This is a crossover with the Graceling/Fire/Bitterblue universe. In a kingdom called the Dells, there are creatures called monsters. They look like ordinary animals -and humans- except for their hair/scales/feathers, which is/are some gorgeous, non-natural shade. They can influence normal humans' minds by making them do things or feel things, and they can basically read minds/have conversations in people's heads. That's pretty much all you need to know.
Sherlock wasn't very fond of the idea of being the king of the Dells someday. He thought it seemed like all too much responsibility, and he'd have to eventually marry some ultimately boring, tedious woman and be expected to produce heirs. Dull.
But that was before he met John. John, who was two years older than him. John, with the bright blue eyes and sparkling golden hair and tanned skin. John, who was infinitely interesting. John, who was a monster.
Sherlock had known, somewhere in the back of his five-year-old brain, that all kings had monster companions. He'd thought his would be interesting mainly because of its inherent ability to control people's thoughts and perceptions, but he hadn't counted on his monster to be fascinating for its own sake. He hadn't counted on John.
They had first met when John's mother brought him to court when John was seven. John's mother had been the monster companion of Sherlock's mother, the queen, before she had moved back to her estate to raise her children. A good deal of people either didn't take well to monsters, or took to them too well.
John had suffered the long trip well, and tried to keep a calm face when he first entered the palace. His mother had told him that Sherlock was one of the most energetic boys she'd ever seen, and that John needed to be a calming influence on the young prince.
John had stood next to his inhumanly beautiful mother, angelic face craned back to stare at the magnificent architecture of the palace's main hall, when Sherlock had come careening down a banister. Sherlock's mother, the queen, entered the room and headed straight for John's mother, putting the matter of her youngest son behind her reunion with her old friend. The two women embraced, neither paying heed to their sons- not out of cruelty, but an ambivalent necessity. If the two didn't become friends on their own, no amount of motherly coercion would help.
John dashed over almost immediately to where Sherlock was lying, and took in the boy trying not to cry over his finger, which was bent at an angle it shouldn't have been.
John, seeing the suppressed pain in the younger boy's face, immediately filled Sherlock's mind with the kind of pleasant fog his mother had taught him to use. He felt a moment of doubt for influencing the prince without explicit consent, but he brushed it aside with the thought that this was his duty. He was the one to make Sherlock's ascension to the throne as pain-free as possible- to find assassin's before they found Sherlock, to make those who weren't so fond of the prince change their opinion, to charm anyone and everyone who needed it. It was going to be difficult, but John always loved challenges.
"Is that better?" John asked, watching the expression on the young prince's face shift from shame (John made a mental note to find whoever had told Sherlock not to cry and make sure they repented their actions (it was his nature to be particularly persuasive)) to contentedness.
"You're my monster," Sherlock replied, a spark of awareness shining from the back of his glassy eyes. "You're to live here from now on, and you can make people do what you want."
"Yes," John replied, and carefully pulled Sherlock up by his arms. "And you're to go to the infirmary before you start hurting again."
Sherlock, who was now eleven to John's thirteen, and beginning to realize the enormity of John's power, decided that an discussion needed to happen.
Sherlock had been subject to a rather cruel rant from one of his tutors when he had brought up an astronomic concept that was above the man's area of expertise. It wasn't Sherlock's fault; he'd seen it in one of his father's star-gazer's books, and the theory seemed incredible.
The tutor, however, hadn't taken it as such. He lost his temper, but instead of yelling, his voice went to the scary low register that adults used when they really meant to intimidate. He called Sherlock a freak, and said that he was surprised even his little monster abomination had stuck with him that long.
When Sherlock slunk back to his and John's quarters with a dejected air and a layer of false cheerfulness to cover it, John had seen right through it. He'd pulled the story out of Sherlock, and went to 'talk' to the tutor with a face like thunder. When John didn't come back, Sherlock went to find him, and found his monster standing calmly in the room while the tutor repeatedly slammed his fist into the wall.
Sherlock stood still for a moment, eyes wide as he took in the shredded knuckles and protruding bone of the man's hand and the bloodstains on the wall. The most frightening thing of the entire scenario was not how John was casually humming a folk tune, nor the repetitive thumps accompanied by the sick noise of human flesh not meant to be exposed hitting a hard surface. It was the expression on his tutor's face- happy, almost ecstatic, while he pounded his hand into mincemeat against an unforgiving stone surface.
John turned around when he heard Sherlock's thin gasp, and concern washed over his visage, replacing the self-satisfied smile Sherlock had seen a split second before.
"Sherlock!" He rushed over and led the shaking prince out of the room. Sherlock looked at John with fear in his eyes before throwing his arms around John's waist and burying his face in John's chest.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John felt a his stomach constrict into a knot of worry that Sherlock would tell him to leave after seeing what he'd done.
"Mummy will be furious," Sherlock mumbled into John's soft shirt. "You just crippled a man."
"He wasn't a very nice man," John's voice rumbled against Sherlock as he rubbed the prince's back.
"She'll send you away," Sherlock tried to keep his voice from cracking,
"Don't do that to me," Sherlock looked up into the caring gaze of his monster, and felt like he was drowning in John's endless blue eyes. "Don't make me do something I don't want to do. I forbid you to. I don't hate you for what you did, but I will if you do it to me."
"Not unless it's for your own good," John moved one of his hands to gently push the curls out of Sherlock's face as a crunching sound echoed from the room behind them. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to do some damage control. It sounds like he's broken his fingers."
Sherlock reluctantly withdrew his arms from around John as the monster stepped into the room.
"What are you doing, Garian?" John's voice sounded horrified, and Sherlock felt a shiver go through him when he heard John's tone. John could lie like no one he had ever met- Sherlock wasn't sure if it was a talent that all monsters had, or if it was just John. Either one was a frightening prospect, though Sherlock felt more intrigued than frightened.
Sherlock heard his tutor moan and John's footsteps echoed in the stone halls as he took long, measured steps towards the broken man.
"I came in here to inquire about Sherlock's lessons and I found you attacking the wall! You must have caught the animal-madness the healers have been talking about! Get yourself to the sickbay immediately!" The 'honest' concern in John's voice made Sherlock wonder just what else John had done, how he had perfected that flawless false veneer of compassion to use when he himself had caused the damage.
Sherlock slipped into a patch of shadow near a pillar as his dazed tutor wandered out of the room and down the hallway, only daring to come out once John had exited the old schooling room (Sherlock was confident he would never learn anything in there again; he would request for his lessons to be moved to a completely different area of the palace).
He fell into step with John, and hesitantly voiced what was on his mind, even though he knew John had probably checked in on his mental state and felt it already. "Why?"
"Because I care about you, Sherlock." John ruffled Sherlock's untidy mass of dark hair as they headed back to their rooms. "And you needn't worry about me inflicting my will upon the other residents of the palace for my own pleasure- I only use it when the situation demands. And the situation rarely demands it, unless it's to protect you."
"I know I asked before-" Sherlock started, only to be interrupted by his monster.
"I won't control your thoughts, or make you do anything you don't want to. I can keep our minds totally separate, if you wish. The only reason I'd ever override your will would be to protect you. You, more than anyone else in this cage of a palace, matter to me. Enough that I'd do something like what I just did." Raw honesty seeped through the cracks in John's voice, which reassured Sherlock more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
If Sherlock walked a little closer to John on the way back to their rooms than strictly necessary, neither of them mentioned it.
When Sherlock was fourteen, his entire life changed in a way that he couldn't have possibly imagined.
Sherlock's mother revealed to the rest of the court, and the entirety of the Dells, that she had born a son four years before Sherlock. Mycroft was his name (Sherlock thought it was a ridiculous sounding title, even given his own hefty moniker), and he had been hidden until he was of age. Apparently Sherlock's parents had been worried about the influence of the court on their heir, so they'd hidden him away in a country estate. However, Sherlock soon learned that Mycroft had learned to play politics well enough to have no trouble at court, much to his displeasure.
At first, Sherlock wasn't overly bothered- sure, his brother was a pompous git, but he didn't directly affect Sherlock's life (besides taking away the burden of crown prince), so why should he care? If anything, Sherlock was glad his brother had come out of the woodwork- this gave him the chance to explore the burgeoning feelings he had for John without being worried about being prematurely engaged to some young courtier. Mycroft could amuse himself by producing heirs and playing the courtiers, and Sherlock would be free to do whatever he wanted.
But the first thing Mycroft tried to change was John. That fat bastard had gone to Sherlock's mother and attempted to convince her that John's sway on Sherlock was entirely unhealthy for a member of the royal family. Luckily, 'Mummy' was eternally grateful to John for being there for her son when the other noble children shunned him, and Mycroft had underestimated how close her relationship with John's mother was. She flatly turned down Mycroft's suggestion of reassigning John to the spy network, or some other dangerous occupation.
Sherlock never forgave Mycroft for that; no matter how the ponce tried to make up, Sherlock would never be fond of someone who had tried to take John away from him. The best part of it all was Mummy's extended 'talk' with Mycroft, when she explained why John was necessary, and that Mycroft's younger brother would probably be dead if it weren't for his monster.
Sherlock could remember crouching against his mother's door, listening to her use what he called her 'dangerous voice' (it was the voice that she rarely used, only on people she believed had crossed the line, and the fact that Mycroft had managed to induce the voice within a week of being at court and Sherlock hadn't in his entire life was all too gratifying). He understood the gist of the conversation- most of which was incredibly satisfying. 'Utterly moronic' and 'most ridiculous idea I've ever heard of' were some of his favorites. A small bubble of warmth grew in his chest as he eavesdropped- Mycroft could try to take John away, but Mummy wouldn't let him. She knew what John did to Sherlock.
John was the only one who could make his brain go quiet.
It was almost two years later when Sherlock walked into the kitchens in search of John and found his monster flirting with one of the girls responsible for making pastries. She was reaching up and touching his hair, something most humans couldn't seem to restrain themselves from doing. The soft golden threads shimmered in the light and wound through her fingers.
Sherlock hated other people touching John's hair.
The prince stormed into the kitchens, loudly proclaiming that John was needed to help set up a prank on Mycroft. The kitchen staff took the news good-naturedly: even though Mycroft appreciated their food more than his brother, they had a special place in their hearts for the younger prince. They would always be more accommodating to the boy who they remembered crouching by the ovens during the winter to get warm, 'dissecting' fruit tarts to see the insides, and pestering the head baker about the chemical reactions that let bread rise. No one ever reported Sherlock's pranks to the queen.
"Coming, Sherlock," John left the girl with a wink and a smile that grew when he saw her steady herself against the counter after meeting his eyes.
Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and started running towards their rooms. John tried to inquire as to the reason for the hurry, but was met with silence. He even asked the question directly to Sherlock's mind, but still got no response. John knew from experience that when Sherlock blocked his mind no power on heaven or earth could get the prince to say what he wanted before he wanted to, so he let the matter rest until they reached their destination. When they reached the familiar door, Sherlock yanked it open, practically shoved John inside, and pulled it closed behind him.
"Will you explain to me what's going on?" John had the little wrinkle between his eyebrows that Sherlock desperately wanted to smooth out with the pad of his thumb- someone as beautiful as John shouldn't look anything but happy.
The monster leaned against a wall, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, obviously waiting for an answer.
Well, it was an answer he got, just not in the form he'd anticipated.
Sherlock surged forward and pinned John to the wall, forearms braced against the shorter boy's biceps, hands gripping John's shoulders.
"Mine," he growled, and leaned in to seize John's lips. The resulting kiss was messy, inexperienced, and everything Sherlock had dreamed of (literally- Sherlock had never been more grateful that John slept in a separate room than on the recent nights when he awoke flushed, breathing heavily, and desperately trying to clear the lust from his mind).
John went along with the kiss, but when Sherlock started fumbling with the buttons on his shirt -needing more skin, more contact, more of John- he stopped him.
"Sherlock," the prince heard inside his skull. "Think about what you're doing. We need to talk."
Sherlock let out a growl in response, and switched his focus to sucking a hickey onto the side of John's neck. He hadn't done it before, but the mechanics seemed rather simple, and the rapidly forming mark assured him of his success.
"Sherlock," the voice in his head was a little more forceful now- and, did Sherlock dare say, a little more flustered? Breathy? "Stop."
Sherlock gave himself a few more moments to finish the love mark before reluctantly pulling his mouth away from John's neck. He compromised by leaning his forehead against John's, staring into those slightly lust-hazed blue eyes. "Yes?" Sherlock was surprised to hear the lower, raspy quality his voice had taken on, and from John's dilated pupils, his monster was too.
"Is this an experiment?" Trust John to get right to the point. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in John's scent, waiting for John to talk himself out of his silly crisis.
"Sherlock?" The prince heard in his skull. His first response was 'Oh, dull.' This was one of those conversations that required active input. The second was that John's voice had acquired an irritated tone, and that just wouldn't do.
"It's not an experiment," he whispered, lips almost brushing John's. "I want you. You're mine." Sherlock waited for John's undoubtedly enthusiastic response, but when he saw the look of doubt in John's eyes, Sherlock resigned himself to the quickest way to get John to understand. Sherlock opened his mind fully to his monster. John was inundated with every feeling Sherlock had for him: the messy, half-formed teenage fantasies, the appreciation of John's talent (and the budding ideas of how it could be put to use in situations where their mouths were otherwise occupied), and the lust triggered by John's rumpled hair, kiss-swollen lips, and bruised neck.
"Oh," John breathed, and went back to doing what, in Sherlock's opinion, was a much better use for his mouth.
"Yours," Sherlock heard in his head when they were laying on his bed some time later, naked and blissed out. It sounded like John was answering what Sherlock had told him earlier, which had apparently required a round of energetic sexual activity to confirm. "I'm yours, and you are mine."
Sherlock felt the 'yes' resounding throughout his body, strong enough that he didn't need to push it to the surface of his mind to make it easier for John. If there was one thing he'd always known about the two of them, it was that they belonged to each other. Body and mind.
"Up for another round?" Sherlock felt John's lips behind his ear, and an inquisitive hand sliding from his waist to a lower area of Sherlock, which was definitely showing interest.
"Oh, Dells yes," was all Sherlock managed to get out before he was flipped over and had a monster ravaging his mouth.
And he wouldn't have it any other way
I may do a sequel if this gets enough interest, but drop me a review to tell me what you think! Kristin Cashore is an amazing writer, and this was born after Bitterblue rekindled my love for her world.