Chapter Text
When Captain John Watson served his time with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, he counted himself lucky to meet PFC Nicholas McLarty. A friendly bloke from Ireland who filled the nights with colorful stories passed down to him from Mum and Gran McLarty. From playful fae to bright flora covered hillsides, Nick’s tales were an oasis for the men in the midst of war. With a heavy heart, John found himself on the emerald isle meeting the McLarty family to pay his last respects just five short months after meeting the boy. And when the time came for him to fly back home to London, he found he couldn’t leave.
His first Winter on the island was bleak and lonely. The green he had fallen in love with in a dream was a harsh white reality. Dim and grey and overcast. John stayed to his cabin most days, venturing out at night to look to the stars when the nights were clear enough.
He’d unpacked the typewriter from Harry, a much appreciated Christmas gift that he’d yet to find a practical use for. John would sit, start to type, then frown down at the pages. He’d crumpled and burned up every idea so far. Harry’s card insisted he had stories of his own to tell. ‘Adventures’ she called them. But the longer he started at the blank page, all that came to mind was: Nothing happens to me.
It wasn’t until the Spring, when the island regained it’s glow, that John found his spirits revived. One morning, he woke to birdsong and sunlight and the entire world seemed to shift back onto its axis. John stretched with a groan, smiling and rolling from bed as if he’d just woken from hibernation. He would even swear his coffee tasted sweeter that day. Sitting on the front porch, flipping through the local paper and watching the forest around him come to life. The last few patches of snow and ice shrinking away from the rising sun.
By lunch time John decided to explore the world calling him beyond the cabin. The world Nick had spoken of so often.
He found the first trail easy enough. Winding through the woods just behind his back porch where the hazel and dog-violet grew in spotty clumps. He walked for a long while until the shadow of the Iron Mountains pulled back to reveal a small lake. Running through his memory, John declared the body of water to be Killoran Lough and circled around the water’s edge until he spied a meadow. To his left, the back face of the mountainside offered shade. To his right an open plain of endless green, spotted with only a handful of the more stubborn ash and birch no amount of grass or wildflower could overgrow. And between them, a beautiful crabapple stood alone, rare in its height.
John stilled, squinting at the centerpiece in suspicion. Its branches were still bare from winter’s snow, but already dotted with the promise of flowering buds come May. It looked.. old. Too old. On cautious toes, he slipped between the shade of tall grass and scattered wood, sneaking up on the ancient wood to get a closer look. He took shallow breaths and moved light of foot. As if his presence would upset the spell and the tree would pull up root to run away.
The clouds shifted and John stopped, hovering just a few meters away. He spotted movement at the base of the large tree. Sunlight filtered down through the branches and he squinted to the shadows there, watching the form of a young man come into view. The man sat in the tall grass, leaning up against the base of the trunk, long fingers dancing about, focused on some menial task in his lap. His skin appeared spotted from the shadows of the tree, John couldn’t be sure. Curious, he moved closer.
Shadows shifted again and John could see the young man clearer. In his hands was a circlet of twigs and leaves into which he wove a selection of bright pink campions with care. Bent forward over his task, a headful of dark ringlets hid the man’s face save for a long neck and defined jaw. Among the curls rested a completed flower crown of daisies and coltsfoot and what looked to be two twigs. Or rather, branches, giving the young man the illusion of antlers. Captivated, John took another step forward.
Suddenly, the flower crown was abandoned as its craftsman looked up. He sniffed the air thrice and turned to face John. His eyes were piercing. Fear and curiosity flying across his features before John realized what he was seeing. A light breeze danced between them, stirring the grass as the young man held his gaze and stood. He was towering, well over six feet tall. At least a head above John’s own height. John held his position, kept his eyes locked until curiosity got the best of him and--
“Oh,” a small gasp escaped as John let his eyes glance down. The man? was covered in fur from the waist down. His legs tapering from strong thighs to frail deer hooves. The spots were not tricks of light, but rather patches of tan and white fur across the young man’s chest and shoulders. Though his hands and face were human, his nose and ears were not. And as John let his eyes drink the vision in, he realized too that the branches were indeed antlers. “I-- I’m sorry to intrude,” he stammered, hands up and bowing awkwardly. He didn’t know what to do. The mystical creature didn’t seem threatened by him, but he didn’t want to be gored for trespassing into someone’s sacred wood either. Slowly, head lowered in submission, John began to back away.
“Dia dhuit,” the deer-man spoke. His voice was deep and lilting and John stopped moving. Eyes cautiously rising. The words were familiar as a local greeting, but thick in accent. His mind was drawing a blank on how to respond.
The deer-man stepped closer, his full height casting John’s cowering form into shadow. He circled the shorter man, sniffing the air around him, nuzzling in close to the back of John’s collar before placing a palm on his shoulder. “Céad míle fáilte romhat,” he said, pointing to his spot by the tree.
John looked up, searching the beautiful eyes peering at him from beneath the mop of dark fringe. The shifting colors he found there would have been enough to convince him of magic. Deerman or no. But it was the kindness and the soft smile on the young man’s face which convinced him to follow. “Th-- thank you,” he managed. His own smile offered as a promise of peace. He followed the young man, allowing himself to be lead back to the tree. John’s eyes went wide in amusement at the little tail that swayed with the deer-man’s movements.
Beneath the tree, John settled beside the pile of discarded flora and branches. He watched the young man settle back into his own spot, still in awe, still smiling. He was beautiful up close. His hair a springy mess of dark curls. Implied softness matched only by the sheen of his fur. His ears were twitching in a nervous manner as the young man chewed his lip, deciding something. John felt compelled to reach out and pet him, calling on every ounce of his willpower to behave.
“Sherlock is ainm dom..” he spoke slowly, pointing to himself. “Sherlock,” he repeated. He reached forward and patted John’s chest, over his heart. “C'ainm atá ort?” his voice rose at the end, a question. John stared down, squinting in thought.
“Sherlock,” he said again, pointing to himself. Then pointing again to John, “C'ainm atá ort?”
“Oh,” John smiled in realization. “John,” he answered, pointing to himself.
The deer boy, Sherlock, smiled back at him. Reaching forward to softly stroke across John’s chest. “John..” he echoed. “John.. John..John,” letting the word roll across his tongue until he had savored every syllable.
John grinned wide, his heart racing. Something about his name in that voice was mesmerizing. Filling him with a pleasant warmth.
Sherlock leaned forward, sifting through the discarded pile of flowers before extracting a completed crown. It was much like his own but dotted with three types of violet, purples and whites. He held it up to John’s cheek, staring deep into his eyes for a long while before tossing the crown aside. Reaching up, Sherlock plucked the ring of coltsfoot and daisies from his own head and settled it atop John’s mess of shaggy blonde hair. He tilted John’s chin up, turned his own head side to side in evaluation. Pleased with his choice, he caressed John’s cheek and smiled. “John,” he said once more.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, reaching up to brush the hand on his cheek.
For a long while, John sat and listened to Sherlock speak as he finished weaving crowns. Choosing the violet mix for himself before hanging the others on a low branch and guiding John to follow him to the lake’s edge. There they spoke a while, each tossing small pebbles and leaves into the water as the sun sank behind them, stretching new shadows across the meadow. Sherlock did not seem to understand English but John had picked up a few snippets of Gaelic and he could understand even if he could not answer. Most of their communication consisted of pointing and repetition.
By nightfall, Sherlock had walked with John back to the forest’s edge. He stopped just inside the safety of of the treeline, looking back towards the meadow and the mountains nervously. John turned and offered his palm in farewell. “Gura míle,” he tried but the language was still odd in his mouth. Sherlock tilted his head, looked down to John’s hand a moment, unsure of himself. He reached forward to take it, “Beidh tú ar ais?” as they clasped hands.
“Yes,” John agreed. Nodding eagerly before dropping the handshake to head back home. “I will return.”