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Sherlock feels Hypatia’s tiny heart beating as if it’s his own. Silas’ hands cup her close to his chest, a comfort, a cage, and Sherlock doesn’t dare move, doesn’t even dare to breathe while she trembles there.
“See, my boy? Your soul knows where she belongs. With her family,” Silas cajoles, running a single finger down her ears and back. “Think about my proposal, will you?”
On his shoulder, Minerva’s stare is unwavering. Sherlock can’t remember a time he ever touched her—as a boy she’d been frightening, and as an adolescent it had been discouraged. Such familiarity became more improper the older a child was.
“I will,” Sherlock replies, if only so that he’ll let Hypatia down. Silas’ hands briefly twitch, and for one heart-stopping moment Sherlock worries she’ll be crushed. Then he relaxes, and allows her to scamper down his body, across the expensive Oriental carpet, and up Sherlock’s trouser leg. Her tiny claws snag on his socks as she clings there, panting. “Good night, Father.”
Then he turns sharply on his heel, forcing himself not to run like Hypatia so clearly wants to. His steps are measured, steady, providing a metronome with which to organize his thoughts.
Escape from Silas’ heavily-guarded compound is impossible without some change in circumstance. Even Hypatia, clever as she is, and with their separation distance ranging so wide, would have a hard time sneaking beneath guards’ legs and between the bars of locked gates.
And Sherlock doesn’t want her out of his sight tonight. Silas’ touch never bothered him before—she’s always been a bold thing, settling happily into his mother’s hair or curling up comfortably in the crook of Mycroft’s arm. The village children spoke of the Holmes oddity, but Sherlock never bothered to care; if they didn’t hate him for his family’s impropriety, they would hate him for his knowledge, or his desire to read while they all played, or Hypatia’s insistence on not changing shape to fit the game when all the other boys’ daemons had become hounds for a game of tag.
Even young, she knew she would settle small. The largest thing she had ever become was a tiger, after Sherlock had read a monograph on the Orient accompanied by a fearsome illustration, but she only held it for a short while before shrinking back down to curl around his waist as a stoat.
Never before had her size felt like a threat. Oh, there were jokes made among the boys at boarding school, as there always were, but Sherlock was adept enough at letting them roll off his back that by the time she settled for good he was able to quip back like the best of them.
But with her trembling in Silas’ hands, he had been keenly aware of how easy it would be to snuff them both out like putting out a candle. One movement, a twist of the neck, and that would be the end of Sherlock-and-Hypatia.
He hurries to the rooms he’s been assigned—confined to—where he left James and his family. He doesn’t particularly want to see Mycroft at the moment, still stinging and blindsided by his betrayal, even though Hypatia’s favorite activity is curling up in the warm coils of Eunomion’s black scales. Sherlock never for a moment put stock in the nasty rumors and gossip that surrounded Mycroft’s snake daemon, but he can’t help but think there’s a bitter poetry in it at the moment. Hiding in the grass all along, and it took just one misstep for him to strike.
James and Morrigan are curled up side by side on the sofa, book in hand, when Sherlock enters the room. Cordelia has already gone to bed, still easily exhausted from the excitement of the past week. The boy inside of Sherlock still wants, sometimes, to crawl into bed next to her, for Hypatia to settle into the crown of her hair and for Soleil to alight ticklish on his nose, his yellow wings slowly fanning over Sherlock’s cheeks.
But he hasn’t been able to have that for a very long time, and is very used to shoving that particular desire down.
“Have a good chat?” James asks, without looking up from his book, but Sherlock can read him as surely as James is pretending to read that book—there’s a very good chance Morrigan's keen ears heard the whole thing.
“Not quite the father-son bonding moment one might hope for,” Sherlock returns easily. “Shou’an wasn’t there.”
“And so the princess lives to see another day,” James muses, turning a page.
“And we remain prisoners another day,” Morrigan says, lifting her head and fixing first James, and then Sherlock with a dark eye, though she doesn’t seem angry. She’s a quiet sort, preferring to keep most comments to herself, unlike James, who always has a quote or an idea ready to prod Sherlock with.
Hypatia, who scuttled up the side of Sherlock’s leg during the walk and has been clinging to the inside of his jacket collar, peeks out. “Prison is in here,” she reminds them, nosing at Sherlock’s temple.
“Be that as it may,” James says, finally closing his book, “my darling Hypatia, there are still at least sixteen men with guns and two locked doors between us and escape.” He looks up at them, a curl falling messily over his forehead.
Sherlock will never tire of the way he speaks to her—like an intellectual, an equal, the most naked part of Sherlock’s soul treated with care. She often says the same to him. He reaches out and rests his hand on the arm of the sofa so that she can run down his arm, leap across James’ lap, and climb into the circle of Morrigan’s paws. Morrigan snaps her teeth, harmlessly, and Hypatia doesn’t so much as flinch. A warmth washes over Sherlock.
“Had a fright?” Morrigan murmurs to Hypatia, settling her head back down onto her paws to create a dark, furry cavern around the mouse between her paws.
Sherlock settles himself into the armchair next to the sofa, feeling acutely the distance between him and James. James still hasn’t returned to his book; he studies Sherlock’s face like a puzzle.
“He wants me to stay,” Sherlock finally says. “To join him in his operation, even after the rest of you leave.”
“And do you? Want that?”
Sherlock’s head snaps to the side. “Of course not.” He doesn’t; he can’t. The thought makes him sick. He may have once wished to study at his father’s side, but those dreams died a long time ago, and were buried once more by the consistent unearthing of the depth of his father’s crimes, against the world and against his own blood.
James raises his hands. “Just asking.” Hypatia shivers. Hands, cold fingers, around her soft belly. Sherlock’s jaw clenches.
“The man is a monster. Even if Shou’an weren’t to kill him, he would deserve a life behind bars.” Sherlock is surprised by the roughness in his own voice.
“Well, you won’t find me complaining,” James answers. He’s peering at Sherlock still, as if to divine answers from the valleys scored deep under Sherlock’s eyes. “To bed? I don’t think there’s much hope of separating these two,” he suggests, running a rough hand over Morrigan’s head. She doesn’t budge.
Sherlock huffs. At least he knows Hypatia will be safe there. “To bed, to bed; sleep kill those pretty eyes,” he quotes.
“And give as soft attachment to thy senses as infants empty of all thought,” James finishes, always in step. A dancing partner as fine as any one could wish for. He heaves himself up from the sofa in one smooth motion, not bothering to button his jacket. Sherlock forces himself to turn away.
There are two fine beds made up for them; as they ready for bed side-by side, Sherlock is almost envious of the closeness of their daemons. In a palace such as this, there’s no excuse for them to do the same. He climbs into bed and lies there awake a long while; James does the same, if his breathing is anything to judge by.
Sherlock’s soul is warm and rested, but his mind spins a dreadful waltz. It’s a long time before he falls into a restless sleep.
