Our Hungry Thirsty Roots
Explanation: OKAY so basically my mate Lyd did this amazing drawing for me for my birthday and it was WELL WICKED and inspired me to go off on this fucking crazy road of 'oh my god though Sherlock Holmes' father was JARETH FROM LABYRINTH. Yeah. Fucking, exactly. So basically I decided to write a fic about what would happen if Sherlock and Mycroft were Jareth's sons, and the Princes of the Goblin Kingdom and them growing up there and then eventually moving to the Human Realm and the events of Sherlock happening and BASICALLY I've got what looks like a fucking five year plan for this fic now.
This is chapter one.
Yyyyeah.
Title: Our Hungry Thirsty Roots
Word Count: 1757
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Jareth
Pairing: None yet, but will be eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: I may possibly be insane. None of this is mine and it is an AU so if that doesn't shake your boat, you probably don't want to be reading.
Forever, as it turned out, was actually a very long time.
Jareth did try to not dwell on the past. He didn’t need to be constantly reminded of his failures; he had not forgotten them. His subjects, loyal as ever, kept him amused with parties, stupidity and maliciousness towards one another - it was all they knew, and they were very good at it. This was the life he’d always lived and, before her, he’d never considered that he might need something else. Now, it was all that he could think about, his own crystals betraying him as he looked upon them and saw his dreams. Spending forever alone was not something Jareth’s heart could abide.
He did not, however, want for love. Not again. Never again.
The King desired an heir.
-
“I wish for a child.”
The wishes began to filter into the Goblin Realm once Jareth had decreed his intentions, and each woman was assigned a small team of those most capable within his kingdom (and they were small teams - capable was not how Jareth would describe his subjects). All five women chosen were infertile, yet still trying. The spell Jareth wove was complex, his magic surrounding and healing these women at the very point of inception, allowing him to claim the child as his own before it could begin to register as human. Each casting of the spell demanded blood from the King himself, and by the time his work was done Jareth was exhausted, handing over to those he had charged with watching over each woman, who influenced her and whispered magics in her ear as she slept to help create the perfect heir. The women were never aware of the new guardians in their lives, never noticed if the doctors they went to seemed a little odd, never questioned why their partner was not allowed to attend scans or check-ups, or lamented the lack of ultrasound images to take home. They were simply blissfully happy to finally be with child.
The births were horrendous.
Jareth would create a gateway between the worlds so that the second the babies were pushed from their mother’s bodies they would emerge in the birthing room in the castle, into the arms of the waiting midwife. It had been arranged that the women would be alone and isolated when they went into labour, so that the birthing would not be disturbed. The mothers would never see the children, no physical evidence of a baby ever having existed being left behind, and each woman would be informed that she had been through an extreme case of pseudocyesis.
For the first attempt, the baby was too much changed, too much goblin. It tore the woman apart as it left her and tried to kill the midwife, too. Jareth swallowed his disgust and guilt, and waved a hand, turning his head as the spear burst the heart of his first would-be child. The same happened for the second, and the third, though they became less hideous with each attempt.
The fourth, the mother survived, but the child did not. Becoming increasingly desperate, Jareth’s hopes lay with the fifth, and final, woman. Her wish for a child had been strongest, her desire as great as Jareth’s own. As she went into labour, Jareth demanded the room be cleared of everyone bar himself and the midwife. He sang in old, dead languages, releasing their magic into the air. The words filled up the room and broke through to the Human Realm, surrounding the woman as she screamed alone in the child’s nursery.
Thirteen hours later, a boy was born.
Covered in his mother’s blood, Jareth felt an odd surge of protectiveness as the boy wailed and the moment he picked the child up he wanted nothing more than to help, help him, stop him crying, do as he says. Passing a hand over his son’s throat, Jareth found what he was looking for.
Ah. There. The King’s lips curled triumphantly. He has the voice.
“Sire?”
“Take him to the beginning of the Labyrinth. Inform me when he returns.” Jareth tossed his son to the creature, who scuttled out of the door with him immediately, practically giggling to herself with glee.
As a babe, Jareth had found his way through the Labyrinth in a week - he was, after all, destined to be the King.
The boy returned to the castle in four days, and with him the Prince brought the name the Labyrinth had given to him.
Mycroft.
-
As Mycroft grew, it became apparent that father and son did not have that much in common. Mycroft’s looks came from the woman who bore him, only the slightest hint of goblin in his features. He could not make magic dance, nor turn himself into an owl. Where Jareth preferred revelry, parties and declarations of admiration from his subjects, Mycroft found himself happiest in the solitude of the castle’s all but abandoned library, or in the company of a few select goblins that had been his companions since he had returned to the castle that fourth day. The casual cruelty his father often showed his subjects was not something Mycroft understood, being stately and polite at all times to even the foulest, most disgusting goblin - something about good impressions and political gain, apparently, when his father confronted him on the matter one afternoon. Jareth had no idea where he was learning these things.
“I want them to respect me.” The six year old informed the King, who merely looked bemused.
“Mycroft, my darling boy. You can command that they respect you, they have no choice but to obey!”
“I want them to respect me because they wish it. Because I have earned it. That is a loyalty far greater than fear.” Mycroft murmured, and Jareth sighed, running his fingers comfortingly through his son’s hair. This was a part of the child he simply could not understand, and a part of himself Mycroft seemed unwilling to accept. Jareth had long given up on trying to earn respect, to pander to others in order to gain their love. It was a method that had failed him where it had truly mattered, and he would not see his son make the same mistakes.
“You have the voice, Mycroft. Whatever you wish, they will wish, too. There’s no need to strike fear into a heart that already belongs to you.”
Mycroft had sighed in response, though he was proud of the one thing he had directly inherited from his father; his voice. When father and son sang together, new and brilliant parts of the Labyrinth rose from the very earth, created in the perfection of their harmonies. He could speak falsehoods with such conviction that they became truth, bend the will of others to meet and match his own. If Mycroft so wished it, he could convince, command and charm the attention of every creature he came across.
The crystals, however, were not charmed by his voice.
Six years of trying to learn his father’s craft, and Mycroft once again found himself standing in the shattered remains of four of his crystals, bottom lip jutting out treacherously. He had not cried since birth and certainly did not plan on starting now, though it was a close thing this time, the frustration pent-up inside of him coming to boiling point. No matter what he whispered to them, no matter how many soothing or demanding words he wrapped around his fingers to cushion or force their path, the crystals mocked, ignored and abandoned him.
“Really, Mycroft?” his father was unimpressed upon discovering him, tutting softly to himself as he lifted the child from the centre of the debris that was becoming an all too familiar scene. “Do try to be more careful with the next ones, Daddy works so very hard to make those for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered, voice trembling, “It isn’t fair, though! They don’t listen to me! You can do it and I can’t and it’s not fair!”
“Come now, you know how I feel about such outlandish statements. I won’t hesitate to send you to the Bog, my darling.”
It worried Jareth, however, that Mycroft had not inherited the vast majority of the abilities that he should have done. He could not rule this kingdom on voice and respect alone. Without magic his position as the future King could not be guaranteed safety. There would have to be another child. A brother for the Prince.
Jareth needed a second heir.
-
It wasn’t a difficult task to locate Mycroft’s mother, to encircle her with whispers of false reassurances, to convince her in her dreams that this time, this time everything will be perfect, you shall have a child, and not long after, she fell pregnant once more. In his casting of the spell Jareth spilled twice as much blood as was called for, causing the powerful magic to tear through his body and echo in the heartbeat of the life that grew inside of her.
This time, there will be no mistakes, this time it will be perfect.
The child is torn from his mother two months after Mycroft’s seventh birthday. He does not scream, but thrashes in the midwife’s arms as the gateway closes on the distraught woman for the second time. Mycroft stands behind his father, eyes wide as Jareth takes the boy and tenderly cleans the blood from him.
“He has my eyes,” Jareth murmurs quietly, before beaming down at his eldest son, carefully throwing the babe for him to catch.
“Mycroft, take your brother to the beginning of the Labyrinth and leave him there.”
Mycroft looks down at the child in his arms, moving on his father’s orders, and feels his entire being swell with love in a way he never has before.
“I don’t know how well this will work on you,” He murmurs as they reach the gates, every word acting as a blanket for his brother’s naked form, coddling him with devotion, “but you must come back soon, and safe, or I shall be very, very cross with you.”
He props his brother gently against the closed doors, then turns and walks away without a second glance, as he knows he must do. This is something that the child cannot be helped with. The Labyrinth must know him, and he it, before he can reach the castle again.
Two days later the baby is found in the courtyard, lying quite happily on the seat of his father’s throne.
His name is Sherlock.
This is chapter one.
Yyyyeah.
Title: Our Hungry Thirsty Roots
Word Count: 1757
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Jareth
Pairing: None yet, but will be eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: I may possibly be insane. None of this is mine and it is an AU so if that doesn't shake your boat, you probably don't want to be reading.
Forever, as it turned out, was actually a very long time.
Jareth did try to not dwell on the past. He didn’t need to be constantly reminded of his failures; he had not forgotten them. His subjects, loyal as ever, kept him amused with parties, stupidity and maliciousness towards one another - it was all they knew, and they were very good at it. This was the life he’d always lived and, before her, he’d never considered that he might need something else. Now, it was all that he could think about, his own crystals betraying him as he looked upon them and saw his dreams. Spending forever alone was not something Jareth’s heart could abide.
He did not, however, want for love. Not again. Never again.
The King desired an heir.
-
“I wish for a child.”
The wishes began to filter into the Goblin Realm once Jareth had decreed his intentions, and each woman was assigned a small team of those most capable within his kingdom (and they were small teams - capable was not how Jareth would describe his subjects). All five women chosen were infertile, yet still trying. The spell Jareth wove was complex, his magic surrounding and healing these women at the very point of inception, allowing him to claim the child as his own before it could begin to register as human. Each casting of the spell demanded blood from the King himself, and by the time his work was done Jareth was exhausted, handing over to those he had charged with watching over each woman, who influenced her and whispered magics in her ear as she slept to help create the perfect heir. The women were never aware of the new guardians in their lives, never noticed if the doctors they went to seemed a little odd, never questioned why their partner was not allowed to attend scans or check-ups, or lamented the lack of ultrasound images to take home. They were simply blissfully happy to finally be with child.
The births were horrendous.
Jareth would create a gateway between the worlds so that the second the babies were pushed from their mother’s bodies they would emerge in the birthing room in the castle, into the arms of the waiting midwife. It had been arranged that the women would be alone and isolated when they went into labour, so that the birthing would not be disturbed. The mothers would never see the children, no physical evidence of a baby ever having existed being left behind, and each woman would be informed that she had been through an extreme case of pseudocyesis.
For the first attempt, the baby was too much changed, too much goblin. It tore the woman apart as it left her and tried to kill the midwife, too. Jareth swallowed his disgust and guilt, and waved a hand, turning his head as the spear burst the heart of his first would-be child. The same happened for the second, and the third, though they became less hideous with each attempt.
The fourth, the mother survived, but the child did not. Becoming increasingly desperate, Jareth’s hopes lay with the fifth, and final, woman. Her wish for a child had been strongest, her desire as great as Jareth’s own. As she went into labour, Jareth demanded the room be cleared of everyone bar himself and the midwife. He sang in old, dead languages, releasing their magic into the air. The words filled up the room and broke through to the Human Realm, surrounding the woman as she screamed alone in the child’s nursery.
Thirteen hours later, a boy was born.
Covered in his mother’s blood, Jareth felt an odd surge of protectiveness as the boy wailed and the moment he picked the child up he wanted nothing more than to help, help him, stop him crying, do as he says. Passing a hand over his son’s throat, Jareth found what he was looking for.
Ah. There. The King’s lips curled triumphantly. He has the voice.
“Sire?”
“Take him to the beginning of the Labyrinth. Inform me when he returns.” Jareth tossed his son to the creature, who scuttled out of the door with him immediately, practically giggling to herself with glee.
As a babe, Jareth had found his way through the Labyrinth in a week - he was, after all, destined to be the King.
The boy returned to the castle in four days, and with him the Prince brought the name the Labyrinth had given to him.
Mycroft.
-
As Mycroft grew, it became apparent that father and son did not have that much in common. Mycroft’s looks came from the woman who bore him, only the slightest hint of goblin in his features. He could not make magic dance, nor turn himself into an owl. Where Jareth preferred revelry, parties and declarations of admiration from his subjects, Mycroft found himself happiest in the solitude of the castle’s all but abandoned library, or in the company of a few select goblins that had been his companions since he had returned to the castle that fourth day. The casual cruelty his father often showed his subjects was not something Mycroft understood, being stately and polite at all times to even the foulest, most disgusting goblin - something about good impressions and political gain, apparently, when his father confronted him on the matter one afternoon. Jareth had no idea where he was learning these things.
“I want them to respect me.” The six year old informed the King, who merely looked bemused.
“Mycroft, my darling boy. You can command that they respect you, they have no choice but to obey!”
“I want them to respect me because they wish it. Because I have earned it. That is a loyalty far greater than fear.” Mycroft murmured, and Jareth sighed, running his fingers comfortingly through his son’s hair. This was a part of the child he simply could not understand, and a part of himself Mycroft seemed unwilling to accept. Jareth had long given up on trying to earn respect, to pander to others in order to gain their love. It was a method that had failed him where it had truly mattered, and he would not see his son make the same mistakes.
“You have the voice, Mycroft. Whatever you wish, they will wish, too. There’s no need to strike fear into a heart that already belongs to you.”
Mycroft had sighed in response, though he was proud of the one thing he had directly inherited from his father; his voice. When father and son sang together, new and brilliant parts of the Labyrinth rose from the very earth, created in the perfection of their harmonies. He could speak falsehoods with such conviction that they became truth, bend the will of others to meet and match his own. If Mycroft so wished it, he could convince, command and charm the attention of every creature he came across.
The crystals, however, were not charmed by his voice.
Six years of trying to learn his father’s craft, and Mycroft once again found himself standing in the shattered remains of four of his crystals, bottom lip jutting out treacherously. He had not cried since birth and certainly did not plan on starting now, though it was a close thing this time, the frustration pent-up inside of him coming to boiling point. No matter what he whispered to them, no matter how many soothing or demanding words he wrapped around his fingers to cushion or force their path, the crystals mocked, ignored and abandoned him.
“Really, Mycroft?” his father was unimpressed upon discovering him, tutting softly to himself as he lifted the child from the centre of the debris that was becoming an all too familiar scene. “Do try to be more careful with the next ones, Daddy works so very hard to make those for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered, voice trembling, “It isn’t fair, though! They don’t listen to me! You can do it and I can’t and it’s not fair!”
“Come now, you know how I feel about such outlandish statements. I won’t hesitate to send you to the Bog, my darling.”
It worried Jareth, however, that Mycroft had not inherited the vast majority of the abilities that he should have done. He could not rule this kingdom on voice and respect alone. Without magic his position as the future King could not be guaranteed safety. There would have to be another child. A brother for the Prince.
Jareth needed a second heir.
-
It wasn’t a difficult task to locate Mycroft’s mother, to encircle her with whispers of false reassurances, to convince her in her dreams that this time, this time everything will be perfect, you shall have a child, and not long after, she fell pregnant once more. In his casting of the spell Jareth spilled twice as much blood as was called for, causing the powerful magic to tear through his body and echo in the heartbeat of the life that grew inside of her.
This time, there will be no mistakes, this time it will be perfect.
The child is torn from his mother two months after Mycroft’s seventh birthday. He does not scream, but thrashes in the midwife’s arms as the gateway closes on the distraught woman for the second time. Mycroft stands behind his father, eyes wide as Jareth takes the boy and tenderly cleans the blood from him.
“He has my eyes,” Jareth murmurs quietly, before beaming down at his eldest son, carefully throwing the babe for him to catch.
“Mycroft, take your brother to the beginning of the Labyrinth and leave him there.”
Mycroft looks down at the child in his arms, moving on his father’s orders, and feels his entire being swell with love in a way he never has before.
“I don’t know how well this will work on you,” He murmurs as they reach the gates, every word acting as a blanket for his brother’s naked form, coddling him with devotion, “but you must come back soon, and safe, or I shall be very, very cross with you.”
He props his brother gently against the closed doors, then turns and walks away without a second glance, as he knows he must do. This is something that the child cannot be helped with. The Labyrinth must know him, and he it, before he can reach the castle again.
Two days later the baby is found in the courtyard, lying quite happily on the seat of his father’s throne.
His name is Sherlock.