had to focus, had to concentrate, had to think. But it hurt. Oh God it hurt. And it was still going. He didn't want to know what he looked like now. Something half-formed and grotesque. He tried to grit his teeth, but they weren't there anymore. So he closed his eyes instead and begged in silence for it to end.
'It's not permanent, don't worry about that. You'll have your old shape again just as soon as the moon comes back up.' He chuckled. 'Of course, when the sun rises you turn back into a swan. But don't worry. It'll never be like this again. Not once I let her have you.'
The pain was receding now. Sherlock was aware that he was floating, but his head at the end of an unnaturally long neck was resting on the dry shore. His body had gotten small. So very small. He looked up at Moriarty again, this time with eyes that couldn't plead, with a face that could not express pain or loss or sorrow any more than it could express anger, hatred or disgust.
'I've given you to the lake, Sherlock. Welcome home.' And with that Moriarty turned on his heel and walked away. Without looking over his shoulder he called, 'All yours Moll.'
And then he was gone, and Seb with him. Sherlock kept still, feeling his new, unwanted body and breathing shaky breaths. He barely noticed when the water around and beneath him surged. He didn't pay much attention when some of it fountained up and took on a solid shape. And when the newly arrived, impossible young woman pulled him tenderly into her lap and gently stroked the soft feathers on his head, well, he just didn't care anymore.
'I'm sorry, little one.' The voice was as gentle and soft as the hand. 'I wanted to help you, but he kept me away. Shush now, I know it hurts. Let me help you. You're not alone, little one. I want you to know that. You're not alone here.'
Her touch eased the pain from his muscles and bones, and he found himself nuzzling his head into her lap involuntarily. He wanted to cry. It was a small blessing that swans lacked the anatomy.
'I'll never let him hurt you like that again. As long as you're on the lake, I can help you. I promise it will never be like that again.' She was crying, but Sherlock didn't care. He let himself drift, let his mind float off to better days, to sturdy hands and warm, blue eyes, to a kiss that had lasted him two years and would now have to last longer. To letters and phone conversations and that laugh which never failed to make him smile.
John… It was his last coherent thought before everything went black.
~~~
'You're mad. You can't honestly expect to find anything.'
John glared at Mike. 'Don't. Don't say that to me.' He picked his way along the crash site. It had mostly been cleaned up by now, only the mangled earth and missing grass remained to say that anything had happened here.
'John, they've been looking for three months. And I remember Mycroft. That's the kind of bloke with resources. You're just…you.'
'I know how to track a target, Mike. I can go further afield than most operatives. I'm going to find him.'
'John, Christ, I know how much you love the man but you've got to be realistic.'
John rounded on him. 'Realistic?! With Sherlock? Since when has anything between us been realistic?' He crouched down over something shiny half-buried in the broken earth. He picked it up and examined it. 'We were born for each other, Mike. I'll tear this fucking country apart to get him back.'
He slipped the bullet casing in his pocket and continued down the road, Mike trailed close behind.
~~~
'Easy now, almost time.' The young woman with the sweet face and sad eyes was called Molly, and she hadn't stopped touching him since her appearance from within the water. Sherlock shuddered and pressed himself more fully against her torso. Everything she touched stopped hurting.
Scared. He thought, with all the focus he could muster. Hurt again. Molly had told him he'd eventually learn to communicate without words, but so far he'd only managed basic concepts like emotion, and communicating even the simplest idea was draining.
'I know. Don't worry. I'll hold you.'
Hurt. He thought. Alone.
'I'm not leaving you. Come on now, we need to move away from the shore.'
Alone. He insisted. It was frustrating. How was he meant to communicate a complex concept like John without the benefit of words like 'strong', 'gorgeous', 'passionate' and…oh!
Love. He felt it, and he felt it with such force it made Molly jump and surge away from him. When she returned to buoy him up and float him further into the water, her face was flushed and she had a hand over her heart.
'Oh…my.' She breathed.
Mine. Sherlock added, and he pictured John. He focussed on every tiny detail, lovingly recreated his favourite photograph, the one with John leaning against the barracks wall, his face turned up to catch the sunset, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He tried to send the image to Molly, but the effort gave him a splitting headache and the rising sensation of unease in his gut was too distracting.
'Stop, little one! Stop. You're out of time. Just stay still and try to keep calm.' She closed her eyes and her body went entirely transparent, nothing but a woman-shaped mass of lake water. She took a deep breath and collapsed in on herself, joining the eddies and rippling waves surrounding him.
Sherlock looked up at the sky. The sun was setting, and the moon had just begun to peek over the horizon. Sherlock held his breath, and he waited. It seemed centuries must have passed before the moonlight travelled over the water, and yet when he felt the tingling almost-itch erupt wherever the light hit his wings, it seemed the time had come much too quickly. He felt something lurch in his stomach, and he fluttered his wings wildly, suddenly desperate to get away. But the water rose around him, hemming him in. It was almost a cylindrical wave, a gentle cyclone of moonlit water that surrounded him, lifted him. And it felt…
Light. Sherlock was bathed in light, filled with it, part of it. The water surged around him, held him and concealed him. The moonlight filled it, pierced it, and a million refractions scattered it over every inch of his body. He flapped his wings, almost ready to fly, and something inside of him leapt. The world shuddered and spun and stretched away from him, and in a sudden burst of incandescence, he stood on two trouser-clad legs, wiggled ten fleshy toes, and breathed clean air through soft lips covering sturdy teeth.
The water dissipated. The whole process had taken seconds, and it had been painless. Sherlock collapsed to his knees and sobbed, loud and broken, just to hear the sound of his own voice again. He covered his face with his hands, feeling each familiar rise and fall of his features with sensitive fingertips. He felt his eyelashes, his tear ducts, the bridge of his nose, the soft flesh of his nostrils. He Felt his ears and his chin and his forehead. He ran trembling hands through his hair and he let out a high, hysterical laugh.
'Oh my.' Molly breathed somewhere behind him. He didn't pay much attention. He was far too fascinated by the pale pink of his fingers, staring hard at them lest the revert to black-tipped flights and snowy white guard feathers before his very (human) eyes.
'I didn't know. I didn't see. You are…oh my.'
Molly's voice finally penetrated his dazed and addled brain, and he rounded on her. With all the speed he could muster on his still unsteady legs, he sloshed through the shallows to her re-solidified body. Once he was close enough, he threw his arms around her and buried his face in her brown hair.
She squeaked and went rigid. 'Um…'
'You did this. You made it…it would have hurt so much. Oh God…thank you. Thank you!'
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. 'You're welcome.'
He pulled away and wiped the water from his cheeks. 'Sherlock.' He said.
'I'm sorry?'
'You kept calling me "little one", before.' He gestured vaguely to the reed-sheltered shallow where Molly had held him and soothed his shuddering body. 'My name is Sherlock.'
'Oh! Oh, that's…a nice name. Sort of dramatic.' She smiled, the skittish smile of something small and hunted. 'I'm Molly Hooper.'
Sherlock nodded and turned away. He waded back to the shore, and he could feel Molly surging just behind him with a rolling wave.
'Where are you going?' She asked.
'John.'
'What?'
"I have to find John. I need to get away from here and find him.'
'What good will that do?'
Sherlock froze. 'You're right. He's still abroad. He won't be back for three months. I'll find Mycroft. He can sort this.'
'Sherlock, wait!'
'I just need to find a road. If I can find a road I can find my way anywhere. The day will help there. I just have to figure out how to fly. And at night I can get rides. I'll be fine.'
'Sherlock, you can't!'
'Nonsense.' He rounded on her. 'The pain will be…daunting, but I can handle it.'
She reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could turn away again. 'No, Sherlock, stop. You can't leave the lake.'
He looked down at her fingers clasped over his arm. 'Why not?' He demanded.
She sighed. 'Because you belong to it. You're part of it now, just like me.'
He stared at her, and her whole body deflated.
'When you're a swan…the rest of you, all the…you that doesn't fit in the swan body, it becomes water. It joins the lake.'
'What do you--'
'You can't become human again unless you're in the water.' She didn't shout, but it was a near thing. 'If you leave as a human, when the sun rises the lake will reclaim its property. It'll drag your shape from you no matter where you are. But unless you're touching the water when the moonlight hits your wings, you stay a swan. You'll never change back, Sherlock. The lake owns you now, just like it owns me!'
Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' He whispered, and even to him his voice sounded broken.
'I'm so sorry, Sherlock.' There were tears in her eyes.
Sherlock sagged against her hold, and collapsed to his knees in the water. 'No.' He whimpered. "No, please…'
She knelt beside him and gently stroked his cheek. 'I wish I could help you. I can take away the pain but…I'm just as much a prisoner as you are.'
'John…he…he'll know. When he rings and I don't answer. He'll know. He'll look for me. Mycroft must be looking for me already.'
'I hope they find you, Sherlock. But no one's found this place yet.'
Sherlock shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or from the gaping emptiness in his chest he wasn't sure. 'No. No I can't…I'm done waiting. I've spent the last two years waiting.' He looked around, trying to take in everything. 'I'll find a way out. There has to be a way to… it's a game. He likes to play games. Games are pointless without the possibility of losing. So, logically, there has to be a way for me to win.'
'Sherlock,' Molly protested, but Sherlock ignored her and walked out of the water, back to dry land.
'He wants me to play? I'll play.' He walked toward the treeline, his head swivelling in all directions, taking in everything.
'Do you hear me Jim?!' He shouted, raising his face to the sky. 'You won't keep me from him! I'll play your game! I will find a way to beat you!'
Silence answered.
Sherlock sighed and slumped against a tree, letting himself sink down to the soft earth between two large roots. He closed his eyes and let the cascade of thought wash over him. He lighted on one idea, and paused. He opened his eyes and looked at the painfully young and lonely woman in the water.
'Molly?'
'Yes?'
'Why did you hold me? Before?'
Molly shrugged. 'You were in pain. I wanted to help.'
He tilted his head. 'You're nothing like him. You never will be. And yet he keeps you. He obviously considers you valuable.' He stored it away for further study, once he had more data.
'I suppose he just likes keeping me.'
He took a steadying breath and, with no small effort, said, 'In the morning, when it…happens again,' He licked his lips, then flinched. 'Will you hold me again? After it's done?'
'It won't hurt. I'll see to that.'
'There's more than one kind of pain.' Sherlock pointed out, and in his head the words were spoken in John's voice.
Molly smiled her sad, broken smile. 'Would you like me to hold you?'
Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back against the tree trunk. 'Yes.' He admitted in a whisper. 'I would like that very much.'
Because if he closed his eyes, if he ignored the delicate, soft lines of her fingers and the smooth expanse of her skirt, he could almost imagine different hands stroking his black-crowned head and smoothing the pure white feathers of his neck , different lips smiling down at him, different eyes shining with gentle affection. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was nestled in John's arms, where he belonged.
---
Chapter Two
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter One
'Wakey, wakey Sherlock.' The voice was high and lilting, it had a vague Irish accent, possibly Dublin, but Sherlock's head pounded far too loudly to narrow it down properly. 'You definitely don't want to miss this.'
Sherlock struggled to get his bearings. The surface beneath him was soft, crumbly and uneven. Dirt, then. Soil, by the feel of it. Vegetation as well. His ears were full of skritching, skittering, bird calls and the thousand other sounds that only ever meant 'forest'.
'You can open your eyes, Sherlock. It's okay.' Young, too. Very young. Or at least he sounded very young.
Sherlock struggled to prize open his eyelids. By the feel of the crust gluing his eyelashes together, he'd been asleep for quite some time. He tried to locate his last memory, and found he could recall nothing past getting into the car with Mycroft to return to Sussex.
He managed to get his eyes open, and was relieved, if only slightly, to find that it was dark. Very little light pierced the thick canopy, but there was enough that he could make out the blurry shapes of a small man beside a larger one.
'Oh good, you're awake. I was getting bored.' The voice came from the smaller man. He gestured to the larger man, who disappeared from Sherlock's field of vision. 'You're gonna love this. Well, no, I lie. You're going to really hate this. But eventually, and you can't tell me I'm wrong, you'll just have to be impressed. I mean, I've resurrected an entire science for you.' There was a brief pause in which Sherlock felt strong, rough hands slip under his knees and back, before the voice returned. It was lower this time, serious where it had been playful. 'And it is for you, Sherlock. All of it. It's for you, and it's for me, and it's for us.'
The hands lifted him up in a bridal carry, and Sherlock tried to struggle, but his feeble attempts only made the arms tighten their hold.
'Careful, Seb. He's a bit delicate at the moment.' Back to playful now, but with a dark undertone. 'But not for long.'
Sherlock's head was clearing, his body was slowly returning to his control. He didn't struggle, he wasn't a fool. The last thing he needed was for this Seb person to drop him. Instead he waited.
'It's not long now, Sherlock. Oh, just wait till you see what I've done. I've been so naughty. You'll approve, one day. You'll love it.'
'Who are you?' Sherlock really wished his voice were stronger.
The small man froze. 'Oh. Right. You never found me, did you?' He sighed in disappointment. 'And you were so close, too! You had it right about the shoes, Sherlock. Carl had eczema. I couldn't risk anyone finding traces of the poisoned medicine in his shoelaces.'
'You…killed…'
'Yep. Little Jimmy's first game. That's my name, by the way. Jim Moriarty. I know you're clever enough to work out what that means.'
Sherlock licked his lips, and the act made him think of John, and that hurt. 'You…you're not worried about me escaping.'
'Nope. And I'm not going to kill you, either. Try and guess how I'm going to keep you, Sherlock. Just try and guess. You never will.' He clapped his hands at that. He actually clapped like a giddy six-year-old at Christmas.
They emerged from the trees into a vast clearing. The space was dominated by a large, glittering lake. The moon's reflection shimmered on the surface of the water. It was low in the sky, and the sky to the East was just beginning to pale. It made everything grey and flat-looking, though it was still beautiful. Wildflowers and foliage surrounded the thin shoreline, and a decorative stone archway marked the beginning of a footpath leading up to a towering mansion, larger than the Holmes Estate in Sussex, perhaps larger than Vernet as well. It was hard to tell.
'My home away from home, Sherlock. And now, yours too.'
Sherlock was gently lowered to the ground. He got his feet underneath him and stood. He felt stronger already. Whatever he'd been drugged with must have mostly worn off. Quick, that.
Sherlock slowly turned in place, eyeing Seb warily before settling his eyes on Jim.
'If I run, your man here will follow me. I'm still too weak to evade him, and he knows the area. I don't.'
'Obvious, Sherlock. Get to the good part.'
Sherlock licked his lips again. He was thirsty, probably a little dehydrated, too. 'You killed Carl Powers. Somehow you learned of my interest in the case. You've been following me ever since. You've been planning this for…months? Years?'
'Good. But still child's play.'
'You're confident, no, you're certain I won't be able to get away from you. More to the point, you have no doubt I'll join you. You want me to be like you. You intend to do something to me that will render me incapable of escape. You plan to manipulate me, you think you can get inside my head.'
Jim smiled, and it was a reptile's smile. 'Oh, Sherlock. There's always something, isn't there?'
Sherlock tilted his head. 'What?'
'You were doing well. Very well. But you missed one crucial fact.' He smiled wider, and Sherlock fancied he knew what prey animals experienced right before the fatal bite. 'The thing that keeps you here, renders you powerless to escape me?' He chuckled darkly. 'I've already done it.'
Panic flared in Sherlock's chest. He looked down at his body, examined his arms, patted his torso and legs. He found nothing amiss. He considered. His mind was still clearing, his body growing stronger. He didn't feel drugged, but then, whatever Moriarty had given him could have a delayed effect.
'Nothing so obvious, my dear. And nothing so mundane. Get in the water, if you would.'
'What?' Sherlock snapped.
'The water. Wade in. Go ahead. It's cold, but trust me, it's better than the alternative.'
Sherlock looked at the lake, then back to Jim. What was he getting at? What could the lake possibly have to do with anything?
Jim sighed. 'Seb, dump him.'
Seb immediately stepped up to Sherlock and scooped him back into the bridal hold. Sherlock flailed and fought, but Seb's grip was unyielding, and a moment later Sherlock was dropped into the shallow water with a loud splash.
Sherlock sputtered and coughed, his body desperate to rid itself of the water he'd breathed in. He was soaked through and it was freezing. He clasped his hands to his upper arms and rubbed them furiously as he shivered.
'See? This would have gone so much better for you if you'd just done as you were told.'
Sherlock struggled to his feet, murky water dripping from every strand of his hair, from his nose, his chin, his fingertips, everything. He took a step, and Seb appeared in front of him, blocking his way.
'I'd stay put if I were you. You don't want to know what happens if you leave the lake.'
'What happens if I don't?' Sherlock stammered through chattering teeth.
Jim smirked and strode up to him. Without hesitation he reached up and grabbed the necklace around Sherlock's throat and yanked. Reflexively, Sherlock went with it, allowing Jim to drag his head down until he was nearly bent double to keep the chain from breaking.
'A swan.' Jim huffed, eyes twinkling. 'I'd thought maybe a cat, possibly a wolf. I considered a stork for a bit, but this!" He shook his head with a fond smile. 'It is perfect.'
'Please, let go of it.'
'Interesting animals, swans. Breathtaking, really. Gorgeous birds but get too close," And Jim released the pendant before shoving hard at Sherlock's chest and sending him back into the water, gasping and choking again. "And they're vicious little buggers.'
Sherlock cleared his lungs and managed to prop himself up with his arms, gasping in lungfuls of air and blinking water from his eyes.
'Go on, stand up. Face this like a man, Sherlock.'
Sherlock stood, pushing his soaked hair off of his forehead with one hand and trying to maintain a sliver of dignity even as he shivered in the fading moonlight, his white shirt all but transparent against his skin.
'Beautiful.' Moriarty breathed. 'Now brace yourself. It's your first time, and, total honesty: this is really gonna hurt.'
Sherlock peered at him quizzically. 'What's goinAAGH!' He didn't get to finish the question as a bolt of sheer, mindless pain shot through his body. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach though the pain was everywhere. And he tried, he struggled so hard to remain quiet and impassive, to take it with dignity and grace, but good God it hurt. No, no there was no word to describe the overwhelming agony seizing his limbs. He screamed. He could no more stop screaming than he could stop his heart beating, though that felt like it would give at any moment.
He didn't know when his knees gave out. He couldn't tell when he'd begun to clutch desperately at the reeds and the rocks on the shoreline. He had no idea when his senseless shrieking had evolved into desperate sobs of please and no more and anything, Christ, anything you want just make it stop!
But the moment he looked at his hand, that would be burned into his memory forever. It was after he'd stopped screaming, not because the pain had ebbed but because his vocal cords had failed him. In his flailing, he caught sight of his pale hand, and what he saw made him freeze.
The pain still surged and churned through his body, but his awareness of it took second place to what he saw on his hand. Because what he saw, was feathers. He saw an intricate latticework of feathers outlined on his skin. He tried to pull back his sleeve, but his body was unmoving, locked in an agonised rictus, so all he could see was the pattern growing smoothly into more detail, the image gradually shifting from two dimensions to three. He saw the sleeve of his shirt melt into his skin before adopting that same pattern. After that, things were harder to classify. He could hear a sick scraping sound inside of his body, and he tried not to imagine bones shifting and sliding. He looked up, and he saw Moriarty moving away from him without taking a step. He stared into his captor's eyes, and he knew his own were begging, knew he could do nothing else.
'Magic is only science we don't understand yet.' Moriarty quipped. 'I'm sure someone terribly famous and clever said that, but I don't much care who it was. The point is: I do understand it. It's amazing the attention you catch when you kill somebody at the age of fifteen and get away with it. Particularly if it was as elegant as what I did. All sorts of people take an interest.'
His vision was changing now, dimming as though he wore tinted contacts. His neck was shot through with the same stabbing pains he'd once experienced in his legs as a child going through his first growth spurt, only far more intense. His shoulders were doing things which, frankly, defied description. The best he could come up with, later after his brain was functioning again, was something akin to grinding bone into meal and then solidifying it again.
'I didn't want to do this, Sherlock. At least, not so soon. I was going to wait until you were older, more of a challenge. But then you had to go and fall in love with one of them. And not just your ordinary cattle, no. You had to fall for one of those oh-so-charmingly altruistic bastards. A "good man".' He scoffed. 'He would have ruined you. He's done too much damage already.'
Sherlock was struggling to breathe. He could barely hear Jim's voice anymore, but he clung to it. He had to focus, had to concentrate, had to think. But it hurt. Oh God it hurt. And it was still going. He didn't want to know what he looked like now. Something half-formed and grotesque. He tried to grit his teeth, but they weren't there anymore. So he closed his eyes instead and begged in silence for it to end.
'It's not permanent, don't worry about that. You'll have your old shape again just as soon as the moon comes back up.' He chuckled. 'Of course, when the sun rises you turn back into a swan. But don't worry. It'll never be like this again. Not once I let her have you.'
The pain was receding now. Sherlock was aware that he was floating, but his head at the end of an unnaturally long neck was resting on the dry shore. His body had gotten small. So very small. He looked up at Moriarty again, this time with eyes that couldn't plead, with a face that could not express pain or loss or sorrow any more than it could express anger, hatred or disgust.
'I've given you to the lake, Sherlock. Welcome home.' And with that Moriarty turned on his heel and walked away. Without looking over his shoulder he called, 'All yours Moll.'
And then he was gone, and Seb with him. Sherlock kept still, feeling his new, unwanted body and breathing shaky breaths. He barely noticed when the water around and beneath him surged. He didn't pay much attention when some of it fountained up and took on a solid shape. And when the newly arrived, impossible young woman pulled him tenderly into her lap and gently stroked the soft feathers on his head, well, he just didn't care anymore.
'I'm sorry, little one.' The voice was as gentle and soft as the hand. 'I wanted to help you, but he kept me away. Shush now, I know it hurts. Let me help you. You're not alone, little one. I want you to know that. You're not alone here.'
Her touch eased the pain from his muscles and bones, and he found himself nuzzling his head into her lap involuntarily. He wanted to cry. It was a small blessing that swans lacked the anatomy.
'I'll never let him hurt you like that again. As long as you're on the lake, I can help you. I promise it will never be like that again.' She was crying, but Sherlock didn't care. He let himself drift, let his mind float off to better days, to sturdy hands and warm, blue eyes, to a kiss that had lasted him two years and would now have to last longer. To letters and phone conversations and that laugh which never failed to make him smile.
John… It was his last coherent thought before everything went black.
~~~
'You're mad. You can't honestly expect to find anything.'
John glared at Mike. 'Don't. Don't say that to me.' He picked his way along the crash site. It had mostly been cleaned up by now, only the mangled earth and missing grass remained to say that anything had happened here.
'John, they've been looking for three months. And I remember Mycroft. That's the kind of bloke with resources. You're just…you.'
'I know how to track a target, Mike. I can go further afield than most operatives. I'm going to find him.'
'John, Christ, I know how much you love the man but you've got to be realistic.'
John rounded on him. 'Realistic?! With Sherlock? Since when has anything between us been realistic?' He crouched down over something shiny half-buried in the broken earth. He picked it up and examined it. 'We were born for each other, Mike. I'll tear this fucking country apart to get him back.'
He slipped the bullet casing in his pocket and continued down the road, Mike trailed close behind.
~~~
'Easy now, almost time.' The young woman with the sweet face and sad eyes was called Molly, and she hadn't stopped touching him since her appearance from within the water. Sherlock shuddered and pressed himself more fully against her torso. Everything she touched stopped hurting.
Scared. He thought, with all the focus he could muster. Hurt again. Molly had told him he'd eventually learn to communicate without words, but so far he'd only managed basic concepts like emotion, and communicating even the simplest idea was draining.
'I know. Don't worry. I'll hold you.'
Hurt. He thought. Alone.
'I'm not leaving you. Come on now, we need to move away from the shore.'
Alone. He insisted. It was frustrating. How was he meant to communicate a complex concept like John without the benefit of words like 'strong', 'gorgeous', 'passionate' and…oh!
Love. He felt it, and he felt it with such force it made Molly jump and surge away from him. When she returned to buoy him up and float him further into the water, her face was flushed and she had a hand over her heart.
'Oh…my.' She breathed.
Mine. Sherlock added, and he pictured John. He focussed on every tiny detail, lovingly recreated his favourite photograph, the one with John leaning against the barracks wall, his face turned up to catch the sunset, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He tried to send the image to Molly, but the effort gave him a splitting headache and the rising sensation of unease in his gut was too distracting.
'Stop, little one! Stop. You're out of time. Just stay still and try to keep calm.' She closed her eyes and her body went entirely transparent, nothing but a woman-shaped mass of lake water. She took a deep breath and collapsed in on herself, joining the eddies and rippling waves surrounding him.
Sherlock looked up at the sky. The sun was setting, and the moon had just begun to peek over the horizon. Sherlock held his breath, and he waited. It seemed centuries must have passed before the moonlight travelled over the water, and yet when he felt the tingling almost-itch erupt wherever the light hit his wings, it seemed the time had come much too quickly. He felt something lurch in his stomach, and he fluttered his wings wildly, suddenly desperate to get away. But the water rose around him, hemming him in. It was almost a cylindrical wave, a gentle cyclone of moonlit water that surrounded him, lifted him. And it felt…
Light. Sherlock was bathed in light, filled with it, part of it. The water surged around him, held him and concealed him. The moonlight filled it, pierced it, and a million refractions scattered it over every inch of his body. He flapped his wings, almost ready to fly, and something inside of him leapt. The world shuddered and spun and stretched away from him, and in a sudden burst of incandescence, he stood on two trouser-clad legs, wiggled ten fleshy toes, and breathed clean air through soft lips covering sturdy teeth.
The water dissipated. The whole process had taken seconds, and it had been painless. Sherlock collapsed to his knees and sobbed, loud and broken, just to hear the sound of his own voice again. He covered his face with his hands, feeling each familiar rise and fall of his features with sensitive fingertips. He felt his eyelashes, his tear ducts, the bridge of his nose, the soft flesh of his nostrils. He Felt his ears and his chin and his forehead. He ran trembling hands through his hair and he let out a high, hysterical laugh.
'Oh my.' Molly breathed somewhere behind him. He didn't pay much attention. He was far too fascinated by the pale pink of his fingers, staring hard at them lest the revert to black-tipped flights and snowy white guard feathers before his very (human) eyes.
'I didn't know. I didn't see. You are…oh my.'
Molly's voice finally penetrated his dazed and addled brain, and he rounded on her. With all the speed he could muster on his still unsteady legs, he sloshed through the shallows to her re-solidified body. Once he was close enough, he threw his arms around her and buried his face in her brown hair.
She squeaked and went rigid. 'Um…'
'You did this. You made it…it would have hurt so much. Oh God…thank you. Thank you!'
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. 'You're welcome.'
He pulled away and wiped the water from his cheeks. 'Sherlock.' He said.
'I'm sorry?'
'You kept calling me "little one", before.' He gestured vaguely to the reed-sheltered shallow where Molly had held him and soothed his shuddering body. 'My name is Sherlock.'
'Oh! Oh, that's…a nice name. Sort of dramatic.' She smiled, the skittish smile of something small and hunted. 'I'm Molly Hooper.'
Sherlock nodded and turned away. He waded back to the shore, and he could feel Molly surging just behind him with a rolling wave.
'Where are you going?' She asked.
'John.'
'What?'
"I have to find John. I need to get away from here and find him.'
'What good will that do?'
Sherlock froze. 'You're right. He's still abroad. He won't be back for three months. I'll find Mycroft. He can sort this.'
'Sherlock, wait!'
'I just need to find a road. If I can find a road I can find my way anywhere. The day will help there. I just have to figure out how to fly. And at night I can get rides. I'll be fine.'
'Sherlock, you can't!'
'Nonsense.' He rounded on her. 'The pain will be…daunting, but I can handle it.'
She reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could turn away again. 'No, Sherlock, stop. You can't leave the lake.'
He looked down at her fingers clasped over his arm. 'Why not?' He demanded.
She sighed. 'Because you belong to it. You're part of it now, just like me.'
He stared at her, and her whole body deflated.
'When you're a swan…the rest of you, all the…you that doesn't fit in the swan body, it becomes water. It joins the lake.'
'What do you--'
'You can't become human again unless you're in the water.' She didn't shout, but it was a near thing. 'If you leave as a human, when the sun rises the lake will reclaim its property. It'll drag your shape from you no matter where you are. But unless you're touching the water when the moonlight hits your wings, you stay a swan. You'll never change back, Sherlock. The lake owns you now, just like it owns me!'
Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' He whispered, and even to him his voice sounded broken.
'I'm so sorry, Sherlock.' There were tears in her eyes.
Sherlock sagged against her hold, and collapsed to his knees in the water. 'No.' He whimpered. "No, please…'
She knelt beside him and gently stroked his cheek. 'I wish I could help you. I can take away the pain but…I'm just as much a prisoner as you are.'
'John…he…he'll know. When he rings and I don't answer. He'll know. He'll look for me. Mycroft must be looking for me already.'
'I hope they find you, Sherlock. But no one's found this place yet.'
Sherlock shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or from the gaping emptiness in his chest he wasn't sure. 'No. No I can't…I'm done waiting. I've spent the last two years waiting.' He looked around, trying to take in everything. 'I'll find a way out. There has to be a way to… it's a game. He likes to play games. Games are pointless without the possibility of losing. So, logically, there has to be a way for me to win.'
'Sherlock,' Molly protested, but Sherlock ignored her and walked out of the water, back to dry land.
'He wants me to play? I'll play.' He walked toward the treeline, his head swivelling in all directions, taking in everything.
'Do you hear me Jim?!' He shouted, raising his face to the sky. 'You won't keep me from him! I'll play your game! I will find a way to beat you!'
Silence answered.
Sherlock sighed and slumped against a tree, letting himself sink down to the soft earth between two large roots. He closed his eyes and let the cascade of thought wash over him. He lighted on one idea, and paused. He opened his eyes and looked at the painfully young and lonely woman in the water.
'Molly?'
'Yes?'
'Why did you hold me? Before?'
Molly shrugged. 'You were in pain. I wanted to help.'
He tilted his head. 'You're nothing like him. You never will be. And yet he keeps you. He obviously considers you valuable.' He stored it away for further study, once he had more data.
'I suppose he just likes keeping me.'
He took a steadying breath and, with no small effort, said, 'In the morning, when it…happens again,' He licked his lips, then flinched. 'Will you hold me again? After it's done?'
'It won't hurt. I'll see to that.'
'There's more than one kind of pain.' Sherlock pointed out, and in his head the words were spoken in John's voice.
Molly smiled her sad, broken smile. 'Would you like me to hold you?'
Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back against the tree trunk. 'Yes.' He admitted in a whisper. 'I would like that very much.'
Because if he closed his eyes, if he ignored the delicate, soft lines of her fingers and the smooth expanse of her skirt, he could almost imagine different hands stroking his black-crowned head and smoothing the pure white feathers of his neck , different lips smiling down at him, different eyes shining with gentle affection. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was nestled in John's arms, where he belonged.
---
Chapter Two