Chapter Text
It was a well-known fact that no one liked Sherlock Holmes. It one of the first things anyone was told upon visiting the small but regal manor. Surely, within ten minutes of stepping across the threshold, anyone could expect to hear the following at least twice. “Greetings and welcome to Holmes Manor. I do trust you’ll enjoy your stay, but please be wary of a little lordling by the name of Sherlock. No one likes him.”
There were exceptions, of course. His personal maid found him amusing and Sir Lestrade was always willing to hear out his crazy ideas on how to improve the defense systems. But the general consensus was that Sherlock was not likable under any circumstances. He preferred it that way, in fact. He found that once people found you enjoyable to be around they made a point of spending time with you and trading meaningless small talk and… conversing. No, being generally disliked with a few exceptions was simpler. Especially on days like these.
This was a day he wouldn’t share with anyone. Partly because there wasn’t anyone remotely tolerable in a hundred mile radius to share it with. But mostly because what he was doing was slightly unsavory, less than moral and probably at least a little life-threatening and if anyone knew, they’d prevent him from doing it.
He’d run out on his brother’s court (with a peasant boy in a wig standing in for him, to delay Mycroft’s wrath) to collect poisonous plants (Not many are planted in the gardens, surprisingly enough) from the forest beyond the borders of their land (which Mycroft and their father had specifically forbade him from ever setting foot in).
Sherlock laughed euphorically as he passed over the river that marked the edge of their territory. Mycroft was probably discovering his absence at that very moment. Oh, he wished he could see his uptight brother’s face turn red when discovering he’d been fooled by some farmer’s son.
Sherlock guided his horse off the main road and continued through the light wooded area a few feet away. Mycroft’s men probably hadn’t even left the manor yet. Even after they’d discovered his absence, they’d still have to saddle up the horses and wrangle themselves into their armor. But Sherlock still felt it was safer to stay out of sight.
He plodded along at an easy pace, allowing his horse a rest after his mad sprint from the stables. He took this time to take in his surroundings, searching for changes in the landscape. He’d never actually been near the forest he was riding to. He couldn’t imagine what would make it so different from all the other forests and woods in the area. Sherlock assumed it must be a particularly lethal species of nightshade or some fearsome beast which made that particular forest so foreboding, but it could easily be something entirely different that he’d never even considered. To be entirely honest, that’s exactly what the boy was hoping to find.
He slowed his horse to a slow trot, giving him the chance to consult the rough map he’d transcribed onto his arm. If he was correct, and he always was, a few miles from here there should be a path. Probably little more than a muddy trail left by passing wildlife, but it would lead him right into the heart of the old forest.
It was by sheer chance that he didn’t miss it entirely. There was nothing marking the path. No deer tracks or footsteps, no knife-marks in the bark of the trees, nothing. Just a small gap between trees that became a passage if you looked at it from just the right angle. Anyone else would have overlooked it as just a funny coincidence. It’s not like one could control how trees in a forest grow, so it must have been coincidence. But no matter how such a formation was created, Sherlock knew instantly that this was the way.
The young noble hesitated briefly as he passed the invisible threshold. Not out of fear or apprehension, though. He only considered what a shame it was that the hoof prints of his horse should mar the perfect carpet of lush grass that lined the path. Sherlock brushed the thought off as quickly as it occurred to him. Grass grows quickly and it’s hardly rare. He spurred his horse on to a light gallop, eager to see what his father and brother have been warning him about since he learned to speak.
It was probably deadly vegetation, but it could be anything. The possibilities thrilled him.
The trail ended in a stretch of forest that looked like all of the rest he’d passed through. Although he couldn’t help but note that, whether due to the setting of the sun or his own excitement of having found it, the place seemed to have a glow about it. He swung out of his saddle in one swift movement, noting how the thick grass seemed to welcome the presence of his boots. He grinned without really knowing why and reached into his saddlebag for an apple to feed his horse.
“Good job, Helios. You may not be the fastest in the stable, but you’ve served me well today.” Sherlock cooed over the old beast who seemed to appreciate its little treat greatly. He guided the horse to a nearby tree, tying it securely to the trunk with plenty of leeway for the horse to wander and graze as it desires. Once it seemed content, the adventurer reached back into the saddlebag, fished out a small leather bound book and a pair of gloves and went to work.
He walked into a promising portion of the forest, where the trees grew close, casting deep shadows. He found that the most interesting things often were found in dark places. It seemed today, he was particularly correct. Within 20 minutes, he found a couple plants that are known to cause some interesting patterns of skin irritation under the right circumstances and one whose berries could induce uncontrollable bouts of diarrhea. Then, after he’d scavenged enough specimens to kill his horse in a variety of fascinating ways, he’d found it.
Deadly nightshade. A small garden’s worth, all nestled between the tangled roots of a half dead oak tree. Surely, this is what his brother meant to keep from him. Their pretty violet heads bowed at the end of their stems, as if bowing to him in greeting. For pure folly’s sake, he returned the gesture before kneeling to examine them more closely.
“Atropa Belladonna. Beautiful death.” Sherlock muttered to himself as he pulled on his gloves, carefully plucking a few flowers and leaves and pressing them between the pages. “Surprisingly enough, a close cousin to the common potato.”
After he felt he’d collected enough of the nightshades to thoroughly experiment with at home, he made his way back to his horse. It’d be best to ride back as soon as possible, while all of the plant matter was still fresh. He’d like to know exactly how the state of the plants effected their potency. But when he opened up his saddlebags to put away his specimens he realized he wasn’t ready to go back just yet. Something about this place felt… right. And besides, it would be nice to put off the inevitable boorish lecture from Mycroft for just another hour longer.
So, he pulled off his gloves, careful not to touch the outsides of them with his bare hands, and found a sunny patch of grass to lounge on.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not really. He’d intended to just rest his eyes and bask in the warm sunlight. Yet, when he opened his eyes, the sun was hanging low in the sky and the shadows stretched long. Also, there was a man standing over him. A man encased in a golden light, as if every dawn that ever was or will be clung to his skin like so many curious kittens.
Sherlock realized, slower than he might be willing to admit, that this was impossible and frankly ridiculous.
He shook his head, thinking maybe it was some strange waking dream.
It wasn’t.
He blinked, hoping it was his eyes adjusting to direct sunlight.
It wasn’t.
Sherlock was forced to accept the fact that what he was seeing was, in fact, real. Now he just had to figure out what exactly he seeing.
Before he could think up any theories, the man kicked his leg, jolting him to attention. “Who the hell are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes. From Holmes manor.” He replied with as much dignity as one could from the flat of one’s back. Which turned out to be quite a bit. “I wasn’t aware this land was inhabited.”
“Well it is. And you’re trespassing on it. Now, if it was only trespassing, I could forgive you. People get lost. I’ve done my best to hide this place, but there’s a first time for everything apparently. But tell me, what right do you think you have that permits you to just tear up whatever flowers you please? Did you even think about asking?”
Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, wiping some of the dew off his ass. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea you owned the flowers. Oh, am I also breathing too much of your air? Am I intruding under your patch of sky as well?”
The golden man scoffed, the hard line of his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Yes, I do own the flowers. I planted- ok, well I didn’t plant them. -but I’m the one who cares for them. I water them in the hot seasons, I shelter them in the cold, I do the weeding and the fertilizing and last spring the bees were particularly lazy so I had to pollinate them.” His emotions flashed across his face in rapid succession. Sherlock wished briefly that he could slow time to a crawl to give him the chance to study them more closely. Then they came to a halt at confused bafflement. “What do you even want deadly nightshade for, anyways?”
“There was a recent poisoning scare at Holmes Manor. It turned out to be just badly preserved meat, but everyone’s been on high guard since. My brother’s hired ten new taste-testers and they’re all dreadful company. So, I figured if I could understand all the most common and deadliest poisons, I might be able to find cures to their effects, negating the need for people to hover over us every time we eat.” Sherlock explained, a little surprised that he was able to make it through to the end without interruption. Usually, there’d be some interjection of ‘but that’s insane’ or ‘what does that mean?’ or ‘Apologies. My brother still doesn’t quite understand that corpses have no place in polite conversation’. While this new development was fascinating and more than a little thrilling, he wasn’t really sure what to do now. The golden man just stood there, looking thunderstruck. “Honestly, Anderson’s getting to be such a bore that if I can’t find effective antidotes I might just purposefully poison my wine. Anything to get him to stop him talking-“
“That’s absolutely ridiculous. You know that right?” he interjected, grinning with bewilderment. As he watched the man’s expressions flicker like a wildfire, Sherlock realized that his body wasn’t actually gold, so much as coated in a fine, shining mist. Except his eyelashes. Those were solid gold. The kind you bind illuminated manuscripts in. “How could you possibly test these ‘cures’? Poison yourself and hope for the best?”
He pulled himself from his trance long enough to respond. “That might be necessary to convince my brother that it works, but not until I can find a reliable formula. In the meantime, I have a cat that has a nasty habit of bringing me live rats.”
The strange, fascinating being before him shook his head, glittering in the low light. “So, I assume I can expect you to intrude on my home again?”
“As long as you’re not going to… turn me into a hairless rat if I do.”
He smiled. A grim thing with a little flash of teeth suggesting he definitely could, but probably won’t. Probably. “I feel like you’d make a better weasel than a rat anyways.”
“Very well then.” Sherlock nodded, chuckling with the strange, magical being he’d just discovered. Or rather, the strange magical being that discovered him.
“But you should be leaving.” He insisted when he glanced at the space above Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh, I don’t mind riding in the dark. The roads are-“
“No.” The golden man said seriously, his features solidifying into something hard and immovable. “You can’t be here after dark. Go, now.”
“But why-“ Sherlock protested, only to be cut off by the man physically shoving him in the general direction of his horse.
“Go!” He shouted after him, simultaneously running in the opposite direction.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and ran to his horse. As he swung into the saddle and prompted the tired old thing to a trot, he shouted over his shoulder, “Wait! I never got your name!”
As he rode down the invisible corridor of trees, he heard a single syllable carried over the wind.
“John.” Sherlock said to himself as he spurred his Helios into a gallop, testing the word on his tongue. “Well that’s not terribly magical at all.”
By the time Sherlock reached the manor, the last rays of sunlight had just died out. As he tied up his horse in the stables, he pondered on what state he might find Mycroft in. Sherlock was bound to get a beating for what he’d done, but it’d be worth it to see his pompous elder brother in distress for once in his life. He’d happily take ten lashings for just one out of place strand of hair.
The way his day had gone, he could probably take a thousand lashings with a smile on his face. He’d skipped an entire day of Mycroft’s dreary business talk. And he’s got dozens of specimens to work with along with a place to find more. And he’d found John, whatever he might be. Nothing could bring him down.
Or so he thought. Mycroft found him in the hall as Sherlock made his way to his room. He caught his younger brother by the ear before he even caught sight of him, dragging him along like a child as he went. “Do you honestly think you’ll escape from dinner again, Sherly?”
“I… was just-“ Sherlock tried to defend himself while simultaneous trying to wrench his ear from Mycroft’s grasp.
“Where on earth have you been, anyway? You’re filthy.”
Here it comes. “I was in the for-“
“No matter, you’ll have to make do as-is.” Mycroft let him go just before reaching the dining room, taking a moment to roughly dust off his shabby, muddied and grass-stained tunic before presenting him to his mother. “Dear lord, my brother’s a pig.”
It was then that he got a good look at his elder brother. To his surprise, he looked much the same way he always did. Perfectly composed without a single wrinkle in his fine clothes or a bead of sweat on his brow. He didn’t care that he’d been missing all day, dealing with highly dangerous substances and possibly inhuman beings. He only cared that he didn’t look nice for dinner with Mummy.
That’s when Sherlock realized that he hadn’t noticed his absence at all. He’d spent the entire day miles away from home and no one even realized it. He could allow that his stand-in would’ve kept them from noticing while Mycroft held court maybe, but the entire day? Surely one of his tutors, his servants, Mrs. Hudson, someone, would have noticed he was gone. But if they had, they would’ve told Mycroft. So they couldn’t have.
That was the downside of being someone no one liked. No one misses you when you’re gone.