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“This is utterly ridiculous,” said Sherlock for the fifth time, but John was determined.
“The breadcrumbs lead somewhere,” John insisted. “And I don’t see any other trail to follow, so we’ll follow them.”
Sherlock held his coat up as he picked his way over the brambles. “I still say we should have asked the dwarves for help.”
“They were mourning, Sherlock. You don’t interrupt a funeral to ask for directions.”
“Oh, goodness, John, it wasn’t as if the girl was dead, she only needed someone to administer the Heimlich maneuver. Or a good kiss, that would have knocked the apple out.”
John stopped in his tracks and stared at Sherlock. “Sherlock. I’m a doctor, you should have said.”
“No, I couldn’t,” said Sherlock. “She has to marry whoever wakes her up. You don’t want to marry her.”
John’s mouth dropped open, and then he shut it with a click. “Right,” he said, and went on following breadcrumbs. “Of course. Silly me. We’ll just let the dwarves go on mourning a girl who’s not actually dead because you’re afraid of a technicality.”
“Marriage is hardly a technicality, John. Besides, you can’t save every damsel in distress we run across, we’ll never manage to get back home.”
“You assume they all want to fall in love with me.”
“They’re damsels, John. In distress, John. They do fall in love with you. Everyone you save falls in love with you.”
John rolled his eyes. “Look, there’s a cottage up ahead. Think there’s a damsel in distress in there?”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s not a cottage, that’s a baker’s wet dream.”
John snorted. “Just because it looks like it’s made of gingerbread…”
“John.”
John sighed. “All right, it is a gingerbread house. I’m hungry, and that’s where the breadcrumbs lead. If there’s a damsel in distress lurking in the area, I’m sure you’ll take care of them.”
The walk leading up to the house was paved with rock candy. The shingles of the roof turned out to be chocolate digestives. The glass windows had an odd shimmer to them; Sherlock finally determined they weren’t actually glass, but boiled sweets, melted into flat planes then cut to fit.
“Fascinating,” said Sherlock, looking at the icing-coated exterior walls. “The entire house is edible. I’m surprised there aren’t more animals attempting to eat it.”
John rolled his eyes. “We’re in a magical forest where fairy tales actually exist, the animals can talk, the trees tried to steal your coat, and we’ve just followed a trail of breadcrumbs and you want to know why no one’s eating the house made of gingerbread?”
“It’s a logical question.”
“I give up on you,” John told him, and knocked on the door.
Sherlock frowned. “In the story of Hansel and Gretel, wasn’t it a wicked witch who lived in the gingerbread house?”
“What are you worried about? A witch would count as a damsel. If she’s in distress, she’ll fall in love with me, so it’s not like we’re in danger.”
“You’re not in danger, you mean.”
“I’ll argue for your life,” said John. “Maybe.”
“Thank you, John.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Footsteps; the door opened, and revealed Mycroft Holmes. He wore a waistcoat, an apron with ruffles, and there was a smudge of brown sauce on his cheek.
“Ah,” said Mycroft, looking at them.
“Well, that explains a great deal,” said Sherlock, eyeing his brother’s waistline.
“I’ve just put something in the oven,” said Mycroft. “Do you want to stay for supper?”
“No, thanks,” said Sherlock pleasantly. “So much for the diet, eh, Mycroft?”
Mycroft frowned. “Well, now, yes.”
And Mycroft took hold of Sherlock’s ear, and dragged him into the house. He slammed the door in John’s face before John could even blink.
John let out a shout, and tried to kick the door in. Being made of graham crackers, it crumbled quite quickly.
“Mycroft!” he roared, and caught sight of Sherlock being dragged into the rear of the house, his feet scrambling for purchase on the floor.
“Sorry, John, rather busy, do come back later,” called Mycroft, and John ran after them. He caught up to them in the kitchen, and caught the hem of Sherlock’s coat just as Mycroft was about to throw him into…
A chair.
At a table.
With a turkey and a goose and five kinds of puddings.
Where sat a little boy and a little girl, looking innocent, expectant, and most assuredly not cooked.
“Ah,” said John.
“Honestly, John,” said Mycroft. “Did you really think I was going to eat Sherlock? He’s skin and bones. He’d make a horrible meal.”
“Well,” said John. He scratched his head.
The oven dinged.
“That’s the roast,” said Mycroft, and put on the oven mitts to pull the roast out of the oven. It smelled delicious.
“Please say that’s not the former occupant of this house,” said Sherlock, eyeing it.
“Do sit down and shut up,” said Mycroft, and he put the roast on the counter to let it rest before carving. “And start eating, the goose is getting cold.”
Sherlock glanced at John.
“Sherlock,” continued Mycroft. “I think this is an excellent opportunity to discuss a few points about your current lifestyle I’ve been wishing to bring up—“
Sherlock went pale.
“Oh, so sorry, Mycroft,” said John quickly. “I’ve just remembered, there’s a not-dead girl in the forest and we need to save her from some ravenous dwarves. We’ll just be going.”
“She’s not actually—“
“Right then, bye!” said John, and grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him from the kitchen, the house, and the clearing. He didn’t stop until they reached the forest again.
“John,” Sherlock had said as they went through the garden.
“John,” Sherlock had repeated when they passed the mailbox made of fruit leather.
“John!” Sherlock said as soon as John stopped pulling him, and fell against a tree to catch his breath.
“What, Sherlock?” asked John.
“You just saved my life,” said Sherlock, wonderingly, and the pair of them looked at their hands, still clasped together.
“Ah,” said John. “Does that mean we have to get married now?”
“By fairy tale law, I think,” said Sherlock, but he didn’t sound terribly upset about it.
“Well,” said John. “Is that before or after the kiss?”
“After, I think,” said Sherlock.
“Oh, good,” said John, and pulled him in.