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Chapter Text

Healers were rare and seldom trusted in the land of Ingary. People were known to say that it was better to die of an ailment than to have a quack try to fix you; it was rare that they even understood what they were doing. Most people prefered their own rudimentary treatments to the poking, prodding and leeching of so-called doctors.

So sometimes John Watson questioned why he longed so to be a healer.

It was something that seemed to have always been a part of him. Although he didn't remember it, his father told him that he brought home a sick kitten when he was four and then nursed it back to health. When one of his peers would be injured at the school he and his sisters attended, he would wince in empathetic pain and rush to aid them. People often told him that he'd made them feel better. That he'd helped. Along with their words came a feeling of euphoria for the young Watson.

But even though being a doctor was not a job held in high esteem, it still required an extensive education; one that his poor family could not afford. He resigned himself to working in his family's shop. It was his duty as the eldest, as tradition dictated. The eldest did not get to seek their fortune.

John was a relatively happy young man, despite his inescapable fate. He considered himself blessed. He was healthy and was often told he was handsome, although he sometimes wished he was a bit taller. He had a loving family. In his mind there was not too much more to wish for.

He didn't remember his mother. After having his younger sister Harry, she had succumbed to illness. She was mourned, but a year later the woman John would call his mum was married by their father. She was a lovely woman named Fanny. Later she would give John a half-sister named Molly.

According to the books John had read, this should have made Harry and him the evil step-siblings, but they all got along fairly well. Molly was sweet, Harry was fiery and John kept the peace.

They were happy for many years as the children were sent to the small school in their town of Market Shipping. The family business, practically named Hat Shop, supported them and they made their way in the world.

That was, until their father died suddenly. No one had expected it and no one knew the cause. This only furthered John's wish of being a doctor.

Fanny took over the hat shop and John quit school to help at age seventeen. After only a few months of that arrangement it was no longer practical for any of them to be in school and Fanny began to look for apprenticeships.

Two days after John turned eighteen, she called them all together for a meeting.

"I've done the best I can," she said, trying to smile. "Harry, I've found you an apprenticeship at Cesari's, in town square."

John studied his sister's face. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, which was unusual for her. He thought that she wasn't happy with that news; she was playing with her blonde hair, a sign that she was nervous or discontent.

Still, he thought that choice may have been best for her. Their mother really had done her best; Helen Cesari was a lovely woman and her bakery was very successful in the town. Harry would be well taken care of, able to learn a trade or possibly even meet a suitable spouse.

Fanny turned to Molly, wringing her hands. "Do you remember Mrs Fairfax?"

Molly nodded, looking confused. Fanny pursed her lips. "I've spoken with her, and she says she would not be opposed to taking you as a student."

Silence reigned in the room. Mrs Fairfax was an old witch and John could see why Fanny would think that she and Molly would be a good fit. Mrs Fairfax kept bees and a motherly demeanor that would fit Molly, who was only fourteen, perfectly.

However...

"But - mother, Mrs Fairfax was taught by... Mrs Hudson."

John flinched slightly.

Mrs Hudson was a well-respected woman, widely know for her teaching of young, untamed wizards and witches. She was powerful in her own right but chose to use that in the training of others.

But a wizard had risen recently, just out of her tutelage, and it could no longer be said that her students became wonderful people.

The wizard Holmes had taken up residence on the outskirts of Market Shipping. No one was quite sure why; for one rumored to be as powerful as he, it would be expected that he live in one of the larger cities.

But he had not made his home in one place. If you looked to the hills on any given day, you were likely to see his moving castle.

Sometimes it was fixed in one place one day and then in a different the next. Sometimes you could actually see it moving. Occasionally, it spewed smoke of varying colors from its turrets. Once, John was awoken to a wailing sound when the castle was closer to the town. Many took that to be the day when he would finally snap and kill them all, although noting had come of it.

Rumors circulated in the town. Holmes collected dead bodies, on a quest to create a monster. Holmes sucked the souls out of those who looked into his eyes. Holmes could find all your deepest secrets and whisper them until you went insane.

The most prominent of all seemed to be that he ate the hearts of young women.

None of this had done any good for Mrs Hudson's reputation. She had retired, with Holmes as her last student, but she often had people pestering her about him. Anyone who had associated with her was under scrutiny as well. If she turned out one supposedly dark wizard, who was to say that all of her students weren't evil?

Of course, Molly probably wouldn't care if she hadn't had a run in with Holmes herself.

John remembered her walking into the house, in a dreamy state. She'd been even younger then, and John had shaken her shoulders until she admitted that the wizard had asked her for directions.

She also said that he was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. After that, she had refused to say anymore. Any mention of the man had her blushing and daydreaming for the rest of the day.

John had done his best to keep people away from her once the rumors that she'd been bewitched began to spread. It wouldn't do for people to think she needed to be "cured."

Of course, the prospect of being sent to train under someone who had anything remotely to do with the wizard Howl had her very nearly swooning.

John suspected that Mrs Fairfax would take any student at the moment, so the timing was very good. He was glad for Molly; being a witch was generally a well-respected and wealthy profession.

When Fanny turned to John, he knew what to expect. He was not at all surprised to be informed that he would be helping her run the hat shop.

He was already accustomed to working there, so the next few weeks brought no adjustments aside from the gaping absence of his sisters. Harry was within easy walking distance, and he saw her on occasion, but it was very different from knowing she was in the next room. Molly was too far away for him to see at all, and he was not ashamed to admit he missed her.

Fanny handled most of the actual making of hats, while John was sent to run errands or sell them. He found it very tedious but eventually it became his way of life.

He had always been rather social, with many friends in school, but now he found himself with no one to talk to but the hats.

And talk to them he did, rather than go insane. After Fanny asked him to practice talking to his customers, he began flattering his hats, imagining they could answer him.

He would absently run his hands over them, pulling at their feathers or ruffles, for lack of anything at all better to do. Occasionally he would put them on, but then he would collapse in laughter like a crazy person because they all looked ridiculous on him.

If he didn't get to talk to people, he most certainly did get to listen to them. Everyone loved gossip, especially people who lived in a town as small as Market Shipping. Jane Farrier's hair was ridiculous, according to Milly Hardson, a regular patron. John always had to keep his face blank when she came in, as she had rather silly hair as well.

The royal family seemed to have had a fight as well. There was much speculation about what had caused Prince Justin to storm away to the waste. One theory was that Justin had insisted that the King's daughter Valerie would one day marry a son that he did not yet have.

Whatever the cause of the fight, the King was clearly regretting it now, as his brother had not returned from the waste. The far more likely guess at the cause of that was that he'd been kidnapped by the Wizard of the Waste.

The King had sent a minor member of his board - a man named Mycroft, apparently - to try to retrieve him, but now that man had gone missing as well. There was natural grumbling about how the royalty never seemed to be able to get anything done.

The wizard Holmes was making himself known again - or at least, people who liked to talk about him. He had allegedly eaten the heart of some girl who was now tragically bed-stricken.

It seemed that interesting happened to everyone who wasn't named John Watson. Jane Farrier had been swept off her feet by a count and taken to Kingsbury. (John couldn't imagine how; she'd bought one of his mushroom-colored hats and she'd looked positively ridiculous in it, despite the time he'd spent flattering the poor things.) A plump woman named Wanda had recently found out that she was the sole heir of an extremely rich old man who had died, leaving her with money to spare. Molly had written, saying that everything was going well and describing some of the exciting things she'd been up to.

Even Fanny was getting more excitement than he was; since the Hat Shop was flourishing more than ever, she'd needed to run errands that he couldn't go on himself. Sometimes, he'd end up darning the now-dreaded hats himself, because she was so often out.

John read, as he always had, and dreamed of a life like one of the people in his books. He knew that it was very silly to hope that sort of thing, but perhaps his life could be just a little bit more interesting. He still wanted to be a doctor; his present for his fourteenth birthday had been a medical book, which he would still pull out and leaf through, on rainy or nostalgic days.

He realized one day that it had been six months since he'd begun to work at the shop and he hadn't even left the shop at all in a week. Every time he thought he was going to leave and get some fresh air, something would could come up and he would end up spending another full day among the hats.

May Day was approaching. He remembered last year's May Day; Harry and Molly looking lovely, everyone taking a day to simply enjoy. The Hat Shop wouldn't even open. It was a perfect day to go out and feel alive.

Stepping out onto the street was like stepping into another world. John felt like a hermit, coming back to civilization after years and years of cave-living.

It wasn't that he was scared at all, but he did feel quite overwhelmed. Everything was very loud and colorful. The street was crowded and he was jostled around, his size in no way helping him make his way. He felt very out-of-place, dressed in dull brown among the throng of the merrymakers, in their vibrant clothing.

He was slowly making his way to the square, having decided to go to Cersari's to see Harry when he noticed something strange. A dark-haired man was lying prostrate in the middle of the road, and everyone was walking around him, seemingly not noticing him at all. Their eyes glazed over him and they stepped around him.

Confused, John walked over to him and knelt down. "Are you alright?" he asked.

The man looked up, giving John a good look at his face. He was striking in every sense of of the word. His face was framed with black curls and pale blue eyes gleamed at John from an angular face.

"...Yes," he answered slowly in a deep voice. "I am alright... Interesting. Renders useless the results, but interesting." Imperiously, he said, "Put out your hand."

John, slightly bewildered, obeyed speechlessly. A shock ran through him when the man's long fingers curled around his wrist.

The piercing eyes closed and John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He felt as though the man had seen into his soul.

"Yes," the man muttered to himself, "interesting." His eyes reopened and swept over John's body. "Works in a hat shop, how dull."

The man leaped up suddenly, leaving John on the ground. "You ruined my experiment, but I suppose I can find it in me to forgive you."

He turned to leave, and John sat stunned for a moment. Then he gathered his wits and called after him, "What do you mean? Who are you? How did you know that?" but the man was already far away up the street, everyone avoiding him, as if it was natural.

John finally noticed all the stares he was getting, and stood, dusting off his clothes. He pulled himself together and pushed through the crowd again, trying to forget his strange encounter.

He finally made it to the square and headed for Cesari's. The door was open and the entire place was filled to the brim. John spotted Harry behind the counter, were she looked uncharacteristically frazzled and worried.

He called out to her and she looked at him in surprise. There were several boys at the counter who were clamoring for her attention (most likely they weren't actually there to buy anything) but she switched out with one of her fellow workers and pulled John to the back of the shop.

They sat down in the cellar, and John looked at his sister in concern. She was almost trembling and wouldn't quite look him in the eyes.

"Harry, are you alright?" he asked.

She smiled tremulously. "Well, that's the thing, John. I'm not Harry. I'm Molly."

Chapter Text

John Watson was a mess of confusion. His eyes and ears were sending different messages and his brain was attempting to accept them.

The girl sitting before him looked like Harry. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, practical clothing. She said she was Molly. There was a slight problem with that. Eventually, his confusion formed itself into a question. "What?"

"I know it sounds... weird - I mean, if you told me you were Sam Harris I'd probably - um, I had proof..." Harry-Molly paused and John processed the fact that she was talking exactly like Molly. It was so bizarre, coming out of Harry's mouth.

"Oh yes, I had a secret crush on Harry's old boyfriend, Kyle. I didn't tell her that, so I've got to be me. Do you see?" He was trying to see. It was rather difficult as everything seemed to be trying to blind him.

John remembered Molly's crush on Kyle. She certainly never would have told Harry. Besides, this girl was behaving exactly like a nervous Molly. The awkward stumbling through words and her wringing of hands looked quite unnatural on Harry's usually confident self.

"So, you're Molly. Okay then." John scratched his head. "How?"

"The thing you have to understand John, is that Fanny didn't think about what we wanted." John frowned. "I'm not really one for adventures and things. Harry would be a much better witch. And I..." She blushed, another alarming expression on Harry's face. "Well, I want to stay in Market Shipping."

Ah, so a young man then. "Harry and I wrote letters and we both agreed that switching places was a good idea. So a few weeks after being with Mrs Fairfax - who's lovely by the way - I found a spell that can change appearances. It wasn't very hard. Did you know all of her spells are based from honey? Anyway, I said I wanted to visit Harry then she let me go, so I took the spell and here I am."

John was torn between amusement and horror. "How long is this going to last?"

She fidgeted, playing with her fingers. "I think about three more months."

He sighed and tried to appear like a disapproving older brother, although a part of him was cheering for them. Everyone but him was fighting for their happiness. Even shy Molly was not simply accepting her fate.

"That's going to be a bit awkward."

She grimaced. "Yes. The whole ordeal was at first. I didn't want to see you, because I was scared, and I didn't know how to work here. People knew me, or they thought they did, and it was all very confusing. I think I have a handle now though.

"John," she leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee, "I'm really worried about you."

He tilted his head to the side. "How do you mean?"

She took a deep breath and said in a rush, "You work in that hat shop all day! You never go out or do anything, and it's not right. Mother... frolics around town and you never see the light of day."

"Fanny doesn't... frolic. She's working."

"John, I've seen her. She's not always working. Do you really believe that? She's got you slaving away all day, because you're good for business and she knows it. The shop's had twice the success now that you run the counter."

John sat back, stunned. "Why...? You've been talking to Harry, haven't you?" He doesn't think Molly could ever be this suspicious on her own.

"Yes. I didn't want to listen to her at first either, John, but she's right. Fanny is taking advantage of you. Do you even get a wage?"

He shook his head slowly. "But I'm still an apprentice."

She pursed her lips. "So am I, but I get paid."

Silence fell in the room for a moment. John was considering every day of his last six months in a new light. Molly broke through his thoughts, saying, "John, you once told me I was too nice. I'm telling you the same thing now. Just... please, think of yourself for once."

They tried to move on to other topics, but it was clear that both their minds were on their earlier conversation. John was quiet and Molly kept giving him worried glances. Eventually, Molly was called back to work and John made his way home, still thinking.

He felt like a bad person for thinking of Fanny this way. She had pulled their family through hard times, and raised him from an early age. Surely they were wrong?

Still, after a long night with little sleep, he decided to ask for Fanny for a wage.

The next morning, he approached her and asked, trying not to sound ungrateful. He was much assured when she immediately complied, saying that she would certainly pay him. Harry and Molly were simply being paranoid.

But several weeks went by, and Fanny made no mention whatsoever of paying John for his work. He grew more and more unsure. He confided in the hats about his doubts. "Maybe I am being taken advantage of," he said to a feathered cap one warm afternoon.

A whole month went by of unrest and unease. He tried to bring the subject of pay up to Fanny again, but either something came up or she blew him off.

One day he finally decided to go out again, only to be caught in the rain and soaked thoroughly. He was in a horrid mood when he made his way back to the shop.

The mood blended into the next day when he awoke with a cold. He dragged himself out of bed and opened shop. Luckily there weren't too many customers and he spent the day nursing a headache.

Just five minutes before closing-time, the door opened with a bang. He groaned and made his way to the front of the shop to serve the person.

The person was a man, fairly short, with black hair and unassuming wouldn't have given him a second glance if he hadn't noticed the man's eyes. They were black and shiny and sharp and somehow upsetting. He carried himself in a strange, sideways gait.

Another man seemed to be cowering at his feet. He was rather shapeless, but he would have been tall if he'd been standing. He had dark hair and a somewhat troubled face.

The first man began to speak, with a strange, unsettling list to his voice. "Is this the Watson Hat Shop?"

John answered stiffly. "Yes."

The man smiled, and John found himself intimidated by him. Something about him was just off. "Then why don't you show me some hats."

He really wasn't sure what the man was looking for. He grabs a off-green cap of a wall, because he does think it would genuinely suit the man.

He was still irritable, so he practically chucked the hat at the man, hoping he'd just buy it and go away.

The man caught it in mid-air and tutted. "No no no, Johnny-boy, this won't do at all." He sighed as if John had disappointed him.

John was trying to figure out if he has ever met this man before. He didn't think he had. "Sorry, but how do you know my name?"

A grin that showed most of his teeth appeared. "Oh, I know many things, my little hatter."

John moved from intimated to majorly creeped-out. "I'm sorry," he managed. "The shop is closing soon; would you like to come back tomorrow?"

The man shakes his head. "Ah, you really are a thick one, aren't you? You must know by now that I'm not here because of hats, Johnny-boy."

A chill ran its way up John's spine, but before he could do anything, the forgotten person on the floor shook up. "He's the Wizard of the Waste; there would be no point in trying to escape."

The Wizard turned towards the slouched man. "Did I give you permission to speak?" he demanded, no longer subtle in his insanity. The other man fell silent, and the cracked grin was again turned to John, who felt frozen.

A sort of shift in power seemed to run through the room and an intense pain grew in John's chest. He kept his lips firmly shit but gripped the counter for support. He had no idea what was happening and was the most frightened he had ever been in his life.

"You have as long as the timer says," the Wizard said softly. "Then you'll go up. You're a real, living explosive now." He turned away. "I'll be watching. You'll certainly end with a bang." He motioned for the other man to follow him, and strode towards the door, John still fighting against the pain that was filling him. "Oh," he heard the Wizard call back to him, "and you won't be able to tell anyone about the spell. Ta-ta!"

Several minutes later when John could concentrate, he began to search his body for damage. His medical texts were not entirely clear on what one should do about a heart problem, and that was what he felt had happened.

He ran his hands down his chest and stopped abruptly when he felt something raised. With a lump in his throat, he pulled his shirt off.

There was a raised, black-lined rectangle that rested over his heart. Inside it, there were white numbers. 324. A random number for a random attack. It stuck out a half inch from his chest, with an itching, stinging sensation all around it.

John stood in that room, shirtless and unmoving, for a long time. Fanny was out and not likely to return until tomorrow if recent trends repeated. He was all alone.

So. John was going to blow up. Several questions came to mind. Why? How? When? And, somehow must importantly: What was he going to do about it?

Why. John was going with the Wizard of the Waste was an insane, evil bastard. It would have to do for now.

How. Well, he didn't know, did he? It would be best to not be around people. But maybe he should just... end it now, on his own terms. No, that would just be surrendering. John was not going to give in. Killing himself would be admitting defeat. Surely there was a way to reverse it.

When. Well, the Wizard had said, "When the timer runs out," so probably that was what was on his chest. 324 what? Days, probably. It would be best to be alone... when the time came.

What was he going to do? He finally allowed himself a moment of panic. He'd reasoned through the problem, and he still had no idea what to do beyond pulling his shirt back on.

He was going to die. Oh, he'd known it, somewhere, distantly, his entire life. Now it was imminent. What was the point of it all?

No reason to sit around here, some part of him whispered. Do you want to spend your last days in a hat shop, working away?

No. No he didn't.

He went to his room and looked around. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and he felt glorious. He was doing something, for the first time in what felt like forever.

With no real goal in mind, with only a little bread and the clothes on his back, during the middle of the night, John Watson stepped out into the world to live.

Luckily it was high summer, or John would most likely have been cold. The winters were mild in Market Shipping as they were not too far from the ocean, but John hadn't even thought to grab a jumper, something he would probably regret. Oh well, it would be hot in the morning.

------

He had left Market Shipping before, but never alone. After a few hours of walking, he turned back and realized that he'd climbed one of the sloping hills that rose to the north of the little town. He had been unaware of his surroundings at first, stuck in his own head, but now he looked down on his little village and felt very small.

He pressed on, noticing that he was in farm country. He felt strangely empty. There was an aching sensation in him, an almost nostalgic one. He didn't know how he would survive, and suddenly it didn't matter.

Every so often he would stop and fidget with something in his path. He saw a smooth rock in the light of the moon and slipped it into his pocket. He didn't know why. He just did. Did anything matter any longer?

He saw a little snake on the fence to someone's farm, and sat to watch it. It seemed to see him, and slithered away after a moment.

He got tired eventually, and looked around for a walking stick to help him up steeper inclines. The first stick he found was a scarecrow, which he ran his hands over and straightened. It was a fairly nice scarecrow, and he planted it firmly in the ground to guard the fields. Perhaps John could spend his time helping people. But now he would definitely not be a doctor. That was a forgone conclusion, he supposed. But there was still a glimmer of hope in him, that in the next 324 days, he would stop the process.

He finally found a suitable stick on the other side of the road and pressed on. That was all he could do now.

He lost track of time eventually. He wasn't thinking or planning; he was completely blank. He just walked with no destination in mind. Step after step.

The sun rose, actually managing to surprise him, even though it did so every morning.

He sat for a moment, feeling tired out suddenly. He hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. Everything began to feel a bit overwhelming, so before he could change his mind, he stood up, putting aside the walking stick, prepared to walk again.

Towering before him, hovering several feet off the ground, was the moving castle. It was traveling rather quickly, and had snuck up on him.

He'd only ever seen it from afar, and it took his breath away. There were several turrets and windows scattered at seemingly random places around the strangely brown stone. Perhaps it was a small castle but at the moment it appeared gigantic.

A notion struck him. He had always been curious about the castle, and about Wizard Holmes. He was dying anyways, and pretty tired. Besides, Holmes ate young girls. He wasn't a girl, last time he checked. Why not go into the castle?

He practically ran over to it, with a sudden burst of adrenaline. There was a door near him, only a few feet off the ground. He caught up to the castle and hauled himself onto the doorstep.

He felt a bit foolish when the door didn't open, and then a bit nervous. But nothing was stopping him now, and he banged on the door and shouted, "Open!"

He was surprised when it followed his orders and swung forward on its hinges.

Chapter Text

He stood motionless for a moment, looking into the dark recesses of the castle. A draft of cool air brushed against his face and he inhaled slightly. A flicker of something ran through him, reaching his very core. He hestitated a moment longer and then stepped forward through the door.

It wasn't as dark as it had seemed from the outside, and he studied his surroundings carefully. There was a chance that he would be killed in the next few minutes, so he might as well take in the sights.

The walls of the hall he found himself in were covered in a florid wallpaper, which he blinked at. The more he looked around, the less this place fit his idea of a castle. It had a clustered air to it, and was somehow homey. Fanny would go into hysterics at the mess.

He really wasn't thinking as he made his way through the passage. It was best not to dwell on his future at the moment. Instead, he focused on exploring and the rush of blood in his ears. He felt as alive as he'd wanted to be when he'd left home. He, John Watson, Hat Shop worker, was sneaking through the moving castle of Sherlock Holmes. He giggled a little at the thought.

A jolt ran through him when he heard a squeak in the distance and his previous insane confidence died a little. In the process of looking around, his foot snagged on a box on the floor and he tumbled to the floor.

He winced at the smacking-sound that resounded through the hallway. It was likely to be heard by anyone nearby. But somehow, he was not particularly afraid. His heart was racing, certainly. His entire life, he'd always thought he was not brave or in any way outstanding, but for the first time he was actually faced with danger... and he felt amazing.

After a few moments of lying still, he began to relax, only to tense again when he heard someone speaking.

"Is someone there?" a voice asked. It sounded worried and young - not what he was expecting at all, really. Footsteps shuffled, a door opened. He lay on the floor, feeling a bit ridiculous.

"Um, hello." He looked up to see a mousy young man staring at him. Definitely not wizard material, in John's opinion, but then again he'd never exactly seen a wizard.

Only one thing to say, really. "Hi." He straitened up and held out his hand. "I'm John."

The boy took his hand and shook it, even at the awkward angle. "Yes, um, I'm Henry." He looked Henry over. He was pale, down to his eyes and thin hair. He appeared to be several years younger than John. At school, John would have instantly pegged him as a follower sort.

John stood and smiled, acting as natural as he knew how. Oh, I know I wasn't invited in. I make a habit of entering moving buildings whenever I happen by one. What, you don't? Pity. It's quite fun.

"Well, aren't you going to show me around?" he asked, as if Henry was being the one being inordinately rude here.

"Who are you, exactly?" Henry asked, looking bewildered.

Any fear that John could possibly have had was gone now. He grinned a little cheeky grin and said, "I believe I've already told you," then turned away into the castle as if it belonged to him.

He felt a little bad when the boy spluttered behind him, but then anyone living in a dark wizard's castle couldn't be very nice themselves, could they? But Henry seemed like a nice boy, really. He'd never been one to believe everything he heard anyway; maybe Wizard Holmes wasn't so bad of a person. A worse thought occured to him, and he glanced back at the seemly perpetually nervous boy who was now following him. Perhaps he wasn't here of his own freewill. Maybe he was being threatened? No point worrying now; he could find out later.

At the end of the hall, he stepped into a cosy yet cluttered room and looked around, again perplexed. The room would be bizzare in an ordinary house but did not seem the sort of room one would expect to be in a castle. Several chairs and sofas were spread haphazardly througout the space. A fireplace was blazing against the opposite wall, and it looked very appealing suddenly, as were the chairs.

A head of some sort of animal was hanging from a wall. A knife was hanging from the ceiling. A hole was burned in the carpet. The only thing that looked vaguely wizard-like in the room were the vials and equipment on a table in the left corner.

"Why are you here?" asked a Henry who had finally lost his temper.

Time for John to get creative. "To speak with Wizard Holmes."

The other man immediately looked desperate again. "He's - not here. Would you like me to take a message? I'm his apprentice."

So not held against his will then. Hopefully. John really must find out. That required staying. Besides, he had nowhere else to go.

"No, I think I'll wait for him." And with that, John plopped himself into a chair.

He ignored the fretting from Henry, enjoying the sudden comfort of the chair. It was mid-morning, but he had neither eaten nor slept for quite some time. He was suddenly exhausted and very relieved when the boy left the room. So, he would be allowed to stay for now, even on false pretenses. Good. He didn't want to move...

He fell into a doze, drifting in and out. The fire was mesmerizing.

Later he was woken by sounds of stirring. He surreptitiously watched Henry move about the room. He really did seem like a nice sort of lad, not the kind you'd find living in a wizard's castle. Watching him pour a green liquid into a vial was quite disconcerting.

John closed his eyes, becoming comfortable again. He slipped back into a light sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he had no real concept for time at all. Minutes or hours could have passed. He just stared into the fire before him, deep in thought.

Thinking back over the day's events, he barely recognized himself. He'd walked miles and miles and then barged his way into a castle that hovered off the ground and then proceeded to be rude and make himself at home. To think, last week the most excitement he would be likely to get was stabbing himself with a needle.

He hadn't been angry before, or felt any particularly negative feelings, but that seemed to be crashing around him now. He was going to die. It bore repeating. How dare that Wizard! Sailing into people's lives and making them into bombs!

In a sudden rush of thought, he unbuttoned his shirt. Sure enough, a day had gone by, and the timer no longer read 324 but 323. His says were numbered. Literally.

And a wistful sensation filled him too. It wasn't direct sadness - perhaps that would come later - more of a sudden understanding. If he wasn't dying, he would still be wasting away at home, being exploited. Was he really any better off there?

He scrubbed at his eyes. These endless questions would keep him in circles all night.

He stood, stretching. He walked around the room, taking a closer look at it. The potions Henry had been brewing earlier sat on a rickety table, and he did not dare touch it. He noticed some letters resting on a sofa and took a little look at them. They were all adressed to the Wizard. John let his curiosity get the better of him and thumbed though them. Interestingly, they were almost all pleas for help of some kind. Please Mr Wizard will you find my mother? Will you fix my sailboat? Will you...

They were also sorted into two piles. One of which read Boring! and one of which read Worth my time. John found that rather rude.

After he tired of being nosy, he examined the mantlepiece. He wondered why he found the human skull that rested on it so surprising; that was the most wizard-y thing he had seen in this place so far.

Standing near the mantelpiece made him realize just how warm and appealing the fire was. He settled back into his chair and pulled a blanket onto him as he sat.

He stared at the flames, hoping to fall asleep again, looking for shapes as he would in clouds. Yes, he fancied there was a little face in the fire. Yes, that bit could be a mouth and the white-silver bits at the top could be hair - wait.

"What sort of fire is silver?" he mused out loud.

And a voice answered. "So you come into my home, snoop around, and then criticize the fire?" Before he could locate the voice, it continued dryly, "Of course, most fire wouldn't mind too much, but I'm afraid I rather do."

Well. There really was a little face in the fire. "Sorry?" he ventured. "What are you?"

It flickered and crackled, shifting colors. Its eyes were a strange black, and its hair was indeed silver. "I'm a fire-demon," it answered. "Bound to this hearth by contract." There was something in its voice as it said that. Something like hope. "And who are you, exactly? I can tell you're under a spell."

John leaned forward excitedly. "You can tell? Could you take it off?"

The eyes evaluated him as the creature darted along the logs in its hearth. "It's powerful magic." Silence hung for a moment. "Wizard of the Waste?"

"Yes." He opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out. Oh. You won't be able to tell anyone. The utter bastard.

"It's complex," the demon said. "I'll need time to study it."

John swallowed. "How long?"

"I don't rightly know."

He stirred uneasily. "What if you can't figure it out?"

"Sorry, but I suspect you'll blow up." The demon actually did sound sorry.

"Then I'll have to stay here."

The demon nodded. It was very strange; the little head bent, white top flickering.

"And you'll just do this, for free?" John asked skeptically. "Doesn't sound much like a demon."

It rolled its eyes, again a strange sight. "And how many demons have you had the luck to know intimately?"

He supposed it had a point. "Is there anything that I could do for you?" he proposed. He did like to help people and he hated feeling like a hinderance.

Its eyes gleamed and John wondered if this had been its goal the entire time. "Hm," it said. "Well, if you're going to be here anyway..."

"Yes?"

"I suppose you could break my contract."

He sat back heavily. "Why do you think I could do that?"

It looked surprised for a moment, but recovered quickly. "I'm fairly confident. Besides, do you want to stay like that until you die?"

John scowled. "Oh, so you show your true colors."

It sighed, sending heat into his face. "No, sorry. Really. I'll help you, I promise." John tried to take its word. "I just think you really could help me out as well. I know what I'm talking about."

"This contract, it's with Wizard Holmes, is it?" he asked.

"Yes. I can't move out of the fireplace. I do all the work around here. Where are you from?"

John was surprised by the question but answered quickly. "Market Shipping."

"Then you see the castle all the time. All it's flashiness. No need to be impressed by his highness," refering to Holmes, John supposed, "that's all me. I do all the work around here. Move the castle, maintain it. Sherlock's magic mostly comes from me, you know. He's a decent enough wizard on his own, but all he's really good for is dashing about in a great big coat and pissing people off."

There was real bitterness in the demon's voice, and John was suddenly very sympathetic. He couldn't be the only person in the world who was taken advantage of. And his opinion of Holmes was not rising at all.

"Do you get anything out of this at all?"

"No. Sherlock is quite heartless, you know."

John had heard it before. "Why did you enter the contract at all?"

The demon's face screws up. "Well. It was - complicated. I must say, it wasn't really Sherlock's fault either."

John was fairly confused at this point, but if the demon was going to try to help him, he might as well return the favor. "Yes. Okay. How can I break the contract?"

It shifted around a bit. "I can't say. That's part of it."

He groaned. "In a right fix, both of us are."

"Just - look. I'll give you hints. Just pay attention; you'll get it eventually."

"Okay. So you really promise to help me?"

"Yes."

"Then I promise to do my best."

It grinned, showing a wide amount of teeth.

"Oh god, I have to stay here now. What will I say to Wizard Holmes?"

The demon gave a dismissive flick of its head. "We'll think of something. He's pretty useless at most things anyway. I doubt he'll even care you're here."

"Okay." John yawned and settled back into the chair. "What's your name?"

"Greg."

John eyed him. "Strange name for a fire-demon."

"You must introduce me to all these fire-demons that you know whose names are more to you liking. Perhaps they'll persuade me to change mine."

"You win."

John no longer felt comfortable staring at the fire, so he just closed his eyes. Soon he was tired again and drifted back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Something was pressing uncomfortably into John's leg but he didn't want to move. He groaned and shifted a bit. This made him aware of a horrid crick in his neck and an ache in his muscles. Why wasn't he in his bed?

He opened his eyes and blinked blearily. That didn't look like his ceiling.

The events of the past few days suddenly came to him, and he closed his eyes again.

After collecting himself, he sat up stiffly. Feeling into his pocket, he withdrew the thing that had been hurting his leg. The round stone that he had picked up during his walk sat on his palm. He considered tossing it aside before deciding slipping it back into his pocket. He was rather skilled at throwing; perhaps it would come in handy.

No sign of Henry at all. He looked into the flames of the fire that was still flickering and wondered if that part of the previous day had been a dream. He saw no sign of any fire-demon.

He rose out of the chair, wondering what time it was. There was a window to the right corner of the room through which a faint light could be seen. How long had he slept? He'd climbed into the castle late-morning and then slept until it was dark again. Then he'd... Well maybe he hadn't talked to Greg. A sinking feeling caused him to sigh. Now how could he stop his impending explosion?

"Could you get me another log? I'll go out." John whirled to see the same little face looking at him out of the fireplace.

"Yes," he answered with relief. He spotted some firewood lined up by a wall and picked out a large one from the pile.

He awkwardly slid it toward the demon, curious as to what Greg would do. He watched, fascinated, as the creature reached forward with a shakey, fiery arm and pulled the log to himself. The wood sunk into his body as it would into normal flame. It almost appeared that Greg was eating it. Maybe he was.

John left him to his meal and began to look around the castle again.

He made his way out of the living-room cautiously and entered into a kitchen of sorts. It didn't appear to have any food in it, nor did much cooking seem to take place there. Could the Wizard conjure food out of the air?

Part of a skeleton lay spread-out on the table. More potions were bubbling in a corner. John, strangely enough, didn't feel afraid. He felt intrigued by all the madness.

He padded out of that room and noticed a staircase to his left. He climbed up it slowly.

At the top of the stairs there were two doors. Both were shut, but if John was going to be staying here he may as well know his way around. The first room was a bathroom, which he dismissed after a quick glance.

The other door opened and he peeked about. Looking out the window of the room, he could tell that the sun was just beginning to rise. The light that came from the window showed a bed. The covers stirred and a dreary Henry blinked at him.

He closed the door swiftly. He'd been rude enough to the boy already.

He made his way back down the stairs and reentered the living-room, smiling a little at Greg who was crackling away. He crossed the room and entered the hallway he'd blundered through the day before. There was a door he hadn't noticed.

He shook the handle but it wouldn't open. "That's Sherlock's room; only he can open it," he heard Greg call to him.

He went back to the living-room, intent on speaking with the demon, but stopped when he saw Henry enter from the kitchen.

Henry groaned. "Oh, you're here. I'd thought you were a dream."

John felt a little worried. He shouldn't have been so awful to Henry yesterday; what if he told Holmes to chuck him out?

Greg must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, "You two seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Not to worry Henry, John has just been through a rather rough patch. He needs to speak with Sherlock."

Henry made a non-commental noise and shuffled to the kitchen. John wanted to ask Greg just what they were going to tell Wizard Holmes he was here for, but he was suddenly deathly hungry. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't eaten for more than a day.

He followed Henry into the kitchen and watched him open a pantry full of food that he hadn't noticed before. Henry rooted around before pulling out some bread and eggs.

John felt a bit awkward and in the way, so he stood to the side as Henry cooked over Greg. Greg didn't look overly happy about about being forced under a pan but afterwards he received some sort of fuel that made him glow brightly for a few moments.

Henry put the eggs on the rickety table in the room and gave John a look. "You may as well eat."

John made his way over and sat, almost shaking at this point. He'd avtually been longer without eating before, once when he'd gotten lost in the woods on the south-east side of Market Shipping. Still, he was extremely grateful to finally sink his teeth into the bread and devour the eggs.

During the meal, his mind drifted a bit and he glanced over at where Greg burned away in his fireplace. "So you'll go out without fuel then?" He didn't want anyone else to be hungry at the moment.

Greg nodded sorrowfully.

John sat for a moment, thinking. Surely it wasn't that simple...

When no reason not to came to mind, he stood up and moved the pile of firewood right next to the demon so he could reach it at any time.

Silence reigned in the room before Greg burst into sudden laughter. It was a pleasant sound to John's ears; rough and somehow wild.

"I can't believe none of us ever thought of that!" the demon exclaimed.

"That's why it's best to leave the thinking to the experts," a deep voice interposed, startling John.

He turned around to see a man shrugging out of his coat. A flicker of recognition ran through him. It was the man who he'd seen lying on the ground on May Day.

"Oh, hello Sherlock," Henry said, still finishing his meal.

Greg gave a snort from the fireplace. "This time your among the rest of the mortals. You didn't think to move this firewood either, did you?"

The Wizard's face froze and he sniffed haughtily and said nothing.

John was still staring in shock. He hadn't thought overly-long on the man he'd met that day, but he had wondered who he was. Now he knew.

He appeared to be in his twenties. John had noticed his striking, sharp features before, but they seemed more alien now that he knew who he was.

Holmes shrugged out of his long black coat. He swept through the room, gathering some things off the couches. His eyes flashed over the room and briefly landed on John's face. John froze, wondering if the man recognized him, but nothing showed on his face. He left the room a quickly as he entered and opened the room John hadn't been able to get into earlier and shut the door behind him.

John sat back into his chair and got himself more eggs. That could have gone worse.

For some reason, he'd always pictured the Wizard as an older man who dressed flamboyantly. That was ridiculous in retrospect. He'd met witches before and they generally looked like ordinary people. Besides, Molly had told him that the wizard was beautiful. He guessed that description could fit the man.

John was going to be staying here, hopefully, if he and Greg could work together. He would have time enough to figure the man out.

Henry took their plates to the kitchen. John was already beginning to like the boy. He had warmed to John some already, as John had found it in him to apologize for his previous conduct. He imagined they would have been good friends if they'd met at school.

Now that they were alone, he turned to Greg. "Is he going to let me stay?"

The demon looked thoughtful, if John could read his expression. "I never can tell with him. But don't worry too much; he wouldn't admit it, but I do have a lot of influence on him. I hold the key to his heart, one might say. You'll be fine."

John couldn't think of anything to say so they sat quiet for a moment. He tried to think of an excuse to tell the Wizard so he would be allowed to stay.

He had another question for Greg. "Did he even notice that I'm here?" The man hadn't said anything about someone he didn't know being in his home after all.

"Oh I noticed, I assure you," came the deep baritone again. After John got over his surprise he wondered if sneaking up behind people and quiping was something he did often.

"Sherlock, leave off - " Greg started, but Sherlock already seemed to be on a roll. Greg sighed in defeat.

"I noticed the first time I saw you that you were a shop worker, which was written all over you. That swiftly became hat shop worker. I could tell you have an dominating member of your family as well. Most likely your father.

"Now I've noticed that you're in my castle. I imagine you've escaped your father then. It was obviously a hair-trigger decision.

"I can also notice several other things about your character. You're too nosy for your own good for one. Practical. Brave. And all together dull."

There was not much he could do but stare with an open jaw. He distantly heard Greg berating the Wizard. This must be something he did often.

John started on the last statement. "You said I was interesting the first time you saw me," he said, not caring if he sounded defensive.

"Yes, well." Holmes looked a bit awkward. He and Greg shared a glance that was probably meaningful in some way.

John scratched his head. "So, that's the sort of magic you can do then?"

"No!" Holmes sounded like a child who'd been told that their earwax collection wasn't actually impressive. "That was far more sophisticated than my magic. I have always been capable of that."

He frowned. "So how d'you do it?"

Immediately, the man jumped to that oppertunity, causing Greg to sigh deeply. "Most people in Market Shipping are shop workers anyway and you are obviously not a farmer. Complete lack of tan suggested a large amount of time spent indoors. Too large really, as though you never got out at all. You are clearly not upperclass in the least, judging by your clothing.

"Hat shop was a bit of a guess but a very good one. You weren't aware but there was a ribbon hanging out of your back pocket. That could have suggested dress shop but I know the layout of that town and it is very small. There is no dress shop at all, only a small taylor. The pricks on your fingers were indicative as well.

"But why would a boy your age be working in a hat shop? Most often boys are apprenticed to farmers or butchers or somesuch. You rarely got any air and you seemed to be working yourself to death. You're obviously not a rebel but no young man of your capabilities would resign himself to that on his own. So, family member holding you back. Fathers are more inclined to such things.

"You have taken nothing with you except your clothes. Some event triggered you leaving and you did it with no planning.

"Brave - well, you've entered a moving castle of a feared wizard, have you not? Practical - you thought to move the firewood. Too nosy - ha, you nearly scream it. You dug through all my letters."

John was blinking slowly. "How do you - "

He was cut off. "They were completely out of order and Henry knows not to touch my things."

John looked up at the wizard. "That was absolutely amazing," he said, and he meant it too.

Holmes frowned. "Really?"

How could he not know? "Yes. You're most extraordinary thing I've met since I left home, and I'm standing in a moving castle."

Holmes' lips twitched. He was so obviously not used to compliments.

"So, I image you'll be staying," the man said.

John started to ask how he knew but decided against it. "Yes. I mean, if you'll let me, Wizard Holmes."

The man waved his hand. "Please, call me Sherlock."

Oh god John didn't have an excuse. Suddenly, the forgotten Greg spoke up. "He'll be your assistant." John shot him a doubtful look at the same time that Sherlock shot him a mysterious one. A silent communication seemed to run between wizard and demon.

"Right then," Sherlock said.

John stuck out his hand, thinking. He didn't really want Sherlock to know anything about him. He hadn't known about the spell or his deal with Greg. Thank god he hadn't told Henry his full name. "John Hatter."

His hand was briskly shaken. "Did I get everything right?" The question sounded eager.

"I do work in a hat shop. I did look through your letters. I suppose I'm practical."

"So I was right."

John raised and eyebrow. "My father is dead."

No 'I'm sorry' at all. John was beginning to love this man's honesty. He clearly wasn't the kindest but John had always hated people who couldn't be real. Though perhaps he could work on his tact. "Ahg. There's always something. Your mother then." John nodded.

He then swept out of theroom without a word. John turned to Greg. "That went well."

John didn't see the wizard at all for most of the day. He spent time discussing things with Greg and thinking about Sherlock, who had locked himself in his room. Greg said he was probably doing experiments. There was much dread in his tone.

The wizard was cold. Highly intelligent. Rude. Impetuous. Imperious. And altogether the most fasinating person he'd ever met. John realized that he was in for a lot if he was going to be this man's assistant, but he had to make himself useful in some way.

Henry was also an interesting person in his own right. In direct contrast to Sherlock, he took time to explain things and was generally a warm person, if slightly fidgety.

While they set up John's new bed, John breached some questions and was very glad to get answers.

"Where's the rest of the castle? All I could find were the rooms upstairs and the area down here."

Henry smiled, a nice sight. "It's magic. I bet Greg complained about maintaining the place, didn't he? This is actually Sherlock's flat in Porthaven."

John spluttered. "That's miles away!"

Henry nodded. "The door can open to four places actually. The moor, for the moving castle, Porthaven, Kingsbury, and Sherlock's home. I've never seen the last one..." he trailed off, but John was stuck on what he'd said earlier.

"Does he realize he's frightened the people in Market Shipping to death? What's the point of that?"

Henry sighed. "I don't think he cares. Actually, I think he doesn't want people to like him."

"Why?"

Henry frowned. "Something about his brother wanting him to be proper, according to Greg. Sherlock says he doesn't want people bothering him 'cause he doesn't want to deal with their petty little problems." Every time John thought he had an estimation on the man, some new information came to light. He had no idea what to make of him.

Later, Henry showed him how the door worked. The knob had four colored dots, and it depended on which way was facing down where you would go out. Greg laughed at him for how much time he spent switching between Kingsbury and Porthaven, but John had never really been far from home in his life. He was, however, very firmly warned against opening to the purple dot and for once pushed aside his curiousity.

He also learned that he'd entered the side door to the castle and had therefore come through the hall. The main door was in the kitchen.

That night he ate a full meal and astounded the others by getting Sherlock to eat as well, which it seemed he did not do very often. Sherlock was highly rude at points but John found himself forgiving him instantly.

When he lay his head onto the pillow to sleep, he'd almost forgotten that he was slowly dying. Hope had replaced dread.

Chapter Text

Although he wasn't clear on what an assistant to a wizard was supposed to do, exactly, he was fairly sure that this wasn't it. He felt more like a glorified house cleaner, personally. Sherlock dashed about and swooped like a bat while John did his best to make himself useful and tried to figure out how to break Greg's contract.

When he thought about it, he wasn't sure if Henry really counted as an apprentice either. After only a week of being in the castle, Sherlock had barely been in the place and hadn't taught the kid a thing.

Meanwhile, any time he started to relax and get used to his surroundings, a rush of worry would stab through him. The timer now read 315, and although he now had an escape route besides certain death, he was still anxious. Perhaps there was no way to break the spell at all. Perhaps Greg wouldn't figure it out in time.

Since his continued life depended on staying in the castle and keeping both Sherlock and Greg happy, he got to work. The wizard sorted his letters himself but was not often there to speak to his customers who showed up to the actual doors. John took to answering the door when no one else was around. He actually enjoyed the opportunity to converse with the people. He mentally compared the people who showed up at the Porthaven door, who were usually poor fishermen or traders, to those who came from Kingsbury, who were usually nobles or merchants. He'd always wanted to go to both places and determined to take a day to explore them eventually.

Every so often, the customer's requests were not something he knew how to deal with. He could ask Greg, who would help him mix concoctions that could heal or fix things, but occasionally he had to call Henry. These were the moments when John realized that the boy was not as fragile as he seemed. Whether or not Sherlock had taught him anything, he did know his trade. John easily grew to respect the younger man. It was hard not to like him after watching him pick up the crying little girl who had come to the door and give her a lollipop. (It had surprised John, that only people in Market Shipping seemed to have any fear of the Wizard at all. People came to his door with no worry at all.)

If John was to be entirely honest with himself, he would admit that he was very much enjoying his time. That was the reason that he had left home anyway, to try to live out his last days happily. Now there was a chance he wasn't going to die after all, and he got to see all these people, and help them.

Aside from his helping with customers, he cleaned and snooped. The castle was in a disgraceful state. At the very least, the kitchen should be serviceable, he thought. John would like to eat, thank you very much.

As for snooping, John told himself that he was trying to help Greg, but a part of it was natural curiosity. He peeked into the different rooms and wondered why strange objects hung from the ceiling. He also felt himself getting a bit indignant towards the Wizard, who he could no longer fear more than toenail clippings. According to Henry, the reason he was rarely at home was because he was working "cases." To John, it seemed like the Wizard ran about having fun while he neglected his apprentice and expected Greg to do all the work.

He had no idea why the demon was so convinced that John, a hat shop worker with no magical knowledge, could break the contract, but he did feel more than obligated to try. The creature in the hearth had promised to help John either way, but he felt that mutual gain would motivate them both. Besides, he was quickly growing to like Greg. Every time they spoke, John tried to find whatever hints he was apparently giving, but he had no idea at the moment.

As the days wore on and his timer counted down, John began to get restless. He was content with his situation, really, except for one unresolved issue that niggled in the back of his mind. The Wizard had paid him little to no attention at all, and John felt as though something had to be done. How could his excuse of being an assistant stand if he did no assisting? He couldn't live with not knowing if he was going to be thrown out of the castle and never have the chance to break the spell.

Unfortunately, he rarely ever spoke to Sherlock. The man never seemed to sleep; he was usually gone when John woke up and he never knew if the man would return. John wondered if some magic allowed him to survive without food or rest.

When he was home, it felt as though his eyes glazed over everything, never really focusing. John would assume that the man was not even aware of his presence if it wasn't clear that the man noticed everything. It never ceased to amaze John, whatever else he thought of the Wizard.

Henry had completely forgotten about the unfortunate way that they had met and now used John as his confidant. Sherlock had taught him things after all. The boy told John about the different spells and potions he had learned. Henry had been lonely in the castle, being practically the only human, and he told John that he enjoyed his company. The feeling was mutual.

John began to count both of them as friends, and the castle slowly became like a home to him. He knew all of the little nooks of the place and he found himself speaking to the skull on the mantelpiece more than once. He felt rather silly sometimes but he'd seen Henry do so more than once.

His cleaning led him to his most interesting discoveries. With Greg's permission, he used the scar-removing cream to get rid of a rather puffy one on his right palm that he'd got while making dinner at eleven. Sometimes he would find that an object he'd seen as commonplace had some magical property to it.

Various 'experiments' of Sherlock's lay around the place. He usually tried not to mess with them but sometimes it was too much to resist. His mother would have been horrified to know how fascinated he was by the dead bodies. He was alarmed by them at first, until Henry informed him that Sherlock was more in the business of catching murderers than becoming one himself. He trusted Henry and Greg, and Sherlock hadn't really seemed the type. (Though John's estimation of the man was always shifting.) John had never been able to study the human body before and the severed limbs are tantalizing.

After the first day, he had mostly steered clear of Henry's room, but eventually he went in to investigate (if he were to be honest, snoop). Some paintings hung on the walls, and John decided to ask Henry about them later. They were very good: all landscapes and still-lives.

He'd determined the excursion to be very fruitful later, as he learned a lot about Henry through it. He was surprisingly neat for a boy his age (he was only fifteen. John wasn't much older but he felt like he was). The room was clean and not cluttered except for some strewn letters which John perused. That had led him to the discovery that Henry had a sweetheart, but before he'd seen any details he'd heard Henry coming up the stairs and hid in the closet, later to flee.

He asked Henry about the paintings the next day and was impressed to learn that they were all done by him. Henry blushed under praise and promised to draw John one day.

'One day' became two days later on a rainy, dreary afternoon. Greg was in a rare but dangerous bad mood, as all his fuel was damp and some water always managed to drip down the fireplace.

The uncharacteristic pouting and dramatics from Greg reminded John unnervingly of Sherlock, so he requested that Henry take a break and found some dry firewood for Greg. The demon was surprised and pleased and quieted down quickly.

Thinking about Sherlock made John curious. "Henry, do you know where Sherlock's been the past few days?"

Before Henry could answer, Greg muttered, "Who can predict the comings and goings of the great wizard Pendragon?" making John chuckle but grow more curious.

"Pendragon?" he asked.

Greg snorted. "Yes, that's what he calls himself in Kingsbury. You haven't noticed?" John had not, which made him silly, which, in turn, made him feel cross. "I think it makes him feel a bit important; but with a name like Sherlock you wouldn't think he'd need to add to it." A sigh, although to John it sounded a fond one. "Anyway, he's out on a case in - "

"He asked me, Greg," interjected Henry indignantly. He did not like to be cut off. Turning to John, he said, "He's actually in Abu Dal right now. Not even in Ingary. Me and Greg think that he only took the case to escape the king."

Greg nodded. "He's been getting a lot of pressure to go after Prince Justin. The king wants Sherlock to be the new Royal Magician."

John repressed a giggle at that. Seriously, Sherlock? Royal Magician?

The next day, Sherlock was back in the castle. John suspected that Greg's line about predicting his comings and goings may not have been entirely sarcastic.

His cases was apparently successful and he seemed much more present than usual. He actually ate for once, if only a little. John was actually a little worried about him, but he seemed healthy enough.

Still, the next morning they had barely spoken a word to one another. John began to think that he was just going to be in this house without ever interacting with the wizard or doing any assisting at all.

So he was surprised when the man confronted him that evening.

Perhaps John should have seen it coming, and left the new 'experiment' on the human eyeball alone. His poking and prodding at it garnered a deep chuckle from behind him. Whirling, he found the wizard standing at his back.

He scowled at him. Great bloody wizard, sneaking up on people. "What are you doing?"

He received a pointed look. "I could ask you the same question."

John flushed. He was in the wrong here, and he knew it. "Um," he floundered, "what is this experiment?"

The grey-blue eyes flashed. "A study in optical nerves and their degenerate process in different enviroments. This is the control." He looked at John expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Something occurred to John in a quick flash of clarity. The sneaking up, the impeccable appearence, apppealing to the part of John that liked body parts... "You're showing off," he blurted and then tried not to look stricken. He hadn't meant for that to come out.

Sherlock's eyebrows were threatening to escape his face and his lips quirked up at the sides. "Astute observation." He nodded to it. "What do you think?"

John forcibly stopped himself from grinning. In school, there'd been a kid who was a proper genius, and every time he'd do something clever, he'd look around to make sure someone had seen and knew. He remembered the expression on Sherlock's face when he'd told him he was extraordinary.

Turning to the experiment, he tried to appear in thought. "I imagine that it took a lot of skill, but I don't know what it could ever be good for..."

He again stifled a grin when Sherlock immediately assured him that a man's alibi could depend on it. John's enjoyment dropped heavliy when he finished with, "But I would ask you not to touch my experiments." A harder look which pierced into him. "Or go into my room, as you so clearly want to."

John's mouth opened angrily. He didn't like how patronizing the wizard could be. "They're everywhere! Near the food, for god's sake. How am I supposed to clean?"

The eyebrows lifted again. "I don't remember anyone assigning you to clean."

Oh damn. "Well I'm not doing any assisting, am I?"

"Interesting..." Sherlock draws the word out, much like he did when they first met. "I suppose you're not."

"Well if I can't clean or assist, what am I supposed to do?"

A dreadful smirk appeared on the porcelain face. "You'll have to find a new purpose in life."

With all his might, John managed to not yell at the git. It was a close thing. "Alright, I will." He tried not to grimace at how much worse that sounded out loud than in his head. "If you'll excuse me..." And he tried to sweep away gracefully, although he feared it paled in comparison to how Sherlock moved.

He ate dinner with Greg and Henry that night, enjoying the food but worried because Sherlock didn't join them. Greg assured him that Sherlock wouldn't starve, saying, "Believe me, I'd know if he did." John wasn't sure what to make of that.

About an hour after they finish eating, Sherlock made his way into the living room, gathered his things and left without saying a word.

This ended with Henry, Greg and John commiserating together, none of them knowing were he went. The great wizard was called many insults that night.

Later John was about to go to bed when the crack of Sherlock's door caught his eye. The man was unsufferably rude anyway. And John was curious...

Just as he was about to open the door and go in, a long hand shot out and shut the door with a snap. John's eyes widened as he looked up to see Sherlock Holmes staring at him disapprovingly.

He sputtered, "But - I saw you go out!"

Sherlock's eyes rolled. "Yes, and I am a wizard. This surprises you?" Then the eye narrowed. "I told you not to go in my room."

"Yes. Well." John shrugged. "I didn't listen."

"You'd best listen in the future." But John didn't think he looked particularly angry. He looked more like how he did when conducting an experiment. John shuddered at that thought.

Then he noticed a cut on the man's other hand and he frowned in concern. It wasn't very big but this idiot didn't seem likely to seek help on his own. "You're hurt," he said, reaching for it and grasping Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock wrenched away. "I'm fine," he snarled. Then his expression changed and he placed the injured hand in his pocket slowly. "Interesting." He spun away, leaving John standing in the hall.

John saw Henry on the stairs and smiled weakily at him. "I thought he would throw me out there for a second."

Henry scratched his head. "Yes. You know, I thought the same thing when I first moved in. It probably has to do with how boring we are or something. That was the most I've ever heard him say 'interesting' at once that didn't involve a dead body."