Princes and Knights (4/5)
Title: Princes and Knights
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6500 (18500 words until now)
Pairings: future Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Irene
Summary: When John Watson left his hometown for the capital of the Baker Kingdom, hoping to become a Royal Knight, he had no idea that he'd find so much more there than a title; namely evil poisoners, damsels in not-quite-distress, a manipulative King and a reason to live.
***
After living in the castle for one month and a half John really shouldn’t have been surprised by the time it took the approaching cortège to enter the fortress, but he was all the same. The welcoming party he belonged to had had to stand for what seemed like hours as Bohemian guards and guests slowly made their way into the building and John had wished more than once that he’d be allowed to get back inside and rest his feet a little. To distract himself, he started observing the rather magnificent show the colour of the noblewomen’ dresses created and even tried to apply what little he had learnt of Sherlock’s method to know more about the people whose eyes he met, with little success however.
Few individuals truly caught his attention; the Princess first and foremost, of course, her long dark blond hair being offset by a beautiful ruby placed on her forehead. He was mainly surprised to see that she seemed almost uncomfortable, keeping her head low rather than greeting her hosts as was proper, and that she rode alone, with no maid at her side. A guard among many others was the next person he noticed, if only because he was incredibly beautiful, with a youthful, almost androgynous face. Feeling his eyes on him the guard raised his gaze, smirking impertinently and winking at him. Blushing, John averted his eyes and met Sherlock’s instead, who looked from him to the guard twice before the corner of his mouth rose a little, the way it did when he was darkly amused by something mere mortals would probably never understand. John deflated a little; he didn’t know exactly what emotion he’d been hoping for, but it certainly wasn’t sardonic amusement.
Eventually, though, every guest was let into the castle and assigned to a room - John spared a compassionate thought for the poor castle’s help, which had been working relentlessly for the past two weeks to make sure everything would be ready in time - while the Princess, her regent and their trusted advisors were ceremonially brought into the throne room for an official welcome. Sherlock went along, of course, and thus John did too, marvelling as always at the richness of the décor.
At first everything seemed fine - Bohemia’s regent and King Mycroft exchanged welcomes and pleasantries in a cordial tone while Sherlock, bored out of his mind, drummed his long fingers on the side of his smaller throne and shot John exasperated glances he answered with tolerant smiles. A certain tension nonetheless permeated the room, and everything came as a standstill as it was the Princess’s turn to advance towards her hosts. She seemed even more nervous than she had when riding, John noted with sympathy, even trembling a little.
“King Mycroft, Prince Sherlock, you honour me with your invitation.”
“And you honour us with your presence, my Lady. Nevertheless, I would appreciate to know where my fiancée is.”
John’s eyes widened as the regent closed his with a slightly pained expression and the young woman who wasn’t the princess paused mid-curtsey, cringing a little. Finally the former came forward once more, obviously choosing his words with care.
“I believe you’ve met Princess Adler once before, King Mycroft. Like the bird her family is named after, she doesn’t like to be restrained by anything else than her own whims. She left two days before we did, leaving us with a simple note and no means of tracking her, and told us she would meet us here - we had little choice but to believe her and hope she’d indeed be present today. When we didn’t see her as we approached the castle, her closest confident -” Here he gestured at the long-haired woman in the middle of the room “- pleaded with us to give her a little more time and persuaded us that she could imitate her mannerisms well enough to fool you. Obviously she overestimated her own acting skills.”
The Lady they were referring to winced once more and John frowned a little at the unwarranted attack. Sherlock threw him an amused look - he could almost hear the Prince chiding him once more about his too-soft heart - and spoke for the first time, his baritone voice filling the room and silencing the whispers that had begun to spread.
“I think the Princess isn’t as far as you think, Lord Astair. You, Guard, please come closer.”
The young man that approached was the one John had noticed earlier, and as he spoke his voice reflected his appearance perfectly, being oddly pitched between the masculine and the feminine and extremely mischievous.
“Oh, very well, I guess the game is up. I see you won’t fall for the same tricks twice, Sherlock.”
Both Lord Astair and the Princess’s confident immediately started advancing on the handsome young man.
“Irene! Have you been staying with us under this guise all along?”
“My Lady, this isn’t proper! Please allow me to see to your dress right away!”
The Princess only laughed, a clear bell of a laugh, taking off the official guard headwear with obvious relish and shaking her head a little to free her hair.
“My Lords, it’s indeed a pleasure to see you again! Sherlock, I hope you have kept the painting of me I’d left you with.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a little at what was obviously meant to be a jab, though one John didn’t understand.
“Actually, I thought it only proper to ensure your future husband would be the one privileged enough to possess such an item.”
The Princess seemed unsure rather than mocking for the first time since John had unknowingly met her but the King rose before she could answer, trying to defuse what was slowly starting to resemble chaos.
“Perhaps we should adjourn the rest of the ceremony to tomorrow; I do believe our guests are tired. I’m looking forward to seeing you at our welcoming banquet tonight.”
As Sherlock jumped from his throne and made his way to the side-door usually reserved for servants, sharply gesturing to make sure John would follow him, he could have sworn the Princess’s eyes were studying him curiously.
***
Back in their rooms, John was once more reminded of his determination to understand what was causing his Prince’s black mood as Sherlock threw himself in an almost-empty armchair, his temporary triumph at unmasking Princess Adler’s disguise having been replaced by petulance once again. The knight’s subtle queries of the last days had brought nothing in terms of new information, so he decided to go to the crux of the matter.
“Princess Adler certainly appears to be a determined young woman.”
A non-committal grunt. John remembered however how Sherlock himself had explained that the best way to make an unwilling witness talk was to make him or her want to contradict you - he figured that being complementary enough towards the Princess would accomplish that, considering the rivalry the two royals seemed to be engaged in.
“Undoubtedly mischievous, but then I’d assume nothing less would interest your brother.”
Another small, bored sound.
“Extremely beautiful as well - she seems a good match for the King.”
“She certainly is.”
The Prince’s voice rang with sincerity and bitterness; this wasn’t the answer John had been expecting.
“The perfect Princess. The perfect bride. Only fair for a perfect King.”
Three weeks ago John would have misunderstood those sentences. Now, however, he thought he knew Sherlock enough now to understand that the man didn’t desire the Princess, no matter how lovely she was. Yet, he understood in a sudden moment of clarity, it was still a matter of jealousy. Not knowing where this insight came from, he knew he had to check whether he was right all the same.
“Would your parents have thought so as well?”
He didn’t need to turn his head to know Sherlock had frozen for a second, the way he always did when John said something to surprise him. Astonishment was usually a good reaction to receive from the Prince, one he thrived on - it meant that for a short while he held the too-intelligent man’s total interest. He wondered, however, whether he had gone too far this time, and only realised he had been holding his breath when the Prince’s answer caused him to exhale in relief.
“Certainly they would have. Their only question would have been to know why it hadn’t happened sooner and what I was waiting for to follow in my dear big brother’s humongous footsteps.”
Sherlock suddenly seemed younger than he had ever had, even tugging absently at his hair, a nervous habit John had never seen him indulge in before. John wasn’t certain how to answer - thankfully, it appeared what Sherlock really needed was for someone to listen.
“They always had trouble understanding us - the way we saw the world was certainly quite alien to them. Ironically enough, Mycroft was my only ally then; the only one who got it. It changed as they died, though. Mycroft was only 16, but all of a sudden he was the King, not just my brother. He had no more time for the experiments we used to escape from our lessons to conduct. He started talking politics, when before we had both held them for boring. And when he understood that it was the only thing that would work, he began using our parents’ memories to make me listen to him. ‘Sherlock, don’t act so rebellious, you know how it all upset Mummy.’ ‘Father wouldn’t have wanted you to react this way, Sherlock.’”
The scene had painted himself in sharp colours against John’s closed lids as he listened and his heart hurt a little as he almost saw the boys his land’s leaders had been and imagined them thrown much too early and much too alone in a world of power and politics. The idea of Mycroft using their late parents’ memories to get his little brother to listen to him was unpalatable, but then so was his mind’s vision of a young King who had had to change his very nature so as to conform to his parents’ wishes.
“This wedding - it’s simply his latest attack. His latest pointed barb about what our parents wanted from us, what he apparently finds so easy to give them. His latest reminder of how disappointed they would have been in me.”
Sherlock was practically unmoving except for his long, agile fingers, whose slightly jerky movements revealed his anxiety as they fluttered away and drew half-shaped forms to punctuate his story. At first John found himself at a loss of what he could possibly answer this strange and unknown version of his master, who seemed more vulnerable and yet more tightly-guarded than ever before. But truly, only one thing could ever only distract the Prince - and so John did his best to present him with a mystery that could effectively attract his attention.
“As another second child, I understand the feeling of always being compared to one’s elder and being found lacking. Yet consider that your sibling was at least another boy.”
It worked like a charm - the strange insecurity that lingered in Sherlock’s eyes, like he expected to be mocked and shut out now that he had confided to his feelings, swiftly disappeared as he analysed John’s curious comment.
“But your boots, I thought…and you didn’t correct me.”
John smiled a little at that. Trust the man to remember such a detail almost two months after their meeting.
“I didn’t, because you were right. Or at least, you’re supposed to be. Officially, I do have an older brother. Harry, however, was born a girl.”
Sherlock straightened a little on his armchair, obviously interested in this unusual titbit of information about his childhood.
“Why would your parents pretend such a thing?”
“When Harry - or Harriet, should I say - was born, there were complications; my mother was told she wouldn’t be able to bear any more children. My father needed an heir, but loved his spouse too much to remarry, so he raised Harry as he would have done a son. I was born seven years later, but I was premature; and my father kept the charade until they were sure I was going to survive. By the time I was six and finally robust enough, it was too late. Harry is quite strong-willed, you see, and she enjoyed the freedom life as a boy afforded her. She liked sword-fighting far too much to drop it for embroidery and she categorically refused to ‘become a girl’. In any case, I believe she makes a far better heir than I would ever have done.” John smiled a little bitterly.
“What did your parents do when it was time to give her away, then?”
John’s smile became more sincere at the query.
“Oh, they married her.”
Once again, a slight show of surprise.
“How did they?”
“They married Harriet far under her station, hoping the promise of a title would allow them to avoid the young bride making a scandal, and it did. The last I heard, Clara and my sister were living quite happily together.”
The silence that fell between them then was sudden to say the least and should probably have felt awkward, but it really didn’t - perhaps because they had both said all they needed to. Sherlock had offered his knight one of the keys necessary to understand the enigmatic man a little better and John had reciprocated by not directly acknowledging the rare gift it was; and somehow, nothing seemed to summarize their complicated relationship better than this atypical moment.
***
Contrary to what Sherlock had predicted, once the first ceremonies had been attended John and he had little to do in terms of “boring political matters”. Oh, John had no doubt that Sherlock’s presence would have been accepted or was even usually required in many of the reunions that took place during those two weeks before the wedding, but the King knew how to pick his battles and thus left the Prince well enough alone.
John was torn between being relieved - considering he was apparently Sherlock’s only confident as well as his knight he was expected to attend the meetings his master did, no matter that it should have been the role of the Prince’s manservant, but he didn’t have access to a comfortable chair - and a bit disappointed, as the two meetings they had been forced to join in had allowed him to commiserate in lowered voices with Princess Adler’s confident, Lady Sarah, over what it meant to serve a master with such unusual character. Considering that both official gatherings had put Sherlock in the blackest mood he had yet to see the Prince in he finally settled on grateful, even if the absence of cases and John’s inability to make a decent sparring partner with his hurt arm meant Sherlock was often dreadfully bored and therefore terribly annoying.
Sherlock’s mood reflected others’ for once - tension was spreading on the castle as the wedding approached, a dark feeling far from the joyful anticipation John had been vaguely expecting. A metaphorical storm seemed to be slowly brewing and he found himself wishing more than once that it would finally unleash itself, no matter the casualties.
When the rain finally started falling, however, he found himself far too drenched to feel any kind of relief.
***
Most people acted before thinking. They were ruled by their instincts, merely reacting to stimuli rather than trying to influence them. It was an important part of the reason Sherlock despised most of humanity and certainly nothing he’d ever thought he’d envy. But he had been wrong, because here was John, white and not breathing and on the floor, and he really had to do something but still his brain wouldn’t let his body act before it had analysed the scene - white lips, poison, mug of ale slowly spilling its contents on the floor, most probable means of poisoning, he had to make sure there was enough left to analyse what the toxic had been, the door hadn’t been forced, someone had been invited in or had the key, or the beverage had been altered in the kitchen, was the drink left for him or for John, would a physician come soon enough to save his knight? And then a stray thought; this is just like this time in the forest when John had been hurt. But so much worse.
The boy who had been emptying the nearest bedchambers of their dirty laundry was rather surprised to see the Prince leave his room mere seconds after entering it, and more surprised still to have his shoulder grasped by a vice-like hand.
“Billy. A-There’s a…John. Poison. Physician.” The Prince choked out in a blanch voice. Billy did not waste time with questions - he dropped the laundry he still held, turned heels and ran. Another few seconds and the corridor was empty once more, except for a pile of dirtied sheets and the echo of a kitchen boy’s footsteps.
***
“Breathe. Come on, John, breathe.”
This was totally inefficient, his mind berated him even as he pressed two long fingers to John’s neck. His knight’s mind wasn’t flinching away from an emotional shock, it had been driven away by poison; addressing him would make no difference to his current state. And yet, even as he tried ineffectually to make the other man’s body reject the noxious substance, he couldn’t hold back the litany of nonsensical words that emerged from his lips.
“Spit it out, John. My knight won’t be beaten by some chemical substance. Come on, I thought you were actually looking forward to the ridiculous celebrations next week? You must be the only person in this castle that does. I’m almost certain Mycroft expects you to make sure I behave for the wedding, and you shouldn’t disappoint your King. Believe me, he’s a vindictive man.”
Even as he desperately tried to make sure his knight would live to see another moon, a small part of Sherlock’s mind couldn’t help but notice and analyse his own peculiar reactions. Elevated heart rate. Slightly clammy hands. A light-headed feeling not unlike vertigo. Those were all symptoms which would usually result from physical activity, but this couldn’t be the case right then. Could they really be the result of mere emotional distress? John could die, he thought experimentally, and his breath caught a little as the most extraordinary pain violently stabbed at his chest. Heart attack, he immediately diagnosed, but the pain didn’t repeat itself, merely slowly recessing and leaving a persisting ache behind. This truly was only his answer to the possibility of his knight’s demise. Fascinating.
Suddenly soft brown hands were working alongside his; Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to see that the royal physician was carefully turning John over, making him ingest a mixture he didn’t recognize. It managed what the Prince hadn’t and made the knight vomit violently, and the sight made him sigh in partial relief. Surely John would be fine. They couldn’t have been too late. It was unconceivable.
“Sire. Sire!”
He blinked and found that the scene had changed once more; Ella had put John in a half-sitting position and was now impatiently gesturing at his knight’s feet.
“We need to put him in the bed. I have to examine him more fully.”
Sherlock only nodded, finding to his surprise when he got to his feet that the limbs he had painstakingly trained into submission for the past twenty years were disobeying him as they hadn’t since sudden growth had left him a thin, gangly lad. Ella’s lips thinned a little as he uncharacteristically stumbled to John’s feet but it seemed to be in concern rather than in disapprobation or even in surprise as she said nothing. Soon enough the knight was lying on the Prince’s large bed, his head almost swallowed by the too soft pillows Sherlock always threw on the floor before he attempted to sleep. Ella efficiently took John’s pulse, tested his pupils’ dilatation and felt his forehead.
“Atropa Belladonna, without a doubt. Rapid pulse but his eyes are slow to respond, and his skin is flushed but dry. Still, I wonder…”
“Shouldn’t you be administering morphine as a counter-poison then, instead of wondering?” cut Sherlock, his hands twitching with the need to act, to make sure by himself that his knight would be fine. Ella wasted no time to wonder how the Prince knew the way to counteract belladonna, knowing he frequently dabbled into more-or-less sinister experiments concerning dangerous substances.
“I certainly should, if Knight Watson was in any real danger. As it is, all his symptoms are benign enough, the quantity of poison he must have swallowed was truly minimal. I sincerely believe he wouldn’t have died even if he hadn’t been found out in time; his body would have managed to get rid of it on his own, although he’d have been weak for a few days. As it is, he should wake soon enough - make sure the person who’ll take care of him knows he’s to be kept hydrated and away from any other potentially dangerous drinks.” From the look on her face she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear John had come to be into such a state because he had set his mug too close to the Prince’s most recent experimentation.
Sherlock was aware however that his knight knew to be extremely cautious with anything resembling a chemical substance in their chambers and that he’d have sent for a fresh mug of ale from the kitchen rather than reheating a beverage left in their rooms unattended - this had to be a deliberate attempt on John’s life. Or rather on his health, considering the dosage hadn’t been fatal.
But why such an attack? Poison slipped in a mug of ale, this certainly felt personal. John had only been in the capital for less than two lunar cycles - who could have desired revenge? A slighted lover wasn’t likely - Sherlock would have noticed if John had found someone deserving of his attention. He also doubted John had actual enemies, considering how ridiculously good-natured the man was. No, this was certainly an attempt to make Sherlock react - here he had to pause in his reflexions to unclench his fist, quite surprised to feel his long nails had made themselves at home in the skin of his palm. To scare him, perhaps. To warn him? It didn’t make much sense, considering Sherlock wasn’t working on any case for the King right now, having refused the four last ones offered to him as being too boring before carefully avoiding his brother’s smirk as the larger man implied without a word that his ennui had more to do with his knight’s hurt shoulder than the Prince would like to admit.
He absently let his hand rest on his knight’s forehead as he thought, a whisper of a smile touching his lips as the lines on John’s face faded a little at the coolness of the touch. According to Physician Thompson, John had fallen into a healing sleep and wouldn’t wake for hours, but Sherlock still found himself strangely reluctant to leave the sick man’s bedside. He nonetheless called Billy, who’d been hovering near the door with his eyes wide open all the while, to relay him. He had some work to do after all. The attacker, whoever he or she was, had made a grave mistake. Because he’d stop at nothing to find out who had hurt his knight.
And he knew precisely where to start his investigation.
***
Culverton Smith was certainly an interesting character; his apothecary was renowned for providing its most faithful clients with anything they needed in less than a fortnight, no matter how dubiously legal. The manager with the twisted smile had actually been investigated more than once by the royal guard but they had never managed to find anything against him. The Prince had little doubt that the man’s place was in the dungeons somewhere, or possibly on the gibbet; but Smith’s gossiping tongue held far too much interest for him to try and arrest the man. There wasn’t anything that the man wouldn’t reveal for gold, and he held information about places and people Sherlock would never have allowed his street kids to investigate.
This time however, as he enquired about possible poisoners, threats or bribes seemed to have tied Smith’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, and instead of the five-minute conversation Sherlock had envisioned he found himself debating for next to an hour with the man. In the end it took him attentively studying the other man’s seedy shop and making precise threats as to what he could expose to the royal guard that would be impossible to hide before even the bumbling idiots could get there to even get one name.
And as Sherlock left the apothecary, his long coat floating a little after him in his haste, he tucked this name very close to his brain, murmuring it once to himself just to be able to taste it on his tongue.
“Moriarty.”
It was time to play.
***
Sherlock was back at John’s bedside before the man had even opened his eyes, a part of him he hadn’t even realized had tensed uncoiling at the sight of the colour on his knight’s cheeks and the sound of his even breaths. Ella had been right; John would soon be back to full health.
Now that he had reassured himself of John’s continued existence he should have gone to the kitchens, to ascertain whether the servants had seen anything or anyone suspicious there, or to Mycroft, to discuss the situation and the measures that would have to be taken. The thought that John could reawaken at any moment to find him gone, however, made his inwards twist in a definitively unpleasant way, and he finally sent Billy on his way with a gold coin the kitchen boy gasped over before settling on the chair the boy had just left. There would be time to observe and deduce later - right now, ridiculously enough, nothing seemed quite as important as to make sure that John was safe and breathing.
***
John’s head felt heavy as he regained consciousness but he wasn’t allowed even a moment of sweet obliviousness as to what had taken place before his world had blacked out. He had drunk a little ale and immediately noticed its altered taste - belladonna extract, most probably. He appeared to have passed out before he could spit it out, as his mind went immediately blank as he tried to remember what had happened next. It didn’t explain, however, how he had ended up in a bed that was too soft to be his and with what appeared to be a moist cloth on his brow; and finally his curiosity was too much for him to resist. He tried to open his eyes, groaning a little as the act made twin bolts of pain violently stab his brain.
Stubbornly he blinked again, placing a shaking hand on the bed beside him and trying to raise his body a little from where he felt like he was drowning in a too-soft pillow. The hand that took hold of his right elbow was unexpected but welcomed, especially as he instantly recognised the spindly fingers holding him up. Part of him loosened in relief as he established that the Prince hadn’t been poisoned as well and as he finally managed to open his eyes he found that he already had a small smile on his face.
“Sh-” The rest of the man’s name proved to be too much for him and he started to cough painfully, his throat parched. Spying a glass of water on a nearby table he gestured a little towards it, feeling relief as the Prince pressed it in his hand a short while later. The cool liquid felt rather heavenly as it slid down his throat and he tried with limited success to blink his gratefulness at his friend.
“What happened?”
“You were poisoned. Belladonna extract, if we’re to believe Physician Thompson, but not a truly dangerous amount - she didn’t administer morphine. You’ve been out for a few hours and I have a few rather urgent questions to ask you.”
John signalled by a nod his willingness to answer Sherlock’s queries, but the questions, when they came, didn’t seem so urgent. Sherlock wanted to make sure that John had received the mug directly from the kitchen and to know whether he remembered who had brought it up but he already seemed to have figured out John’s answers. Certainly this pale imitation of an interrogatory could be another example of Sherlock’s refusal to “make bricks without clay”, as he had already referred in front of John to the way people conjectured before they had data; but John preferred to think that Sherlock’s actions obeyed another, much simpler reasoning.
As Sherlock asked him whom he could trust to look after him as he left for the kitchen and he asked for either Lady Hudson or Lady Sarah he didn’t really let himself ponder what it meant that Sherlock had stayed at his side until he was sure John would be fine, nor what the pinched line the Prince’s mouth had become at the mention of the Princess’s maid meant, but a slight smile stubbornly stayed on his features: in spite of his earlier misadventures, the life before him suddenly seemed rather full of possibilities.
***
Just as in many other places, Sherlock knew exactly whom to talk to in order to determine if anything suspicious had happened in the royal kitchens. Janet was a tiny wisp of a girl, looking no more than nine when she was soon to be fourteen and more often sick than in good health. The main cook had an uncharacteristic weakness for the girl’s pale blue eyes and more often than not Janet’s only duties for the day were to make sure that the fire wouldn’t go out and occasionally to stir the large pot of soup that simmered perpetually in the kitchens. Although the girl was grateful for the reprieve she was also quite often bored and made it a game of hers to observe what happened around her - a habit Sherlock encouraged and sometimes rewarded with a few sweets or coins. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had used the girl’s testimony in one of his cases - this time, however, the young girl didn’t have much to tell him.
“I didn’t really see anyone weird, Sire. There’s been a lot of activity around here for the past week, with all the new nobles and servants and everything, but that’s all.”
“Can you remember which ones of the new servants were here this afternoon, then? Around two hours after the sun reached its peek?”
“Well the only one I can remember seeing is the Princess’s lady, the nice one with the beautiful dress. I know she was there because she gave me a silver coin when I went to look for a basin for the Princess. A real silver coin, look!”
Sherlock frowned a little at the mention of Lady Sarah before dismissing the notion as paranoia. He had seen nothing in her interactions with John that would indicate that she wished his knight any harm, after all. Still, he couldn’t help being a little displeased at the thought that she was currently taking care of John, no matter that the reason for his unhappiness was unknown even to him.
Janet had started fidgeting a little in the lasting silence and he concentrated again on the matters at hand.
“What about Sir Moran, the regent’s manservant? An elderly man, with a high forehead and a grizzled moustache.”
“Indeed I saw him, Sire.”
Sherlock leaned forward in interest and excitement, not noticing the girl’s alarm at his eagerness.
“When then?”
“A-ah, around eight this morning I believe. He’s quite often crossing the kitchens, actually - every morning and evening, from what I can tell. He’s not coming on any errand either, even though he always comes right before we send the guests’ meals up.”
“But could he have come a third time today, at the time we’ve discussed?”
“I-I’m not sure he did, Sire. Certainly he could have, as I was busy looking for a basin for Princess Adler.”
Sherlock only nodded, his lips narrowed in thought, as he rose from the chair he had sat in across the girl, absently holding out a gold coin to her. He barely took notice of her widened eyes and enthusiastic thanks, the facts already repeating themselves endlessly in his mind. He was clearly missing a large part of this particular puzzle - and he knew precisely who could enlighten him.
With a moue of disquiet, Prince Sherlock went in search of his brother.
***
“Why was Princess Adler so concerned about this castle’s security?”
“Bohemia is a rich land. Very rich, in fact, and powerful. I’m sure you’re aware of that fact.”
His brother’s answer to his brusque question could have seemed obscure to some, but he had long since grown used to the man’s elliptic reasoning.
“Thus her alliance with us isn’t motivated by her need to reinforce her Kingdom against outside enemies. She’s been threatened from within.”
“No matter how remarkable Princess Adler is, as a woman she can’t truly have power over Bohemia before she marries. Hence our rushed engagement.”
“The regent then?”
“A distant uncle from the Princess, and a trusted friend of her late father. His mind, however, seems to have been slowly poisoned by his closest confident - a certain Sebastian Moran, I believe.”
“I’ve heard of him. An ex-colonel, isn’t he?”
“Indeed. A most dangerous man, from what I understand. Yet he’s not the one we should truly concern ourselves with. There’s been talk of another, more sinister individual…”
As always when he thought his name, Sherlock felt a tremor that was half-hate and half pure fascination.
“Moriarty.”
His brother’s eyes widened the slightest bit in a rare show of surprise before narrowing again.
“I’m certain I don’t want to know how you came to be in possession of this information, Sherlock. In any case, yes, Moriarty’s name has come up more than once, including once in the Princess’s own mouth. She seems to believe he’d stop at nothing to make sure Bohemia stays under its regent’s control, considering she’s not fallen pray to Colonel Moran’s influence.”
Sherlock couldn’t help his mouth tightening a little as he thought about what Moriarty had already done.
“Indeed.”
His tone was non-committal enough but Mycroft picked on his anger, just as he had known he would.
“It had occurred to me to wonder why you would suddenly be so concerned about Princess Adler’s reproaches concerning our security. What has happened?”
“John was poisoned, earlier this day. Belladonna - not a mortal amount.”
“This is most curious. Why would Moriarty issue such a warning? You’ve never encountered him before, and certainly he would have been better off with you ignoring him.”
Mycroft’s voice was loftily pointing out all the discrepancies in the tentative analysis Sherlock was making of this situation and hearing them spoken aloud only made Sherlock this more uneasy. Still, he answered decisively.
“A challenge. A mere provocation. He’s bored.”
“And he doesn’t know what he’s unleashed, does he?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do.” Mycroft slowly made his way to him from where he’d been standing at the window, eyebrow raised inquisitively, and Sherlock was abruptly reminded of everything that annoyed him in his older brother. “You do seem to have formed an unusual…attachment to this knight of yours.”
Sherlock didn’t give him the pleasure of a reaction.
“He has proven to be unexpectedly useful in my line of duty.”
“But has he really? From what I can see, he’s managed to get injured and poisoned in the space of two weeks, taking you out of duty as well.”
“You’re being quite unfair, brother of mine. If your spies did their job correctly you’d know that John Watson’s arm was injured as he tried to save my life - and certainly even you wouldn’t blame him for being poisoned. For all we know the cup was altered because the culpable thought I intended to drink it.”
“Be as it may, your two months trial is getting to an end - and I must confess I’m still not convinced that this situation should be allowed to continue.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as his brother carelessly showed his hand, smiling slightly in triumph.
“Now I understand - this is your latest incentive to get me to do what you want. Be more obedient, Sherlock, and you’ll get to keep your knight. Rather naïve of you, however, to think that I wouldn’t be able to ensure John’s continued presence by myself.”
“But would you, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s smirk promptly disappeared.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt that you’d be able to triple his current wages without it being a strain on your personal finances before many years - but what about his status? He hasn’t been officially dubbed, and as far as I remember my presence is still necessary for this kind of ceremonies.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to object but Mycroft cut him off once more.
“You think he’d stay anyway? Certainly you fill his need for adventure - but what about the need for official recognition his childhood in a poor noble family has left him with? You may not care a whit about your reputation, Sherlock, but what would he expect people to think if he remained at the castle - at your service and paid by you - without any official role? People might talk.”
“People do little else.”
His answer was flippant but he was clearly shaken - at least to those who could read him. Seeing that, Mycroft softened a little.
“In any case, there’s no need to discuss it now; there are still a few days until the end of the second lunar cycle you were allowed. I’ll upgrade security, especially around the kitchens, although you must understand that too much cautiousness would only vex our guests - something I cannot afford right now, with Princess Adler’s uncle’s mind poisoned against us by the colonel. He’d only be too willing to call off this wedding if we gave the slightest hint that we mistrust them.”
As Sherlock stiffly nodded and stalked out of the room, Mycroft gave a slow smile. Even in the brief span of their conversation, Sherlock had shown feelings, muted as they were, that he hadn’t seen in his younger brother since their parents’ demise - and as unexpected as this development was, he knew exactly whom he had to thank for it.
He left a small sigh escape him, however, as he reflected on the matters at hand. The attack on Sherlock’s knight was an unexpected opening move and he had to think on his answer. It was also very possible, he thought with a slightly amused twist of his lips as he wrote a message summoning the royal physician to his personal chambers, that more players than he had expected were involved.
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6500 (18500 words until now)
Pairings: future Sherlock/John and Mycroft/Irene
Summary: When John Watson left his hometown for the capital of the Baker Kingdom, hoping to become a Royal Knight, he had no idea that he'd find so much more there than a title; namely evil poisoners, damsels in not-quite-distress, a manipulative King and a reason to live.
***
After living in the castle for one month and a half John really shouldn’t have been surprised by the time it took the approaching cortège to enter the fortress, but he was all the same. The welcoming party he belonged to had had to stand for what seemed like hours as Bohemian guards and guests slowly made their way into the building and John had wished more than once that he’d be allowed to get back inside and rest his feet a little. To distract himself, he started observing the rather magnificent show the colour of the noblewomen’ dresses created and even tried to apply what little he had learnt of Sherlock’s method to know more about the people whose eyes he met, with little success however.
Few individuals truly caught his attention; the Princess first and foremost, of course, her long dark blond hair being offset by a beautiful ruby placed on her forehead. He was mainly surprised to see that she seemed almost uncomfortable, keeping her head low rather than greeting her hosts as was proper, and that she rode alone, with no maid at her side. A guard among many others was the next person he noticed, if only because he was incredibly beautiful, with a youthful, almost androgynous face. Feeling his eyes on him the guard raised his gaze, smirking impertinently and winking at him. Blushing, John averted his eyes and met Sherlock’s instead, who looked from him to the guard twice before the corner of his mouth rose a little, the way it did when he was darkly amused by something mere mortals would probably never understand. John deflated a little; he didn’t know exactly what emotion he’d been hoping for, but it certainly wasn’t sardonic amusement.
Eventually, though, every guest was let into the castle and assigned to a room - John spared a compassionate thought for the poor castle’s help, which had been working relentlessly for the past two weeks to make sure everything would be ready in time - while the Princess, her regent and their trusted advisors were ceremonially brought into the throne room for an official welcome. Sherlock went along, of course, and thus John did too, marvelling as always at the richness of the décor.
At first everything seemed fine - Bohemia’s regent and King Mycroft exchanged welcomes and pleasantries in a cordial tone while Sherlock, bored out of his mind, drummed his long fingers on the side of his smaller throne and shot John exasperated glances he answered with tolerant smiles. A certain tension nonetheless permeated the room, and everything came as a standstill as it was the Princess’s turn to advance towards her hosts. She seemed even more nervous than she had when riding, John noted with sympathy, even trembling a little.
“King Mycroft, Prince Sherlock, you honour me with your invitation.”
“And you honour us with your presence, my Lady. Nevertheless, I would appreciate to know where my fiancée is.”
John’s eyes widened as the regent closed his with a slightly pained expression and the young woman who wasn’t the princess paused mid-curtsey, cringing a little. Finally the former came forward once more, obviously choosing his words with care.
“I believe you’ve met Princess Adler once before, King Mycroft. Like the bird her family is named after, she doesn’t like to be restrained by anything else than her own whims. She left two days before we did, leaving us with a simple note and no means of tracking her, and told us she would meet us here - we had little choice but to believe her and hope she’d indeed be present today. When we didn’t see her as we approached the castle, her closest confident -” Here he gestured at the long-haired woman in the middle of the room “- pleaded with us to give her a little more time and persuaded us that she could imitate her mannerisms well enough to fool you. Obviously she overestimated her own acting skills.”
The Lady they were referring to winced once more and John frowned a little at the unwarranted attack. Sherlock threw him an amused look - he could almost hear the Prince chiding him once more about his too-soft heart - and spoke for the first time, his baritone voice filling the room and silencing the whispers that had begun to spread.
“I think the Princess isn’t as far as you think, Lord Astair. You, Guard, please come closer.”
The young man that approached was the one John had noticed earlier, and as he spoke his voice reflected his appearance perfectly, being oddly pitched between the masculine and the feminine and extremely mischievous.
“Oh, very well, I guess the game is up. I see you won’t fall for the same tricks twice, Sherlock.”
Both Lord Astair and the Princess’s confident immediately started advancing on the handsome young man.
“Irene! Have you been staying with us under this guise all along?”
“My Lady, this isn’t proper! Please allow me to see to your dress right away!”
The Princess only laughed, a clear bell of a laugh, taking off the official guard headwear with obvious relish and shaking her head a little to free her hair.
“My Lords, it’s indeed a pleasure to see you again! Sherlock, I hope you have kept the painting of me I’d left you with.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a little at what was obviously meant to be a jab, though one John didn’t understand.
“Actually, I thought it only proper to ensure your future husband would be the one privileged enough to possess such an item.”
The Princess seemed unsure rather than mocking for the first time since John had unknowingly met her but the King rose before she could answer, trying to defuse what was slowly starting to resemble chaos.
“Perhaps we should adjourn the rest of the ceremony to tomorrow; I do believe our guests are tired. I’m looking forward to seeing you at our welcoming banquet tonight.”
As Sherlock jumped from his throne and made his way to the side-door usually reserved for servants, sharply gesturing to make sure John would follow him, he could have sworn the Princess’s eyes were studying him curiously.
***
Back in their rooms, John was once more reminded of his determination to understand what was causing his Prince’s black mood as Sherlock threw himself in an almost-empty armchair, his temporary triumph at unmasking Princess Adler’s disguise having been replaced by petulance once again. The knight’s subtle queries of the last days had brought nothing in terms of new information, so he decided to go to the crux of the matter.
“Princess Adler certainly appears to be a determined young woman.”
A non-committal grunt. John remembered however how Sherlock himself had explained that the best way to make an unwilling witness talk was to make him or her want to contradict you - he figured that being complementary enough towards the Princess would accomplish that, considering the rivalry the two royals seemed to be engaged in.
“Undoubtedly mischievous, but then I’d assume nothing less would interest your brother.”
Another small, bored sound.
“Extremely beautiful as well - she seems a good match for the King.”
“She certainly is.”
The Prince’s voice rang with sincerity and bitterness; this wasn’t the answer John had been expecting.
“The perfect Princess. The perfect bride. Only fair for a perfect King.”
Three weeks ago John would have misunderstood those sentences. Now, however, he thought he knew Sherlock enough now to understand that the man didn’t desire the Princess, no matter how lovely she was. Yet, he understood in a sudden moment of clarity, it was still a matter of jealousy. Not knowing where this insight came from, he knew he had to check whether he was right all the same.
“Would your parents have thought so as well?”
He didn’t need to turn his head to know Sherlock had frozen for a second, the way he always did when John said something to surprise him. Astonishment was usually a good reaction to receive from the Prince, one he thrived on - it meant that for a short while he held the too-intelligent man’s total interest. He wondered, however, whether he had gone too far this time, and only realised he had been holding his breath when the Prince’s answer caused him to exhale in relief.
“Certainly they would have. Their only question would have been to know why it hadn’t happened sooner and what I was waiting for to follow in my dear big brother’s humongous footsteps.”
Sherlock suddenly seemed younger than he had ever had, even tugging absently at his hair, a nervous habit John had never seen him indulge in before. John wasn’t certain how to answer - thankfully, it appeared what Sherlock really needed was for someone to listen.
“They always had trouble understanding us - the way we saw the world was certainly quite alien to them. Ironically enough, Mycroft was my only ally then; the only one who got it. It changed as they died, though. Mycroft was only 16, but all of a sudden he was the King, not just my brother. He had no more time for the experiments we used to escape from our lessons to conduct. He started talking politics, when before we had both held them for boring. And when he understood that it was the only thing that would work, he began using our parents’ memories to make me listen to him. ‘Sherlock, don’t act so rebellious, you know how it all upset Mummy.’ ‘Father wouldn’t have wanted you to react this way, Sherlock.’”
The scene had painted himself in sharp colours against John’s closed lids as he listened and his heart hurt a little as he almost saw the boys his land’s leaders had been and imagined them thrown much too early and much too alone in a world of power and politics. The idea of Mycroft using their late parents’ memories to get his little brother to listen to him was unpalatable, but then so was his mind’s vision of a young King who had had to change his very nature so as to conform to his parents’ wishes.
“This wedding - it’s simply his latest attack. His latest pointed barb about what our parents wanted from us, what he apparently finds so easy to give them. His latest reminder of how disappointed they would have been in me.”
Sherlock was practically unmoving except for his long, agile fingers, whose slightly jerky movements revealed his anxiety as they fluttered away and drew half-shaped forms to punctuate his story. At first John found himself at a loss of what he could possibly answer this strange and unknown version of his master, who seemed more vulnerable and yet more tightly-guarded than ever before. But truly, only one thing could ever only distract the Prince - and so John did his best to present him with a mystery that could effectively attract his attention.
“As another second child, I understand the feeling of always being compared to one’s elder and being found lacking. Yet consider that your sibling was at least another boy.”
It worked like a charm - the strange insecurity that lingered in Sherlock’s eyes, like he expected to be mocked and shut out now that he had confided to his feelings, swiftly disappeared as he analysed John’s curious comment.
“But your boots, I thought…and you didn’t correct me.”
John smiled a little at that. Trust the man to remember such a detail almost two months after their meeting.
“I didn’t, because you were right. Or at least, you’re supposed to be. Officially, I do have an older brother. Harry, however, was born a girl.”
Sherlock straightened a little on his armchair, obviously interested in this unusual titbit of information about his childhood.
“Why would your parents pretend such a thing?”
“When Harry - or Harriet, should I say - was born, there were complications; my mother was told she wouldn’t be able to bear any more children. My father needed an heir, but loved his spouse too much to remarry, so he raised Harry as he would have done a son. I was born seven years later, but I was premature; and my father kept the charade until they were sure I was going to survive. By the time I was six and finally robust enough, it was too late. Harry is quite strong-willed, you see, and she enjoyed the freedom life as a boy afforded her. She liked sword-fighting far too much to drop it for embroidery and she categorically refused to ‘become a girl’. In any case, I believe she makes a far better heir than I would ever have done.” John smiled a little bitterly.
“What did your parents do when it was time to give her away, then?”
John’s smile became more sincere at the query.
“Oh, they married her.”
Once again, a slight show of surprise.
“How did they?”
“They married Harriet far under her station, hoping the promise of a title would allow them to avoid the young bride making a scandal, and it did. The last I heard, Clara and my sister were living quite happily together.”
The silence that fell between them then was sudden to say the least and should probably have felt awkward, but it really didn’t - perhaps because they had both said all they needed to. Sherlock had offered his knight one of the keys necessary to understand the enigmatic man a little better and John had reciprocated by not directly acknowledging the rare gift it was; and somehow, nothing seemed to summarize their complicated relationship better than this atypical moment.
***
Contrary to what Sherlock had predicted, once the first ceremonies had been attended John and he had little to do in terms of “boring political matters”. Oh, John had no doubt that Sherlock’s presence would have been accepted or was even usually required in many of the reunions that took place during those two weeks before the wedding, but the King knew how to pick his battles and thus left the Prince well enough alone.
John was torn between being relieved - considering he was apparently Sherlock’s only confident as well as his knight he was expected to attend the meetings his master did, no matter that it should have been the role of the Prince’s manservant, but he didn’t have access to a comfortable chair - and a bit disappointed, as the two meetings they had been forced to join in had allowed him to commiserate in lowered voices with Princess Adler’s confident, Lady Sarah, over what it meant to serve a master with such unusual character. Considering that both official gatherings had put Sherlock in the blackest mood he had yet to see the Prince in he finally settled on grateful, even if the absence of cases and John’s inability to make a decent sparring partner with his hurt arm meant Sherlock was often dreadfully bored and therefore terribly annoying.
Sherlock’s mood reflected others’ for once - tension was spreading on the castle as the wedding approached, a dark feeling far from the joyful anticipation John had been vaguely expecting. A metaphorical storm seemed to be slowly brewing and he found himself wishing more than once that it would finally unleash itself, no matter the casualties.
When the rain finally started falling, however, he found himself far too drenched to feel any kind of relief.
***
Most people acted before thinking. They were ruled by their instincts, merely reacting to stimuli rather than trying to influence them. It was an important part of the reason Sherlock despised most of humanity and certainly nothing he’d ever thought he’d envy. But he had been wrong, because here was John, white and not breathing and on the floor, and he really had to do something but still his brain wouldn’t let his body act before it had analysed the scene - white lips, poison, mug of ale slowly spilling its contents on the floor, most probable means of poisoning, he had to make sure there was enough left to analyse what the toxic had been, the door hadn’t been forced, someone had been invited in or had the key, or the beverage had been altered in the kitchen, was the drink left for him or for John, would a physician come soon enough to save his knight? And then a stray thought; this is just like this time in the forest when John had been hurt. But so much worse.
The boy who had been emptying the nearest bedchambers of their dirty laundry was rather surprised to see the Prince leave his room mere seconds after entering it, and more surprised still to have his shoulder grasped by a vice-like hand.
“Billy. A-There’s a…John. Poison. Physician.” The Prince choked out in a blanch voice. Billy did not waste time with questions - he dropped the laundry he still held, turned heels and ran. Another few seconds and the corridor was empty once more, except for a pile of dirtied sheets and the echo of a kitchen boy’s footsteps.
***
“Breathe. Come on, John, breathe.”
This was totally inefficient, his mind berated him even as he pressed two long fingers to John’s neck. His knight’s mind wasn’t flinching away from an emotional shock, it had been driven away by poison; addressing him would make no difference to his current state. And yet, even as he tried ineffectually to make the other man’s body reject the noxious substance, he couldn’t hold back the litany of nonsensical words that emerged from his lips.
“Spit it out, John. My knight won’t be beaten by some chemical substance. Come on, I thought you were actually looking forward to the ridiculous celebrations next week? You must be the only person in this castle that does. I’m almost certain Mycroft expects you to make sure I behave for the wedding, and you shouldn’t disappoint your King. Believe me, he’s a vindictive man.”
Even as he desperately tried to make sure his knight would live to see another moon, a small part of Sherlock’s mind couldn’t help but notice and analyse his own peculiar reactions. Elevated heart rate. Slightly clammy hands. A light-headed feeling not unlike vertigo. Those were all symptoms which would usually result from physical activity, but this couldn’t be the case right then. Could they really be the result of mere emotional distress? John could die, he thought experimentally, and his breath caught a little as the most extraordinary pain violently stabbed at his chest. Heart attack, he immediately diagnosed, but the pain didn’t repeat itself, merely slowly recessing and leaving a persisting ache behind. This truly was only his answer to the possibility of his knight’s demise. Fascinating.
Suddenly soft brown hands were working alongside his; Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to see that the royal physician was carefully turning John over, making him ingest a mixture he didn’t recognize. It managed what the Prince hadn’t and made the knight vomit violently, and the sight made him sigh in partial relief. Surely John would be fine. They couldn’t have been too late. It was unconceivable.
“Sire. Sire!”
He blinked and found that the scene had changed once more; Ella had put John in a half-sitting position and was now impatiently gesturing at his knight’s feet.
“We need to put him in the bed. I have to examine him more fully.”
Sherlock only nodded, finding to his surprise when he got to his feet that the limbs he had painstakingly trained into submission for the past twenty years were disobeying him as they hadn’t since sudden growth had left him a thin, gangly lad. Ella’s lips thinned a little as he uncharacteristically stumbled to John’s feet but it seemed to be in concern rather than in disapprobation or even in surprise as she said nothing. Soon enough the knight was lying on the Prince’s large bed, his head almost swallowed by the too soft pillows Sherlock always threw on the floor before he attempted to sleep. Ella efficiently took John’s pulse, tested his pupils’ dilatation and felt his forehead.
“Atropa Belladonna, without a doubt. Rapid pulse but his eyes are slow to respond, and his skin is flushed but dry. Still, I wonder…”
“Shouldn’t you be administering morphine as a counter-poison then, instead of wondering?” cut Sherlock, his hands twitching with the need to act, to make sure by himself that his knight would be fine. Ella wasted no time to wonder how the Prince knew the way to counteract belladonna, knowing he frequently dabbled into more-or-less sinister experiments concerning dangerous substances.
“I certainly should, if Knight Watson was in any real danger. As it is, all his symptoms are benign enough, the quantity of poison he must have swallowed was truly minimal. I sincerely believe he wouldn’t have died even if he hadn’t been found out in time; his body would have managed to get rid of it on his own, although he’d have been weak for a few days. As it is, he should wake soon enough - make sure the person who’ll take care of him knows he’s to be kept hydrated and away from any other potentially dangerous drinks.” From the look on her face she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear John had come to be into such a state because he had set his mug too close to the Prince’s most recent experimentation.
Sherlock was aware however that his knight knew to be extremely cautious with anything resembling a chemical substance in their chambers and that he’d have sent for a fresh mug of ale from the kitchen rather than reheating a beverage left in their rooms unattended - this had to be a deliberate attempt on John’s life. Or rather on his health, considering the dosage hadn’t been fatal.
But why such an attack? Poison slipped in a mug of ale, this certainly felt personal. John had only been in the capital for less than two lunar cycles - who could have desired revenge? A slighted lover wasn’t likely - Sherlock would have noticed if John had found someone deserving of his attention. He also doubted John had actual enemies, considering how ridiculously good-natured the man was. No, this was certainly an attempt to make Sherlock react - here he had to pause in his reflexions to unclench his fist, quite surprised to feel his long nails had made themselves at home in the skin of his palm. To scare him, perhaps. To warn him? It didn’t make much sense, considering Sherlock wasn’t working on any case for the King right now, having refused the four last ones offered to him as being too boring before carefully avoiding his brother’s smirk as the larger man implied without a word that his ennui had more to do with his knight’s hurt shoulder than the Prince would like to admit.
He absently let his hand rest on his knight’s forehead as he thought, a whisper of a smile touching his lips as the lines on John’s face faded a little at the coolness of the touch. According to Physician Thompson, John had fallen into a healing sleep and wouldn’t wake for hours, but Sherlock still found himself strangely reluctant to leave the sick man’s bedside. He nonetheless called Billy, who’d been hovering near the door with his eyes wide open all the while, to relay him. He had some work to do after all. The attacker, whoever he or she was, had made a grave mistake. Because he’d stop at nothing to find out who had hurt his knight.
And he knew precisely where to start his investigation.
***
Culverton Smith was certainly an interesting character; his apothecary was renowned for providing its most faithful clients with anything they needed in less than a fortnight, no matter how dubiously legal. The manager with the twisted smile had actually been investigated more than once by the royal guard but they had never managed to find anything against him. The Prince had little doubt that the man’s place was in the dungeons somewhere, or possibly on the gibbet; but Smith’s gossiping tongue held far too much interest for him to try and arrest the man. There wasn’t anything that the man wouldn’t reveal for gold, and he held information about places and people Sherlock would never have allowed his street kids to investigate.
This time however, as he enquired about possible poisoners, threats or bribes seemed to have tied Smith’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, and instead of the five-minute conversation Sherlock had envisioned he found himself debating for next to an hour with the man. In the end it took him attentively studying the other man’s seedy shop and making precise threats as to what he could expose to the royal guard that would be impossible to hide before even the bumbling idiots could get there to even get one name.
And as Sherlock left the apothecary, his long coat floating a little after him in his haste, he tucked this name very close to his brain, murmuring it once to himself just to be able to taste it on his tongue.
“Moriarty.”
It was time to play.
***
Sherlock was back at John’s bedside before the man had even opened his eyes, a part of him he hadn’t even realized had tensed uncoiling at the sight of the colour on his knight’s cheeks and the sound of his even breaths. Ella had been right; John would soon be back to full health.
Now that he had reassured himself of John’s continued existence he should have gone to the kitchens, to ascertain whether the servants had seen anything or anyone suspicious there, or to Mycroft, to discuss the situation and the measures that would have to be taken. The thought that John could reawaken at any moment to find him gone, however, made his inwards twist in a definitively unpleasant way, and he finally sent Billy on his way with a gold coin the kitchen boy gasped over before settling on the chair the boy had just left. There would be time to observe and deduce later - right now, ridiculously enough, nothing seemed quite as important as to make sure that John was safe and breathing.
***
John’s head felt heavy as he regained consciousness but he wasn’t allowed even a moment of sweet obliviousness as to what had taken place before his world had blacked out. He had drunk a little ale and immediately noticed its altered taste - belladonna extract, most probably. He appeared to have passed out before he could spit it out, as his mind went immediately blank as he tried to remember what had happened next. It didn’t explain, however, how he had ended up in a bed that was too soft to be his and with what appeared to be a moist cloth on his brow; and finally his curiosity was too much for him to resist. He tried to open his eyes, groaning a little as the act made twin bolts of pain violently stab his brain.
Stubbornly he blinked again, placing a shaking hand on the bed beside him and trying to raise his body a little from where he felt like he was drowning in a too-soft pillow. The hand that took hold of his right elbow was unexpected but welcomed, especially as he instantly recognised the spindly fingers holding him up. Part of him loosened in relief as he established that the Prince hadn’t been poisoned as well and as he finally managed to open his eyes he found that he already had a small smile on his face.
“Sh-” The rest of the man’s name proved to be too much for him and he started to cough painfully, his throat parched. Spying a glass of water on a nearby table he gestured a little towards it, feeling relief as the Prince pressed it in his hand a short while later. The cool liquid felt rather heavenly as it slid down his throat and he tried with limited success to blink his gratefulness at his friend.
“What happened?”
“You were poisoned. Belladonna extract, if we’re to believe Physician Thompson, but not a truly dangerous amount - she didn’t administer morphine. You’ve been out for a few hours and I have a few rather urgent questions to ask you.”
John signalled by a nod his willingness to answer Sherlock’s queries, but the questions, when they came, didn’t seem so urgent. Sherlock wanted to make sure that John had received the mug directly from the kitchen and to know whether he remembered who had brought it up but he already seemed to have figured out John’s answers. Certainly this pale imitation of an interrogatory could be another example of Sherlock’s refusal to “make bricks without clay”, as he had already referred in front of John to the way people conjectured before they had data; but John preferred to think that Sherlock’s actions obeyed another, much simpler reasoning.
As Sherlock asked him whom he could trust to look after him as he left for the kitchen and he asked for either Lady Hudson or Lady Sarah he didn’t really let himself ponder what it meant that Sherlock had stayed at his side until he was sure John would be fine, nor what the pinched line the Prince’s mouth had become at the mention of the Princess’s maid meant, but a slight smile stubbornly stayed on his features: in spite of his earlier misadventures, the life before him suddenly seemed rather full of possibilities.
***
Just as in many other places, Sherlock knew exactly whom to talk to in order to determine if anything suspicious had happened in the royal kitchens. Janet was a tiny wisp of a girl, looking no more than nine when she was soon to be fourteen and more often sick than in good health. The main cook had an uncharacteristic weakness for the girl’s pale blue eyes and more often than not Janet’s only duties for the day were to make sure that the fire wouldn’t go out and occasionally to stir the large pot of soup that simmered perpetually in the kitchens. Although the girl was grateful for the reprieve she was also quite often bored and made it a game of hers to observe what happened around her - a habit Sherlock encouraged and sometimes rewarded with a few sweets or coins. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had used the girl’s testimony in one of his cases - this time, however, the young girl didn’t have much to tell him.
“I didn’t really see anyone weird, Sire. There’s been a lot of activity around here for the past week, with all the new nobles and servants and everything, but that’s all.”
“Can you remember which ones of the new servants were here this afternoon, then? Around two hours after the sun reached its peek?”
“Well the only one I can remember seeing is the Princess’s lady, the nice one with the beautiful dress. I know she was there because she gave me a silver coin when I went to look for a basin for the Princess. A real silver coin, look!”
Sherlock frowned a little at the mention of Lady Sarah before dismissing the notion as paranoia. He had seen nothing in her interactions with John that would indicate that she wished his knight any harm, after all. Still, he couldn’t help being a little displeased at the thought that she was currently taking care of John, no matter that the reason for his unhappiness was unknown even to him.
Janet had started fidgeting a little in the lasting silence and he concentrated again on the matters at hand.
“What about Sir Moran, the regent’s manservant? An elderly man, with a high forehead and a grizzled moustache.”
“Indeed I saw him, Sire.”
Sherlock leaned forward in interest and excitement, not noticing the girl’s alarm at his eagerness.
“When then?”
“A-ah, around eight this morning I believe. He’s quite often crossing the kitchens, actually - every morning and evening, from what I can tell. He’s not coming on any errand either, even though he always comes right before we send the guests’ meals up.”
“But could he have come a third time today, at the time we’ve discussed?”
“I-I’m not sure he did, Sire. Certainly he could have, as I was busy looking for a basin for Princess Adler.”
Sherlock only nodded, his lips narrowed in thought, as he rose from the chair he had sat in across the girl, absently holding out a gold coin to her. He barely took notice of her widened eyes and enthusiastic thanks, the facts already repeating themselves endlessly in his mind. He was clearly missing a large part of this particular puzzle - and he knew precisely who could enlighten him.
With a moue of disquiet, Prince Sherlock went in search of his brother.
***
“Why was Princess Adler so concerned about this castle’s security?”
“Bohemia is a rich land. Very rich, in fact, and powerful. I’m sure you’re aware of that fact.”
His brother’s answer to his brusque question could have seemed obscure to some, but he had long since grown used to the man’s elliptic reasoning.
“Thus her alliance with us isn’t motivated by her need to reinforce her Kingdom against outside enemies. She’s been threatened from within.”
“No matter how remarkable Princess Adler is, as a woman she can’t truly have power over Bohemia before she marries. Hence our rushed engagement.”
“The regent then?”
“A distant uncle from the Princess, and a trusted friend of her late father. His mind, however, seems to have been slowly poisoned by his closest confident - a certain Sebastian Moran, I believe.”
“I’ve heard of him. An ex-colonel, isn’t he?”
“Indeed. A most dangerous man, from what I understand. Yet he’s not the one we should truly concern ourselves with. There’s been talk of another, more sinister individual…”
As always when he thought his name, Sherlock felt a tremor that was half-hate and half pure fascination.
“Moriarty.”
His brother’s eyes widened the slightest bit in a rare show of surprise before narrowing again.
“I’m certain I don’t want to know how you came to be in possession of this information, Sherlock. In any case, yes, Moriarty’s name has come up more than once, including once in the Princess’s own mouth. She seems to believe he’d stop at nothing to make sure Bohemia stays under its regent’s control, considering she’s not fallen pray to Colonel Moran’s influence.”
Sherlock couldn’t help his mouth tightening a little as he thought about what Moriarty had already done.
“Indeed.”
His tone was non-committal enough but Mycroft picked on his anger, just as he had known he would.
“It had occurred to me to wonder why you would suddenly be so concerned about Princess Adler’s reproaches concerning our security. What has happened?”
“John was poisoned, earlier this day. Belladonna - not a mortal amount.”
“This is most curious. Why would Moriarty issue such a warning? You’ve never encountered him before, and certainly he would have been better off with you ignoring him.”
Mycroft’s voice was loftily pointing out all the discrepancies in the tentative analysis Sherlock was making of this situation and hearing them spoken aloud only made Sherlock this more uneasy. Still, he answered decisively.
“A challenge. A mere provocation. He’s bored.”
“And he doesn’t know what he’s unleashed, does he?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do.” Mycroft slowly made his way to him from where he’d been standing at the window, eyebrow raised inquisitively, and Sherlock was abruptly reminded of everything that annoyed him in his older brother. “You do seem to have formed an unusual…attachment to this knight of yours.”
Sherlock didn’t give him the pleasure of a reaction.
“He has proven to be unexpectedly useful in my line of duty.”
“But has he really? From what I can see, he’s managed to get injured and poisoned in the space of two weeks, taking you out of duty as well.”
“You’re being quite unfair, brother of mine. If your spies did their job correctly you’d know that John Watson’s arm was injured as he tried to save my life - and certainly even you wouldn’t blame him for being poisoned. For all we know the cup was altered because the culpable thought I intended to drink it.”
“Be as it may, your two months trial is getting to an end - and I must confess I’m still not convinced that this situation should be allowed to continue.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as his brother carelessly showed his hand, smiling slightly in triumph.
“Now I understand - this is your latest incentive to get me to do what you want. Be more obedient, Sherlock, and you’ll get to keep your knight. Rather naïve of you, however, to think that I wouldn’t be able to ensure John’s continued presence by myself.”
“But would you, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s smirk promptly disappeared.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt that you’d be able to triple his current wages without it being a strain on your personal finances before many years - but what about his status? He hasn’t been officially dubbed, and as far as I remember my presence is still necessary for this kind of ceremonies.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to object but Mycroft cut him off once more.
“You think he’d stay anyway? Certainly you fill his need for adventure - but what about the need for official recognition his childhood in a poor noble family has left him with? You may not care a whit about your reputation, Sherlock, but what would he expect people to think if he remained at the castle - at your service and paid by you - without any official role? People might talk.”
“People do little else.”
His answer was flippant but he was clearly shaken - at least to those who could read him. Seeing that, Mycroft softened a little.
“In any case, there’s no need to discuss it now; there are still a few days until the end of the second lunar cycle you were allowed. I’ll upgrade security, especially around the kitchens, although you must understand that too much cautiousness would only vex our guests - something I cannot afford right now, with Princess Adler’s uncle’s mind poisoned against us by the colonel. He’d only be too willing to call off this wedding if we gave the slightest hint that we mistrust them.”
As Sherlock stiffly nodded and stalked out of the room, Mycroft gave a slow smile. Even in the brief span of their conversation, Sherlock had shown feelings, muted as they were, that he hadn’t seen in his younger brother since their parents’ demise - and as unexpected as this development was, he knew exactly whom he had to thank for it.
He left a small sigh escape him, however, as he reflected on the matters at hand. The attack on Sherlock’s knight was an unexpected opening move and he had to think on his answer. It was also very possible, he thought with a slightly amused twist of his lips as he wrote a message summoning the royal physician to his personal chambers, that more players than he had expected were involved.
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5