Hey, everyone! Here is the third in my Sherlock/Merlin crossover series, with the help of NarniaRoyalNavy123. Let us know what you think; I hope you're excited.


Two men were in a taxi heading for Kensington Gardens.

...Not that there was anything unusual about that. But it's as good a way as any to start things off.

Anyone who saw them together might think that they were brothers; both were tall, skinny, dark-haired, pale-eyed, and fair-skinned-in fact, it was pretty eerie how closely they resembled each other. Not, as far as they knew, that they actually were related.

The younger-looking one was dressed a little less fancily than his companion; he had on jeans, a blue long-sleeved shirt, and a bright red neckerchief draped around his neck, that the other rather felt emphasized his scrawniness. And despite his youthful expression, part of him seemed...old. Like he'd been around for a very long time, and saw and knew far more than anyone else in this era had ever had a right to.

His companion, wearing a long black coat and a blue scarf, exuded brilliance and mystery, with a touch of vanity and an insatiable thirst for adventure thrown in. Some of the sharper edges had been dulled in the past few years-gaining a best friend for the first time in your life and faking your death to save said friend will do that to you. But some old habits were hard to break, among them a tendency to be emotionally distant. In a way, it was not unlike the feeling you got from looking at his companion, that he wasn't really a part of this world or this society. You didn't know exactly where he belonged, but it didn't seem to be here.

Sherlock Holmes had organized his thoughts into two separate tribes. One was reserved for the case he'd been called to-someone had been murdered in Kensington Gardens, just where he and John had gone a few nights ago to retrieve King Arthur and give him proper medical attention (it makes sense in context). He suspected that it had to do with Moriarty's reappearance, and was probably a threat of some kind; the odds of it being a coincidence were decidedly slim.

The other tribe, loath as he was to admit it, was still trying to wrap its head around the idea that Merlin and King Arthur and the whole story of Camelot were real (with some changes from how the story was traditionally told), and that the man sitting next to him was centuries old, and had been alive all this time waiting for England to need Arthur again. This same tribe resented the fact that Arthur's return seemed to have to do with Moriarty's subsequent return, and that he therefore seemed to be trespassing on Sherlock's turf, to use a colloquial phrase.

However, as John would have pointed out to him, they were likely to stop Moriarty much quicker if they worked together (the second tribe protesting that he liked working alone, and didn't need some carbon-dated ex-king getting involved in this), so he should stop whining about it. Though what use Arthur would be had so far eluded him, unless they followed his suggestion of just finding Moriarty and putting a sword through his chest. But it wasn't like they needed Arthur for that, and a gun would do the job just as efficiently. So what the bloody h_ could Arthur contribute to all this that he couldn't? Why would any powers that be think that Arthur was needed now?

He was still pondering this when Merlin spoke.

"We're almost there."

After a second, the detective spared him a grunt of acknowledgement.

"It's probably because we were there. The murder, I mean."

"Brilliant observation," the detective said dryly. Even if he had learned some things from John, like manners, he couldn't help being annoyed at people pointing out the obvious.

"Just making conversation," Merlin said with a shrug.

"Well, stop it. I'm trying to think."

The warlock rolled his eyes at him.


Finally, they pulled up at the gardens, and hurried over to the crime scene. Inspector Lestrade gave Sherlock a welcoming glance, but looked confused at the sight of Merlin.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"I'm his cousin, Emery," Merlin quickly said, having also noticed the resemblance between them. "I'm standing in for Dr. Watson."

"Oh G_, there's another one," he heard one of the cops mutter.

"What's happened?" asked Sherlock, cutting the pleasantries and ignoring the snide comment.

"Someone's been drowned in the pond." The DI led him over to the body. "What's funny about it is that his lungs were completely dry, and there's not a mark anywhere on him. Not even a needle prick."

"Then he obviously didn't drown," said Sherlock in a voice as dry as the victim's lungs.

Lestrade gave him a look. "He bobbed up from the bottom of the pond."