Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John was like any other baby, he laughed and cried and ate and slept. And his mother, more beautiful than anyone else, was always there, and so was his father, though he was gone a little more often, but John had his mum so he was content. It was one such day, when John was maybe a year old that he had been playing with his mother and father that everything changed for John, not that he would remember at such a young age. They were outside, the sky a wondrous violet hue, with streaks of pink and orange, the stars were out, as they always were in this realm. It was glorious. His mother had fed John and he was on the cusp of sleep when he glanced up and saw tears in his mother’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why though, he had never seen his mother with such a look on her face before, so as any baby would when they felt the atmosphere of emotions change to something that was unfamiliar, started to squirm and fuss, though his mother shushed and gentled him and he was asleep.

When John woke it was to freezing cold, he had never experienced cold before, but it was dreadfully uncomfortable. He was hungry and shivering and so like any baby cried, he cried and cried, but his beautiful, radiant mother never came, his handsome, reliable father never came, so he cried more, until all that would emit from his mouth were soundless screams. And he slept again.

It was even colder and darker the next time John opened his eyes, he was too cold to kick his feet or flail his arms, his stomach was empty and cramping, and he was still alone. So he cried some more, though at this point his throat hurt from the frigid air, but he continued to wail. It was on a particularly harsh scream that he heard a noise, but that only made him cry harder and louder, but soon he heard someone speaking and he was being lifted into warm arms, and he was being shushed and rocked like his mother did, and even though this wasn’t his mother he still quieted before falling back asleep.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

When John is three, his mother and father, the people who took him in, though he doesn’t know that just as he doesn’t remember his birth parents, decide it’s time for his first haircut. Just a little trim around the ears and the back of his neck, nothing too serious, or at least it wasn’t until the pair of scissors broke the second they tried to shear through his hair. His mother and father had looked at him in a way he had never seen before, but he didn’t know what that meant and he hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t felt anything at all really. So he asks if he can have a sandwich and his mother gives him a tight smile and says of course he can. John thinks nothing more of it.

By the time he starts primary school John’s hair reaches just to the tops of his shoulders, not that he minds, John kind of loves his long hair. The girls all thinks it’s pretty but the boys tell him that he shouldn’t have long hair, that that’s something that only girls do, but John pays them no mind, and by the time he’s eight his hair is long enough that his mum can braid his hair into designs and patterns and then the boys think his hair is cool then. When John is ten half the boys he goes to school with all have shoulder length hair too. Though his is to his shoulder blades.

It wasn’t until John was twelve that he started to hate having long hair, the teasing was never ending, and the boys that used to call his hair cool and have long hair themselves now call him things like, twink and faggot and nancy. So he tries to cut his hair, it reaches almost to the middle of his back at this point and he had never entertained the thought of cutting it before but now the hair has to go. So when he gets home from school one day, when he knows that his parents are still at work and that Harry won’t be home until later because she went out with friends today; he rushes upstairs to the bathroom and gets the big pair of scissors from under the sink, grabs his hair at the base of his skull and has the scissors lined up just beneath. When he tries to it feels like his skin is trying to crawl away from him, but he steels himself, it is just hair it will grow back he thinks to himself, so he takes a deep fortifying breath and cuts his hair.

It was the biggest mistake he had ever made in his short twelve years of life, but even after he was older he still thinks it ranks in the top five.

For the first few seconds that the hair was gone his head felt light as a feather, but then it felt like someone had tried to lift his head off his shoulder. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, and his stomach felt like it decided to take up new lodgings in his throat. He was going to pass out, he was quite sure of that very suddenly, so he did the most sensible thing and took out his phone to call his mother. He dialed her with one hand and the other, the one that had held his hair is clutching the edge of the sink so hard he feels like his hand or the sink might break. His vision darkens as she picks up and all he can do is stare at his reflection in horror as blood begins to drip from his nose, he makes a noise that was supposed to be the word help, but he doesn’t think the sound he made was an actual word; then he’s collapsing, falling into darkness and onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor. His mother calls to him, but he can’t answer her, and she’s frantic.

When she gets home she finds him crumpled on the ground, blood caked to his face and looking deathly pale. She sees the hair on the ground that must be his, but his hair is as long as it had been when she had seen him off to school earlier. She realizes that he must have tried to cut it, but doesn't understand because it can't be cut, she has tried, it didn't work, but the evidence is spread out around her son like a golden corona. John's mother resolves to ask him about it later, right now she needs to get him up and clean and make sure he's still okay. When John finally comes around two hours later, his mum and dad are sitting at the end of his bed speaking in quiet tones to one another. He shifts feeling like he got hit by a truck then stills.

His mother notices first and after she finished lecturing him she brought him into a tight hug. Once he was feeling a little better, meaning after he had taken a shower and eaten, he explained what had happened. His mother looked slightly nauseous at what he said, about how his body had reacted. She made him swear to never do something like that again. He told her that he would have to be barmy to even consider it. He had gone to bed that night, his hair back to its original length, with the thought that he would have to be content with this from now on.

When John is fifteen he gets his first girlfriend who he suspects likes his hair more than she likes him, and thinks him some novelty. She’s taller than he is and she likes to call him adorable, as if he's a puppy. He breaks up with her within three weeks. When he reaches sixteen he's on his seventh relationship, this one being his third boyfriend. He was nice, good looking, and was on the rugby team with him, which John was the captain of. When John finds out about the two other "boyfriends" John drops him like the sack of shit he is. As retaliation his ex thinks that he'll cut John's hair in the middle of class. What actually happens though is that when the pocket knife tries to slice through his hair it shatters like glass and John is up and out of his chair turning to snarl at whatever threat is behind him, only to be stopped short by the terrified faces of his classmate. He doesn't know what he looks like, what with his elongated canines and his violet colored eyes and his floating hair or the pulsating marks on his skin. He runs out of class and all the way home, and doesn't come out for two days after.

When he returns to school the next week, nobody will even look in his direction; the other students avoid him when he walks by. Some are reverent, most people have never seen a Fae in person and believe that the Fae are holy beings, gods that deign to walk amongst men. Some in fear, the Fae are powerful creatures one and all, no matter how weak to other Fae they may be even the weakest among them is capable of things most humans would consider impossible. And some in disgust, those few believe that the Fae are less human which technically is true, not that they're less then human but not human in the first place, even if some do look human, but that they were nothing more than beasts which could be said about a few Fae since they were in fact animals. But to say to an elf or demon or vampire or faerie that they were no better, that they were less than a being, well odds are you would be lucky to escape with your life.

While John himself was a Fae he didn't always act like it, mainly because he didn’t know how, and the only reason he even knew how other Fae, the ones that walked amongst humans instead of living in their owns city's, was that his parents had wanted him to learn about his culture so when he was younger they would travel to the Fae cities and John would go to their library and even play with other children when he was young enough to be interested in that. John was aware that the Fae were very prideful and arrogant, and occasionally vain, but he very much loved what he learned, not that he had learned what he really wanted to. He had once asked a librarian if she knew what he was, but she had never been able to figure it out in all the years he had visited.

John graduates from school with little fanfare. His grandparents were dead, his family didn't really speak to their cousins and aunts and uncles, so it was just his mum and Harry, the latter of whom had been on her way to drunkenness, his dad was already there and thankfully at home still. He didn't have many friends to cheer for him as he walked across the stage. It was a little disheartening if he were being honest.

John starts uni shortly after. He was going to be a doctor, he was going to help people.

John rather liked uni, and not even mainly for the classes, though he did like those as well, but because people were more worried about themselves than they were about him. Not to say that he didn't still get lots of looks. After all he was nineteen and was as tall as the average girl with hair longer than any other girl’s on campus, and not even his musculature could make him look more masculine. Some guys liked that, even some girls, so he had more off and on relationships than he could count by the time he finished with his rotations at Bart's.

When John enlists, he had not expected to actually ever see the battlefield, sure he had enlisted as a soldier and not a medic, but he never imagined he would be shipped off to the front lines, though maybe he should have. He sees more of it than he ever wanted to if he was being honest with himself. But this was his calling, and being Fae like he was meant that he was slightly more resilient than the average human. And for all those that doubted his capabilities because he was short, well he shut them right up by excelling in everything he applied himself to and thus quickly rising through the ranks. Life was as good as he could get it while in a warzone. That all changed however when he got shot.

It was just like any other day, hot and dry and for all intents was boring. Aside from scouting rotations, there were no movements going on right now. It was dusk and he had been in the major's tent having a rather heated argument when they heard the siren blare. Enemy incoming, everyone needed to get to their station. James had called out to him, and the only reason he stopped was because James out ranked him. The major had told him to stay safe, he had given a terse nod and went to prepare the medic tent when he had been told he was needed on the field and that someone else was already covering it. He had grabbed his kit and gun and rushed to where he was needed, getting to work immediately. If he had slowed down when his skin started crawling, if he had remembered to take his hair out of the messy bun on the top if his head, if he hadn’t had been so angry before hand, if only if only if only...

Maybe he wouldn't have had his shoulder torn out by a bullet that shattered his scapula and almost killed him.

Anyone who saw it happen swore they saw him glow a faint purple color, before it disappeared. At first they had thought it had meant he died, but after someone had rushed to him they think that that was the only reason he was even alive. He didn't know, he didn't know enough about himself to confirm or deny it. Either way his biology wasn't enough to stop the infection from setting in. However the medic who was treating him had never encountered any kind of sickness or illness in a Fae. Even the specialist they had called in who was a Fae herself, an elf in fact, couldn't help him. The Fae were resistant to almost all human ailments, she had apologized and Blessed him before leaving.

He did heal more quickly than any human would have and when he could at least mostly function on his own, he was shipped back to London with his aching and broken body, where he had an empty bedsit to greet him, his useless therapist to talk with, and a loaded gun in his bedside table.

Chapter Text

When most people thought of John Watson, most probably didn’t think Fae. After all when most people thought of the Fae they imagined tall, pale, and ethereally beautiful. They imagined beings like the elves, vampires, incubus and succubae, and the like. Or if they were of the younger variety they might think of small beings who fly around with dragonfly wings and grant wishes, and while some Fae do have wings and can fly none are so small as what is usually depicted and the only beings who grant wishes were the djinn and you usually didn’t want the type of wishes they offered to fulfill. And while they might be correct on both accounts, they were not the only Fae in existence. For instance John doubts people think of goblins as Fae, or other such nightmarish creatures. Creatures like trolls, boogeymen, tsuchigumo, or homunculi. But almost every piece of myth, legend, and folklore had to come from somewhere. So most creatures, both good and evil, both beautiful and horrendous, both heavenly and demonic are real, and they were all Fae.

So when most people look at John they at first wouldn’t think Fae, but there are two giveaways, the first being the pointed ears a rather common trait among the Fae, however those are hidden away most of the time behind the second prominent feature, his hair. Now it’s not any strange color, like pink or blue or green. It was just a regular sandy blonde color, but it did trail about seven or eight centimeters below the curve of his arse and was unable to be cut. So like an elf, except for of course, the fact that he stood at a rather short five feet four inches and weighed a meager hundred some odd pounds despite all his musculature. A bone density scan in his youth revealed that his bones were not quite hollow like a flying fae’s might be, but weren’t as dense as a humans, though they made up for that by being incredibly strong.

But he really couldn’t help his looks, he’d tried cutting his hair before, it was a very unpleasant experience that he avoids thinking about, and he can’t help how short he is or how… feminine he looks to be frank, not elf standard beautiful but not human either. His narrower waist makes his frame seem more delicate than if he had a more streamlined torso; his lack of a sharply defined jawline gives him the effect of softened facial features, and the long hair is just sort of icing on the shit cake that is his masculinity. But the worst part, the absolute worst part about all of this, is the fact that nobody even knows what type of Fae he is. Nobody. At least if he knew that all fae like him looked like this it wouldn’t be so bad. Thankfully John has more or less grown used it, and he’s mostly secure in who he is at this point.

John sighs in exasperation at himself, wallowing won’t help him right now –though all the looks he’s getting aren’t helping–, he has more important things to think about such as finding a job and new place to live as soon as possible. His army pension only covers so much, and the bedsit was, well it was unacceptable for a number of reasons, the main one being he was liable to go crazy if he stayed there any longer. That or off himself as he had been contemplating with startling frequency as of late.

He was walking, or rather more like hobbling through a park, he wasn’t sure which one seeing as how he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going while he was adrift in his thoughts, when he was called. John was a rather common name, but the shouted exclamation of “John! John Watson!” was rather unmistakable. John took a brief moment to sigh from his nose as he slowed down before coming to a full stop and turning with what he hoped was a pleasant smile though he rather suspected that it looked more like a grimace than anything.

He came face to face with a portly looking man a several inches taller than himself, not that that was very hard or anything. He wore glasses and had streaks of grey through his brown hair, all in all, very ordinary if vaguely familiar. The other gentleman held his hand out. “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together.”

Ah, yes right, now John remembered. “Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello.” John shook Mike’s hand, looking around briefly as he did so, his light paranoia had him checking his surroundings constantly. But his pause must have been longer than was polite because Mike let out a chuckle.

“Yeah, I know, I got fat.” It was said jokingly, and even as John responded with a hurried, “No, no”, and a shake of his head he couldn’t help but think that yes, Mike had indeed gained a pound or fifteen.

John focused back in on Mike as he started speaking again. “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?” Mike had on a pleasant smile, but John couldn’t help but to frown.

“I got shot.” John deadpanned and watched as Mike’s smile fell in realization, and possible horror. John decided it was going to be a long day.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

After the coffee and the talk on the park bench, Mike led the way to Barts, John following along at a sedate pace. They reached the lab before long and were greeted with the sight of a head of startling black curls, the face belonging to said curls was pressed to a microscope.

“Bit different from my day.” John spoke as he glanced around, taking in all the new and not necessarily shiny equipment that was placed on different work stations.

“Oh, you’ve no idea!” Mike proclaimed with a chuckle, but that was just Mike, if John remembered correctly, always so jolly and mild-mannered. And now that John thinks about it wasn’t that what everyone used to call him? Mild-mannered Mike? It was then that the up until that point quiet occupant looked up, revealing a pale face with surprisingly bright blue grey eyes and ridiculously high cheekbones. Elf definitely, and a dominant one to boot. Wonderful. The longer pointed ears, indicative of his dominant status, were hidden a little under the curls but he was most assuredly an elf, though they are known for their long hair, elves unlike himself were capable of cutting their hair, most just didn’t.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” The stranger had a deep sonorous voice, it made John think of melted chocolate honestly. John didn’t dwell on that too much though, not that he had thoughts like that a lot, comparing people’s voices to food, but Mike was speaking again.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike enquired, and John was a tad bit curious as well.

“I prefer to text.” John rolled his eyes at the reply.

“Sorry,” Mike said shrugging with a little smile, “it’s in my coat.”

John rolled his eyes again, huffing as the stranger almost seemed to deflate in disappointment, even if just a little. “Uh, here, use mine.”

The stranger looked surprised for a moment, “Oh, thank you.”

“This is a friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike said as whoever this person was stood to take the phone John had offered. He flashed a small charmed smile as he took the phone from John’s hand and almost immediately after asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Mike had a rather sly smile on his face as John took a moment to be stunned, he took another moment to breathe, remembered not to be so paranoid despite the fact that this man had just raised every hair on his body, as he did whatever it was he was doing on John’s phone, before asking a question of his own. “Sorry?” Not a very brilliant question but he felt it was an important one none the less.

Curly, as John had just mentally labelled him since the man has still yet to give a name didn’t even look up as he repeated, “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John sighs quietly, making sure to keep the heavy suspicion out of his voice when he replies with a slow, “Afghanistan. Sorry how did you know…” he trails off as a woman comes into the lab carrying a cup of coffee, which she hands to Curly as he speaks.

“Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you.” He glances at her as he takes the cup, and frowns slightly. “What happened to the lipstick?”

John took a chance to glance at Molly, she looked quiet and mousy, even more submissive than himself. She also happened to be a grim reaper, John briefly wondered what one of those would be doing in a hospital, but most hospitals have morgues and Barts certainly did so it makes sense, he supposes. But anyway, Molly had just given what was a very pained smile and John felt faintly sympathetic for her.

“It wasn’t working for me.” was Molly’s answer, she had opened her mouth to speak again but that was when Curly started speaking again, steamrolling right over the poor woman. Definitely a git, even if a very posh and elvish one.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.” Curly said this as he walked back towards the microscope he had been using, grimacing as he took a sip of the coffee. Molly made a small noise, letting out a quiet, “Okay.” before making a hasty retreat. An inconsiderate git, lovely.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Curly asked. It took a moment for John to realize that the man had even spoken to him, and he hadn’t even heard the question.

“Sorry, what?” Even though that was only the second time he’d said it, John was starting to feel a little like a broken record. This person just kept throwing off his social equilibrium, not that it had been very stable since he’s been back in London, but it feels like he’s not even in the same realm as this stranger when he speaks. It’s dizzying and disorienting and he hates it with a passion.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” Curly looks up at John when he asks, “Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other. ” He gives a fake smile then and it’s so very not charming John almost turns his nose up. John also isn’t sure how he knows what sort of smiles this man has since he’s only just met, but that smile in particular was so forced it was obvious it was fake. Either way he looks over at Mike with a stunned and slightly disbelieving expression on his face.

“You told him about me?”

Mike shakes his head, “Not a word.” John shifts nervously then. So Mike didn’t say anything, but this person knows about him regardless and all his alarm bells are starting to go off one by one.  John assumes that Mike wouldn’t introduce him to someone who’s crazy, or a killer, or anything of that sort, but honestly he doesn’t like this at all.

Or maybe the elf is clairvoyant or has a Craft of the same sort, which John hadn’t thought about until just now, they did sometimes have that ability, though John has never seen it used like this.

“Then who said anything about flat mates?” John asks regardless, just to be safe his paranoia whispers.

“I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for.” Curly starts putting his coat on at this point. “Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

John really needs to stop looking this stunned, he must look like an idiot really, but it’s just one thing after another with this man. But since they are back on the subject, “How did you know about Afghanistan?” not that Curly answers or anything, just kept talking as if John hadn’t just asked a question. Stupid dominant elvish git.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” Curly starts heading towards the door as he continues. “We’ll meet there tomorrow at seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I forgot my riding crop in the mortuary.” His hand is on the door when John speaks.

“Is that it?” Curly turns, to look at John, face blank.

“Is that what?” the stranger says, walking towards John. John has to remind himself not to be intimidated by the fact that this person is taller than him, most people are, but he absolutely towers over John. However, John maintains eye contact with the dominant male, and says in a steady voice, “We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

Curly looks briefly to the left and the right as if he would find the answers somewhere else before focusing his eyes back on John. “Problem?”

John honestly can’t believe this person, who still remains unnamed, as if he isn’t aware that that is rude. This presumptuous arse. John looks over at Mike, who once again has that sly expression on his face that John really just wants to smack. Curly also glance over at Mike, but quickly looks back at John.

“We don’t know a thing about each other.” John starts, voice firm. “I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.” Curly stands straighter, taking a moment to do a quick once over which has John feeling exposed, and focuses a suddenly very intense gaze on John as he says in rapid succession, “I know you’re an Army doctor. And you’ve just been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” The nameless man turns to the door to leave and is almost gone when he looks back in and says, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”

Sherlock, as he has identified himself as, clicks his tongue with a wink, calls an “Afternoon.” to Mike who nods his head, and leaves, the door closing behind him with a slam. John looks over at Mike who says with a smile, “Yeah, he always like that.”

Long day indeed.

Chapter Text

What John hadn’t realized, was that that long day would turn into long years. Of knowing Sherlock and living with him, and growing attached to the crazy elf. When Sherlock falls, John honest to gods felt a piece of himself die with Sherlock. John had gone home at the end of that awful day and despite how much John knows Sherlock would have hated it, goes into the man’s room and crawls into his bed, burrowing under the covers to submerge himself in Sherlock’s scent. He proceeds to cry, to wail and scream and shout, because it’s so terribly unfair, and John loved Sherlock, but the stupid idiot genius didn’t even know and now he never would. John didn’t move from the bed for three days following that, and when he finally did it was to find something to eat, to shower, to attend Sherlock’s funeral in a haze, and then to go back to Sherlock’s room and wallow in his misery.

He continued on in this process for almost another week before Lestrade came by. John had spoken to the man briefly, apparently Sarah had been concerned and called the police to make sure John was okay. But he wasn’t, and he wouldn’t ever be now. Lestrade gave his very heartfelt condolences, before saying that he would talk to John later and leaving.

After Lestrade came by John resolved himself not to wither away like his father had after his mother died, whenever he wasn’t drunk enough to forget she was even dead that is. He gets up and cleans, cleans up the left out and forgotten experiments, cleans the kitchen but especially the fridge, cleans the sitting room, cleans his own room, the bathrooms, everything. He organizes all the papers and books and knick-knacks that litter every surface of the flat, but he leaves Sherlock’s room for the most part. He folds the clothes that are left out, he makes the bed that he now sleeps in, but aside from that leaves everything else, he can’t bear to touch anything else at this point in time, and probably won’t ever be able to really.

John goes back to work three weeks after the Fall as he has labelled it, but puts space between himself and everyone he knows. He breaks whatever it was he had with Sarah off, he dodges the advances of Mary when she comes around. He calls Lestrade just often enough so he doesn’t worry too much, even goes out with Lestrade for a drink every now and then. He loses contact with all the acquaintances he’s made since returning to London, the only person John regularly speaks with is Mrs. Hudson, and that really is only because, one she’s still his landlady, and two because she comes up once a day to make sure he’s still… living probably. John isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to accomplish by hovering. Sherlock would have said that it was hatefully overbearing and John almost wished he were here to say as much, he also wished he didn’t feel like his heart had been ripped out every time he thought of the man.

That was how he lived for two years, floating through life.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

It was cold and dreary in early December as John trudged home from the surgery. It had snowed recently, and it had turned to the grey slush that currently lined the streets and sidewalks. He stopped on the way home to get some milk, he had just used the last of it this morning, but he supposes that one does drink their way through quite a bit of milk if they have two cups of tea just to be able to function after they wake up. John dismisses that thought as he unlocks the front door and trundles his way up the stairs to the flat. Mrs. Hudson will be over in about an hour, which gives him plenty of time to make himself another cup of tea, then have himself a hot shower.

It is as John is unlocking the door to the flat that the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, he’s suddenly quite sure that there is someone in his flat. And not Mrs. Hudson, which means that this person doesn’t belong and is about to eat one of his bullets.

John pushes the door open, setting the bag down in the entry way, quickly shrugging his coat off just in case he needs to fight. His gun which he now kept securely in the back of his pants at all times came up as he walks slowly through the flat, coming to a stop once he’s reached Sherlock’s old bedroom, which he has long since commandeered for himself. He still, after all this time, hasn’t been able to bring himself to get rid of anything. So aside from the occasional dusting and linen washing it remains unchanged, it even still smells like the man. His scent is especially helpful when John has bad days, he’ll take an old shirt or sweater or his dressing gown and he’ll wear the garment and fall asleep like that. But John digresses. He can think about how far he's fallen after the intruder is taken care of.

John slowly opens the door, glad that he recently took care of the squeaky hinge, and peaks in. Whoever is in the room has their back turned and is searching through the wardrobe. John pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps in. He has his gun trained center mass as he says in what his soldiers used to call his captain voice, “Turn around, very slowly and with your hands up.”

The back stiffens, but doesn’t move and stays there for several moments. He’s just about to repeat himself when glove covered hands raise into the air, and the crouched over figure straightens to their full height. As John catches sight of a curly head of hair he’s suddenly reminded of the first time he met Sherlock and before he can dismiss that thought, the person turns and John feels like he just got kicked in the center of his chest. Someone has obviously just sucked all the air out of the room.

Maybe this person is a demon, or maybe just a shapeshifter.

John is about half a second away from pulling the trigger when the person who is supposed to be dead and buried six feet under speaks. And it’s only one word, but it’s said with so much emotion that John doesn’t know what to do.

“John?” there’s sadness and grief, joy and happiness, weariness and wariness, and the voice sounds so tired and raw and hoarse that it squeezes his heart painfully tight.

And then John is angry, so very, very angry he feels like he might explode, he doesn’t notice the massive energy field he’s generating, doesn’t notice the walls rattling and shaking. John pulls the trigger twice, shooting Sherlock or whoever this is clean through each thigh. Sherlock gasps and goes down to his knees but continues to stare at John with such emotion filled eyes that John’s anger momentarily fades. Sherlock –because it must be him, after all why would a demon appear as Sherlock to break into his flat to steal something from a wardrobe that would hold nothing of any real value to anyone but he and Sherlock unless they were after crappy disguise material or the shirts that John so carefully maintained over the past two years– is looking at him as if he would gladly take a few more bullets and still be delighted to see John.

John drops the gun, his hands shaking too much to be able to hold it any longer. Both hands go to cover his mouth because he feels a scream coming and it’d be best to not make Mrs. Hudson think he’s getting murdered, if the gun shots didn’t already alert her to something being wrong, but even if he’s not he must be hallucinating because Sherlock is dead. He is dead and John grieved and mourned, so he’s not here standing… kneeling in front of him looking like he’s been through hell, but maybe he has and now he’s back from his apparent death and John thinks that he’s hyperventilating and possibly about to pass out and Sherlock, Sherlock is talking and reaching out for John, but John is shaking his head and he thinks there are tears streaming down his face, but he doesn’t notice that now his hair is whipping around him in the torrential wind, and then…

Blackness… sweet relief from his world imploding for a second time.

When John comes to he’s in bed, the blankets pulled up to his shoulders and there is someone sitting beside him, running long fingers through his hair, in the time that Sherlock had been gone it had grown another few centimeters. John keeps his eyes closed but takes a deep breath in through his nose. It smells of Sherlock, slightly duller with other scents overlaying; a bit of antiseptic and the iron tang of blood mixed in, but Sherlock none the less. John lets his eyes flutter open, his vision is slightly blurry for a moment but then his gaze zeroes in on the face to the right of him and his stomach swoops despite him knowing very well who was sitting next to him. He’s still very angry he realizes, but for the sake of making sure he’s not dreaming or dead or under some type of spell, he puts it on the back burner and just decides to be relieved.

Sherlock is staring at him, searching his eyes and face, and John lets him, takes in the appearance of the man in front of him as well. He looks gaunt and pale, his face sunken and his usually beautiful elvish features are sharp and painful to look at now. John glances down noticing just how torn and haggard Sherlock’s clothes are, notes the bloody tie that is wrapped around his right thigh and the scarf wrapped around his left, before looking back up at Sherlock. He has such a tender expression on his face that John really just wants to kiss him.

He won’t though, at least not yet. It was hard enough loving the man the first time around, John will always love Sherlock, until the day he dies certainly, but John doubts whether or not he will ever be in love with Sherlock again. But only time will tell that, so instead he goes about taking care of Sherlock’s injuries. John has the man remove his trousers so he can take care of the gun wounds and physically recoils at the extensive scarring there. John shot straight through the fatty part of Sherlock’s thighs, no risk to arteries or tendons, a clean through and through shot that would heal with a very small scar if any; it takes a lot of force to cause scarring in Fae.

He quickly has Sherlock strip to nothing but his pants and he lets the tears go. On Sherlock’s back are whip marks, crisscrossing from the top of his shoulders to below the hem of his pants, all in various stages of healing. There’s a large burn on his left side that goes from his last protruding rib to his hip bone, it looks like it is still healing and also possibly infected if the yellow pus-filled blisters are any indication, what looks like claw marks run from his left collarbone diagonally across his pectorals. More burn marks of smaller sizes litter Sherlock’s left leg, small divots in the muscle of his right thigh. Add on to all of that the numerous bruises and Sherlock’s overall emaciated look and all John can do is stare in horror. John has seen people blown apart by IEDs, has seen the aftermath of torture and while this certainly isn’t the worse he has seen it takes his breath away.

“Oh, oh Sherlock, Spirits look at you. What happened?” it was whispered into the quiet of the room around them, but John didn’t get an answer, Sherlock just looked down and stared at the floor. They sat there in a heavy silence, and John was just about to give up and ask something else when Sherlock let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping and his face falling. Sherlock’s voice was so quiet John almost couldn’t hear him speaking, even with the heightened senses. “Moriarty, he was after you, you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and I… I couldn’t let- I couldn’t let him get to you. He would have hurt you, tortured you, killed you and I… he couldn’t, I wouldn’t let him. So, I jumped, but I was never dead, but he had to believe it and that meant you had to believe it too, or he would have had people get you. I was all across the world taking out his web, and it was so extensive and big, and it took what felt like centuries, but I hunted down every person in it and I killed them so they couldn’t kill you. And I’m sorry John, I’m so very sorry for hurting you too.” Sherlock was almost in tears and John threw everything to the wind, his anger and loss and heartbreak.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling the man to him. Sherlock buried his face to the crook of John’s neck, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and squeezing tight, it was a little awkward with the height difference but Sherlock probably wouldn’t be moved and John would let him cling as long as he liked, wanted, needed. Sherlock had never expressed such grief or sadness or anything of the sort really. He hid all of that behind a deceptive mask of indifference that he claimed was just sociopathy. John knew otherwise of course, knew just how much Sherlock was capable of caring about those he considered close to himself, but John never knew he would ever let him witness a show of such emotion, especially any emotions that could be mistaken for weakness.

What had happened to Sherlock while he was gone, while John had been mourning and crawling through his day to day life? While John wallowed, Sherlock was all around the globe dismantling Moriarty’s web of killers, working relentlessly to keep how many people safe, both those that Sherlock cared about and an infinite amount of nameless other people who probably never even knew they were in danger. John felt his knees go fuzzy with the staggering knowledge.

The mattress John could feel on the back of his legs seemed like a blessing at that moment, so he decided to make this a little more comfortable for the both of them and sat down, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock knelt down between John’s legs, arms still around the shorter man’s waist and buried his face in John’s chest instead, rubbing into him not unlike a cat. They stayed like that, both losing track of time as they breathed one another in.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had the suspicion that despite the way things were, there was something wrong. After that first day, after Sherlock had come back, things had gone back to the way they were before he had left, albeit with far more casual touching than before, like he and John were just picking up where they left off so to speak. Mrs. Hudson had slapped him, and cursed him six ways to Sunday, but she was the same as ever, even if she was also still hurt by his deception. But John…

Things weren’t supposed to be this easy right? Sherlock had expected the anger that had come after John had first seen him, even the sadness and grief while he was gone, but it felt like the last two years hadn’t happened between them.

Everyone else, he had come across aside from Mrs. Hudson, were still taking this very unwell, he hadn’t really thought too much about how others, people he wasn’t as close to would take it. People like Donovan, Anderson, other acquaintances that he had developed over his years, they were all still angry, still hurt. Lestrade had punched him, though thankfully he refrained from shooting him like John had, and he was still deeply hurt, didn’t talk to him for a week and wouldn’t give him any cases for a whole month after he came back. It was better now with him, marginally. Donovan had mourned Sherlock as well, had felt guilty, as if she was just one more person to push him closer to the edge. Now her guilt has turned to anger, just as everyone else, and bitter resentment, Anderson had been in much the same boat. Angelo was still upset, not angry, but wouldn’t speak to him the first few times he had come in. The few shop keepers that he did business with, that he was actually cordial to, were in stunned disbelief.

But John, it was like nothing had happened, he was not in shock, nor was he angry anymore, nor was he still grieving. It was the same, the exact same way it had been before Sherlock had gone. Not forced casualness which he had almost suspected from John. No, it would have been better had Sherlock thought the calm John had was forced, but it was as easy and natural as ever. But Sherlock felt like there was something beneath the surface of this peace and normalcy, something dark that would bite and claw and maim if Sherlock looked too closely at it. However, Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion that whatever was hiding would soon be thrust into the light of day, that it would tear whatever fragile reality he was living in to shreds.

Sherlock tried not to dread that day.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

It’s May now, it’s finally starting to warm up and John takes more walks to enjoy the weather before it gets too rainy again. Sherlock doesn’t often care for nature in the way the John seems to, but he does so love to watch John. Loves to watch the way the sun lights up John’s hair, the way that animals are drawn to him, like those god-awful Disney princesses that collect talking and singing rodents; really the only reason Sherlock even knows that much is because John had had to tell him these things when a killer had been targeting woman who bore any sort of resemblance to a Disney princess. That had been a strange case indeed.

However, all of that is irrelevant, the point being, that John was made for nature. Sherlock remembers one of the first cases he had gone on with John into the country side. It was just on the cusp of summer, the blossoms had bloomed, the new baby animals were steady on their feet, flowers were open, bees and butterflies and dragonflies soaring through the countryside air. He had been more casually dressed than Sherlock had ever seen him outside of the flat, barefoot in shorts and a vest with half his hair tied up and out of his face.

There had been all manner of animals out, and while most creatures weren’t as wary of Fae as they are of humans Sherlock had never seen them in such abundance before, and they were all centered around John. Sherlock had never seen anyone wrestle with a red deer stag, or any type of stag really, before he had met John. Had never seen anyone chase after small forest creatures like red foxes and European hares. Or wood larks, red kites, common chaffinches, and butterflies and other flying insects alight on outstretched hands like they did for John.

The breeze playing with his hair along with the tall grass, his smile as bright and dazzling at the sun, and when he had turned to Sherlock, a European adder fit snuggly around his neck, to bestow that gracious smile upon Sherlock he was very certain in that moment that gods do walk among men. Sherlock did not believe in the gods and goddesses and deities of myth and legend of humans who don’t exist even among the Fae, but this heavenly being who has deigned to chain himself to the earth must be for there was no other explanation for the sight before Sherlock. The beauty of Aphrodite, love of nature of Ngeṉ-mawida and Ngeṉ-kulliñ, the power of Jove, the loyalty of Guan Yu, the sheer brutality of Menhit, and the caring protectiveness of Hlin

Sherlock was never known for bouts of sentimentality or poeticism, but it was at that moment Sherlock decided John would be his, though this was a subconscious thought and it wouldn’t be until the Hound that Sherlock acknowledged his love for John as what it is, and it wouldn’t be until the Fall that Sherlock would prove his love for John, but he knew deep down that he couldn’t, wouldn’t let John go.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

It had been half a year since Sherlock’s return, and they were on a case, when the proverbial shoe finally, inevitably begins to drop.

In hindsight, he should have known, it seems that it’s always a case that tilts their world on its head. That very first case when John had shot someone for Sherlock even though he barely knew him. Or the pool when Sherlock had felt utter betrayal before his heart had stopped at the sight of John, his John, wearing a vest of explosives. Or the Woman, when he started to suspect John’s thoughts and feeling on Sherlock himself. Or the Hound when Sherlock finally admitted, to himself at least, how he truly felt, and to John that he was invaluable to him, or as close as he could make himself say. Or the Fall, the Fall and everything that came with and after. He was blind, the worst kind of ignorant, and now he was going to see.

Sherlock was at the table, looking through the lens of his microscope studying the decomposition of nocnitsa liver when exposed to certain types of fungal matter. Lestrade had messaged after John had already gone up to bed. Sherlock had gotten a text, no more than a four he concluded, but since Sherlock was particularly bored right now he figured he would take what he could get. He bounded up the stairs, not bothering to knock on the door since John would be asleep by now anyway. But imagine his surprise when John sat up as soon as his door was flung open, his eyes glowing violet. When John registered that it was Sherlock his eyes returned to his usual deep blue. Another puzzle to figure out at a later date. Of course, he had known that John was Fae, it was painfully obvious, but he couldn’t figure out what type. He had been trying to since he had first seen him in that lab at St. Barts all those years ago, but still nothing, his scent didn’t give anything away other than that he was a submissive, or as submissive as Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was ever going to be. He was tempted to just give up and ask John himself but that would be boring.

John had been up here for an hour and a half already, he should have been asleep. John masturbates in the shower, not in his bed, so that isn’t it. Sherlock doesn’t hear or see any signs of a nightmare; no accelerated heartbeat, no sweat gathering on his skin that Sherlock could currently see, nothing. There is no logical reason as to why John should still be awake, if he’s usually asleep within twenty-eight minutes of coming up then why? But once again it could be figured out at a different time, for now, the game was on.

They arrive at the scene within thirty minutes of Sherlock receiving the text from Lestrade, the alleyway is sectioned off by the police tape which Sherlock ducks under quickly, John right on his heels. The flashing lights are irritating John’s eyes, Sherlock can see, but he doesn’t complain or say anything so Sherlock doesn’t worry and instead focuses on the scene in front of him. The NSY are watching him with varying expressions as Sherlock flits around from one place to another examining seemingly unimportant details with his magnifying glass.

John is crouching next to the victim, listing off facts for Lestrade as he studies the body. “Female, not fae, approximately twenty-five years of age, brunette, intoxicated if the smell is any indication. The side of the face is concaved, mostly likely from blunt force trauma, something rounded but also large, however that doesn’t appear to be the cause of death, more like overkill. Defensive wounds on the arms and blood around the nails, see if your team can get any DNA from that. Also, more bruises on her arms, legs, and torso, but these are older, looks to be in the last stages of healing so she’s had them at least a week or two -”

Sherlock tunes John back out at that point, piecing the puzzle together. The woman, whose ID has yet to be found was obviously on her way back home from a night of clubbing with friends, getting over a bad breakup. Gordon was an idiot, and he decided to let the man know that now since he was asking if Sherlock had anything. Of course he did, it was insulting to even doubt that he did.

“Lestrade this is barely even a four, if I’m being generous. You really ought to work on your marital problems, it’s slowing you down.” Lestrade makes an indignant noise but doesn’t deny or dispute it. Sherlock sighs and has to resist the urge to rolls his eyes at the level of incompetence that he has to put up with.

“It was her ex, abusive, which is why she broke up with her in the first. Jane Doe was out with friends to celebrate her new singleness but also to forget about her ex-girlfriend. Said ex-girlfriend works at an office job, and goes to the gym regularly, bashing someone’s head in with three… no two blows is rather impressive, she’s muscular but not overtly so.” Sherlock ignores the look that John shoots him, a bit not good, it says. “And John is right, the head wound isn’t the cause of death, you can tell by the way the blood appears around the wound. Your victim suffocated, or rather drowned, one of her ribs was broken at the beginning of the scuffle and punctured her lung. Find the ex, arrest her then find me a better case, one that’s actually worth me coming out at this time of night.”

Not that it was late, but John, who was supposed to have been asleep would even have to agree that getting out of bed to come to a crime scene that was a three was a waste of time. Sherlock turned on his heel, calling out to John to follow, which he did diligently, just like always.

They had just passed back under the police tape and were making their way to the main street so they could hail a cab, or rather so Sherlock himself could hail a cab, but it was inconsequential really, when Donovan shouted after them. Sherlock really did roll his eyes this time, not at all caring for whatever petty insults Donovan was about to fling at him, so he kept walking. The lights were still messing with John’s eyes, and John was obviously getting more tired, with the way his shoulders were becoming more rigid and the lines in his face became deeper, therefore there was no point in hashing it out with Sally.

They are still walking when Sally shouts after him again, but the key difference is in what she says. It’s an insult, an insult that actually borders more on a curse than anything, and it’s said in a universal language known to all Fae, like it’s been hard wired into every Fae in existence. Sure, each type had their own individual languages, and some even had different dialects in each just like with any other human language, but this one, it was how Fae of different species communicated. Where Donovan had even learned such a word was beyond him.

He and John both stop dead in their tracks, along with every other Fae in the vicinity, not that there were very many.

Ekyhashin. It doesn’t translate very well into any human language that Sherlock had come across in his time on earth, however relatively short it is compared to others of his kind, but if he had to come close; caitiff, a cur, gutless, degenerate, a deserter, coward.

But it’s not used to describe someone, it is someone who simply is, more or a state of being than a label, one of the most dishonorable things to be among Fae, the highest of insults to your name.

Sherlock can feel the sudden tension in the air, can almost taste the energy coming off of John in waves. Sherlock knows something is about to happen but doesn’t know what, however he has a pretty good idea. A quick glance at John out of the corner of his eye and he can see the almost unnoticeable breeze that is starting to sway John’s hair, can see the ways John’s eyes both darken and lighten simultaneously, sees faint markings starting to appear on John’s exposed skin. He needs to diffuse the situation and fast otherwise John might unleash said gathering energy on those around him, and since Sherlock doesn’t know what John is, he doesn’t know what kind of power John is capable of.

He has but a split second to find something to say to Donovan, but can’t for the life of him think of what, and what good is he without his cutting words. But the shock of not only Donovan knowing that word, but directing that word at him, has briefly short circuited him.

“Sally.”

Sherlock breathes in deep and closes his eyes.

Too late.

Chapter Text

All Fae have a Craft, a gift of sorts, and no Craft is quite the same as another, not even those that have the same Craft. Most species of Fae have Crafts that are more common among that specific species. Elves are known for their healing, dwarves for craftsmanship, demons for magic, things of that nature. That doesn’t mean that demons can’t heal though, or that elves can’t craft anything since they rival dwarves in that regard. Some Fae can also have more than one, it isn’t too common, but it happens often enough that you’re not a pariah if you have two.

The first time John ever uses his Craft, he is six. He is playing at the park close by the swings with two other boys and a little girl who he remembers had very pretty hazel eyes. His parents are sitting at a wooden bench talking about whatever things parents talk about while their children are otherwise occupied. There are older boys playing around in the field and they come over, though John doesn’t remember what it is they initially wanted.

What he does remember though is that one of the older boys, he had brown hair and brown eyes with very crooked teeth, shoved him. John had almost hit his head on the pole for the swing set, he had scraped his knees on the mulch and gotten splinters in his hands. His Craft had created a shockwave that blew the other boy halfway across the park and had given him a concussion. His parents rush over to him, and they take him home. He says he’s sorry and that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and that he has a headache and wants to sleep.

The very last time he unconsciously used his Craft in any way was the day that Sherlock came back after the Fall.

If you were to take all the times John has used his Craft no one would be able to tell what his Craft even is. It manifests itself in whatever way it is needed at the time. To incapacitate a threat, to send a warning, to save his life, an unconscious response to extreme emotional distress. The one thing John does know is what his Craft is, in Latin medical terms it would be labeled as Necesse Prothea. Essentially, in laymen’s terms, John is capable of doing absolutely anything with his Craft, depending on his need and the situation at hand.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Everyone in the surrounding area can feel it, the sudden drop in barometric pressure, like an incoming storm, can feel the electricity skating across the top of their skin, raising hair and goosebumps in its wake. All eyes turn to John, and though he doesn’t know it his eyes are now heliotrope in color, are fixed firmly on one Sally Donovan who seems to have cottoned onto the fact the she may have overstepped several lines, first of which is never cross John Watson.

Sherlock reaches out for John’s arm, what he was planning on doing was beyond him, maybe to sooth, or to take John away quickly, possibly to restrain if it came to that. What happens though is that Sherlock is shocked, his already wild curls fraying around the edges, his mouth opening in a gasp of not quite pain, and then he’s frozen. Not literally, but Sherlock can do nothing more than breathe and move his eyes, which are now darting to and fro in panic.

The NSY stares on in trepidation, though no one else dares to move to try and stop John. He doesn’t walk really, more like he strides across the air to be directly in front of Sally, within arms-reach. Nobody can hear what John is saying, all they see is the terrified look on Donovan’s face, the way she falls to her knees and stares up into John’s face as he brushes his fingers across her cheek, the way objects are starting to float; cars, equipment, even a few people have started to hover off the ground a bit, not much but enough to be disconcerting.

When John turns away Sally collapses in a heap, a dazed expression in her eyes. Gravity seems to once again take control, everything in the air crashing to the earth abruptly, a few tires burst, and people stumble, but overall damage is minimal. John touches Sherlock on the shoulder as he passes, the genius gasps and lurches forward as he’s suddenly released from whatever was holding him, and immediately turns to follow John, not caring about anything else aside from getting him home, calming him down, making sure he’s okay now.

And asking questions that need answering, games and puzzles be damned.

Lestrade meanwhile checked the crime scene to see how much damage had been caused by John’s little spectacle just now, only to find that – to his non-Sherlockian eye – not a single hair had been moved out of place.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

John has finished with his shower and is now dressed in his pyjamas and dressing robe, a fresh cup of tea in hand, the third since Sherlock and John had walked in the door an hour ago, Sherlock in the meantime had been sitting perched in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest. Sherlock was determined to be patient, he wouldn’t rush or force John into answering anything that would cause unnecessary stress.

“How are you feeling John?” surely not the most subtle Sherlock has ever been, but that isn’t what he’s going for right now anyway, direct questions would have the best results.

John takes another sip of his tea, sighs, and slumps back in his chair. “Tired, honestly, with a pounding headache. I’ll probably head up to bed after I’m finished with this cuppa.”

“John.” Sherlock starts, but John knows what’s coming and heads him off before he can get started. “Sherlock I’d really rather not-”

“John what happened? What was that back there?” Sherlock briefly regretted pushing John, considering it was exactly what he said he wasn’t going to do, but he couldn’t go on without knowing, he couldn’t help if he didn’t know what the problem was.

John stayed silent, staring down into his cup as if it held the all the answers in the world, and who knows maybe it did. They sat in silence and Sherlock almost thought he really wouldn’t get any further tonight, but then John started in a quiet voice. “I- I don’t know Sherlock, it was just, it was like I had to- to confront Sally, and I was already feeling tired, and she just pushed too hard, rubbed me in just the wrong way to get me to want, to need to shove back.” John shook his head scowling, because that wasn’t quite what it was, it was more instinctual, more primal than that, something that told him she would not be allowed to get away with what she had said, but it was as close as he could get and still make sense. He had wanted to hurt her, and that was frightening.

John was no saint, he knew that, but he had never felt the need to tear someone apart the way he had with Sally, or at least not since the war. To tear into her flesh and rend it from her bones, to crush those bones into nothing but a fine powder. To turn Donovan into nothing more than a pile of viscera and burn her remains. And for what? Because she had insulted Sherlock? As if she never had done so before. Maybe it was because of the word she had used? But that still shouldn’t have mattered, nothing John can think of should have set him off in such a way, and even now almost an hour and half later there is still this need to go find Sally and make her pay. John could feel his power, lingering just under the surface, waiting to be let out. And John was honestly afraid of what would happen if he did.

Sherlock meanwhile was thinking about what John had said, he already knew that John was off as soon as he had stepped into his room earlier. He was awake when he walked in, the lights had irritated his eyes while at the crime scene, his exhaustion showed even more towards the end of the case, as short as it had been. When you consider John’s military experience, not to mention the past years of living with Sherlock himself, the shift at the surgery should not have been overly taxing, especially when Sherlock knows that the most strenuous case John had was a four year old with bronchitis. John can go almost four days without sleep before he crashes, John has barely been awake for twenty hours.

Something obviously had to be wrong, but what Sherlock didn’t know.

Could it have something to do with John’s biology? Maybe something had happened at work that John hid exceptionally well. Or some other outside stressor, Harry maybe? But John hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Sherlock just didn’t know, there were too many unknown variables, and until he had at least half of those he couldn’t go any farther and everything was mere speculation. Sherlock didn’t make assumptions, he had proof supported by cold hard facts. This whole entire ordeal was taxing, but what was he to do.

“John? John what Fae are you? Maybe if I knew I could help, because, well it appears there’s something wrong. Something you can’t control that maybe others of your kind could help with, but I haven’t been able to find out what you are. And you can’t go around,” Sherlock paused briefly to search for the proper word to call what John had done, “intimidating everyone who says something about me, as… satisfying as it was to watch, it’s unacceptable, especially since this had never been a problem before.”

John stares at Sherlock, neither blinked nor looked away, but eventually Sherlock lost the last bit of his patience and spoke. “John-”

John cut Sherlock off with a decisive, “I don’t know.”

Sherlock blinked owlishly for a moment. “What? What don’t you know?”

“I don’t know what Fae I am, I’ve been trying to figure it out since I was little and no one ever knew or was able to figure it out. I gave up looking for answers after I joined the army. It didn’t matter anymore, I didn’t have to know what I was in order to follow a command, and that was really all my COs cared about.”

The silence continued after John’s revelation. John didn’t have anything else to say, and really just wanted to go upstairs and to sleep, he was unusually tired right now, despite it being a rather uneventful day. When Sherlock kept the silence and it was obvious to John that he was in his Mind Palace he got up, washing his cup out and headed up to bed. There was quite a bit of tossing and turning before John was finally able to drift off into a fitful sleep.

Sherlock meanwhile has retreated into his Mind Palace to go through every type of Fae he’s ever met, every myth and legend known among Fae, anything that could give him any hint as to what John could be. And then Sherlock had an epiphany. Realms. There were different realms, most Fae ignore them since most can’t travel between them, but it’s possible that he could be from one of those. He could contact some of the Seelie, or even the Unseelie, possibly a demon for the information he needs. He has a few favors to can cash in on, it seems.

Throwing on his coat Sherlock rushed down the stairs and out the door. His first stop is a demon lounge in a refurbished warehouse right along the Thames. He knows the owner and a few of the Dominion’s who frequented the lounge, he knew he would have at least one lead by the time he left.

As Sherlock approached the building he could see the glamour fall away, to non-Fae it looked like any other abandoned warehouse, to Fae they could sense what dwelled inside. Only those who were truly desperate went inside, or if you were Sherlock then you had saved probably half the Fae inside so they all owed you favors, and demons always had to repay those. Not that Sherlock has gone to any of them before, but he figured if there was any reason to start collecting it was to determine what was happening with John.

He encountered Juno Caelistis at the door, head of security for the entire place whenever she wasn’t causing war amongst the mortals. Sherlock passed her with a curt nod and kept going, he headed straight for the restricted section where most of the First, Second, and Third Hierarchies resided when they came to the surface in this area. Sherlock entered the Second Hierarchy’s designated area. He went looking for the Dominions since they usually congregated around one another. Andromalius was seated on a plush couch towards the left hand side of the room, he was conversing with Curson.

“Angel and Crane, just the demons I wanted to speak with.” Sherlock intoned as he approached. The Dominions both turned to stare at him simultaneously, but Andromalius was the one to speak. He spoke with a slight Greek accent, and a voice that was surprisingly soft if you hadn’t already had contact with him. “Sherlock, what can we help you with this evening?”

“Well, as it were Angel, I need to call in those favors from you two.” Both demons glanced at one another then stood, Crane gestured to follow after him and Sherlock did. Crane led them through corridors and to a counsel room of sorts.

“We can discuss the matter here, away from those whom you might not want information in the hands of.” Crane’s voice was higher in pitch and more on the androgynous side than any other male Sherlock had encountered before him, but again, spend enough time in one’s presence and you don’t even notice these things.

Angel motioned to sit and he conjured a tea set from the early Qing dynasty, Sherlock was slightly impressed despite himself. “Now,” Angel began, “what can we do for you Sherlock?”