Warnings: Pre-Reichenbach.
Written for a prompt from the lovely martinsbutt on tumblr who requested a Sherlock/Merlin crossover after an experiment gone wrong.
"We're lost."
"No, we're not," Sherlock said firmly. His mouth was a thin line; John could see wrinkles forming at the edges of his lips. "We just need to-"
John came to a halt, putting his hands on his hips and resolving not to go another step; Sherlock could whine as much as he liked, but John wouldn't be listening, and neither would anyone else – there was no-one in the woods apart from themselves and the occasional bird. "Face it, Sherlock, or it'll come back to bite you. We're lost."
"You're not helping, John!" Sherlock stopped walking and turned around with a flourish that made John want to smirk; there was mud on his forehead, and it rather ruined the effect. "If we're lost, then we need to keep going."
"There's no 'if' about. And what we need to do is listen for water, and find shelter before it gets dark, or we have a good chance of freezing to death." He sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face; there was soot engrained in his palm lines and it left his eyebrows feeling gritty. "It would help if we knew which part of the country we were in."
Sherlock was frowning. "I would say towards the south; still in the UK, if the climate and our body clocks are anything to go by. Only…"
"Only?"
"There's too much woodland. Too dense. There's been no woodland this dense in Britain for centuries."
John swallowed. His throat was dry and raw. "Do you remember anything yet?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Photographs – purple smoke – here. You?"
John closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Sherlock had been developing old picture film, for a case, surrounded by test-tubes and the remains of experiments. He remembered thinking that Sherlock should really organise himself a little better; he hadn't been paying attention. His arm had brushed Sherlock's, and something had been knocked over. Purple smoke. Fizzing. The smell off…he couldn't quite fathom the smell. Almost like burned bananas.
"John?"
"No." He put a hand to his head, wishing that he felt something other than dehydrated; it might have presented him with a clue as to exactly what they had been given to make them sleep for so long that they could be moved whole miles and left in the middle of nowhere. "You're sure it wasn't the smoke?"
Sherlock shook his head. He was pale and sweaty, and his voice kept cracking. "It shouldn't have made us pass out. And that doesn't explain-"
"-here."
"Yes. Here."
"Alright." John let his arms fall to his side. "We need water, or I'm going to fall over. There's no point trying to get out yet; trust me."
Eventually, Sherlock nodded. "Lead on, soldier."
John rolled his eyes. "We move strategically, and keep together. Listen for running water."
"Easier said than done."
"You'd be surprised," John murmured. The woods were very quiet. He supposed that was a good thing, but it also worried him. It meant that they weren't well-frequented; in the two or three hours he and Sherlock had been trying to find their way, they hadn't encountered a single footpath, or the remains of a fire. Even the trees were free of graffiti. It was unnerving.
They covered ground slowly, brown leaves crunching underfoot. Already, it was getting dark. Neither of them talked about how they could have got here – about who could have put them here. Whoever it was did not have their best interests at heart. John had seen enough movies to imagine scenarios of the two of them being chased down by a maniac with wild dogs. Moriarty was out there, somewhere. John wouldn't put it past him.
It would be very easy to kill them here.
"John!"
John jumped, and span around; Sherlock was standing with a hand cupped to his ear, raised on tiptoes. "What?" John hissed, heart thudding. "Is it water?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It's…someone."
"Someone?"
"Footsteps."
Perhaps it was the darkness, or perhaps it was the image of Sherlock being torn apart by dogs, but John didn't immediately begin shouting for help. "How many people?"
"One."
John swallowed. "Who goes this deep into the woods on their own?"
Sherlock lowered his hand and pressed his heels back into the leaves. They rustled, like breath. John could feel his guts squirming; his heartbeat had found its way to his stomach and was beating out a rhythm that was far too fast for his liking.
"How far away are they?" John murmured.
"About a minute. They'll see us sooner than that."
John swallowed, torn; on the one hand, he had spent the past four hours praying for someone to come and find them. On the other, he did not want to come face to face with whoever had put them here. Especially if it was Moriarty.
"Get up the tree," he said, pointing to the nearest. The branches were beginning to deaden in the winter chill – which was odd, because John was sure it had only just turned autumn – but even if they were a little sparse, he was relying on whoever it was not looking up. If they did, the trunk might be enough to conceal them.
Sherlock swung himself into the tree reasonably easily. John, having shorter legs and arms, struggled to get a firm hold, until Sherlock reached down a hand and helped him. For once, he didn't make a joke about John's height. Good job really; the last thing they needed now was to laugh. The leaves rustled as they scrabbled onto branches, John one below Sherlock, curling themselves awkwardly behind the thinning leaves.
The footsteps grew louder, crunching twigs and dead plants; whoever it was didn't seem to be bothered about making a noise. That was good, John told himself – it meant that they weren't suspicious. Even if they were looking for them, they couldn't think that they were nearby. Sherlock wobbled on the branch above him and righted himself with a small gasp. John looked down. The person came into view – a man, young enough to still be half a boy, and dark-haired, stooping every now and then and putting something in the dirty leather bag that hung at his side. He was strangely dressed – John thought he looked like something out of a Shakespeare production – but he didn't seem threatening, and he wasn't Moriarty.
Something touched his shoulder. John looked up as Sherlock withdrew his hand and pointed to the boy, inclining his head. John shrugged.
'He doesn't look dangerous' Sherlock mouthed. There were dead leaves and twigs in his hair.
The boy stooped again, stood, and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. Sherlock was right; he didn't look dangerous. Even if he was whoever had put them here, he didn't look like he'd be difficult to take in a fight.
John was about to put a foot on the branch below so that he could climb down when something stopped him; as the boy stretched, the hem of his tunic rode up. He was carrying a…was that a dagger? Sherlock saw it too and, instantly, his hand came down and gripped John by the collar. They waited, poised awkwardly in the branches, not breathing; John felt like he was drowning. He let air out through his nose, slowly.
The boy began to approach the bottom of the tree. John swallowed, wondering if he should drop down and attack whilst he still had the height advantage, wondering how much chance he had against a dagger, of all things, and if it would split his ankle open if he tried to land on top of it.
The boy reached for a mushroom, picked it, put it in his bag, and began to walk away again. He didn't even look up.
John allowed himself another gulp of air. His throat tickled, but he swallowed it; of all the stupid things to do, coughing would be one of them. The boy walked slowly. John willed him to go faster. The cough rose, until he risked taking one arm off the branch, leaned against the trunk and clamped a hand around his throat, massaging it. His heart was pulsing behind his ribs, making him dizzy. The cough died.
The blackbird came out of nowhere; it was a male, yellow-beaked and black-eyed, and it sat on a branch so close to him that John could see its chest puffing in and out as it settled itself down, and opened its beak.
John felt Sherlock wince. The blackbird burst into a song that seemed terrifyingly loud, like an alarm. John prayed the boy wouldn't notice, wouldn't care, would just keep on walking – it was a forest, there would be birds everywhere, he didn't have to notice it…
The boy stopped, walked a little way back toward the tree and looked into the branches, seeking out the bird. When he found it, he smiled. John forced himself to imagine that he was five years old again, playing musical statues with Harry, making himself to go completely still; their only hope was to stay still, behind the trunk, and pray. Sherlock's hand, still around his shoulder, was gripping so tightly that his nails were digging into John's skin. John resisted the urge to wince, biting his lip.
The blackbird took into the air with a final whistle, and the boy began to turn away again. John swallowed. Sherlock's fingers were grinding into his shoulder blade, and John removed the hand from his throat to tap them, let Sherlock know he was hurting. The leaves rustled, but the boy didn't look back. John's foot slipped on the branch as Sherlock's hand retracted, but he found his balance again easily enough, shifting onto the next one.
He didn't realise that part of the tree was dead until the branch snapped. Sherlock's hand snatched at his hair, John let out a yell that reverberated around his skull, a twig whipped against his face, and he fell.
Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
To be continued.
