Delicately skimming the water's surface, Mycroft wets the pad of his right index finger and runs it lightly around the smooth edge of the ancient ornamental glass bowl. A hum, low and tenuous at its beginning, barely detectable, resonates and grows to a register pitched beyond noticeable by all but the most perceptive of men. The tonal vibrations disturb the surface tension, not in ripples, but light producing waves and streams, defying known laws of physics and weaving graceful incantations and enchantments with the fluidly moving molecules. The hand blown and intricately etched glass sings and strains against the vivid ultramarine glow radiating, not from the water itself, but from within the life and essence binding it together at an atomic level.
Mycroft lightens his touch, slowly, by minute increments, but continues moving his hand in a circular motion over the bowl as the haunting melody mellows then rises in octave, a mesmerizing ebb and flow. The lucent intensity grows, bathing the archaic chamber in a brilliant azure glow. Slow, methodical motions expanding ever outward, both hands circling, a rhythmic sway and pull, like a conductor directing his opus. A masterpiece. The unearthly symphony wails. The light is blinding white, searing, undulating with cerulean particle waves radiating out from the source, the relic resting in the center of the priceless table. A sudden crescendo, the very room vibrates with the fevered tempo, when the maestro strikes the side of the bowl with fragile ring adorning his left ring finger and stills.
He holds his breath as the chime resonates, shrill and clear. With a flash the light and melody are retracted, pulled forcefully back in a dizzying instant, to the bowl. The light turns navy, as dark and as rich as midnight, as a black hole, consuming, devouring. There is a struggle within, the heart of which is fighting against the enchantment. The bowl shudders and groans in agony as the etchings crack and fail, like ice.
"Yes," Mycroft finally breathes as he takes a tentative step back. All other attempts have failed. He knew this, this time… He indulges in a cautious smile as the bowl screams and levitates from the table. A final crack in the frail glass and the bowl shatters in a spectacular shower of glittering indigo dust. The water remains, a spherical vortex, churning and chaotic, projecting the archaic hieroglyphs of the time forgotten incantation in the refulgent ultramarine light. The ciphers shimmer as constellations, the very cosmos extracted from the essence of life.
Mycroft could weep. The others, successful in their own right, though by comparison, failures, were all so close. But none like this. None with such fire, with rage and beauty of passion. The heart at the center of the orb continues to fight, contention roils against the unnatural forces holding it there. He is captivated by the luminous glory of it, and cannot help but laugh as he revels in victory.
The process is long, but for this, he will endure. He dare not entrust the delicate enchantment being woven to his apprentice, though he trusts her above all others - she is the closest he has come to perfection. Until now.
He waits patiently for the stubborn heart to tire itself, for the resistance to wan. Control is not easily ceded, but even the fiercest of warrior hearts must rest. When finally surrender comes, both Mycroft and the room around him heave a sigh of relief. With uncommon timidity, Mycroft reaches gently into the center of the orb. The water parts and the light pulses from its source, in time with the rapidly beating heart enshrined inside.
Mycroft knows, when others see this, his swan song, they will fail to see the perfection. They will be deceived by the ordinary, mild exterior, but they will not see the magnificent heart, nor will they know the extraordinary will hidden within. He studies the intricate complexities of the golden hues, as well as the strong and sturdy form. A spot of darkened pigment mars one side, but the blemish is superficial. More permanent is the tear, a wound hard earned struggling against the enchantment that would soon bring freedom. The scar can be repaired, but perhaps a reminder against foolish pride is warranted. Nothing crippling, but constant all the same. A battle scar for a true warrior.
Peering into his cupped hands, Mycroft is startled by the fierce intensity of the sea storm blue eyes staring back at him. Challenging him. Ready to stand, ready to get on with it, needing to breathe.
"Oh, you are magnificent, aren't you? You're going to make my life hell." Mycroft exhales slowly and nods once. "And you'll save my brother, won't you?" Blue eyes stare back at him with intent. "Of course you understand. Soon, you will be surrounded by imbeciles, but you will understand him, and he you."
Moving to the far wall, Mycroft pulls a curtain aside to reveal a mirror. It is unwieldy and ugly, the frame is chipped and the glass warped. But looking through the glass reveals a view into a cluttered and chaotic sitting room. A tatty couch and mismatched armchairs rather fill the space. It's cozy, in its way. The lone occupant appears cluttered and chaotic in his own right, dark hair disheveled, dressing gown askew, and he's sawing his bow across a priceless violin as if it has mortally wronged him.
"Sherlock. He's not ready," Mycroft sighs. "And neither are you. Soon. Very soon indeed. But not to worry. There are others keeping watch until you arrive." He nods to the grand aquarium along the opposite wall, and acknowledges the others. They were present when Mycroft uttered the first incantations, they watch now, with curious eyes wide and mouths gaping.
Mycroft points to a prim and matronly butterfly-tail with grey and white markings, and keen, knowing eyes. "This is Martha. She will be your fiercest ally in defending my brother." When she blinks up at him, he chuckles. "Hers are the only scones you will ever desire." Mycroft introduces the others in turn. A timid and intelligent, though loyal to a fault, curled-gill called Molly. "She sees in my brother what others refuse to see, what he denies exists within him. Molly sees it, but you will draw it out, the great heart within him." And Greg, the silver lion-head with soulful, world weary eyes. "He's saved my brother from harm more times than anyone should be expected to. But you, you will save him from himself."
"You will join them soon enough, but first you must acclimate. You will know everything you need to know when you wake." Turning to a small tank lined with stones the color of sun scorched desert sand, Mycroft brings his hands up to eye level and with wonder studies the utterly normal goldfish with a marred left fin. The enchantment is still at work, the light and life of it still thrum and pulse. Mycroft murmurs the final utterances of the spell and gently lowers his hands into the tank as the water vibrates at the touch of his fingers. Renewed fight gleams bright blue in the afterglow of the enchantment, and the tiny golden fish darts into the water.
Half a world away, in an army field hospital in the middle of a desert, sea storm blue eyes snap open. Gasping and sputtering as if he's never breathed air before, Captain John Hamish Watson wakes to a world he knows well. Is intimately familiar with. What's troubling is, he has no idea why that is troubling.