Hello, all! Back with a new AU. This is a Pathfinder RPG/Sherlock crossover with genderswap. Enjoy!
"Are you quite sure you picked the right one, Miss Holmes?"
Sherlock pauses. She knows she should simply walk out, leaving the driver and his childish game behind, but four others have already played and lost, all in the name of gaining an audience with Countess Caliphvaso. She's certain she knows which glass is the safe one, even without the aid of a detection spell... "Fine." She stalks back to the table and sweeps up the leftmost glass, swirling the dark wine. "This one. I am certain."
Smiling, the driver lifts the remaining glass and sits back in his chair. "Let us put that to the test, then, Miss Holmes."
The rim of the glass has just touched Sherlock's lower lip when the window over the table explodes inward. Shocked, Sherlock loses her grip on the glass as she leaps backwards reflexively. Four bluish streaks flash through the shower of glass shards and slam into the driver's chest—Sherlock sees feathered shafts in the flickering light from the candle still upright on the table.
The driver shrieks and wrenches free of the arrows and the chair, growing in height and mass before Sherlock's very eyes. Not a trace of the podgy, weaselly driver remains—the creature before her is hulking and dreadful, its thick, spiny hide dripping with foul slime and tar. Its stink, fetid and sickly like decaying flesh, swamps the room. "Wretched meddler!" it screams, flinging itself at the window.
Sherlock takes advantage of the hezrou's distraction to tuck herself behind a bookshelf in the back of the room. She thunks her head back against the wood once—shame on her for missing all the obvious signs! The way the driver moved as if unused to his own body, his odd smell, the way his pupils seemed just the slightest bit oblong... obvious! Obvious!
She looks out from behind the bookshelf just in time to see five more arrows find their marks—both eyes, chest, gut, and one knee. The hezrou staggers and bellows out its fury, throwing a bolt of twisting, squirming energy blindly out the window. Another brace of five arrows make it clear that the spell (chaos hammer, most likely—a staple attack of hezrou) has failed to down the archer.
In all the madness, Sherlock notes the broken glasses of wine on the floor. The contents of both glasses smoke and sizzle as they eat through the flagstones. Sherlock is glad (drinking that wouldn't have ended pleasantly) and furious (of course they were both poisoned, a hezrou wouldn't care about poison, her idiocy evidently knows no bounds).
Five more arrows thunk into the demon; it wavers and drops to its knees. Summoning up the last of its strength, it utters something horrible, something in such deep Abyssal that even Sherlock can't translate it, and it suddenly feels as if her eyelids and her limbs and her mind are made of lead, cold terrible immovable unbendable lead. Sherlock flops to the floor, immobile and dazed.
Some time later (and it's a measure of how out of it Sherlock is that her internal clock has been thrown off), Sherlock hears the doors to the parlour open and light, quick footsteps approach. "Ruddy idiot," says a pleasantly gruff woman's voice, "how can someone with a brain as big as yours miss that?" Small but powerful arms tuck themselves under her and prop her against the bookshelf. The arms leave. "Gladstone. Come here, lad," the voice says, and suddenly there's a cold, wet nose prodding at Sherlock's cheek. A large dog whines worriedly. "I know, lad, I know. Hold still. We need to get Clever Betsy out of here." The same voice utters a command word and suddenly Sherlock feels much smaller (though still made of exhaustion and lead). The arms, no longer quite so small, easily haul Sherlock up into a saddle. "There we are. Off we go, lad."
The dog begins to walk, and Sherlock can only wonder where this strange, small woman with some sort of magical device and a saddled dog is taking her.
By the time Sherlock can open her eyes and move her limbs again, she's sprawled out on a battered leather couch and covered by a dreadful orange blanket. Rolling over, she looks around the room slowly, carefully.
She's in a parlour of some sort, one that might have been very expensive fifty or sixty years ago. The wallpapering hasn't been changed since—that particular floral damask had gone out of style back in 4660—and the furniture appears to be around the same age. A map of Caliphas and the surrounding farmlands is pinned up on one wall; two tall, curtained windows flank a map of Ustalav and a desk covered in papers on the wall opposite.
Diagrams of Human, Elven, Dwarven, Gnomish, and Halfling anatomy (all fairly similar, but just different enough that diagrams are necessary to keep all the little things straight) dominate the wall behind Sherlock's couch. Someone has scribbled notes in the margins and blank spaces between labels—'lock stitch lasts longest here', 'very small + tough, use keen 15', and so on. A surgeon?
Another look around, however, leads Sherlock to reconsider that hypothesis. Though the resident clearly has medical experience (there's a comprehensive healer's kit sitting open on a nearby sun-bleached armchair), the bookshelves are full of ledgers, almanacs, gazetteer clippings, scrolls, and what appear to be VIP chits from several of Caliphas' most frequented taverns and alehouses. The door of a wooden filing cabinet sits slightly ajar; the spines of more ledgers and not a few folders are visible. Two very, very expensive locks hang from a hasp on the door of the cabinet.
She's giving the far side of the room an initial once-over when a smooth curve of pale, golden wood and charcoal-dark horn standing near a doorway catches Sherlock's eye. She hauls herself to her feet, settles the orange blanket (hideous but very warm) around her shoulders, and pads across the room to inspect the item.
On first examination, it appears to be a finely crafted, four-foot-long composite bow with a handle sized for a child's hands, but when Sherlock picks it up and attempts to draw it, she can barely move the string eight inches, much less to a full draw. Not a weapon for a child, then, despite the size of the grip.
"You're awake," says the gruff woman's voice from earlier. Sherlock jumps but doesn't quite drop the bow. She turns to get a look at her rescuer and... oh.
Her rescuer, an ashy blonde woman with a weathered, handsome face, is barely three feet tall. She stands at parade rest, shoulders back and chin tipped up just the slightest bit. Her eyes, the same colour as freshly-sintered cobalt aluminate, are focussed on Sherlock with impressive intensity. Given the delicate pointing of her smallish ears, her mundane colouring, and the smooth, neatly groomed coat of ashy blonde hair covering the tops of her bare feet, an assessment of 'Halfling' seems like a safe one.
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says, offering a hand.
The Halfling woman's mouth quirks up at one corner. She takes Sherlock's hand and gives it a firm shake. "Jonnarra Watson. Call me John." She gives Sherlock an appraising once-over. "Is that how you get your kicks, then? Challenging members of the Countess' inner circle to games of chicken with poisoned wine just to prove you're clever?"
"And you get yours by using demons as overlarge pincushions," Sherlock ripostes easily. "Magnimar or Korvosa?"
John blinks. "Sorry, what?"
"Magnimar. Or. Korvosa?" Sherlock reiterates impatiently.
John's expression is an interesting mixture of shuttered defensiveness, surprise, and curiosity. "How... could you possibly know about that?"
Sherlock laughs outright. It's glorious, glorious when they walk right into it! "Upright posture, parade rest, subconsciously positioning yourself so all exits are within your field of view, and dead-eye aim with a heavy draw longbow—military training and experience in the field, lots of it. Caliphasian and most other Ustalavi Halflings are notoriously reclusive; Varisian Halflings, on the other hand, frequently venture out into the wider world. Exquisitely crafted composite bow with a core of coastal yew—such wood is generally found on the western coast of the continent, particularly in Varisia. Your accent is Caliphasian, but 'game of chicken' is a Varisian Common colloquialism. Halfling, career military, Varisian equipment and speech—Magnimar or Korvosa."
Throughout the analysis, John's jaw had alternately dropped and tightened in response, all in time with her expressive face sliding through muted variations of amazement and concentration. She gives Sherlock a long, hard look with those dark blue eyes—Sherlock braces herself for anger or offence—before slowly shaking her head. "That. Was amazing."
For once, Sherlock is the one caught off-guard. No one ever says that. "Do you really think so?"
John gives Sherlock a disbelieving look. "Extraordinary," she says definitively, "that was quite extraordinary." She shifts her weight from foot to foot and licks her lips—compulsive tic rather than deliberate expression of desire. "You're one of those detectives with the Sleepless agency, aren't you?"
That earns a derisive scoff from Sherlock. "Hardly. When they're out of their depth—which is always—they come to me for consultation." Though she is studying the Sleepless agency's particular brand of forensic magic (and benefiting enormously from it), her analyses and observational faculty are all her own innate talent. Her membership is merely the Sleepless agency's effort to keep her consultations within its ridiculous, bureaucratic guidelines.
"I can see why," John muses aloud, chuckling quietly. "So, what do people normally say?"
"Piss off," Sherlock answers.
To her complete shock (and possibly delight, if the giddy, burbling sensation bubbling up beneath her sternum isn't indigestion or a delayed reaction to the hezrou's spell), John grins broadly and begins to giggle. For a woman as weathered and handsome she is, the mischievously girly, mirthful sound is incongruous in the best of ways. Sherlock finds herself giggling along.
"A highly inappropriate reaction, given the circumstances."
The bow is torn from Sherlock's hands as John whirls and tumbles through the kitchen doorway. She reappears shortly with two arrows nocked, drawn, and aimed squarely at the man in the doorway. "Who are you!?" she snarls, indigo eyes and pearly white teeth flashing. Sherlock shies away a step before she can stop herself—this side of John is rather terrifying.
"A concerned party," Mycroft Holmes says disdainfully, his aristocratic features arranged in a calculated sneer. "Sherlock, I warned you to stay away from the Countess' business."
John throws Sherlock an incredulous look. "You know this berk?" she snaps across nocked arrows.
Sherlock sighs and rolls her eyes. "Ah, Mycroft. Dear, darling brother." She offers Mycroft a not-smile. "I will meddle when there is a case to be resolved. The Countess' driver was responsible for the series of suicides-by-poison amongst visiting merchants. When the Sleepless Agency faltered, I stepped in."
"Brother?" John echoes incredulously.
"We share our dear Mummy," Mycroft replies, unperturbed by the fact that John's aim has not wavered. "Sherlock, you understand that the Countess will not take lightly to her favoured lieutenant being rumbled and then banished? You showed wisdom in involving one of Magnimar's finest intelligence agents, but banishment? Have you lost your mind?"
John growls. It's a very large, very alarming sound coming from such a tiny person. "It's your nobles that have lost their minds," she snarls. "If I find a demon, I destroy it—I don't invite it to my bed and into my nation's governance!"
Sighing, Mycroft rolls his eyes and presents John with a signet ring withdrawn from his breast pocket. "Neither do I, Captain."
John stares at the ring like she's been dealt a gut punch. "Oh. You're Control," she mutters, lowering her bow and snapping to attention. "Sir."
The only thing Sherlock hates more than being ignored is being ignored whilst people discuss things she does not understand. "What do you want, Mycroft?" she hisses, stalking over to John's sofa and throwing herself down on it. Mycroft has always hated being the one who has to remain standing, particularly when it's purely for image's sake. She doubts he'll break character in front of one of his subordinates. The fact that John initially had no idea as to Mycroft's identity is the only thing that's keeping Sherlock from storming out the flat entirely; John is just as much a victim of Mycroft's machinations as anyone else.
"I am warning you, Sherlock, that your recklessness has the Countess feeling threatened. She will organise a retributive attack, meaning that your little hovel is likely already bristling with killing spells, poisons, and at least one summoning circle. Given the volume of her raging, I suspect there will be assassin-demons as well." He heaves a longsuffering sigh. "You know I cannot oppose her without exposing too much; your only option is to flee."
Sherlock doesn't reply. Infuriatingly, Mycroft is right—his plans aren't in the right stage for him to be able to do anything about the Countess' fits of pique. "Fleeing won't necessarily sate her desire for revenge." The Countess is known for her relentless grudges and resentments. If she's truly as upset as Mycroft says, she may be aiming for 'out of existence' more than 'out of Ustalav'.
"As I am aware." Mycroft gives John a significant look. "I understand that you are the one responsible for the driver's banishment?"
John, standing at ease in the kitchen doorway, nods once. "Yes, sir."
"Your mission in Caliphas is complete," says Mycroft. "As of today, I will provide alternate identities for the two of you and equip you for long-distance travel. Captain Watson, you will accompany Sherlock back to headquarters in Magnimar."
Mycroft tugs his pocket square free and unfurls the silky, richly black cloth. With a brief gesture and a crisp utterance, all of John's books, papers, ledgers, diagrams, and trinkets leap from their places, whirling like a parchment and vellum storm as they vanish into the pocket dimension's entrance. When the last paper flutters through, Mycroft very calmly folds the cloth up again and hands it to John, who takes it with an expression somewhere between exasperation and amazement.
Sherlock huffs. "Parlour tricks and a handy haversack, John—nothing of any real note." She gathers up her bag and her cloak from one of the hooks near the front door. "Are we leaving or are we leaving? Mycroft has the wherewithal to teleport materials and equipment to us even after a day's travel; we'll be dead before he finishes rolling back to his office, much less getting our papers in order."
John sighs. She trots into a back room and returns with a packed bag; she adds the handy haversack to the load before hefting one of the straps over her shoulder. Taking up her bow and her quiver, she beckons for Sherlock to follow her. "You're going to be a real joy to travel with, I can tell," she says gruffly, "but you're not even a tenth as stupid as the people I usually get saddled with. Come on, then. You need a horse."
Sherlock sticks her tongue out at Mycroft as she goes. It's as close to a gesture of gratitude as she'll ever get.