Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the Eagle Mountain. And don't profit from writing my stories, of course.
Concerning the ages of the characters: John is about seventeen, Sherlock around twenty, Lestrade is around 38, Mycroft the same.
Reviews are very welcome!
John and the Eagle Mountain knew where the emerald floating ice rocks were born. Far-far away in the Western Sea there were islands covered with ice from head to toe. When the sea licked the islands' toes teasingly they laughed and chunks of ice split and then slid along the waves floating freely. Not many seamen were brave enough to come closer to the islands of ice, even less managed to return and tell about it. And the ice giants proudly ploughed the cold furious seas.
John has spent his whole short life on the island. He has never felt the polished wood of an oar in his hands, seen the stern faces of the ice giants rise from the mists over the board of a longship. He has only heard the tales of giants and Gods from other people.
This summer was the third John spent on the higher meadows. There were lots of good grass on these succulent meadows, the cows grew fat grazing there for the whole summer. The herds mixed freely and the shepherds didn't care much whose cow was where. Only when one month was left till the Winter Nights feast the cattle would be returned from the meadows to the settlement. This was the time when a good shepherd dog was what mattered, otherwise it was a nightmare for a shepherd to separate his herd from the others.
A lot of shepherds envied John. His dog was the best, swift, strong, no wolf a match for him. John called him Gentle, which was totally unsuitable for the dog from the point of view of almost everybody else. But John knew the real value of his dog. All the cows from his herd were always carefully gathered by Gentle, the dog had never been mistaken. John had refused to trade him to other shepherds for silver or new clothes although offered many times.
Gentle was one of dozens of puppies born on the lush mountain meadows. Being an especially curious one he managed to fall down from the rocks of the Eagle Mountain into the water and somehow stay alive. John heard him crying at the foot of the mountain where the puppy scrambled out of the water onto a cold rough stone. The boy was only ten then but he hadn't hesitated for a moment. The steep rocks of the Eagle Mountain brought fear to the hearts of even most of the adult shepherds but John only bit his lip decisively and began to climb down. Wind tore at his sandy locks and howled sadly. It took John almost half a day to get down and then back up with the puppy carefully bundled in his shirt. He almost slipped once which cost him a jagged scar on the left shoulder where ruthless stones bit through the tanned skin. John never told anyone about this, although conquering the Eagle Mountain was a real feat even for a grown-up man. He felt irresponsible as he had left the herd unattended for such a long time. Thankfully the cows were all there when he rolled over the edge clutching the fluffy wet ball to his chest.
Summer was slowly rolling to the dusk. John was watching the sea, deep blue eyes squinted against the wind. He dreamt of sailing to the ice islands or even further, someplace he couldn't even see from the pasture. Maybe Gregory the Brave's longship was anchored in the skerries over there. John had heard about the infamous warrior several months ago. Messengers from the konung came to the settlement telling someone had seen his sails at sea. They say Skjold the Merchant who lived at the top of the hill had been scared most of all. And John wasn't scared. He instantly wished Gregory's warship would moor to their shore and something interesting would happen at last.
"Nothing happens to me," John whispered to Gentle. The wolflike dog only yawned, boasting pearly white fangs in the black mouth.
Yes, John wanted the Vikings to cast anchor somewhere near this shore. He would manage to find Gregory then, no doubt. And ask if he would take a runaway slave on board his longship.
John was born a slave and was supposed to remain one for his whole life. If he didn't manage to run away or buy himself out, that is. But usually only some skilled men like smiths were able to buy themselves out and John was only a shepherd. So he dreamt about Gregory the Brave on a proud warship. Although there wasn't any chance Gregory would show up here. Only those who were born among the skerries could sail confidently there. Any other sailor would soon find himself on the rocks. Even Gregory.
It was natural that Gentle noticed things earlier than his master. When he suddenly growled and jumped to his feet John caught him by the collar at once. Gentle never barked as he was a half-blood, a son of a wolf. The dog dragged John over the bushes to a part of the mountain meadow crammed with boulders. The boy couldn't understand what smell worried his dog until he heard voices in front of them. He made Gentle lie down knowing he wouldn't need to call twice should he need his friend. Then John crawled forward till the voices sounded as if right next to him. He knelt behind the boulder then and carefully peeped out.
There were three men in the clearing. John recognized two sons of Skjold the Merchant at once. They were standing with their backs turned to him, one holding a sword and another a drawn bow with a ready arrow.
The third, in a dark blue shirt, was leaning on a rock. There was a trickle of blood along his right thigh and the whole high boot on that leg was red. The man was holding a sword in his right hand and with the left he squeezed a cut along his left side, ugly stain widening around his fingers. His almost gray hair was wet with sweat but brown eyes were clear and focused. It was obvious that the sons of Skjold were afraid of him – even wounded, even bleeding, even although there were two of them against him alone.