Work Text:
Fresh meat, Sherlock thinks, surveying the man Mycroft has chosen to guard him.
It seems they’ve picked someone straight from the King’s Guard this time. Sherlock imagines that Knight-Captain Lestrade has high hopes that this time they’ve found someone who can keep him in line. He’s wrong.
He toys with Anderson for a while, allowing him to follow Sherlock into town and along the winding back alleys before losing him in the marketplace. In actuality, Sherlock has doubled back into the darkened alleys, but Anderson won’t think of that: he’ll assume Sherlock is trying to lose him amongst the bustle of vendors and waste time searching there before realising he’s well and truly lost his quarry. It doesn’t take long before he’s down at the docks, princely clothes exchanged for more sensible garb at the local temple. Molly, high priestess to the Silent God, is a particular friend of his, though he suspects much of the time she aids him because she knows her God has plans for him. He chooses not to ask.
He spends the day free in the slums. That night, Anderson concedes failure and King Mycroft excuses him from duty. He is not the first.
___________________________________________________________________________
“Sherlock, meet Sir John Watson,” Knight-Captain Lestrade says tiredly.
Sir Watson is a knight recently returned from active border duty. He looks like he’s seen more than Sherlock will ever be allowed to, and Sherlock immediately resents him for this. Sir Watson will inevitably turn out to be like all the others- not nearly clever enough to keep up with him.
Later that morning, Sherlock doesn’t bother waiting for Sir Watson before leaving for the city like he’s supposed to. He strides through the gate to find the knight already there waiting for him. He is also surprised to find that Sir Watson has a distinct limp. Are they really so low on candidates that they’re sending obviously defective people after him? Watson’s not dressed in full regalia, but simple cotton shirt and breeches. He’s wearing a set of daggers openly on his person, and they’ve been well-used by somebody. Sherlock notes that the left dagger is more worn than the right, and that Sir Watson is clearly left-handed. His own weapons, then, not a borrowed set intended to make him seem more accomplished than he really is. Good. He’d expect a veteran to be at least somewhat competent.
“You think I haven’t heard of your tricks, Prince Holmes?” Sir Watson says with a wry grin. He doesn’t try to hide in the shadows to follow Sherlock, but instead keeps even pace with him, placing them in equal standing. Sherlock grudgingly respects him a little for the sheer audacity, and decides to lull him into a false sense of security by taking the main roads instead of the back ways. Let Sir Watson think he’s won.
When they reach Market Street he darts in and then doubles back, using the same trick he used the day before on Anderson, grinning as he puts distance between Sir Watson and himself and once more proves his superiority to everybody else in this awful land. He knows that eventually Mycroft will tire of these games and lock him in his quarters, but that will only be another kind of challenge. He-
“So are we going anywhere in particular, or do you just feel like you need the exercise?”
He stops and turns slowly to find Sir Watson right behind him. Oh. That’s… new.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Sir Watson tells him.
“Since when am I obliged to answer your questions?” Sherlock retorts, and turns back and stalks down the street. He doesn’t have to look back to know that Sir Watson is following him.
He thinks he’s lost him at Molly’s temple, but emerges half an hour later in his street clothes to find Sir Watson quietly waiting for him.
“Where to now?” he says as though Sherlock isn’t actively trying to avoid him.
Sherlock ignores him.
He’s forced to abandon most of his haunts; Sir Watson is, no doubt, reporting back to Mycroft, and he’d hate for them to mysteriously disappear in the night. Mycroft has done it before and Sherlock has no doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if he thought it would save his little brother.
That’s where Mycroft’s wrong, of course. Sherlock doesn’t need saving. If he took the time to actually talk to Sherlock himself instead of ignoring him and sending people to spy on him he might realise that, but Sherlock knows that isn’t going to happen. He doesn’t particularly care that Mycroft has a kingdom to run, or that Moriarty’s Empire is encroaching on their southern borders. He doesn’t care that Mycroft is a much more powerful wizard than he is, or that everybody hails him as the Golden One where Sherlock is simply a misfit, a disappointment that the royal family has to bear because they haven’t anybody else. Can’t he see that Sherlock’s bored? The less responsibility he’s given, the more he goes looking for trouble, and the more he goes looking for trouble the less Mycroft trusts him and so takes away his duties. It’s a vicious cycle that Sherlock is well aware of, but Sherlock Holmes has never been able to sit around quietly. He refuses to be domesticated.
After a few hours of wandering about aimlessly, hoping for something interesting and finding nothing, he ends up going and buying a view-spell just to spite Mycroft. They’re not supposed to be freely sold, both because they can be used to spy on people and because the user experiences bodily dislocation and a pronounced high, but Sherlock knows multiple places where he can source them. He’s been abusing them since he was twelve.
He finds a secluded corner where nobody will care what he does and murmurs the incantation on the scroll, blindly drawing runes in the dirt as he chants. He supposes Sir Watson is still watching. He doesn’t care.
The spell kicks in and he finds himself flying over the plains to the south. He’s always wanted to see their kingdom, but with their parents dead and Mycroft not yet married Sherlock is the sole heir. If he or Mycroft die, the survivor will be forced to name one of the lesser nobles heir, and they both expect that situation to devolve rapidly into assassination attempts and open dissent from those not chosen. Not that Sherlock will ever have to worry about that. Mycroft is much too careful to be killed before Sherlock.
Sherlock forces himself to quit thinking and enjoy the scenery. The high is slowly kicking in, getting better and better the longer he uses the spell. He loves being like this; it’s one of the only times he’s calm. The world away from the capitol is simpler and somehow more beautiful, and Sherlock isn’t sure how long he sits there watching a housewife carding fleece or her husband skinning a rabbit. He follows the river down past them and watches a herd of sheep graze as a hungry pack of wolves stalks nearby, unbeknownst to the dozing shepherd boy. He loses himself in his kingdom until he feels the spell finally begin to unravel and pulls it dreamily apart himself, coming back to reality with a sigh.
He opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by dead men, and Sir Watson nonchalantly cleaning blood from his dagger with one of the men’s shirts.
“Impressive,” he says before he can stop himself.
Sir Watson merely smiles, sheathes his dagger, and offers him a hand.
“Shall we go home, Lord Prince?” he asks casually.
Sherlock nods silently and takes off down the street. His high is disappearing, and reality kicks back in to let him know that Mycroft will definitely hear of this attempt on his life and probably lock him away forever, like a princess in a fairy tale. At least, he thinks, his jailer will be tolerable- there is clearly far more to Sir Watson than meets the eye. Sherlock almost thinks that he might enjoy getting to know the man.
That night, back at the castle, Sir Watson does not report failure. He also does not report the assassins. Mycroft will no doubt find out, but with no real report made he can’t lock Sherlock away without something appearing wrong to the entire castle. For once politics are in Sherlock’s favour, something which he hadn’t considered manipulating to his advantage before.
Sherlock grins. This could prove to be interesting after all.