Author's note:
Disclaimer first: I do not own Merlin (though I wish I did after hearing some of the spoilers for the finale) or Sherlock Holmes, nor do I make money off of them or claim to represent the original works in any fashion.
Second, for all of you waiting for the next chapter of "Every Good Father" I hope it will be up in a week or two. I have had a lot of good ideas for it (my muse has been on a sugar high since Christmas), but haven't been in a position to do any significant-sized writing due to being away from home and my notes, etc. I don't usually make excuses, but since I posted last I have climbed the Great Wall, entered the Forbidden City and ascended to the Temple of Heaven. Also, I had a (very mild) case of pneumonia. So, you know, busy time and all that.
Anyway, to make it up to you, please enjoy these: what I hope will be a fair number of short pieces based on Merlin's waiting and Arthur's return. Personally, I've never really liked the idea of an immortal Merlin suffering through the ages, but like most of my stories, these things won't go away. It's also the first time I've attempted the drabble-type/short bits format, so no promises as to quality. Just so you know, they won't be in any kind of sequence and will swing back and forth from Merlin's waiting to things happening after the return.
A Brief Encounter
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Merlin met Sherlock Holmes once, though Watson never wrote of the encounter. Merlin didn't know if that was because the event was too peculiar for even the Doctor's readers, or simply because the incident was too short and unresolved to be of interest.
"The man you are searching for went that way, northwards over the tor," Merlin informed the pair without so much as an introduction or preamble.
"And how would you know that, my good man?" the famous detective asked the incongruity before him: the dapper young fellow dressed for a job in the City yet standing in the middle of an empty wilderness in Dartmoor on a drizzly day.
Merlin came up to him and placed a hand on the man's forearm. With one whispered word in a language not used for centuries, the blue-eyed man's eyes turned to gold and then he pointed. A path glowed over the tor like a stream of lava.
Holmes flinched, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. Merlin could tell that shock was not a typical reaction for the man and he sympathized. It was hard always knowing so much, never being surprised. But he also knew that Holmes, unlike his companion, would not in future years be able to talk himself out of what he had seen. The detective was a man who saw what was real and not simply what he expected reality to be. Merlin could see the deductions forming at lightning speed behind the man's gaze; that ability would give him more of a sense of wonder about this - small thing though it was - than his faithful companion would ever realize.
"Follow the path," was all Merlin said before turning away and starting off westwards.
Genuine curiosity vibrated beneath the detective's inscrutable demeanour, and perhaps not a little awe. "What are you?" he asked the retreating figure.
"Merely a very tired old man," Merlin said over his shoulder. "Nothing more. Good day, gentlemen."
And with that he was gone, leaving the detective with one of the few true mysteries of his life.
Sherlock Holmes was forever grateful.