The Little Merman
by ElenaC

Author's Note: This crack!fic began a year ago in response to a discussion on holmesslash Yahoo group and, specifically, to Elina K.'s delightful drawings of Sherlock Holmes as a merman. I posted this first part as a teaser and got such a positive response that I expanded it into a novella. As it is nearing completion, I decided to cross-post it here. No disrespect is intended, and no mermen nor princes were harmed during the writing of it.

Part I

Prince John ducked behind a convenient hedge and waited. Footfalls indicated where his servant was moving back and forth, looking for him. There was an unpleasant moment when the fellow appeared to look in his direction, but then he shook his head and walked away, presumably to join the royal guards in their search for the prince. Soon, the party began to confine their efforts to the interior of the Royal Palace. Everything was silent once more, and the young man dared leave his cover.

John hated being waited upon during all hours of the day, guarded and protected. He was capable of managing his own life, thank you very much, and had been for a while. Privacy was hard to come by if you were the Prince of Albion. But now, more than ever before, he needed to be alone.

It had been a strenuous month of travelling. His father, the King of Albion, had once again accepted any number of invitations to distant kingdoms where nubile princesses were looking for their mate. This usually entailed the most improbable tests, all supposedly meant to evaluate the King-in-spe's suitability. John had never understood how finding seven feathers of seven different birds of prey, or whatever the respective custom was, would demonstrate his ability to rule a kingdom. Besides, John adhered to the, apparently outrageous, idea that his mate should be in love with him, and he with her. Wasn't that the most important thing, even if you were ruler of a kingdom?

Apparently not. So far, he had not met a princess he felt he could love. And none of the princesses, most assuredly, had felt anything of the kind towards him. He sincerely doubted that they would love the winner of whatever tests they had devised, either.

But now, he was back in Albion, where nothing had changed. His life, for all its luxury and privilege, was still very lonely, and occasionally quite miserable. And occasionally, he needed to get away from everything.

There was a secluded spot by the sea that he would escape to in moments like these. It was quite a ways from the Royal Palace, even on horseback. The coast was rough and shallow there, which made it unattractive to fishermen, and the beach was rocky, which made it unsuitable for bathing. All of this made it a place where no-one went, and John did not think that anyone even knew about it, except him and some lizards, crabs and birds.

He managed to sneak his horse out of the stables and to ride away without anyone following him. His father would certainly be furious, but that was a problem he would face when the time came.

The ride did much to clear his mind, as it always did. However, when he finally dismounted and walked the remaining distance to "his" rock on foot, he still was no nearer to finding a solution to his situation than before.

All he knew was that he was profoundly unhappy. He stood, easily balancing his weight upon the balls of his feet, the setting sun glinting off the silks and velvets of his princely finery, and he fancied himself the most unfortunate man upon this earth.

There he was. Sherlock experienced a wholly unaccustomed thrill at the sight of him. Holding his position with gentle movements of hands and tail, he peered up through the water surface, wishing for calmer seas that would not distort his vision so.

For weeks, he had come here every day, leaving the cool deep waters for the warmer shallows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the landman who, for reasons unfathomable to him, dominated his every waking thought.

Sherlock vividly remembered the first time he had seen the landman. He had been searching for a missing merchild. Some freak currents during that time had prompted him to search along the coastal shallows, so he had happened to be quite close to dry land. It had been late, much as it was now, and the setting sun had cast the most beautiful reflections into the water. Curious, he had floated close to the surface, wondering what it was that glinted and sparkled so. To his surprise, it had been a landman wearing expensive clothes and some sort of crown upon his head that reflected the light of the setting sun. The face, strong and noble, with a high brow, honest blue eyes and a moustache, together with the solid, athletic body and its proud bearing, had impressed Sherlock more than the nobleman's outfit. There had been something tragic and yearning about the face that had attracted him and lured him into staying dangerously close to the shore. And so, he had hovered, watching, until the young man finally turned round with a sigh, walking away from the shore with long strides of the strange legs these landmen possessed.

Guiltily, Sherlock had resumed his search, and he had been back the next day.

Of course, it had not taken Mycroft long to notice. "I do not understand you, Sherlock," he had said after the third time his younger brother had dared to approach the shore in order to observe the landman. "It is an unconscionable risk you're taking. The landmen have ships and even machines that can swim underwater. The threat of discovery is greater than ever. The emperor has released an edict that forbids anyone to approach the shallows and their ships, as you very well know. You, especially, would be well advised to heed it. There is nothing on dry land that can possibly be of use to you, after all."

Sherlock had said nothing. He knew Mycroft was right. Both brothers were under greater obligation than anyone else to do whatever the emperor ordered, at least publicly. Besides, the risk truly was great, and what did he hope to gain by taking it? Was he really doing it merely to catch a glimpse of the landman? Surely, that would be a sign of insanity.

He had pondered the question with his customary thoroughness, and came to the conclusion that he was not insane, merely fascinated. Wasn't it normal for any intelligent being to be curious about the things he did not know? And, truthfully, what did they really know about the landmen? Oh, there were groups devoted to studying them, but these studies were by necessity made from afar, and whatever results were gained were distorted by prejudice. Emperor after emperor had forbidden any direct contact with the landmen because of ancient history involving a lot of misunderstanding and some deaths. Sherlock believed that there were good men among the landmen, just as there certainly were bad men among the mermen. If only someone with courage and determination would take the first step towards mutually beneficent contact, surely much could be gained by both sides.

Not surprisingly, Mycroft did not agree, but he did promise not to mention his younger brother's obsession to the emperor. After all, Sherlock had his work and courtly responsibilities, and it would not do if anything cast suspicion upon his reputation for logical and rational behaviour – a reputation that, if Sherlock were honest with himself, was in the gravest danger, with no-one to blame but himself.

But that did not stop him from coming here, and from dreaming.

Of course, dreaming was not the only thing he did. He observed the landman's clothes, the noble metal upon his brow, and deduced that this surely was no commoner. The fact that he came here so often, doing nothing but look out to the sea and sigh, indicated that he did not have to work for his daily food. Also, he owned one of those curious four-legged beasts of labour that the landmen used for transportation, much as the mermen used dolphins, which indicated that the man was not without means, a deduction once again borne out by his clothes.

But this was where his deductions ended and began to turn in circles. He did not know the most basic things, such as the landman's name, or why he was so sad.

If only there were some means of communicating with him that did no involve showing himself! But while the general consensus was that the landmen did use speech and writing, no-one had yet been able to identify their language, let alone managed to decipher their alphabet. There were simply too many strange sounds that could be employed when communicating through air instead of water, sounds for which there were no equivalents in any merspeech or the many dialects. A school of science speculated that mermen and landmen had common roots, maybe even been one species in the distant past – a theory not very popular with some -, but even if that were the case, the development of both races in their different environments had drifted them too far apart over the millennia for communication to be possible anymore.

This was, no doubt, the true reason for the hostilities of centuries ago. Sherlock did not know more about what had happened than the next merman, but it was common knowledge that these hostilities had involved drowned landmen and suffocated mermen, some abductions and much blood spilled upon both sides. And of course, most mermen squarely placed the blame with the landmen, and they did not forget. Hence the current edict that made Sherlock a criminal even now.

So be it! Let these politicians formulate their little edicts until their fins should whither and flake off. Sherlock felt it in his bones – this was where his destiny lay: with this nameless landman and his sad sea-coloured eyes.

To be continued...