Now hear the tale of the doomed Prince, though maybe not in the way that you may expect. For a Prince can be used to describe different things, only one of them being truly Royal, and we shall soon explore what it takes for our hero to become the true Prince he is meant to be. So let us dive deep into this tale, this changed tale that has traveled through centuries to come here, at rest, with one very un-Princely man who has a destiny that is just waiting for him to accept it.
Sherlock Holmes never thought of himself as Royal. He never even thought of himself as anyone with a time-spanning destiny to tussle with. But one day as he sat in his chair feeling incredibly bored and doing very close to nothing, he heard the sound of a key in the lock of the door downstairs. This sound cheered him up tremendously, because he knew exactly who it was, and he had been waiting for said person for a solid six minutes.
The sound of running feet came from the stairs, and in seconds the very expected person himself was standing back in the living room: Dr. John H. Watson himself, with a box under one arm. He was awfully out of shape if he was out of breath from climbing a flight of stairs.
"You're awfully out of shape if you're out of breath from climbing a few stairs." Sherlock voiced as John half-walked, half-stumbled into the room. John shot him an exasperated look before plopping himself down on the couch and putting the box down next to him.
"It's nice to see you, too, Sherlock. I got your text." John said, gesturing to Sherlock with his phone, "And there was a box waiting for you on the stairs."
Sherlock frowned.
"It's didn't have a return address on it."
Sherlock held his hand out towards John.
"I assume you want it?"
Sherlock gestured for John to give the box to him, which he did before sighing and getting up.
"I'm going to the kitchen. Do you want anything?"
Sherlock shook his head before opening the box and taking out what was inside.
'What was inside' was a thin book, really more of a large folder with the sheets of paper stuffed into it and loosely bound in. Sherlock brushed his left hand over the cover, revealing words from underneath the dust: "The Tale of the Doomed Prince". Curious.
He opened it, with a rather large cloud of dust, to the first page of a story.
"Now hear the tale,"
It said, written in cursive with many flourishes,
"of the doomed prince. Once upon a time there was a king in Egypt whose heart was heavy because that he had no son. He called upon the gods, and the gods heard, and they decreed that an heir should be born to him. In time came the day of the child's birth. The seven Hathors greeted the prince and pronounced his destiny; they said he would meet with a sudden death, either by a crocodile, or a serpent, or a dog."
The illustration below depicted the paragraph above in the Egyptian style, the birth of a Prince while the gods watched from above and the Hathors told of his fate. Below that, however, was something of much more interest.
"Are you ready for your destiny, Sherlock Holmes?" was written in a much scratchier hand, print with a pencil, followed by a cell phone number. Obviously not the author, but why would someone send him an old Egyptian tale just to mock him?
Sherlock took out his phone, briefly aware that John was watching with amusement from the kitchen while he drank his cup of coffee. Sherlock entered in the number and texted a brief answer back:
"Of course. –SH"
"Do you know who sent it to you?" John asked from the kitchen.
Sherlock smiled as he launched himself off of his chair and out of the living room while grabbing his coat.
"No."
"Are you going to try and figure it out?" John asked as he followed Sherlock down the stairs.
"Yes."
John smiled as the walked out the door. "Are you having fun yet?"
Sherlock popped his coat collar and started walking away.
"Starting to."