Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Once upon a time lived a King and a Queen that were extremely foolish. Pretty much everyone is, mind you. Nobles even more often, because nobody calls them out on it. Anyway, being stupid is better than being cruel...well, that's debatable...but I'm getting sidetracked here. The King and the Queen loved each other very much, and one day they were finally blessed with a child. In that age, the most important thing for a ruler was to have the fairies, warlocks, and other magicians' goodwill towards oneself. So, when the christening drew near, the Queen started writing a list of all the magical beings they needed to invite. Then the happy day came, and the King started calling the names on the long, long list. The power of the names lured the fairies, sylphs, and other miscellaneous creatures. His voice, though, vanished well before the end of the list (he wasn't much of a chatterbox, you see), and while he still invoked them, the ones who already came were left to their own devices, which irritated them quite a bit. The King and Queen really should have switched tasks and all would have gone well, but it was just one more proof they were idiots. Things didn't end up as catastrophic as they could have, luckily.

The most furious at being neglected was a fairy named Harriet, because she hated her own name to begin with – Harry was so much better – but the calling ceremony wouldn't have worked if her true name wasn't used. Being left to her own devices, she found no better pastime than starting to swear, “I don't know why we've even been reunited. At all. This child will clearly be no better than your average John, I tell you. And he won't grow that tall either...” She would have continued and cursed the poor baby to a truly wretched life, but another fairy (a silver-haired one) took her by the elbow and said, “Now now, Harry dear, that's quite enough don't you think? Come with me; I've found the refreshments”. Which was perhaps a bit not good of Mrs. Hudson (that was the fairy's name...and believe me, you just don't question fairies' christening choices without repercussions) because Harry was more fond of her alcohol than it would have been healthy. It shut her up, though, and protected the innocent child, so it was justifiable.

Later on, when everyone else present had gifted the baby with something – quite enough qualities to compensate for Harry's spiteful words – finally Mrs. Hudson's turn came. “I like you,” she said to the King and Queen, “I really do, but how much more idiotic can you get? Do you realize I came on my own? I shouldn't even be here, by all rights, but I had to make an habit of keeping an eye on the both of you”.

“Shouldn't be here? What are you saying, Mrs. Hudson? Didn't I write your name so very clearly, at the center of the list? It's just that Mark, poor love, never got to it...Here, check by yourself!” the Queen protested loudly, handing over the inordinately long parchment where all the names had been written.

“Don't worry, I'm not angry. I'm surely not taking it out on the baby. But I had to point out why I'll do what I'm about to do. I'm giving John the best thing I can. I'll take care of him. I'll raise him. I really can't leave him here to be infected by your stupidity. He deserves way better. You don't need to worry, I won't let anything seriously bad befall him, now or later. But – for his own good – I won't let you see him. Not until far later. Not until he will need you and not need you at all at the same time,” the silver haired fairy proclaimed. She quickly took sweet John in her embrace, without the child making even a peep. Then she covered him and herself with a rainbow coloured shawl she kept folded in an hidden pocket. A moment later, both disappeared, as if they had never been there.

The royal couple blinked, then blinked some more, and then had to accept this was no joke (most fairies' sense of humour was known to be peculiar, to put it mildly). Mrs. Hudson's words left them puzzled. A lot. What were they supposed to mean – especially her last ambiguous sentence? It made no sense at all. Either Johnny needed them or he didn't, right? Did this mean they'd never see him anymore? But Mrs. Hudson had implied they'd see him again, and all Faes were very literal when they stated something. Words were powerful after all. Not knowing what to think, King Mark called for all their councillors and courtiers and questioned them. They had been chosen by him, though, and as such they were no better – most were worse – than him and his consort. Hence there was no enlightenment to be had from them. All of them concurred Mrs. Hudson's vague words were very ominous, and could mean nothing for the baby but misfortune, even if she'd promised nothing 'seriously bad' would befall him (then again, what were the parameters of a magical, inhuman creature?).

So the whole court, which expected a week long celebration at the very least, was instead plunged into misery and grief as if Mrs. Hudson had announced she'd eat their baby heir with stewed carrots. But let's leave behind this sad, foolish kingdom and its ineptitude at riddles, and follow John instead. He'll have adventures enough to keep you entertained for awhile.

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Mrs. Hudson didn't take care of John from the start, regardless of what she said. Infants were very much not her area, and there was the matter of Harry and her 'average' prediction. So she found a woman who'd just lost a child and a little spell convinced her all was well and John was her baby. The woman and her husband – the Watson family – were happy again, they'd never hurt the child, and they were average enough that John would grow up without thinking himself above anyone. Harry's words would be respected – sort of. It was fine like this, wasn't it?

Later on, when John started growing up, his fairy godmother came along often enough. There was no trusting his education to the Watsons, after all. He would have a kingdom to rule someday, hopefully better than his parents, so he needed to become an accomplished young man. Mrs. Hudson gave him a taste for literature, found for him a friendly teacher and sparring partner so that he would know how to hold his own in a fight, taught him enough of economy not to send his land bankrupt. It would have been enough for a decent king, but she didn't want him to be a decent king. She wanted a great king. So she added medicine to his studies. If an epidemic broke out, John wouldn't be crying and promising princely rewards for help. He'd be remedying the situation.

Far-seeing as she was, she was very pleased to see him grow up stubborn enough to deal with any hardship, and easily understanding his fellowmen's qualities and feelings. Her literature suggestions were made to instill in John the passion for adventure. John thought he was a normal boy, but he started to dream nonetheless. He imagined to slay the dragon and get some nameless, faceless Princess' hand in marriage. Or to free some kingdom from the evil giants and be recompensed with his throne, because the giants had killed the previous king. When John had finally become a man, he was thrumming with the need for action.

One day he went to a nearby village for an errand, and found everyone assembled in the local square. He went to take a look, and found a few strangers, one of them holding forth. It was clearly an herald and his protectors during the long trip. The man spun a tale of a prince of a far, far away country. A man without a heart. A young man whose heart had been stolen long ago by a vicious magician, who hid it in his palace, high on a mountain, where all was ice and snow. A man who had been put as a prize – as well as the kingdom he would be heir of – to the man, or woman, or creature who managed to recover said heart. Many had tried. All had failed, until now.

The tale waked John's wish for adventure. So usually he wished to save a princess, but who cared? When the herald unveiled a portrait of the prince, his decision was taken. Not only prince Sherlock was gorgeous. The painter must have been wrong depicting his eyes, because they were unlike any John had seen. At the very least, he'd get to see for himself what was the truth behind these pupils if he embarked in this mission.

When the herald asked if anyone wanted to sign up for the challenge, John hurried. And if John Watson looked a bit silly under a long list of princes (and princesses) and other nobles with weird names and weirder titles, well that wasn't going to stop him. Much less the snickers of the herald's companions. He would show them, and loudly proclaimed as much, causing even more ilarity.

When he inquired about where exactly Sherlock lived, though, the portly herald whispered, between directions, “Don't mind them. Why do you think they were sent away with me?”.

John went home and immediately started packing. He didn't even take leave from Mrs. Hudson, just in case she tried to dissuade him. Wherever they went, the herald's guards picked fun at the commoner who wanted to attempt this enterprise, and many people laughed with them at the simple John Watson who presumed to win against evil magic. John's parents too – well, they were idiots. The herald, who was called Mike, smiled to himself instead. He had a feeling things would finally turn out for the best.

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Mike's directions to Sherlock's kingdom – and to the Ice Mountain – had been quite sketchy, mentioning Caucasus and a couple other landmarks. It was enough for John to know that he had to head eastwards, though. Everywhere he went, someone asked where he was going and why. And everyone snorted and/or told him that he should go home when he answered. The annoyance was so great that after awhile, he decided to steer clear of the villages. It was bound to be more interesting that way. And indeed it was. He had to fight often along the way – wild beasts and even a couple of outlaws. John really shouldn't have found it half as fun as he had.

Less fun – but still something he didn't entirely regret – was meeting a werecat. Well, weretiger to be exact. Beasts he knew how to handle; people he could fight; but when the two combined, it was tricky. Literally. The bastard tried to trick him and succeeded to, at least partially (John almost befriended Sebastian before he turned against him). His mount got killed. John was lucky enough to get away only with a wound – quite serious, honestly – and to have been trained so that he could treat himself. He was debilitated for a time though, feeling often woozy and half- feverish. It was only later that he realized how during the recovery he had forgotten to eat. Being in the wild had the downside that he needed to procure his own meal, and John hadn't felt up to it. He didn't feel weak though, even if it should be impossible. John surmised that Mrs. Hudson had intervened to keep him fed – or the magical equivalent of it – and was both grateful and relieved. If she was helping him still, the fact that he didn't take his leave from her hadn't offended her.

After a while, John got better and continued his journey. Soon, he came to a beach, and had to find people again to ask for passage beyond the sea. Since he had traveled alone and by untrod paths, he still had most of his savings, so finding a captain willing to take him was easy. What wasn't easy was the sailing. Not because John was seasick, but because, when they got to deep sea, a sudden storm raged around them. The ship whimpered and whined, and finally broke apart. John swam and swam, and at last touched sand – the white grained beach of an island. No one else of the castaways was with him, and he could only pray that they found safety somewhere else.

The island was beautiful – John wouldn't have minded coming back there for an holiday in the future – but was deserted. John could quite easily get by there, but he couldn't leave it. It seemed a depressing way to end one's adventure, not to mention lonesome, and John sorely wished to have taken lessons in carpentry too. At least he could have built himself a raft somehow. Instead he could only pray for Mrs. Hudson's help, and apparently she was otherwise busy.

Then a day a ship got stuck on the beach. John ran to examine it, and found that it was a very curious boat. It was way too green; it seemed like every wooden part of it had branched and leafed, and the ship looked about ready to bloom. John went on board and he saw that the crew, too, was chestnut and rigid, to the point that he wondered if tree people could live and sail. It seemed outlandish though, even to someone with a fairy godmother, and the doctor in John pondered if this was a rare condition and how it could be healed.

The much called upon Mrs. Hudson decided to finally drop by, and suggested that rubbing them with a paste made of some ingredients, luckily abundant on the island, wouldn't go amiss. Then, she disappeared again with a, “Be good, John.” He followed her recommendations quite eagerly, and soon the crew's appearance was back to that of regular people. A little later, they woke up. With their help, the ship was brought back to normal too.

The captain – named Bill Murray – was all too grateful to John, and consented to tell him their story.

“We were bordering a coast entirely covered by a deep, dark forest, shrouded in deadly silence, when a gust of wind gave us a face full of golden dust, or pollen, I'm not sure. Quickly we started to feel heavy, and sleepy...and that's really all that I can remember.”

“Dust like this?” John asked, pointing to what had fallen earlier from their bodies.

When Bill agreed, he took a sample to bring along in his journey. One never knows what could be useful. John shared his story and troubles then, and for once nobody told him that he was mad.

“If you like, we'd be honoured to have you on our ship. You saved us, the least we can do is bring you wherever you need to be. And wherever this Sherlock needs you,” Bill said with a grin.

John agreed enthusiastically, of course; he shared Mike's directions and they set sail, while the wind hurried them along.

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Turning into wood had comprehensibly confused captain Murray's sense of direction, so he decided to make landfall at the first land they would find. That way they could ask and be pointed the right way. When they saw an island that looked particularly lush, they aimed for it. But they saw no man from a distance, and the dust cloud that moved towards the beach was very low, making them doubt that the place would be inhabitetd.

They were very surprised, because they had a huge welcoming committee. All dogs, though. Dogs dressed – and armed – as soldiers, if that wasn't weird enough. They looked wary, and that made the crew wary in turn. John instead grinned – he loved dogs – and called, “Good dogs. You are good dogs, aren't you?”

A few tails wagged, and a spaniel nudged him. John followed his lead, even if Bill advised against it. After what they went through, strange things didn't sit well with the seamen, who told John they would wait for him for two weeks, but nothing more.

A dog drove the carriage John was led to, and differently dressed dogs were all he could see during the trip. They were busy with all kinds of work – even some you'd bet a dog was unable of doing – and many wagged their tails when John passed. The island didn't look like a land gone wild with the humans' abandonment, even if John had still seen no man, woman or child. It looked like a flourishing country, and wasn't that queer?

John was brought to the palace, which was full of finely dressed dogs – courtiers and pages, and many guards – where he met the Dog King himself, a beautiful, crowned collie. At his side, a poodle minister held a parchment, and started writing down everything the king barked. The king introduced himself as Henry II of the proud Baskerville line, and apologized that they had to converse by written text, since no man could understand dog speech. John bowed courteously and assured that the way of the conversation mattered not, and that he was honoured and glad to have been admitted to his majesty's presence. He admitted to be very curious to know which circumstances had led to the unique situation of the country, if they could be disclosed.

King Henry sighed loudly. “Nothing else than my bad luck,” he said. “A fairy our neighbour, lady Beryl Stapleton, fell in love with me. She's beautiful like a jewel, and in a different life I might have loved her back. But she's hard like one, too, and I was already in love with someone else. I was honest with her – I owed her that much – and told her that while I was honoured by her feelings, my heart was already not my own. She wanted to know whose; and I admitted that I loved Lady Louise Mortimer, queen of the Spice Islands, sweet as much as she's beautiful. Beryl sneered, and stated that I could be her pet if I was so keen on it; and then she changed me to this form. That I could bear, but she changed all my people too, as you've seen, and while they don't complain, this hurts much more. She promised that the curse would be broken, 'the day virtue shall be rewarded by love and fortune'. She could have said nevermore, and be honest. I offered her that courtesy.” And King Henry sighed again.

John tried to cheer him up. After all, the king had only lost his aspect, not lost his mind, his will or his feelings. Magic could do much worse. John was amazed at what he had seen, the hardships that his people had conquered, and made sure to say so. King Henry shouldn't let his spirit be worn down by his sad circumstances and remember that fairies never spoke without reason. The condition to break the curse might appear impossible, but hope wasn't lost until the end.

King Henry was grateful to his visitor for the encouragement, and inquired after his story in turn. Hearing that John was on a quest for love, the king swore that he would help him to the best of his ability. Not only he would give all the maps that John could need to find his way to the Ice Mountain – or to the nearer coast. Henry would have someone accompany him in his journey, to lend all the support John would require.

The king called, and a gray muzzled hound came forth, dressed as an officer of his majesty's guards. “I trust that you will serve my new friend as you did me, Lestrade.”

The hound bowed in acquiescence.

John and Lestrade were then brought back to the ship.

“I'll be grateful for any help, but I'd really rather have you as a friend. I'm not a noble, and whatever your king said, I'm not comfortable with people serving me,” John said.

“Call me Greg then,” Lestrade replied with a crooked grin.

They arrived at the ship, and when John explained that Greg wasn't a 'weird dog', but an unlucky man on the wrong end of a spell without any fault of his own, and that certainly he wasn't contagious, the crewmen apologized quickly. Soon, with the maps they'd been gifted, they set sail towards Sherlock's kingdom.

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When they were in sight of the port, a realization hit John suddenly. With his shipwreck, he'd been left penniless. If he disembarked there, he'd only have people laughing at the broke boy dreaming to play hero and save the prince – again. So he asked to be led to a little bay near the city. He'd make again his way out of other people's path. He was used to it.

“Sorry,” Greg barked. He kept a notebook with him at all times, to be able to talk with John. “I should help you, but life as a guard doesn't make much money to begin with, and since I can be smuggled as a dog I didn't expect many expenses. So I didn't bring enough to allow you to reach your destination. You should have told the king.” He looked sheepish.

“Don't worry. I'm really used to this. And with you, I won't get lonely,” John replied.

Bill of course agreed to the request, and soon John was thanking him and saying his goodbyes to the crew from the beach. There, almost waiting for him, John saw the cutest little monkey you could imagine, her fur all jet black and shiny. She jumped on a tree near the shore, from there to another, then came back, playing around. John looked at her, charmed by her antics.

After all he had seen, John was still surprised when she talked to him. “My poor John, left with your pockets all empty,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, “so I can't get you biscuits or trinkets or anything you like. A pity, I know, for a beauty like you.”

“Since you think of others, and don't worry about yourself, I'll offer you a gift. Follow me alone, and you'll be happy to have done so,” the monkey replied.

Greg sat down and nodded at John, signaling him to go while he would wait. It would be something interesting for sure. If only because the little creature seemed to know his friend. So John followed her, and the monkey guided him through the woods to a place where a huge, solitary black rock sat.

“It looks like nothing special, but it's gold, really, with just a thin coating of rock outside. Hit it with your spear,” she prompted.

John did – it was a good suggestion – and many pieces of different sizes broke off from it, all indeed pure gold.

“Take as much as you want; I did say I'd give you a present,” the creature said.

John took one of the tiniest fragments and moved to go back. The monkey changed then into the most beautiful woman – well, fairy obviously – that John had ever seen. He'd fall in love with her straight away if she didn't look so very cold and unapproachable in this guise too.

“Judicious beyond your years, John. Come and see what would have happened if you had given into greed.”

John followed again – it didn't seem wise not to – and was greeted by a pitiful scene. Many people, all looking entranced, wandered around. Some ran vainly after big chunks of gold that forever escaped them. Others sighed heavily, searching all over the place for something they'd lost. It was a scary prospect, knowing such a thing could have happened to him.

“Instead the little bit of gold you took will never grow any less, no matter how much you spend,” she revealed.

“What's your name, lady? I want to know to whom I have to be grateful,” John said.

“Anthea.”

“That's not really your name, is it?” he queried.

“Surely you don't expect me to be at your beck and call, do you John?” she quipped.

“Oh well. I'll be thankful to lady Anthea then. It suits you. You're certainly as beautiful as the most precious flower,” he replied.

“You really don't need to flatter me, John. Now off you go,” she prompted. When he left, she smiled to herself. It was good to see a promising young man passing her test. Someone else would be satisfied too.

John went back to Greg and told him of their unexpected good fortune.

“Let's go to the city then,” Greg said. “You might be used to the wild, but if you get to your Sherlock's court by the woods there'll be more than a few eyebrows raised. Now you can get yourself a coach, dress up nicely...People will still be stuck up bastards since you aren't a noble, but much less if they think you're rich.”

John knew that was right – sadly – so that's exactly what they did. Greg felt like a fopling when a silver collar for him was deemed a requirement.

“I won't be the only one made to feel like a peacock,” John quipped.

In the city, they asked about Sherlock too. Nobody knew anything, but later on in the journey – near the Caucasus Mike had mentioned – things changed. They heard a lot about Sherlock, then. People gossiped of little else.

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They heard a lot about John's competition, all the princes and princesses out to get Sherlock's heart. One had brought with him an army to offer its services to Sherlock's kingdom. Another one brought invaluable gems. A young princess was the most beautiful and accomplished young woman you could wish to meet. All came from long lines of kings. And there were many, many more princes and princesses who had passed through these lands hoping to conquer the young heir to the throne. John had nothing but himself, an old dog and – he supposed – a fair amount of money, now. Not that he let this bother him. If he was late – better for Sherlock, at least, because the man would have gotten his heart back. But John doubted that anything – pedigree, armies, or beauty – would help them retrieve the stolen heart, and so John journeyed confidently. What interested him much more was knowing about Sherlock himself and how his circumstances came to be, and that was widely known too.

King Sherrinford and queen Scheherazade had been very much in love, and their kingdom flourished. A wintry day, soon after discovering that she was pregnant, the queen had wished to leave the castle, claiming that the baby was making her restless. The royal couple donned their best furs – the king wasn't about to leave her alone – and rode a sledge, because it was that cold. The frost made everything sparkle like a jewel, and the king had loudly (foolishly; arrogantly) defied fate to spoil their happiness.

“That can certainly be arranged,” had replied an old man trudging on the same road, leaning heavily on an incongruous umbrella.

Sherrinford had ordered the man to be brought before him, and had railed against the stranger and menaced punishment. Then the old man had changed to a young but clearly powerful wizard, scaring them and making the king change his tune. An angry wizard could do plenty damage, and Sherrinford had pleaded forgiveness and tried to appease the man.

“Late and false displays don't work on me. You'll remember Mycroft,” the magician said. After, he tapped three times his umbrella on the road and it morphed into an enormous, shiny black dragon that Mycroft rode away from the terrified couple.

When Sherlock was born, the usual appeal to all magical creatures for their blessing took place. Mycroft had been invited too, hoping for a reconciliation, but he hadn't come – apparently. Nobody had really noticed the black cat sleeping under the baby's cradle. The blessings were bestowed, and all was well...or so they thought.

The black cat – Mycroft – had already stolen the infant's heart, but nobody noticed at first. He had brought it to his lair, on top of the Ice Mountain, near the North Pole. The wizard hid the heart in his palace and surrounded it with ice, snow and eternal blizzard until he was confident that there it would remain until the last day of his owner's life. Then Mycroft allowed himself a smile for a job well done.

Sherlock grew up, as perfect as he could be, witty and brave and beautiful, but soon they understood something was wrong with him. Nobody can be long loved unless he loves back too, and Sherlock didn't get feelings at all. If further evidence was needed, you only had to hear him playing his violin. Perfect technique, of course. But no passion. The notes fell like shards of ice.

All magical creatures had been called back to examine him, and finally one had yelled, “Horror! This child has no heart!”

Out of all of them it was a young wizard, named Raz, who had managed, consulting his grimoire, to discover the responsible of this and what he'd done with his loot. The tale of the frozen heart hidden on the Ice Mountain by the evil Mycroft had started then. Since that day, the king – on wise people's suggestion – had offered everything to the person who would return Sherlock's heart to his son, but to this day all was in vain. So many people had climbed the Ice Mountain, and no one had come back, with or without their prize. Well, thought John confidently, that was about to change.

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They came to Sherlock's kingdom, finally. John had half a mind to continue for the Ice Mountain right away, but Greg remarked that no matter his unease at the idea of dealing with nobles, it would be a pity not to see Sherlock before conquering him. So John presented himself to king Sherrinford's court, and was instantly charmed at witnessing that the prince's eyes were really indescribable. Indescribably beautiful, that was.

More of 500 princes and princesses lived in the court, enjoying king Sherrinford's hospitality while they mustered enough bravery to face the dangers of the Ice Mountain. When an herald announced him, the king snorted lightly at the simple John Watson.

A princess whispered something to a young man's ear, and he loudly wondered, “I knew that the challenge was open to princes, princesses and magical creatures. I didn't know that strays were admitted too.”

Lestrade growled softly. John bristled at the sneer and said, “Your Majesty has every right to despise me if it pleases you, since I am below you and I know it all too well. But this rude prince will have to prove if he's really any better than me. I challenge him.” “If Sherlock isn't opposed to it, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

“Please do. This court is in dire need of entertainment.”

Later, John approached Sherlock quietly. “I hope that I won't be facing your favourite. I didn't really ponder my challenge, but I'd like to be your knight – I can be at least that – and facing your champion would really be starting with the wrong foot.”

“Oh please. You're an experienced fighter, brave, stubborn, and even if it shouldn't be at play here, you know how to deal with magic – at least a bit. Philip Parsifal Peter Anderson is a boastful idiot. He's even found a princess of his liking here – I'm sure you noticed her – but my dowry is better so they're both still loitering here. Who do you think I'd bet on?” Sherlock rattled out.

“How do you know all that?”

“Your calluses say that you've trained with weapons. Your whole bearing shows that you've spent a long time having to protect yourself – you've put that training to use. You've chosen to come here, your station notwithstanding, from far away, so stubborn is a given. You would have given up otherwise. Issuing that challenge in the first place means that you're brave, as you couldn't know how pitiful Anderson is. And you're leading an enchanted man around. Either he hopes that you can help me, or you have changed him, but that's less likely, because he's not afraid of you, he likes you instead,” the prince explained.

“I can't help him, but his king appreciated my effort, and said that he was to accompany me. But you've noticed somehow that Greg is a man too. What gave him away?” John queried, curious.

“Oh well. There's always something I miss,” Sherlock replied, with a shrug. “How could I have not. He started growling first after Anderson was a bastard, before he could pick up on your reaction. He understood what was being said. No animal could have done that.”

“That was amazing. You reading people like that. Extraordinaire, truly,” John stated.

“Do you really think so?” the prince queried, sounding honestly baffled.

“Of course,” John assured. Who wouldn't feel like that, after all?

Apparently, everyone else. “That's not the usual reaction,” Sherlock admitted.

“Why, what do they do?” John inquired, curious.

“Most splutter, but then start to talk about how they'll be the ones to fix me. As if I'm broken,” the other sniffled.

“Of course you're not. Wait, if you're this clever, everything you said about Anderson is true too. Why didn't you send him and his girlfriend away?” John asked, with a late bout of sudden realization.

“Because I don't care what he does; and I think that it's not my place. I'm the prize here. If Anderson gets my heart he'll get me. But I trust Mycroft. An archenemy is good to weed out these people at least.” It should have been sad admitting to that, but Sherlock was merely clinical.

John got indignant about it on his account, instead. “Now I'll be twice as more happy to give him a lesson.”

“You do it,” Sherlock smirked.

And he did, later. Anderson came with a cortège of pages, squires and various minions (and his princess, a Sally something or other, never too far – really, their cheek was incredible). People cheered for him, while they looked down on John, with only Greg at his side. After the duel – which John won; of course he did – people loved the winner, and started saying how Anderson had never been more than empty boast.

John thought that he'd pay homage and be soon moving towards the Ice Mountain, but a thing was strikingly evident: for all his suitors, Sherlock was desperately lonely.

“Who's your favourite?” John had asked once on a whim.

“Favourite?” Sherlock echoed in almost distaste. “John, I'm surrounded by dull people who bore me to tears with absurd sentimental drivel. They should know better than ask for what I can't give. You're my favourite, because at least we can have decent conversation. Obviously not in a romantic sense,” he huffed.

“Obviously,” John agreed.

“Not to mention half of them at least plan to kill me after the wedding should they be lucky enough to get me. Let's hope they're creative about that,” the prince revealed.

“What? No, you're absolutely not allowed to die! You're my friend,” John proclaimed.

“They'll lose anyway. Mycroft is good at his job.”

Mycroft was very good, and John was the very first friend he got, so Sherlock was very anxious not to see him depart. John had tales to share, he handed over his tree-making pollen for experimenting (and put his foot down about no human subjects), followed Sherlock when he sneaked out. Which he had to do because his parents wanted him trapped in the palace until he was 'healed' on the excuse that his people would start to hate him otherwise because of his lack of heart. But if they didn't know that he was their prince they wouldn't, Sherlock reasoned. Not to mention that he could sham at being normal for awhile. Maybe John had to tell him that he was being not-good sometimes, but they had beautiful days (if with a few skirmishes). It was custom for the suitors to offer gifts, and John gave Greg to Sherlock, rather than buying him anything. It made him more happy than he'd been in a long time, because Greg too had interesting tales to share of his time at king Henry's service. Sherlock's boredom was relieved as it had never been.

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It soon became evident that John was the only one to have sway over Sherlock. That naturally made him envied, but people knew better than sneer at him or speak ill of him. Not only John had proven that he would not let anyone humiliate him. When Anderson had tried to insinuate that some sort of magic foul play had been involved in the duel, Sherlock had turned on him viciously, outed his relationship in the most public way possible, shamed him (and the princess he had a tryst with, for good measure) and ensured both Philip and Sally's expulsion from the court. For someone who didn't care what the man did, and was willing to allow the man to make his attempt, it was a huge turn around. John didn't really need Sherlock to defend him, but it was nice, and after that people left him alone.

Until a young fine princess, named Molly, asked John to ask if Sherlock would allow her to participate in their experimenting (of course that wasn't a secret) and John had agreed and persuaded his friend. Sure, Sherlock behaved still as if she were transparent, but allowed her presence, and she had fun being involved in their observations. So people started asking John for favors, and as long as there was nothing wrong with them, he did his best to have them granted. Sherlock still found everyone but him unspeakably dull, but started mingling with his suitors more than he'd ever done. John's version of a ploy might be not much, but he hoped that at least some of them were reconsidering the 'murder after marriage' plan. Not that it should have mattered; John was supposed to give him back his heart. It didn't hurt to reckon with every possibility, though.

After a while, king Sherrinford received a letter so conceived. “I, James Argironetes Ganelon Moriarty, prince of the Mesothelae kingdom, have just been informed of your son's situation. Chase away all these foolish youngsters who undoubtedly have become your kingdom's pest. Forget all empty talk of the Ice Mountain too. I'm more than worthy a man to receive your beautiful son's hand in marriage, and I don't mind having him exactly as he is. We shall unite our noble houses' destinies, both having more glory and prosperity as a result. I'll be sending my ambassador, and I expect Sherlock to be brought to my presence by my faithful servant. Respectfully yours, Moriarty.”

King Sherrinford wanted to keep this a secret, but there was no way Sherlock wouldn't share this with John. “If it weren't for you, I'd be eagerly making preparations to leave now,” he admitted.

“Why? He's clearly an arrogant bastard, Sherlock!”

“He's ok with me. He doesn't care if I'm heartless. I suspect that he has very little heart of his own. It looks like destiny, almost. But you are here. And you too don't mind me as I am. There's no chance that I'm giving you up to go away. He'll just have to give up hope,” Sherlock confessed, ending with a smile.

“If he doesn't, I'll make him,” John assured.

“Of course, that's hoping dad won't decide that he'd rather agree with Moriarty and be finally rid of me. He's trying to resolve now, and I've never seen him so conflicted,” the prince revealed.

“I'm still not letting you end up in his hands,” John vowed earnestly. “What would you give to the man who got you rid of these unwanted attentions?” he only half jested.

“My eternal gratitude, of course,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice sending shivers of pleasure down John's spine.

“And what would be your wish for the valiant warrior who accomplished such a feat?”he quipped.

“I'd wish that he would become like me and be forever untouched by love and all others troublesome feelings.” Which wasn't a very considerate thing to say to a suitor, but John knew better than be disappointed or let himself be disheartened by that line.

Things settled back into normality – well, their normality – but with an undercurrent of tension, because they were waiting for the ambassador to come and king Sherrinford's choice, which he kept putting off.

John was surprised by his godmother, who dropped by once unannounced. “Do not worry too much over what will happen, John,” Mrs. Hudson prompted. “I can promise you that everything will turn out for the better.” She gave him an enigmatic smile.

Finally the day came when the ambassador reached the court. The ambassador was in truth an ambassadress, surprising them all. Had Moriarty reconsidered whom to send? She led a long cortege of pages, guards and other various people. The townsfolk had gathered to look at the marvelous show they'd offer, or so they expected.

Mrs. Hudson had come too, and with a mischievous streak all Faes shared, she enchanted all the retinue (and the ambassadress too, of course). Where there was silver harnesses, velvet and satin apparels, she made so that they looked all dressed in rags and filthy. The crowd, instead of being in awe, jeered and laughed at them. Parading so solemnly in so pitiful an attire, they looked more like people sentenced going to their fate than foreign dignitaries.

Even the last page was shocked and burning with shame. The lady ambassadress was comprehensibly irritated at the lack of respect, but them she understood what had to be happening. When she was in front of the king's palace, she decided to try and bypass the spell. So she nonchalantly undressed, ordering to her followers to do the same. If only their clothes had been enchanted – as she hoped, because otherwise there was nothing she could do – being naked would ensure that everyone saw how perfect her and her escort were. It did work, clearly, from the baited breaths who welcomed the sight.

“Open up to prince Moriarty's envoys,” she ordered then.

Everyone in the palace had observed her approach, and when she got rid of the spell Sherlock commented, “Clever! Pity she's not personally interested in me.”

John squashed a bout of jealousy. It had been cleverly – and boldly – executed.

King Sherrinford looked at his son. He might have been in doubt about his answer up to this moment, but now he knew what he had to do. It was bad enough that Sherlock's favourite was a commoner. If he behaved improperly, trying to seduce his husband-to-be's ambassadress, Moriarty would undoubtedly not be amused when he knew – and he would know. Worse if he managed to actually have intercourse with her, though it did say good things about his taste. Sherrinford wouldn't be able to protect his son from his intended in any of these eventualities. This marriage, however tempting it had looked, was not meant to be. He needed to push the blame on the strangers, though, and he had been handed quite an easy excuse too. “You presume too much,” he said, appearing on a balcony. “Why would we? This court is open to anyone who wants to challenge the Ice Mountain, but expecting us to hand my only son over to a whore is obviously a gross oversight on your prince's part.”

“So be it,” she replied. “Since you've refused to receive Irene Adler into your home, you shall face war. Don't regret the consequences.” She dressed again and led her followers away.

Chapter Text

A little later, John received a letter from king Henry, inquiring how his courtship was going, and he wrote back, detailing the situation and the dangers that Sherlock's kingdom would face. With war imminent, Sherlock wanted to participate in the fight, but his parents naturally wouldn't hear of that.

“You know that I'm usually on your side, but this time do stay back, Sherlock. If anything happened to you, it would be the greatest possible victory for Moriarty. The arrogant bastard doesn't deserve to even lay eyes upon you. As much as you hate it, let us protect you this time. As friends if nothing else. Friends protect each other. And war isn't an adventure. Will you promise me to stay safe, please?” John appealed.

The prince frowned. He wanted to say no, but he'd never found it easy to deny John. “If you promise to come back to me, John. If anything happens to you I'll show him exactly what I can do and why everyone is so anxious to get my heart back,” he replied. Sherlock was well aware that he had a huge potential for chaos and destruction. It was part of what made his parents so worried all the time. He just never had a reason to unleash it.

“Fine,” John agreed. “I have every intention to come back, Sherlock. You couldn't keep me away if you tried.” Totally disregarding that the last thing wasn't what Sherlock meant at all, but it implicitly presented the other outcome as impossible, and it worked.

“I'll hold you to that,” the prince countered.

So the preparations for the war started. Every male suitor (and a couple of the princesses, too) had volunteered for king Sherrinford's army. Everyone wanted to be an officer – and got it, too. John didn't care for that, and with a clever move secured a position as aide-de-camp of the general, a young, proud soldier named Dimmock. It would let him get his pulse on the situation.

Finally the armies clashed. John was surprised seeing that Irene, despite her name, was of the same ilk of Fantaghirò and Mulan and led the troops herself, using with equal ease sword, spear and a more unconventional whip. She boldly faced Dimmock, declaring that he'd better hand his little prince over. “Maybe I'll keep him for awhile. Tame him. It'll be fun,” she said. That made Dimmock lose his cool first, and his head later. You simply can't fight the likes of Irene with an unclear mind.

The enemy troops outnumbered them greatly, and this, coupled with losing their general, could have spelled total doom for king Sherrinford's men. The prospect of Irene – and, by proxy, Moriarty – sinking their talons into Sherlock was simply unacceptable and not a little terrifying for John. So he did all he could – rallying the troops, motivating the soldiers, saving more than a few people and apparently being on many places at once – and managed to turn a crushing defeat into an ordered retreat.

This happened in late autumn. A few days later, the war – and Irene's chasing of their troops , in a bid to completely annihilate them – were forcibly suspended, though John could not take any credit for that. Winter had come, and maybe Mycroft had a hand in it (even if such an intervention didn't seem to make much sense) because it was harsher than it had ever been. Continuous blizzards raged on, and no sensible strategist would venture in such a weather. Their troops luckily had had just enough time to fall back home, and there they remained.

The prince welcomed John with a relieved smile. “You did keep your promise,” he said.

“Yeah, of course. I only wish that things could have turned better, but well, the war is far from over. We'll stop them, I swear,” John assured.

“I believe you,” the other replied confidently.

Sherlock and John spent the winter together, forgetting the impending war as much as possible. Any romantic development was as stumped as ever, but they had still a lot of fun. Their friendship kept growing stronger and stronger, too.

Then spring had almost come, and with it the urgent need to replace Dimmock, as no army could be without a general. John honestly didn't expect it when the king asked him to fulfill that role, but he wasn't about to refuse either. What surprised him was that no one objected.

“Really John, it's obvious. They owe their survival to you, and even they aren't so blind not to realize it,” Sherlock smugly remarked. “Can I come this time?” he added, almost pleadingly.

“No. otherwise I would spend all my time worrying over you, and I need all my wits and then some in an actual battle.”

Which wasn't fair if you asked Sherlock, because it meant that once again he was left behind to worry instead (he didn't want to lose John), and it didn't suit him at all. But he wasn't going to be a burden. That wasn't what John had meant – at all, mind you – but Sherlock didn't raise the issue. Just in case he got confirmation of it.

Another unexpected but very welcome thing happened before the actual restarting of the war. King Henry had received John's letter, but he didn't write back. He sent a whole army back, to ensure that his friend's beloved was safe. You wouldn't think much of a dog army. And you'd be wrong.

The next actual battle was a triumph exactly thanks to the trump card of the dog reinforcements. They attacked swiftly, sneakily and viciously anything they could sink their jaws in, either mounts, knights or soldiers, maiming and killing. The surprise attack, coupled with John's frankly brilliant strategy and his soldiers' eagerness for revenge made it so that Moriarty's army literally didn't know what hit them.

Irene was taken prisoner. Prince Moriarty had followed his army this time, sure that the results would be the same as in the past, and all too eager to meet up with his Sherlock. Rather than being captured and brought before his intended – or so James considered him – in chains, the arrogant prince killed himself. At least that definitely ended the war, and John went back even more a celebrated war hero than he'd set off before that battle.

Only to have an unpleasant surprise. This second time, most of the other princes had not participated in the war, and John had chalked it up to them not wanting to be under him. Instead, they'd finally started to understand that John somehow managed anything he put his mind to. The moment he'd gone everyone else, like a scared flock of ducks, had fled to the Ice Mountain before him, lest it become too late for them.

Announcing it, Sherlock added with a smirk, “Don't worry. Mycroft is trustworthy.” They'd fail. Of course they would. The Ice Wizard wasn't to be taken lightly.

Chapter Text

John decided to follow the others and head for the Ice Mountain right away. It was bad enough that they had quite the head start over him. The king and queen begged him to reconsider. Attempting the venture for them was no different from a death sentence, and John had been such an useful young man that they didn't wish to lose him. More so because he influenced Sherlock for the better.

The prince had been perfectly cold and gracious instead. “Go if you want, and turn back if it's convenient. I don't particularly need my heart anyway.” He shrugged.

“I'm too stubborn to give up. You should know,” John replied.

A few people started murmuring about Sherlock 'jinxing' him and generally being too cavalier about the matter. Not that he heard them.

“Before you go...look, I know that you have refused all rewards for your brilliant success. But you're going in the coldest place in existence, and I'd like it if you kept this,” Sherlock said, handing over the very coat he loved over pretty much everything else in his wardrobe. “I've had it adjusted so it will fit you and not be an hindrance, and I've always found it suitably warm, so...Oh, just take it!”

John still hadn't moved to hold it, mostly because he was shocked. Now he hurried to. “Of course. Thank you so very much, Sherlock. Honestly, I couldn't believe that you would part with this,” he admitted.

“You need it more, so it's only a logic course of action, and if you're insinuating that I'm sentimentally attached to it I think that you're rather missing the point here John.”

“Maybe,” the other replied. The two friends ended up laughing together until they were breathless. Then John left, with two dogs and comrades in arms on tow (quite a few had decided to remain with him after the war, having taken a strong liking to their general). He didn't know, but they were under strict orders from Sherlock (who had cornered them before and reinforced his words with serious threats) to 'bring him back again, with or without his prize, bodily dragging him away if need be'.

So up north John went, and in every village they passed, people cheered for him and offered gifts. Often someone would come to him, saying that he'd been in the army and how grateful he was to John and to the Gods, who had clearly sent him for everyone's salvation.

At the last, most northern village, John left his mount – no horse would survive the Ice Mountain, he thought – and met with the other dogs who had chosen to remain with him. They were about fifty, and said that they couldn't in good conscience abandon their captain and friend when he was going to face unknown dangers. John couldn't convince them to turn back, so he thanked them instead, and on they marched.

When it was time to camp, John revealed his trump card. With Sherlock, they'd managed to analyse and reproduce the magical pollen, and John had taken with him quite the supply of it. A few twigs grew instantly to a tight-knotted ring of trees. They protected everyone from the raging winds, offered plenty of wood to light the indispensable fires, and some even bore fruit despite the weather. This, coupled with the provisions taken from the horse of one of their predecessors, which they found frozen stiff and trapped in ice a little way back, made for an evening almost pleasant.

Every day they toiled north. At first they followed a barely there trail, but soon they only had the Pole Star as a lead. Each day they brought with them a few twigs, and each night they used the pollen and camped safely. And if ever they thought, during the day, that they might be on the wrong track, the frozen animals and – after a while – people which they often found would be enough of a reassurance. Or a threat, depending on your mood, but not one they'd let themselves be scared by. John didn't lose his time trying to save these people. He had a feeling that it would mean playing into Mycroft's hands.

Finally they came to the Ice Mountain itself, harsh and steep and with ice blades ready to slice them in two. But John and his dogs had brought torches of enchanted wood, burning hot and bright, and neither ice nor blizzard could extinguish them. Nor could the ice blades touch or hurt anyone that by such fire was protected. And so ever up they moved, relentless and unafraid, until they glanced at the very palace of the Ice Wizard.

It was a majestic building, looking almost more like a cathedral than a palace, entirely built from clear ice. You could see deep within it – as in a glass building – and John finally laid eyes on the much coveted prize that he, as so many before him, had come searching. What surprised him was that no black dragon or Ice Wizard was anywhere in sight, ready to defend the treasure. He didn't fear them, and honestly he would have rather liked having a few choice words with the magician. Preferably a few blows too. The bastard deserved it for what he'd done, and the enchanted fires weren't the only things burning bright at that moment. John's anger did too.

Now though came the tricky part. They entered the palace, but the very same fires that had kept them safe up to now risked to to have the whole place melting on their heads. If they put the torches out, though, John had no doubt that they would freeze in mere moments. Another difficulty presented itself. The ice palace was a very complex structure, almost like a maze interiorly, made none the easier to navigate by being sculpted in ice and hence having transparent walls. Sherlock's heart teased them, apparently at hand but still unreachable.

John navigated the place as quickly as he could. In the end, he found the heart. No more walls between them. Just the heart, red and pulsing. It was encased in a bright diamond, sitting on a snowy cushion. It lay in front of an empty ice throne, on a low pedestal. Ice that too, of course. On it was engraved, “ Oh thou, who bravely came this far, here is what thou so long sought. Sherlock's heart was conquered by thine virtue. It is thine for the taking, if thou only dare to hold out thine hand for it.”

Chapter Text

John took the heart from his seat...and then promptly passed out. Terrifying his companions for a few seconds. But they reasoned that it was probably a last magic failsafe that was triggered, and set out to remedy things as they could. First of all, there was the currently melting status of the place, so they dragged him quickly away, being careful not to hurt him with their teeth in the process. John never lost his grip on the heart, even unconscious, and he came to his senses the moment they were out of the palace. Just in time to see it crumble and turn into a placid lake.

He thanked his saviours, and then took the long way back. This time, he stopped for the frozen people and did his best to save them. The fires from the magically grown trees proved as efficient as ever against Mycroft's ice, and so John had an ever increasing cortege of defeated rivals who were frankly too happy about being saved to hold a grudge on him for winning Sherlock's heart. They praised him highly and loudly instead, making him fight off a blush (no matter the practice he'd had recently, he would never get used to it).

When John was back to the village where he left his horse, he had a happy surprise in the form of Lestrade.

“I knew that you had to have succeeded!” his friend stated with a grin. “Sherlock started playing, and it left us all transfixed. But he was so sure that nobody could beat Mycroft...he's been worried sick and beating himself up over not stopping you and having to lose you as a consequence. I couldn't bear it anymore.”

Lestrade didn't want Sherlock's music to make him cry again when he was sure there was nothing to cry about, dammit! But he couldn't confess bawling because of a tune either.

“Look, I know you must be tired Greg, and of course I'll let you rest all you need but...would you mind preceding us and running back to reassure him? I don't want him to fret, but I can't ditch all these people either – they're not entirely well – and with the pace they have to maintain we won't be there for a while...” John pleaded.

“Yeah, of course. I haven't even exactly taken my leave – didn't want him to stop me – so obviously I have to run back,” the dog revealed. At least Sherlock would brighten up now. It was definitely worth running himself half ragged. Lestrade liked the boy.

John had set out with two dogs and he came back with fifty of them and a retinue of a few hundreds people he'd saved. His return to king Sherrinford's court was decidedly triumphal. He offered back the heart with a bow.

“First of all, I'd like to point out that I'm not here to claim you, Sherlock,” he said.

The prince shot him a surprised and – frankly – half-alarmed look. Didn't John want him anymore? Was there something wrong... disgusting about his heart?

“It would be too cruel – not to mention utterly senseless – to give you back your heart and deprive you of the chance to use it. You know that I'm in love with you but...don't mind it ok? Everyone is in love with you. Take your pick. Nobody will protest, I assure you. I'd like to stay as your friend, no matter who you choose. That's all,” John explained.

Sherlock laughed and blurted out, “John Watson you absolute idiot!” which wasn't heartening at all. But then he added, “When has there ever been someone else for me? You've had my heart since before I knew what to do with it. I'll take it in if you insist, but it's yours. It's always been yours. And in your hands it is really the only safe place for it.”

They kissed. In front of about a thousand people. Of course they kissed. What did you expect?

Right then, Mrs. Hudson appeared and cornered the king. “Since we'll have a wedding I took the liberty of inviting a few people. Mostly fairies, of course. I hope you aren't cross with me, but I have learnt better than to leave this things to humans.”

Sherrinford shrugged – too elated to care, honestly. And they did have a wedding to plan.

When the fortuitous day came, it had in store quite a few surprises for everyone.

To begin with, the happy (and more than a little teary on the lucky parents' side) reunion between John and his true parents. He didn't need them – anything they could have given him, he'd already conquered by himself (and much, much more) and yet he needed them, or strangers would have forever sneered at Sherlock's misalliance. Not that either of them would have cared one bit, but still. The solution to that old riddle was surprisingly simple, and his parents gushed about how they couldn't believe how splendidly their child had grown, or what a wonderful husband he'd found. At least until Sherlock asked them to shut up, because the daily quota of platitudes he could tolerate had been exceeded...oh, ten minutes ago.

Then Sherlock's mother got the fright of her life when she noticed Mycroft mingling in the fairy crowd.

“I assure you, I mean no harm today,” he politely stated.

Once pointed to the target, though, John beelined towards him, looking downright furious. How dared he show his face here!

“Can I explain before you attack me, John?” the wizard queried.

John shrugged. What bloody was there to explain?

“I purposefully let my actions be misinterpreted as a lesson for our arrogant king. If I had wanted to hurt Sherlock, I might have done much, much worse. I hope you don't underestimate me so severely. No, that was my birthday gift. The very best I could do for him. You've held his heart in your hands, John. Like me. You know what an utterly fragile thing it is. I simply couldn't leaving it in his chest to be broken by the likes of Anderson. Not in good conscience.”

John punched him anyway. Only once, but with quite a lot of strength. “You're an idiot,” he muttered.

“And you're lucky that today it's your day, and that I like you despite everything,” Mycroft bit back.

Sherlock had caught up with his husband in the meantime, and he hugged him possessively. Alarmed, he said to the wizard, “Well, you can't have him.”

“I don't want him either, so let's not drag another misunderstanding on for twenty years, mmmh?”

After the marriage came the last marvel – though, as Sherlock said, if he had known all the details he would have deduced in the blink of an eye that it would happen. King Henry had been invited – of course he had been. John and Sherlock had just been declared married when he and all his subjects were restored to their true nature. Much rejoicing went on, and promises to attend the other wedding that was now finally in sight. Even in his new form, Lestrade asked to be definitely relinquished from King Henry's service to remain with his friends, to which Henry easily agreed. Not as Sherlock's pet, but they'd definitely find an adequate place for Greg at John's court.

In truth, in all the day there was only a spot of annoyance. Pretty much everyone (literally) asked the same question. Each time the conversation fell to how John had conquered Sherlock's heart, people queried, “And didn't you find it very cold?”

John always snorted to that, because really, if only people could think they wouldn't ask idiotic questions. Sherlock's heart had survived on its own in that environment. Of course it wasn't cold. It was a furnace, but John wasn't going to hand out these details to gossipers, thank you very much.

Not that the fleeting nuisance mattered. John and Sherlock were too happy to mind anyone else. And they surely would be forever after.

My story's written,

My story's told.

Now tell your tale,

For mine is old.