A/N: This story is inspired by Brave, A Midsummer's Night Dream, Aladdin, Ever After and pretty much every fairy tale ever. I felt the need to write something unbelievably fluffy.

Trigger Warning for brief attempted sexual assault in this chapter.

When a young man of the English Aristocracy became the right age to marry, there was a tradition set forth to find him a suitable partner. Three suitors were chosen from the neighboring countries, one from Ireland, one from Scotland and one from Wales. The suitors were men or women of noble birth and good standing, who were brought to the palace to meet the eligible man.

A week was set aside for the man to get to know the suitors and choose the one he felt was the most worthy and compatible. If, at the end of the week, the young man had not chosen a suitor, his parents would choose for him. Unsurprisingly, not many people went with that option.

It was just Sherlock Holmes's bad fortune that his mother had decided it was time he married.

XXXX

Sherlock had been pilfering bed sheets from the laundry room for little over a week. On the eve of his suitors arrivial he had managed to steal enough to escape out his bedroom window. His mother, who knew he was a flight risk, had placed guards at his bedroom door, which was on the sixth floor of the palace. He couldn't simply jump out the window without breaking something, hence the bed sheets.

He tied them together over and over until they reached low enough to the ground. Then he tied one end to his bed post, tugging on it to make sure it was secure, and then started descending down. He kept his feet braced against the stone of the palace to steady himself as he dropped lower and lower. His long coat was flapping around him as he swayed slightly in the breeze. His only light to see by was the moon casting a dim glow around him. It seemed to take hours for his feet to touch the ground. His hands were stinging from fighting gravity's wish to make him drop but he ignored it. He'd made it to the ground, first step accomplished.

The next bit was harder considering his hands were already hurting him. He had to scale a twenty foot wall. He had untied the final bed sheet to use and had fashioned a grappling hook from odds and ends in his room. Mycroft and mummy had thought he had been in there sulking while really he had been making plans for his escape.

He knew mummy would be disappointed in him for running away and Mycroft would be furious. But he just couldn't do it, he couldn't spend a week with three unbelievably self-centered idiots and then choose which one was going to dominate his life. He liked his life the way it was and this marriage was going to change everything. He'd rather live on the street like a homeless man than marry.

The alarm went off when he was halfway up the wall. Sherlock cursed under his breath, he'd been hoping for more time, before continuing on. He could hear the dogs and see lights off in the distance so he started climbing faster, ignoring the pain in his hands. When he reached the top of the wall, he placed the hook on the opposite end and threw the bed sheet over.

The barking and lights were getting closer so he slid down the bed sheet instead of climbing down. It made his hands worse, a burning sensation taking over the stinging but he didn't have time to waste. He took off running in the direction of the main road, hoping to catch a ride to London.

He continued hearing the sounds of his search party but they were growing fainter. Sherlock smiled to himself in triumph but kept moving, not wanting to give them a chance to catch up to him. When he reached the road, he waved at every car that passed, hoping to flag one down for a lift.

He was getting rather desperate when a large truck pulled over. Sherlock sighed in relief and clamored in, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the palace as possible. "Thank you so much." He said to the driver.

"Not even a problem darling, where are you headed?" The man asked in a northern accent. He was overweight with his stomach almost touching the steering wheel. He smelled of fish and chips and strongly of cooled B.O. His face hadn't been shaved for at least a week and when he smiled Sherlock noticed at least five teeth missing. Sherlock smiled back to keep from grimacing.

"London." He replied and settled in, hoping to get some sleep before they arrived. He hadn't gone to bed for the last seventy-two hours, working away on his plans. He was still a bit dazed that he had done it. He was free and wouldn't return until after all the sure to be dull and moronic suitors had left. Mummy would be very put out with him and he hated to think of the consequences of his actions. But those were concerns for a different day and for the moment all Sherlock wanted was to sleep.

He pressed his face against the cool glass of the window and shut his eyes. It didn't take long for his body to give in to his exhaustion. He was only asleep for twenty minutes before a sweaty palm was resting on the back of his neck, sausage like fingers gripping him and pulling his face forward.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock asked, trying to struggle.

"Time for a payment for services rendered sweetheart." The man said, unzipping his flies. Sherlock tried to duck away but the man grabbed a hold of his curls to keep him steady. So Sherlock took a different route, bringing his arm back and punching the man in the throat. The car swerved as the man choked and in the chaos he let go of Sherlock to grab onto the wheel. Sherlock took no time opening his door and jumping out of the moving vehicle.

He landed on the road hard, scarping his elbow and knees with the less than graceful landing. He groaned in pain and noticed the truck driver didn't even slow down. He was grateful he wasn't going to have to fight him off again. With some difficulty he got to his feet, stumbling slightly. He was so disoriented from the fall that he didn't even hear the car coming.

XXXX

John kept telling himself to turn around and go home. This was the dumbest thing he'd ever done and he should just turn the car around and forget it. But then Lady Stamford would be so disappointed in him. She'd been so thrilled when she'd sent him off and he couldn't bear to argue with her. She seemed on the verge of tears every time she looked at him since he'd returned home from Afghanistan. Seeing him limping with a bullet wound in his shoulder seemed to remind her constantly of how close he'd come to coming home in a casket.

So instead he stayed silent in the back seat, letting the driver continue on. There was no way he'd appeal to this Lord Holmes anyway and once he'd been dismissed he could go home and start rebuilding his life. In truth, he found this whole tradition rather silly. Just a week to find the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with? He didn't envy the man who had to make that choice.

"HOLY FUCKING CHRIST!" The driver shouted and the car swerved, sending John crashing into the car door. When the car came to a stop, John righted himself and sat forward in his seat.

"What happened?" he asked the driver, who looked shaken.

"Something was in the road. I think we hit it or at least grazed it. It was all black, I swear I couldn't see it until we were upon it Doctor Watson. I swear."

"It's alright." John said giving the traumatized man a pat on the shoulder. "I'll get out and look. It was probably just a deer or something."

John scrambled out of the car and hurried over to the lump in the road. The headlights were on, giving him enough light to see that it was a man. It wasn't surprising the driver hadn't seen him, in his dark coat with the collar turned up and his dark hair. The small sliver of pale skin that was showing wasn't enough to see him by.

John checked for a pulse, which was strong and the man was still breathing. "Help me get him into the car." John called out and the chauffer was out the driver side door in an instant. Together they carried the man into the car, lying him down on the back seat.

"Is he dead?" The chauffer asked in a small voice.

"No, it just looks like a bit of bruising and he definitely bumped his head. I'll check for signs of a concussion. Just drive slow and I'll let you know if we need to go to a hospital."

"Yes sir."

The driver got back in and started them back on the road. John knelt on the floor of the car and checked the man over. There was a bump on the back of his head that would probably go down within a few days. John pried his eyes open but his pupils seemed fine so a concussion was unlikely. He had scrapes on his knees and elbows with his hands with what looked like rope burns.

John had unbuttoned his shirt and was checking over his chest when a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if you're okay." John answered, giving the stranger a small smile to be reassuring. Pale eyes looked him over. "I'm a doctor." John added so the man knew he wasn't just some pervert taking advantage while he was unconscious. "How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Beyond that?"

"Like I jumped out of a moving vehicle and then got hit by a car."

"You what?" John stared in horror. "Why would you do that?"

"It was either that or get sexually assaulted." The man replied shortly.

"Oh god." John's hand flew up to his mouth before he could stop it. "Are you… they didn't –"

"No, I punched him in the throat and leapt from the truck."

John couldn't help it; he let out a small giggle. He tried to picture this stranger in his ridiculous coat hitting someone and in his mind it looked outrageous.

"What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing." John shook his head and tried to stifle his laughter. "It's just difficult to imagine you punching anyone."

"I can handle myself, I assure you." The stranger narrowed his eyes as if he expected John to do something unsavory.

"I believe you." John held his hands up in surrender. "I wasn't going to try anything anyway. So what are you running away from?"

"What makes you think I'm running away from something?" the man cocked an eyebrow in surprise at John's perceptiveness.

'You got into a strangers car in the middle of the night. I doubt you were just looking for a ride to the shops. So?" John waited for an explanation.

"I'm being forced into marriage. I have to choose between three men and it all just sounded so tedious." The stranger sighed heavily and gazed up at the ceiling of the car.

"Maybe you'll end up liking one of them." John suggested.

"Doubtful. I glanced the files Mycroft, my brother, brought me. They all sounded so dreadfully boring. I barely even glanced at the third file, already extremely put out by the other two."

"It's hard to get a good reading off someone from just a file."

"Mycroft is nothing if not thorough. It seems my choice is between an idiot, a psychopath and a cripple. How delightful." Sherlock scoffed and looked very much like he was sulking even though his long limbs were cramped in the small back seat. John tried to hide his frown from being labeled a cripple. He didn't want to give himself away and let this man, the illustrious Sherlock Holmes apparently, know who he was and where he was headed.

"You shouldn't judge people before you get to know them."

"I don't want to get to know them. I want this whole thing to go away."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"My mother. I managed to ward her off for five years. Now that I'm thirty I've become a blemish on the family name. I've run out of arguments and so here I am."

"Except you're running away."

"Yes."

"Kind of cowardly, don't you think?"

"I think my life should be my own. I don't need a husband for either finances nor protection."

"What about companionship?" John offered.

"The three men coming to my home in an attempt to woo me are not looking for companionship." Sherlock turned his head and stared intently at John. He found himself shrinking away from the penetrating gaze. It almost made him regret speaking. "They are looking for a husband that will elevate their status. They want a trophy." Sherlock snorted in derision. "As if I'm some prize to be won."

"You don't think of yourself that way?"

"Of course not. I'd be a horrid husband. I can only hope whoever I end up choosing takes a mistress as soon as possible and leaves me alone."

"You've got a pretty bleak outlook on things. One of them might surprise you."

"I see too much in people to be surprised." Sherlock informed him calmly and then turned away.

"Budge up, my legs are hurting." John said, his knees protesting from kneeling for so long. Sherlock sat up and allowed John to sit down next to him. They stayed quiet until John recommended Sherlock get some sleep. Sherlock initially leaned against the window but soon the cold got to him and he rearranged himself in his sleep. He placed his head on John's lap, nuzzling the side of his face against John's thigh.

John resisted the urge to run his fingers through that unruly mess of curls. While asleep, Sherlock was almost pleasant. He could understand Sherlock's irritation at his circumstances but what he didn't appreciate was being judged on something so insignificant as his limp. It wasn't as if it made him less and he wasn't ashamed of it, much. It was the symptom of a very real wound he had earned in combat and he didn't like Sherlock demeaning it.

John pressed his head back against the leather interior of the car and exhaled slowly. If this was the man whose hand he was attempting to win, maybe turning around and going back home wasn't such a bad idea after all. It was obvious Sherlock didn't want a husband and John didn't want to marry someone who didn't want him. He wanted a marriage of love, not obligation.

But it was too late to turn back now. The gates of the palace could be seen in the distance and they were arriving just as the sun was coming up. John looked down at his sleeping companion, his face looking much younger in its relaxed state. John couldn't help brushing the fringe off Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock let out a contented little noise and smiled in his sleep. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad. John stayed off waking him until they were inside the gates and have pulled round to the front door.

John gripped him by the shoulder and shook him awake. "What?" Sherlock asked in annoyance, all blissfulness of his sleep gone in a second. "What is it?"

"We're here."