There was a time of sadness, of sickness. It was a time of sweat and fevered murmurs by candlelight. A time of clammy hands pressed to his cheek and the soft lilting words of "Mama's baby, you're so brave, taking care of mama."
And of course a feeling that was older than this lad's ten years: his mother had cared for him when he was sick and he had always gotten better. She had fetched him water and food and blankets and she'd rubbed his sweating forehead with cold, clear water. All these things John had tried to do for his mother, but these things hadn't made father better. Father had died.
Mother died.
Harold was a good boy. Harold was older and braver. Harold took on father's work: strenuous, hard, heavy work. Wood needed to be cut and people would pay for it. John admired Harold, his brother, his provider, and his hero. Harold had fought for their king and apprehended criminals before father had gotten sick. John wanted to be just like Harold.
Then Harold started to cough. It wasn't a severe cough, just the soft whisper of a throat being cleared through the night. Harold was a permanent fixture in his life and his brother could never be slowed down. Then the cough became barks of noise and phlegm and fluids splattered on a sleeve. There was the fever. Harold was clammy and cold. John whirled with water and food and blankets and love and admiration and oh god no. Not Harold! The devil himself couldn't take Harold but epidemic would cradle and hold him.
Dame Hudson was a midwife*, a widow content in her station. She cared for Harriet. John loved her. She cared for Harriet and had become a replacement mother since their own had joined father. She reminded John that he was a brave boy, that he was such a big help. But he didn't feel brave right now. He felt scared and alone. How could he ever be brave like Harold?
***
John had a dream, one night, but it was the dream of a memory. Harold held the hand of a younger John and led him through the woods. "I was tracking a poacher* through the forest last night-" Started the elder Watson boy.
"Did you catch him?" interrupted John's smaller voice.
Harold smiled and patted his head. "Oh yes, we caught him. His Lordship will deal with his sentencing. But that's not what I'm going to show you." Harold hefted him up over a fallen tree and into a clearing. There sat a perfect ring of mushrooms.
"Why'd they grow like that?" John asked; he had a strange feeling, like the air was tingling around him. The feeling one has when they know a thunderstorm is approaching. But the sky was clear and cloudless. That feeling was only in this clearing.
Harold barked one jovial laughing note. "It's a faery ring. They say that at night sometimes faeries throw parties in the human lands, and they dance in a big ring, and the places where their feet fall mushrooms or sometimes flowers spring up over night." Harold savored the look of wonder and excitement in John's eyes. The youngest Watson boy reached down and plucked up one of the fat, brilliant mushrooms. Normally he didn't like mushrooms, but in this moment he felt compelled. He popped it in his mouth and gobbled it up.
"Ick." Harold interjected. "They don't taste very good. I've tried them."
"They taste very, very good!" John exclaimed.
"You don't even like mushrooms." Harold argued back.
"Well, I like these." Returned John and with that the argument was ceased and they picked all the mushrooms. John ate them the entire walk home.
John woke from his dream with the memory that every summer following that they had found a faery ring, (always a ring of mushrooms, though on occasion it overlapped with a ring of weepy-eyed violets) and John had gobbled them up.
The lad startled fully awake. He'd not found a faery ring this summer. Maybe, maybe, maybe he could find one. Maybe, maybe, maybe the mushrooms had some magic in them from the faeries. Maybe, oh just maybe, they could make Harold better. John leapt out of bed and snuck off into the dark of the night.
John looked all night through the woods around their home, never wandering far enough where he could no longer see the candlelight in the windows.
John looked all night and found nothing.
John returned home in the morning to a gravely worried and worryingly grief-stricken Dame Hudson. John returned home as the new eldest child.
***
Life is not like the faery stories that Harriet refused to stop believing in. Life is cruel and short but the best must be made of it. Life is still precious, all life, every life. John had become the oldest child too young, and in the never-ending kindness of Dame Hudson she had taken in the two orphans and cared for them. She shared her craft with them, though Harry (Harriet's favored nickname) had little skill or stomach for it. Sickness naturally was repellant to her. She really didn't need to be skilled in Dame Hudson's craft. John seemed to fall perfectly into it; by young adulthood people referred to him as Doctor. He would contend that he wasn't really a doctor. But he still helped the sick and ailing, still cared for broken bones and made medicine. He'd been present for nearly every childbirth since his coming to live with Dame Hudson. He'd never lost a baby or a mother. He was as good as a doctor to them.
His time as Doctor John didn't last incredibly long. There was the Lord, the master of the castle. Lords fight, they argue, and they wage war. John was no knight, but their Lord didn't have many and so young, strong, healthy men of the community were pressed to go to their king's call. John was more Press-Ganged. He was specifically demanded. 'For your experience with sickness and injury.' But he did go willingly, perhaps chasing some misconceived idea of bravery. He still admired Harold.
Harriet had grieved for him before he'd even left. She would lose all her family now. Their last night together was spent walking hand in hand through the wood of their childhood. John was aware he might never see her again, so he indulged all her faery-loving banter, her belief in the magic of the other side.
By mere accident they came across a faery ring, this one boasted not a single mushroom, only the sad-eyed violets peered up at them, as though fully aware of their grief and sharing it with them. Harriet picked every one, and wound and twisted them and formed a necklace of beautiful violets. This she draped around her brother's shoulders. "Wear these, they'll keep you safe."
John didn't believe in faery stories anymore. He was too old for such nonsense. But the air felt like the crackle of thunder again, and his heart broke for his sister.
"I'll wear them until they wilt." He promised. Oh that would last him probably until he left in the morning, he'd wear them at least for the rest of their time together. He could leave her with a fond memory and the feeling that she may have done something to help. John knew helplessness. He didn't want Harry to feel it.
***
War is hell. There is no other way to describe it. It takes only those three words to sum up John Watson's experience fighting for his king.
He had won honor and glory; he'd saved the life of the Lord's son, after all. But honor and glory feel hollow when a man bleeds to death in your arms at least once a day.
John continued to wear the violet chain beneath his armor. Every day he would look and say: "When they wilt I'll throw them away."
The violets never wilted. But the chain did break. That was a bad day. That was John Watson's most unfortunate day.
The chain had broken in his sleep, he'd woken in his tent to all the little violets untwisted and scattered about him, wilted, and a sweet smell filling the space, the sickening sweetness of decay.
He left in a hurry, entered battle in a rush. The entire day felt as though he was trying to outrun something or keep it away.
And then there was pain. Blinding, red hot, biting pain! It clawed through his shoulder in a blooming splatter of blood. His throat hurt, he was sure he'd been screaming. His fist tugged at the arrow that had pierced through a crack in his armor and entered his shoulder. Not immediately deadly, but it didn't stop his prayer; "Please God, let me live!"
***
It was answered and in the end, perhaps, some of honor and glory's hollowness can be ignored as it can be used to purchase favors, namely the prince's. For valor and courage, after his wound, John was sent to return home. His fighting was done. Now began his reemergence into civilian life.
However, this was of course difficult. John Watson left the war, but the war never left John. He still jumped at the slightest sound. Still alert and focused for death to hover over him. He felt like half a man, the other half was still dying with his countrymen on the continent.
What life is there for a man who feels half whole? Who feels as though he is of no use to anyone? His injuries limited him. While his return home had also come with a monetary reward, it would not last forever, and then what would become of him? His sister (who pledged never to marry, leaving him her sole care giver from now until the end of time) and then there was Dame Hudson, who raised them as widow. She deserved rest and for him to take over for her now. But some still looked down on his station from over their noses. No matter who referred to him as 'Doctor' he was still no more qualified than a midwife. He would take breaks from his self-imposed misery and sense of uselessness by tending Dame Hudson's gardens.
There was food to be grown, collected and sold. It was the least he could do for the family, and it did give him a sense of solace and quiet time to think. Thought that was indulged in with busy hands made for healthier thinking, idle hands allowed the thoughts to wander into dark territories that he feared to tread. Death was nothing to have hovering over his head; it was bad enough he couldn't escape it in his dreams.
***
One particular day, or rather evening as the twilight mist had begun to rise and chill the air, John crouched in the garden pulling up the last few stubborn weeds that had rooted themselves there. He did not want to leave it 'til morning. There was still enough light. He would finish the job! Soreness in his knees be damned!
He was distracted from his task, however, by the sound of shuffling nearby. It sounded like struggling footsteps, and they were far too near to be ones on the road. A trespasser! HUMPH! Probably some young thing from the village wishing to cut his teeth on the mischief of nicking vegetables from the home of the Widow, the Cripple and the Spinster. He would give whatever lad it was a stern talking to and then march him home by the ear to his parents. It wouldn't have been the first time! But what he did find as he round the corner was no young lad.
It was a pathetic creature; doubled over, ugly, and draped in a tattered cloak. Under his arm he clawed at a crutch and hobbled on with one dead leg. He was making away from the road and towards the forest by cutting through the lawn. John's heart stayed his usual grumblings. This man was a cripple and was up to no apparent mischief.
"Oy, sir, do you need some help?" He called over.
"No, quite fine," replied the cripple, hoarsely, set a little off balance by turning his head to peer at the former soldier.
"You're going towards the forest."
"Quite aware." The voice carried a drawl to it, to suggest that it was John being the idiot, and not the simpleton heading into the uncharted woods.
"No offense meant, friend, but it might be easier to take the road to wherever it is you're going. It's none of my business, but you're likely to get lost in the woods on your way." Something in John screamed out to this person, the air smelled of thunder again. Something important was going to happen.
The individual stalled and seemed to size him up; goodness was the staggering stranger just ugly. John couldn't quite explain how the vagabond was ugly, he just was.
Finally the wanderer spoke. "One such as yourself may choose to travel by road, but if you would pause and take a moment to actually allow a thought to pass through your stony skull it would be that a person such as myself cannot travel by road lest be at the mercy of muggers, thieves and other such ne'er do wells. So, seeing as you are a sensible man, or at least in such a way as your idealism will allow for, you will see the logic and allow me to be on my way."
John felt his eyebrows furrow as he approached the figure. "I'm sorry, but what makes you think I am either sensible or idealistic? There are wolves in that forest, you know." Under any normal circumstance John would consider 'sensible' to be an accurate compliment, but the way the cripple spoke it really made him question the meaning behind it.
"Did that ever stop you from your gay little romps through that forest as a lad?"
"How did you-?" What in the world was this stranger talking about? And where did he get the audacity and gall? But of course he was interrupted in his questioning.
"A person like you could very well take the road without fear of the aforementioned ne'er do wells. Judging from your walk you are used to marching in a formation, meaning you served in battle. You can handle yourself in a fight and have no reason to be cautious of the roads. The fighting is still occurring, yet you're home. Obviously from a wound in your shoulder, left one, judging by the way you pull weeds. Now regardless of that wound you could still probably fight, that leads me to believe that you've been deemed some kind of hero and sent home with such trappings. Obviously financial, not title or you would have moved up in station, at least having access to a better home. You're sensible because you are still living in your station and have not squandered your financial reward yet. And you're an idealist because who else but one would stop a decrepit wretch such as myself from wandering into a wolf infested forest?"
John's jaw hung limp. "And the romps through the forest?" The stranger grinned.
"What little boy wouldn't hazard an adventure?"
John brought his jaw together with a clack. "Right. That. Was. Amazing."
"You really think so? Not what most who catch me trespassing say."
"And what do they usually say?"
"'Out of my sight before I turn the dogs on you.'"
"Well, then I'm an idealist, I don't have any dogs, and I'm not about to let you wander in there to get yourself killed. I'll lead you through, since I have 'romped' through that entire wood all my boyhood. Let me grab my bow." He grunted, marching off to collect said weaponry hung behind his door. It'd been a long time since he'd had to fire, and while holding it made him feel more comfortable, he had the nagging reminder in his skull that with his shoulder he would most likely never fire straight again.
***
For a cripple, the stranger (who called himself Wanderer), could hustle through the forest as through it were through flat sand, completely uninhibited by brush and over-growth. Many times John had to call out to Wanderer to wait; many times Wanderer had to call out to John to hurry along.
Finally, John had to ask; "So, what's on the other side of the forest that you're trying to reach in such a hurry, Wanderer?"
"Only my freedom." Drawled the ugly thing. "If you must know there is someone who has deigned to imprison me for a long time. I am guiltless of crime and while I do sport a general apathy for the human race's plights I am an observer and a solver of their problems, if they intrigue me. But my would-be captor finds fault in this lifestyle. He would like me to remain penned where he can keep a watchful eye over me." Grumbled the cripple sardonically.
An oddly colored, weary eye traveled down to its owners withered leg. "I would sacrifice anything for my freedom. If I desire to remain free I must remain Wanderer. I refuse to be made into a helpless prisoner painted by someone else's concepts of what my needs are."
The firm lines of John's jaw set. That was more than what he'd been expecting. He'd conjured the idea in his mind that it was probably due to better begging in the next town over, and he immediately felt guilty for having made such an assumption. It didn't matter that Wanderer was ugly and hobbled on a dead leg; he seemed capable of taking care of himself, so why should he not be allowed to? Apparently it was his interest to seek problems in the lives of others and right them. What wrong or harm could there be in such actions?
He opened his mouth to present Wanderer some words of compassion and camaraderie. "I am sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I do know and understand what it feels like to be helpless. You see, I had a brother who-"
He was swiftly interrupted by Wanderer's sudden halt and the swift raising of a shriveled hand calling for silence. "Shut up."
John huffed through his nose. "Really, Wanderer, I was trying to say something kind to you, you really don't have to be so rude."
"No, shut up, stop thinking so loud… thank you… Yeeees. Yes here we are. John Watson thank you for the assistance you have given me, though, as I predicted, flagrantly unnecessary it has been. You will accompany me no further, not a single step."
The world-weary soldier raised his brows. "We've not even made it to the wilder part, woodcutters wander even a mile further in than this, for goodness sake. Just because we haven't come across some kind of danger yet doesn't mean we won't." He motioned to approach Wanderer.
"NO! John! Don't!" The cripple stood stock-still, wild eyed, as he thrust a finger in John's direction as though to halt him.
"Don't, bloody what? Take a step? And why shouldn't I?" He took a step forward.
"I command you, John of Clan Watson, to take no steps further, but to now return to your cottage and put yourself to bed. Tomorrow this will be an odd dream. By the Order of the Violets let it be done." The finger thrust at him again pointedly, as though through Wanderer's sheer force of will he could form his command into reality.
John raised his eyebrows again. "What the bloody hell are you spouting at me? You seemed clear as crystal before but now you sound absolutely barmy! I'm not leaving you. You will get lost in this state." He grumbled, and furrowed his brows at the look of profound shock and abject horror splashed across Wanderer's deformed face and how the expression furthered in the second he got to savor it after approaching one step further.
It had felt oppressively hot and bitingly cold in the same instance and the ring of light that had surrounded them was sharp and blinding. It felt like a thousand tiny needles had prickled into John's pores while simultaneously having every inch of skin caressed by rose petals. It was the most overwhelming sensation-experience of his life and that is how he discovered what it felt like to cross into another world.
When the light had dulled enough to open his eyes he was blinded by the splendor his eyes fell on. The world was misty, as through bathed in perpetual twilight, soft shadows falling on the bows of an elegantly manicured lawn sprawling before to a crystal palace. Upon this lawn there was a general sea of merry-making people. All dressed in shining robes of silken gauze. Gems and sparkling drops of light bedecked the party-goers.
But the sight that was the most breath taking to behold was that of the person beside him. In his haze he only fractionally picked out the chiding voice as that of Wanderer's but he had thrown off the crippled figure like a cloak, revealing an unparalleled loveliness. Wanderer's true form was lithe and fluid. He was all milk whites and raven blacks that still somehow seemed to hold all the colors in the universe. John was swept in want, heedless of Wanderer's gender; ears unhearing the scolding remarks of 'you should have obeyed my command, you tripped the trap, you gasping dog-faced idiot' these were sweet nothings on John's addled ears as he reached into the mane of silken black curls bedecked with twisted violets and pulled the bow-shaped lips down to be ensnared with his own.
He was drunk on the air and it was not difficult for Wanderer to pry their lips apart and hold him at arm's length as he made an aggravated snatch for a passing chalice into which he dumped a handful of fine white particles. This he pressed to John's lips, ordering him to drink. This being could have ordered him to do anything, John was prepared to give what he could to have those lips on his again. But following his final mouthful from the chalice the haze that had fallen over him quickly parted. He was John Watson again, and this was Wanderer, though far lovelier, who was quite certainly male.
"Oh my god I'm so sorry," He said startled, darting to make space between them.
"I certainly hope you are apologizing for trapping us both in the Underground, and not for your feeble attempts at engaging me in sexual relations." Grumbled the still seething former-cripple. "You should feel gratitude that I had sense enough to force some salt into your body before you joined the festivities to dance to death, not that it's not what you deserve for being so glaringly ridiculous."
John's eyes clawed through the world, it was still as lovely as it had been, but now it was terrifyingly alien and he had only the desire to return home. "Oh my god, send me back!" He demanded.
"I CAN'T!" shouted Wanderer. "The person pursuing me has now locked me within the Underground! I can't open the door now that you have thrust us here! My magic is not being accepted! My freedom, gone, all because my spell didn't affect you!"
"Quite right." Drawled another voice that had approached them. "You forget, Sherlock, that is Wanderer's true name, that you made company of a man who spent his life eating the mushroom's of faery rings. No magic will ever work on him."
"I erased that fact from my mind, it wasn't important, Mycroft," the sharp-faced Fae huffed, making this Mycroft, who bore a royal countenance and wore robes marked reminiscent of mushrooms, smile.
"Forgive the inconvenience, John. We shall find a suitable means to send you home. But in the mean time-" and there was a snap of his fingers and around a startled Sherlock there formed a cage of twisted branches and boughs. "Enjoy the banquet, make merry, and we will return you to your home with time. Though you were unaware of it thank you for returning my wandering brother to me. But, he is a clever thing. I say it wouldn't have taken you long to reverse my magic and opened the doors."
"MYCROFT!" shrieked Sherlock. "You have trapped me in our world! You shan't put me in a cage! Mycroft! Mycroft release me!"
"Do not think me a wicked brother, Sherlock, I do this out of love. When will come the day that you will forsake the dangers and discomforts of the humans and return to us, in your proper home?"
"Dull." Sherlock stated, as through the thought of something being dull was a fate worse than death.
"Well, because I am not cruel I will give you a chance to earn your eternal freedom, or to at least entertain yourself for the beginning of your internment. If you can solve the riddle before the hourglass runs out, you shall be free to roam between lands as you wish. If not, you will remain in there until you decide home is where you are meant to be."
With that he set a polished timekeeper down beside the cage and spoke with the profoundness of Sherlock's earlier spell. "Cannot be bought, cannot be sold, even if it's made of gold." And with that he adjusted his cane and turned to return to the throng of dancers. "Come when you are ready John. We shall save you a seat."
John wasn't even half ready. Wanderer… No, it was Sherlock. Sherlock sat in the grass of his cage, his fingers steepled in front of him; his lips moving continuously repeating the riddle.
"Sherlock, I am so sorry for trapping you here. It wasn't my intention to-"
"Shut up John, just shut up! Can't you see my time is limited? If you don't wish to trap me here forever kindly silence your gob!" He snapped and returned. He expelled some guesses, each one with the hopes of being correct. "Rings." Nothing. "A life." Nada. "Skin." He started pacing the cage in a manic fashion, increasing John's guilt and misgivings.
He couldn't leave Sherlock like this! He gripped the bars in his hand and bellowed. "Valor! Courage! Justice! Kindness! Love!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, John, after all your travels and seeing the evils of the world you still believe in such abstract concepts? If you truly observed you would find that most human hearts aren't nearly as gilded as yours. Time is ticking away for me and you are wasting it!" He huffed, leaving John momentarily speechless.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I was only trying to-" But the expression on Sherlock's face slowly melted from simmering disgust to blinding awe.
"John!" He breathed, leaping deftly to his feet and releasing a vibrating laugh. "John! John you are magnificent! Yes!" Those long, bone-white fingers groped through the cage and clutched John's skull, pressing their lips together for a moment. "John you are the answer to the riddle! Oh Mycroft you clever bastard, I may not have suspected it in time before."
"What's the answer?" John shuddered, the final grains were falling from the hourglass and Sherlock flourished and pronounced. "A Heart."
Like that the branches peeled away and Sherlock released a mocking laugh in the direction of the party, everyone finally stopping and starring. "You were unwise, Mycroft, to think of John as a proper tool against me. The riddle was child's play. Farewell, may your fat protect you from iron bolts!" And in a sweep of motion John was clutched in one arm and the contradiction of travel between worlds jarred John once more.
There the two stood in John's lawn. It was over. It was done. And John had never felt so alive or so accomplished in helping Sherlock escape and win his freedom. He had given this creature something he had felt. His lifetime of guilt was ebbing. He felt great. But it was over, done, the adventure completed.
"I suppose, for what you have done, given my power, I should reward you for your efforts. I suppose it was a rather thrilling escape. Well. By the Order of the Violets may the cows in your barn always give milk, may lightening never touch your land, and health and old age to all under your roof. Goodbye John." He pronounced, took a step back, and was gone. Taking with the old soldier that newfound feeling of completeness. Releasing a sigh, despite the magic riches that had just been bestowed on them, it was over too soon. He made to return to his boring, dull, half-man life when suddenly the air tasted of thunder again and he heard the deep baritone once more behind him.
"You were a soldier, a healer. I imagine you've seen a great deal of troubles in your time."
"Yes. More than one man should stomach in a whole life time."
"Ah… would you like to see some more?" The pale fingers offered out to him.
"Oh, god yes!" John accepted the hand and was danced through the veil to wander between the worlds with Sherlock of the Violet Order.
The Beginning
*Midwives, while they are known for delivering babies, also served, in many communities, as pseudo doctors. Many communities didn't have a doctor on call and so midwives were often the go to for medical advice or services.
*Poachers: Our time period is not clearly defined, but we can assume it is in touch with the Middle-Ages abouts, and in this time the land was divided into Lordships, castles, serfs, things of that nature. But usually Lords owned portions of forest and it was illegal for other people to hunt animals on them. Animals caught in these areas belonged to the king and his castle and to hunt there was considered the equivalent of stealing from the Lord of the castle himself.
Author's Notes:
Oh goodness, this feels great to have done and readied. I've worked on it a little here and there since the contest at F-Yeah Johnlock on tumblr was announced. To be fair, though, the idea for this universe had been bumping around in my head for months now and I just frankly didn't have any inkling of how to start it. This fic may seem very vague and very short, but I do actually have quite a brilliant reason behind it. This isn't so much a story in and of itself. It's a pilot or a prologue in a way. You see, Johnlock fans of the world, this is my gift to you. A brand new AU universe to explore. I call it Faelock.
I found a lot of inspiration for this universe from the artist Brian Froud, who has been made famous by his artistic designs for some of Jim Henson's most stunning pieces of fantasy cinema: The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. These films and the artistic qualities of them inspired Faelock in my heart and mind. I'm fond of Sidhe-Lore. But, to be fair I think I must note here some important information regarding the Faeries of this universe.
They are as tall as humans and far more beautiful. Sherlock wanders in a hideous disguise. The Sidhe (or more mundanely called Faeries) cannot resist a riddle or a gamble, hold powerful magic, are killed by iron, and who lose their powers temporarily if they ingest salt. There are other fabulous things about the Fae and Sidhe, but these are the important ones for this fic.
I had planned, after this was produced, to be open minded to fan suggestions. I would love to give all of you Faelock. Feel free to take the universe that I started, left intentionally somewhat vague and write your own stories or give me suggestions of the kind of ficlette length adventures you would like to see Sherlock and John engage in now that they wander freely between the land of humans and the places with creatures of folklore dwell. I did research this a little before starting and found little to no references to there existing a similar Faelock continuity before. It's a brand new shiny AU bike. And I love AU stories so it is my gift to the community. I want to thank my lovely BETA Starliteteacup over on tumblr and of course my leading authority on the Sidhe who I go to for knows Fablespinner (also on tumblr) and of course Beth who I just wad my ideas up in balls and volley them at her head until a halfway decent one bounces off and comes back to me. (She's Astudyinsherlockians on tumblr.) Follow all three of these people, I would be a brainless drooling custard bowl without them.