Chapter Text
If there was one thing a woodwose enjoyed, John thought, it was lazing about.
Sherlock had splayed himself on the sunny riverbank, one hand absently swishing through the cool water. His eyes were closed and every so often one of his ears flicked sharply, repelling an invisible pest. In the bright sunlight, his pelt shone a healthy dark chestnut. John hadn’t realized how dull it had been when he first saw it.
Across the river, John climbed out of the gentle flow of water and seated himself on the rows of dry timber that had washed ashore over the eons, worn clean of their bark during the rise and fall of the seasons. Delicate white flowers sprouted in the rich soil between the logs, climbing toward the sun on long twining stems. Like the rest of the nemeton, the touch of natural forces was evident in the smooth polish of the wood.
It had taken a shockingly short period of time to adjust to constant nudity. Sherlock found John’s self-consciousness uproariously amusing at the start, and John had tried to explain it wasn’t the nakedness so much as the outdoors part that bothered him, where any old holidayer might pop through and get an eyeful.
"The folk don't allow humans to come here," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at John's thick-headedness. "Not unless they have the sight."
Indeed, John’s fledgling greensight had exploded since their arrival. He was used to seeing the double-nature of things by now, like the subtle visibility of Sherlock’s true form beneath his human guise, but as soon as they entered the borders of the sacred grove, Sherlock’s pale skin and dark curls had quickly vanished in favor of his natural appearance.
John lost count of the days after that. They’d explored every corner of the nemeton together. He’d watched Sherlock bask in the nature he’d been denied for so long. It was different than the parks or even the lesser groves; John saw the health returning to him, day by day.
Mycroft had explained that woodwose were creatures of the deep forest, living long and often solitary lives except for their extended kin groups. He’d stayed in London to help Sherlock where possible, but even he had to remove himself to the wilds every few months. John didn’t know how Sherlock had made it so long on contaminated soils and rubbish-filled parklands.
And so John had done what he could to make their visit to the nemeton everything Sherlock needed it to be. Days lounging by the many streams and rivers, nights under the open sky, evenings watching the sunset filter through leafy boughs. He’d spent languid hours making love to Sherlock in the soft, fragrant grasses that grew beneath the trees, and hours more simply touching him, admiring him, savoring him. It was as if John’s very hands were giving life back to him.
He wondered if they weren’t.
The power of the nemeton was undeniable. John felt charged, empowered, utterly confident in his dominion over the grove and its inhabitants. He knew every plant for edibility on sight. The towering oaks that dotted the landscape were like giant fonts of rejuvenating energy. He sensed each spirit being that passed in and out of its borders. Some had come specifically to ogle them from afar, scattering away in fright when John reached out. Most had never met a greenseer but grown up on stories about their tricks. In time, they came to realize John didn’t intend to harm them. Sherlock’s presence helped; the rare woodwose were highly respected for their intelligence and ability to blend seamlessly with the human world.
John hadn’t managed to astral project since the first time it happened, although with guided help from Sherlock he sensed he was getting closer. The dangers were many, according to Sherlock, and he shouldn’t feel rushed to perform feats the druids themselves achieved only after a lifetime of work.
An enormous splash drove John from his thoughts. Sherlock had plunged into the pool, stirring the minnows into a swarm of panicked silver flashes, and he was now swimming his way over to John. With just his head sticking out, his horns made him look like a misplaced antelope frolicking through the water.
John stifled a laugh as Sherlock reached the shore and shook out his pelt. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him and climbed into the row of downed logs where John was sunning himself.
“Something funny?” Sherlock said.
“I was just thinking how silly you look,” John chuckled. “It’s worse than the coat collar. Do you ever decorate them?”
Sherlock contemplatively patted the base of one horn. “I’ve woken to the occasional flower garland. The spriggans think it amusing to wager on how long it will take me to notice.”
“A long time, I’d imagine. Especially when you get lost in that head of yours.”
Sherlock smirked. “They tend to go to rot. Mrs. Hudson called me a walking compost bin.”
They had a stout giggle at that. John invitingly patted the log next to him. “Fancy a lie down? It’s quite nice, the sun.”
“No,” Sherlock said, looking away. John thought he saw spots of color rise in the tips of his ears. “Actually, I’ve got something for you.”
Curious, John sat up as Sherlock reached for the travelsack they'd stored among the felled trunks and white flowers. It held John's abandoned clothes and a few other things, mostly of a personal or hygienic nature. The ancient druids might have been heathens, but John wasn't ready to brave the wilds without toothpaste, at least.
Sherlock removed a slim wooden box from the bottom of the sack. He must have hidden it in one pocket or another because John couldn’t recall seeing it before, and by the craftsmanship it wasn’t something he’d picked up on a whim on the way out to the nemeton. Sherlock set it on a flat span of log and looked up at John, almost shyly.
It was a pretty box, constructed of dark fine-grained wood that fit seamlessly together on silver hinges. John lifted the lid to reveal a velvet-lined interior, within which sat a circle of metal.
John picked it up. It was a bronze headband two fingers wide, lovingly shaped and inlaid with fine silver filigree forming boughs and branches and delicate leaves of oak.
“It’s beautiful,” John said. He glanced up, hesitant.
“You don’t like it?” Sherlock asked.
John rotated the band in his hands, trying to parse how it made him feel.
“It’s a symbol of people who hurt you terribly,” he said after a few moments. “I want nothing to do with their traditions.”
Sherlock laid his hands over John’s, gently pushing the band back toward him. “Then let’s make it our tradition. If anyone who’s ever lived ought to wear it, John, it’s you.”
“I’m not a druid.”
“You’re everything they should have been,” Sherlock insisted. “A dedicated healer, a compassionate protector, a loyal friend to folk great and small. There are none left to name you, so I will take that honor.”
They gazed at one another. Eventually, John bowed his head.
Sherlock slid the band into place above his brow, gently adjusting the placement so it sat just so. It fit perfectly, lightweight and not a hindrance at all.
John blinked up at Sherlock as his hands fell away, and the look of pride that lit Sherlock’s eyes was one he wished he could preserve for all time.
“How is it, then?” John teased, pressing his fingertips to the cool metal rim.
Sherlock’s answer came as a fierce kiss. John sank back, cradled by a slope of wood as if sculpted by the elements to hold them. He draped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and succumbed to the enthusiastic adorations.
Sherlock eventually relaxed into a sprawl atop John, idly nuzzling into his tanned skin, the ridges of one horn scraping lightly against a nearby log. John watched the leaves flutter overhead amidst Sherlock’s soft, contented sounds. As they lay there, the bronze around John’s brow grew pleasantly warm in the sun.
“They wore others things too, didn’t they?” John asked.
Sherlock peered up at him with one iridescent eye. “Oh, yes. This is just the first. I plan to dress you in all manner of torcs and bangles and bands.”
“Anything appropriate for polite company?”
“You don’t want to wear the cloaks, John. Awful, itchy, hot things.”
John raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to keep me nude and sparkly.”
“Problem?” Sherlock innocently asked.
John gave his bare bum a playful smack. “Wanker.”
The giggled together as only they could, until the giggling turned into kissing, and then into slow, deliberate tasting. Sherlock's pelt was sleek and smooth beneath John's palms, all but dry from the bright sunlight, and their mingled hums and rumbles melting into the river's babble.
Sherlock lifted his head, one thumb reverently tracing the line of John's jaw, and his eyes clouded with considerations of an impossible enigma.
“Imagine it,” he murmured. “Me, fallen for a druid.”
John wondered how he’d ever thought Sherlock’s natural countenance strange. His two forms had become one in John’s mind, different sides of the same ethereal beauty, but also touched alike with sorrow. John only recognized its earlier presence now that it had fled, and considered that his greatest victory.
"We needn't go back," John said. "To London, I mean. We need never set foot in that city again."
Sherlock fell into deep contemplation of the offer, fingers absently caressing John, and it was a while before he finally spoke.
"The thing about the woods, John, is that there isn't much murderous intrigue to be found," Sherlock said, sweeping his gaze over the ancient trees above them. "This is pleasant, but I can't say it's my home any longer."
John brushed the fallen fringe away from Sherlock's eyes. "All right. But the moment you get too stroppy, I'm packing you out somewhere green."
Sighing resignedly, Sherlock leaned into John's touch. "Fair enough."
"As for myself," John said, "I wouldn't mind another kip in the sun."
Sherlock made a noise of opposition but cuddled up to John nonetheless, and was soon gently snoring at his side. John's eyes fell on the small white flowers. He snapped a sprig and tucked it into Sherlock's hair, below the junction of his right horn, and settled back to doze, wondering how long it would be before his ridiculous detective caught on.