Fanfic: Sorcerer, Not a Wizard
Title: Sorcerer, Not a Wizard
Fandom/s: Sherlock and Matthew Swift crossover
Summary: In which it is discovered that Sherlock is a sorcerer, no not a wizard, Matthew helps, John is understanding, and Mycroft worries and is still his overprotective big brother self.
Author's Note: Reposted from FF. I actually did not want to do a crossover where I turn everybody (or those that count) into a sorcerer just because I am itching to cross over everything with Matthew Swift. But this fic sorta stayed on my mind, and didn't want to leave even if I was planning to take a nap. I'll make it up to myself by finishing that other Sherlock and Matthew Swift crossover I've been meaning to write since October. Or that Cabin Pressure crossover I just thought of this Thursday. And whenever I imagine Sherlock being a sorcerer, being in tune with the city-- well, it sorta fails you know? I have no doubt he loves London, but I don't think he's the type to mindlessly follow people walking the streets during rush hour, unless he was really out of it.
Maybe slightly OOC, and sorry if I offend anyone with actual bipolarity out there. I couldn't think of any other thing to put, so again, I apologize.
Also, there is a distinct lack of Sherlock here and the blue electric angels, in case you might want to know.
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"So what you're telling me--" John paused for a while, letting his brain catch up with what he is about to say, "that Sherlock is some sort of wizard--"
"Sorcerer to be exact."
"--sorcerer, that just happens to be left untrained all these years? And that the only reason why he hasn't gone mad yet or happens to accidentally activate his magic is because of his massive intellect managing to supress the urges that comes with the magic and whatever?" John's brain decided to give up on being eloquent and accurate about situation, because he still hadn't wrapped his head around the whole thing. Or at least the thing about Sherlock.
"Yes. Highly unusual at that- it's the first I've seen of an untrained sorcerer that hasn't gone mad after so many years of being, well, untrained, or at least severely affected by the city. It's nothing short of a bloody miracle, really, that he hasn't done a major cock-up that managed to endanger the whole city, accidentally of course."
Somewhere, a girl, on a date with a guy named Femi, sneezed.
John didn't know if he can take the man across him seriously, since he wasn't aware of anything major happening that could've endangered the city, then again, it might not be something that's going to be advertised if it involved magic. Especially magic. It's also a bit hard to take the man seriously, when he was wearing a shirt with a logo of a man sitting on a toilet, and the word "iPood" on the bottom of it under a tatty trench coat.
"Well," John continued, grasping for something, anything in his mind. "It makes some kind of sense why he gets so quiet on some days. I have a doctor friend who told me once that my friend may either be bipolar, or he's kind of a sorcerer." He can hardly recall that day nor the conversation, but the situation tugged something in his memory, until it manages to get something from the recesses of his mind, like a file that was never properly placed in the cabinet, but was instead lost somewhere under the cushions of the couch in the lounge room, among other things. "Seah's never really elaborated on it, but then again, I never really know how serious she is with some things. Or how she came up with her diagnosis.”
"Dr. Seah?" The man across John said with a half exasperated, and half resigned look, which made his face transform into a grimace that a dog might make when he would lie down on his back and let you rub his belly; not because he likes it, but because it makes you happy. The scruffy and tired look the man had around him doesn’t help, especially when it reminds him of the old stray dogs that he would sometimes see roaming around.
"Yes she--" and before John could elaborate on their mutual acquaintance, because he really doesn't know what else to say to the man in front of him while his best friend is knocked out cold on the couch and is possibly--is a sorcerer, and he also doesn't want the awkward silence to kick in as they wait for Sherlock to return back into consciousness, the phone rings.
More accurately, the man in front of him suddenly swooped into his personal space, managed to take his phone somewhere in one of his trousers’ pockets, and held it in his hand before it rang.
It rang one short, note before the man decided to cut short its attention seeking cry by pressing the answer button, and also putting it in loud speaker right after.
"Mr. Swift," the voice, which was undoubtedly Mycroft's, rumbled from the phone in a lazy manner.
"Mr. Holmes," The man, who has now been dubbed as Swift, replied evenly, although with a scrunched up look on his face as if he ate a whole lemon. It was almost uncannily like Sherlock's reaction on the same situation, that John smiled a bit, forgetting, for the moment, the odd situation they were in.
"I'd really appreciate it, Mr. Swift, if you won't train my brother's talents."
"And why not?" Swift drawled on, matching Mycroft's posh tone. "I'm pretty sure you know what happened the last time there was an untrained sorcerer left, well, untrained." Although the eloquence could be improved.
"Trust me, Mayor," Mycroft puts emphasis on the mayor part as if it was a distasteful thing that managed to step foot on his tongue, "I have every confidence in my brother's reasoning being able to supress any sorcery of his and its consequences; and, as I'm sure anyone who knows my brother would agree, London would be far better without my brother having access to all of the benefits and destruction that a sorcerer could bring."
"Far saner, actually," John quips, because if Sherlock could ever do those things that Swift did to the criminal (who, he was informed later, was actually a warlock), that pushed Sherlock into the Thames river, then well. London's criminals won't be the only thing that has to watch out for Sherlock.
Swift only raises his eyebrows in response, waiting for Mycroft to elaborate without speaking the words. He probably knows that Mycroft might’ve deduced such a reply or maybe had a hidden camera watching them right now; John’s thinks it’s probably both. Swift doesn't look convinced at all with Mycroft's excuse, but then he had the fortune of not having experienced Sherlock's brand of madness. Yet, at least.
"And," a softer voice murmurs, as if it was a bit shy about coming out from the phone, "I'd rather not have him be a bigger target than he already is."
Swift's body sort of sags at this, and his face softens if only for a minute; there was a whole conversation that passed between them during that moment, a history that John was not privy to but it's plain as day that it was something pretty serious to have affected them both; he didn't need to be Sherlock to deduce that. Soon after, Swift straightens his back and heaves quite the audible sigh, and told Mycroft in a tired tone, "All right. But should he show any trouble for being untrained-- either trouble for him or anybody else-- I'd have him in Sorcery 101, faster than anyone could say 'hot potato'." Swift looks one more time at the still form of Sherlock Holmes lying on the couch, damp dark curls glistening in the light, before adding with an impish smile,
"And I'd rather not be the one to explain to him why he had to wake up waist deep in the Thames tomorrow."