A/N: I've seen a lot of fanart devoted to this crossover, so I decided to finally write it! I love BBC's Sherlock and adore almost all of Miyazaki's films, it seemed only logical to put these two amazing works together. That being said, I hope you enjoy reading Sherlock's Moving Castle as much as I enjoy writing it!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Howl's Moving Castle.
Chapter I: An Auspicious Meeting
Hidden amongst clouds, at the top of a hill, a huge metal contraption squeaked and screeched, moving without any subtlety towards the nearby city. As it advanced, the soft summer wind blew the clouds away, allowing the world set their eyes on what was known as Sherlock's Castle.
'It looks nothing like a castle', John thought, as his mind pushed forward the memory of it — the one time he was lucky enough to see it, not just create a mental picture based on other's accounts. It was huge, that he couldn't deny, but it was round in some places, pointy in others, like someone grabbed a bunch of scrap metal, construction material, some unidentifiable objects and glued it all together. He wondered what it was like on the inside.
Curious and bored, John couldn't resist taking a peek out his window. He could hear the girls at the reception exclaiming excitedly "It's Sherlock's castle!", "Look how close it is", and although he hated to admit, he was probably more enthusiastic about catching another glimpse of it than they were.
It looked just like he remembered, all metal plates and screws, pieces of wood, windows in weird places, odd chimneys that resembled eyes, something that could be a mouth and small, fragile-looking legs attached to creepy chicken-like metal feet. He chuckled, 'What a strange place to live'.
'Strange, yet wonderful' his more truthful side provided. John's house was as dull as his tiny medical office — probably because his house used to be an extension of the clinic, being so near it John only had to cross the courtyard to go from one place to the other. Wooden floor, plain beige walls, some basic furniture, and no wiry metal legs to take him whichever place he decided to go. He kept imagining what it was like to live inside something that actually moved, as if it had a life of its own.
He pondered on the logistics of it. Was there some sort of engine on the inside to help it keep going or was it controlled entirely by magic? Could it go anywhere Sherlock desired or were there limitations? What was it like, living like a gipsy, going from city to city, never stopping? Was it dangerous? Exciting? Perhaps both?
Okay, so the last questions weren't about logistics at all, but he couldn't help his curiosity. If he were truly honest to himself, he would admit dreaming about a life so amazing —somewhere far away from his problematic family, his tedious job and life in general, exploring the world around him. Oh, what a dream life it would be.
He was still smiling to himself when he heard a knock on his opened door, "Daydreaming about the sorcerer's castle, huh? Can't say I blame you, must be nice to travel wherever you want whenever the mood hits you." Said Mary, one of the clinic's nurses.
Clearing his throat and trying to stop the blush from rising to his cheeks, he turned in his chair and smiled sheepishly at her. "Well, one can always wonder, right?"
She was pretty with her light blonde hair, blue eyes shining with mirth and a pink mouth smiling just for him. She was nice too, kind with all patients, calm even amidst the worst of crisis and funny whenever they went out for a cuppa. They had been like this for a while: not quite friends, not quite anything else either. It's not that he doesn't want her; it's just that…he can see his entire life before him, just as it is now, and although it should be reassuring, it terrifies him.
He can easily see himself wake up day after day, go through his morning routine, walk to the clinic, see as many patients as possible, go home, be with his probable future wife, sleep and repeat the cycle. Nothing new or exciting, the same old forever. Just the thought of it made him shiver, dreading the whole thing altogether.
'There's something seriously wrong with me.'
And it was with that thought and fears that he said "I think I'll pass, Mary. Still got a lot of medical reports to fill out" when she asked whether he wanted to "go out and get a cup of tea or something" with her. Disappointed but understanding, she nodded.
"Next time then."
"Yeah, sure." He answered, though he knew it was a lie. She knew it too. Lately, he had been avoiding her more often than not.
"Well, I'm going out with the girls then. Don't forget to close up when you leave, ok? Dr. Murray already left."
"Ok. See you tomorrow!" She stared at him, a sad look on her face, and he struggled not to look away.
"See you, John."
She turned and joined the other nurses and two of the receptionists, all of them still talking about the mysterious wizard. John got back to his reports, but he could still hear them, albeit faintly.
"Remember Magnussen, from South Haven?"
"They say Sherlock tore his heart out."
"How scary!"
"Don't worry, he's not going to want yours!" And they all laughed. 'Of course he wouldn't want hers', John mused. Sherlock was notoriously known for only going after those of high intellect and even higher connections. He was snobbish, rude and uncaring of other's feelings. He bothered not with beauty or money, only exceptional intelligence and power.
John had neither.
One by one the women left, and he stayed behind, as usual. He didn't remain there for long after that; it wasn't like he had too much work to do. Even if he did, he wouldn't stay late to finish it. He just didn't feel like joining Mary and was in desperate need of a good excuse. Work was a good one, though overused.
Sighing tiredly, he arranged everything on his desk, ignoring the world outside for as long as he could before he had to open the clinic's door and face it. There was some huge celebration going on, a parade of flying kayaks in the air and soldiers on the streets. John hated it. It reminded him too much of what he had and lost, and he dreaded meeting anyone from the King's Guard on the city.
On his way out he passed by a mirror — he had no idea why the girls refused to remove it. They said it was for protection or something of the sort. He seriously doubted it could protect any of them from anything but a piece of salad stuck in their teeth.
John glanced at his reflection. He was still him, short, a bit rounder on the belly than preferable, dark blonde hair, ocean blue eyes and hard lines. He stared, not surprised in the least by his defeated, forlorn countenance. For some reason, his mind went back to the Moving Castle and the gossip about Sherlock. As much as he craved for an adventure-filled life, it was as possible for him have one as it was for that mirror to be someone's saviour. What did plain, dim, powerless John had to offer? Nothing.
Sighing, he put his white coat on the wall hanger by the door and left. He still had to pay his sister a visit, and he could only hope his trip to her new workplace would be a short one.
This was really not his day. He had just arrived downtown, there were people everywhere he turned, but none seemed to notice he was totally lost. Two things could have gone wrong: either he missed the street and wandered far from his destination or — and this was most likely what happened — his sister hadn't been quite as sober as he wished when she wrote down the directions to this Cesari's something and he had no idea where to go.
Great.
He was so focused on the minuscule piece of paper in his hand that he ran right into an officer. One he treated once. One who appeared to dislike him immensely, if the frown on his face was meant anything. The day was just getting better and better.
"Well, well, if it isn't our favourite army doctor. I still got that scar you gave me, Johnny boy." He said, glaring at him from above thanks to the height advantage.
John couldn't even remember the man's name. All he did recall was that he treated the officer's bullet wound, saving his life, but leaving a nasty scar. Apparently, the guy favoured looks over being alive.
"I think you meant former army doctor." Said another, stepping from behind his friend.
Seriously. By far, this was the peachiest day of John's life.
"Look, I don't mean to cause any trouble. If you'll step aside, I'll be on my way." He attempted, without much success, to move along. They blocked his path. Again. He was trying to be nice and not cause a commotion; however, sometimes things don't turn out as you plan.
"C'mon, doctor Watson. Come and have a chat with us, it's been so long since we've last seen you."
"I don't believe we have anything to chat about." He stood up straighter, voice hard, glaring right back at them, gripping his cane in anger. Being shorter and outnumbered, not to mention the limp, they simply shared a look and laughed right in his face.
"Uh oh, look like someone's angry."
"Reckon he could throw a nasty punch… when he actually managed to reach the target." More laughter.
"Let. Me. Pass." He enunciated each word through gritted teeth.
"Well, John, if you want to go" Said the officer closest to him, bowing his head down. John could smell the alcohol on his breath, "you'll have to get through us first."
His free hand was already closed into a fist; it would only take a second to wipe those smirks off their faces. However, just as he was about to strike, he heard footsteps behind him. Another attacker, perhaps? He blinked, distracted, and couldn't contain a little jump when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Ah, I've finally found you, doctor." A deep baritone voice resounded around them. Like the men in front of him, John turned his attention to the stranger, his eyes widening in recognition.
Sherlock! He had never seen the sorcerer before, but heard about him all the time. He had a clear picture of him on his mind and the real Sherlock did not fall short of his expectations, quite the contrary.
He was tall, taller than John expected, and slightly muscular, despite his lean physique. His skin was as pale as the white clouds that covered his castle in the morning, his eyes were multi-coloured — a mixture of blue, green and grey, sparkling under the sunlight. His hair was a mess of black curls, contrasting beautifully with his fair skin and eyes. A pink mouth, perfectly sculpted like a cupid's bow, sneered at the men in front of them. He looked more like a spoiled prince than a powerful sorcerer.
John just stared and stared, taking in as many details as he could. When would he ever have the chance to do so again anyway?
"Who are you?" Not like he didn't know, but he just wanted to be sure. Maybe he was hallucinating, who knows?
"Not of your interest and unwilling to have this conversation. Move along, now. There you go." He spoke, raising his right hand and pointing it to their right. Both officers jerked in their place before turning right and leaving, uttering confused "what"s and "how"s. "Don't waste your knuckles on them. No amount of punching in the world would have an effect on such brainless idiots."
"I—ah…" John was at a loss for words — so much for not being another of those brainless idiots. Thankfully for him, Sherlock didn't seem to notice, cutting him off instead.
"Cesari's bakery, right? Yes, of course. Not there to actually buy goods, someone you know works there. Friend? No. Family." He didn't appear to be talking to John, well, to anyone for that matter. He simply talked nonstop, getting everything right and scaring the living pants out of the smaller man next to him. "Parents? No. Ha, brother! Might as well accompany you, since I cannot remain in this spot any longer and I'm afraid you are involved now. Do try to act normal though, we're being followed."
John moved automatically, following the strong presence — and equally strong hand on his back — pushing him forwards, bewildered by the whole interaction.
"I—You…how did you know all that?" He asked, barely aware of the weird, gooey black creatures squirming their way towards them. Sherlock picked up his pace and John struggled to keep up, his legs significantly shorter, his limp only making matters worse. Sherlock looked pointedly at his jumper and John realized he forgot his "Doctor John Watson" tag on it. Okay, fairly easy to guess, but what about everything else?
"I didn't know. I deduced it, John." He said and suddenly sped up his speech much more than his pace. "Your hair is tousled, your cheeks burnt red, your clothes are rumpled and you look remarkably tired. Could be because you just left work and faced rather large mobs that have taken over the streets, but that would not explain the hair and cheeks, there's no wind in the midst of so many people after all —crowded streetcar it is. Not particularly unusual for it to be this full this time of the day, however, it was overwhelmingly cramped considering the current war festivities, if one can call it that. You could neither find a place to sit nor did you want to stand in the middle of it, with nothing to hold on and support yourself — you don't trust your balance even with your cane, and prefer to stand by the bannister on the entrance, thus your windblown cheeks and hair, clothes rumpled from strangers that kept pushing you when entering the vehicle."
John stared up at him, mouth slack in awe, his destination and purpose completely forgotten. Actually, he was surprised he could still remember his own name. He never got why people fussed over Sherlock so much, and now he was painfully aware why. He was also painfully aware of the gooey creatures appearing from thin air in front of them.
The sorcerer took a sharp turn left, pulling John up when he tumbled and almost fell. 'He must be great at poker' John mused while Sherlock kept on his brisk strides and quick words in an almost detached manner, as if being chased while deducing someone's life was nothing out of the ordinary. "You are lost, which obviously means you're not from this particular neighbourhood. Cesari's logo is at the back of the paper you're holding in your right hand, indicating your current destination. Hold on."
And that was all the warning John got before the arm gently nudging him forwards wrapped itself around his waist, pushed him against a broad chest and all of the sudden they were flying. Sherlock instructed him in short commands "Drop your legs, keep walking", and held his hands as they walked on air, high above the unobservant people below them. His cane lay forgotten on a dirty alley, and it would be a while before John realized it was gone.
"You wouldn't go through all this trouble just to buy bread, you're a practical man and you loathe these odd government gatherings — you wouldn't have come today if possible. Meeting someone then, not a lover, there's not a hint of a smile on your face and you why would come this far if the relationship was sinking? Friends or family. You couldn't cancel it, so it isn't a meeting per se, someone works there and you're checking on them — probably because of their alcoholism, evident by the scrawls of someone not fully in control of their motor functions."
The doctor had lost his ability to respond entirely. He was walking on air, for Heaven's sakes! Walking on air, being guided by one of the most famous sorcerer's of his time, listening to his absurdly correct deductions, feeling more alive than he had all of his life!
He could see hundreds, maybe thousands of people below them, some were dancing, chattering, celebrating in any way they could. What exactly, he couldn't tell, the war was still raging on and usually the subject would make his blood boil in anger, but right now he didn't care about it at all. There were flying kayaks not too far from them, some rising in the sky, other descending to land. There was a hole on one of the ceilings below, and a woman cleaning one of the balconies. There was a wizard holding his hands and making him fly. Nothing could disturb his mood now.
Blood rushed through his veins with the adrenaline high, and John basked in it, like a junkie getting a fix. He was actually panting, and a persistent grin that almost split his face refused to budge. He decided to leave it there. Sherlock kept rambling on, looking utterly bored in comparison.
"You were downtown in the middle of a celebration you despise, you have no lover and in spite of being lost, you did not require assistance from anyone around you, preferring to wander empty alleyways until you found your way. You clearly have trust issues, therefore, very few friends, even fewer — if any at all — that you actively seek out. Family. You're not exactly old, though not young either, your parents have probably aged enough to retire or are getting there; a sibling then. You wrote Harry under the address, male sibling, a brother." He concluded, depositing the still slack-jawed doctor on the balcony of Cesari's.
Finally managing to come up with something other than "ah…", John said, "That was brilliant!" Sherlock blinked a couple of times at his response, out of sorts for the first time in their brief meeting.
"That's not what people usually say."
"What do they say?" He asked, leaning dangerously forward on the balcony bannister, drawn to Sherlock's magnetic presence, the tall man floating a few feet from him.
"Piss off." He answered and offered John a flash of a smile. John had never been so elated to see someone's smile before. Not even Mary's.
"You got one thing wrong, though." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and rolled his eyes. John chuckled, unable to restrain himself.
"What is it?"
"Harry's short for Harriet."
Sherlock did a little spin and punched his own hand. He was still floating around, reminding John of a very angry ballerina.
"Sister! There's always something." He sighed. Blinking a couple of times, he straightened his posture and stared back at John — who did not, mind you, shiver when their eyes met. Suddenly, he seemed to remember they were just being chased and said "Now, I'll draw them off. Wait here until the coast is clear."
"Ok." He nodded emphatically.
"That's my doctor." Sherlock winked and dropped down, vanishing into the crowds below. John's heart did a somersault — from the wink or the drop he didn't know, and thought it best not to find out.
Not such a bad day after all.