Hello everyone! This is my first fanfiction, so I would absolutely love reviews

P.S. In case you were wondering, the title is a Buffy reference-I'm taking the concept that nothing good ever happens when someone (Yep, talking to you, Willow) says that….

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying that his big brother Mycroft "was the British Government."

In one sense he was quite correct; Mycroft was indeed the government. But not the government that concerned itself with corgis and queens, the Royal Family, the Prime Minister, and the Houses of Parliament.

Mycroft Holmes was the Other Government.

The one that merely mentioning made high-ranking state officials get shifty eyes. That is, the ones that believed in such a thing as the Other Government at all.

Mycroft's Government concerned itself with things that were completely, utterly, terrifyingly unexplainable by any and all modern standards. But mostly, it had spent the better part of a thousand years watching with unceasing paranoia the activities of one Merlin Emrys.

Chapter Two

The aforementioned Merlin Emrys, Dragonlord, Warlock, the avatar of magic itself, was bored. Absolutely. Undeniably. Bored.

This was rarely a good thing. When Merlin was bored, wars tended to start, empires were prone to collapse, and things like the invention of modern heavy metal music happened by accident.

The thing was, when Merlin got bored, he got involved. And he'd discovered pretty soon on in his considerably long immortal life, that on the large scale, humanity was better off being left alone. He had a lot of deep philosophical reasons for his inaction, among them the nature of free will and the burden of being a creature separated from the flow of time, but in the end, it came down to one simple principle:

When Merlin played puppet master, people died. A lot of people.

But then, he got bored.

Which was why, against his better judgment, he was lounged back in a large square leather armchair in a small tastefully decorated beige room without windows, flipping idly through a magazine while he waited to see Mycroft Holmes.

He glanced up briefly when a tall thin man with a mop of unruly dark hair and his coat collar turned up sat down in the chair opposite him.

Merlin smiled slightly. He recognized Sherlock Holmes; the Hat Man had achieved a fair amount of fame and Merlin liked to keep up with the news. He wondered sometimes if the detective knew the full extent of Mycroft's duties as the head of the Other Government, in particular the ones involving magic.

He rather fancied not. Which was why it was interesting that Mycroft had obviously sent for Sherlock to deduce what he could about the warlock.

Merlin paged through the magazine again, mentally amusing himself with his favorite game, one he called "What would they be?" In short, he would consider random people, and assign them the roles they would have if they were born in another time. She would be a great sorceress. He would be a noble king.

Sherlock, however, he thought, would never be something other than what he was now: a detective and a scientist, a seeker of objective truth and facts. Just as Mycroft would never be anything else than what he was presently: a manipulator, a puller of strings behind the scenes.

Merlin could practically feel Sherlock's eyes trying to pull facts, deductions, from obscure places like the elbows of Merlin's jacket and the knees of his jeans. He smiled again softly.

After a few minutes, Sherlock rose abruptly and exited the room at the opposite side he had come in, presumably entering Mycroft's office.

Chapter Three

"What the hell, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled as he stalked into his brother's office banging the door behind him. "You promised me a totally unique specimen! 'A once in a lifetime opportunity' you said. There is nothing at all special about that young man. Nothing. At. All. You pulled me away from my murder for THIS-this-mediocrity?"

Mycroft smiled gently. "Now, now, do calm yourself, brother dear. I'm not surprised at all you didn't find Mr. Emrys to be anything out of the ordinary. You might say that blending in is his superpower. But humor me: what exactly did you find?"

Sherlock glared at him and spoke rapidly. "He's deceptively strong, but his pale skin suggests he doesn't work much out of doors. Ambidextrous, but hands don't indicate manual labor. He spends a lot of time online and also reading. Somewhat clumsy, there was a tea stain on his jacket sleeve. He goes walking a lot, walked here as a matter of fact, and doesn't sleep well. I would say highly intelligent, and he also recognized me. So far, so ordinary. You can tell this for yourself perfectly well, brother dear. So tell me, why am I really here?"

"Patience. What did you make of his clothes in particular, the color scheme?"

For the first time since entering the office, Sherlock stopped pacing and cocked his head to the side. "Ahhhh yes. The colors. Blue dress shirt, red converse shoes, brown leather jacket. Red is the color of blood and passion, blue the color of the intellect, logic and cunning. The two together create something of a yin-yang between mind and heart: if his wardrobe reflects his psychology I should say that our Mr. Emrys is fundamentally motivated by emotion and idealism, but has the cool head and pragmatism to channel his convictions into direct, although sometimes violent, action. However, the brown of the coat suggests a connection to the earth and grounding-possibly an indication of a moral center. I imagine he is probably a very conflicted individual. Of course," Sherlock paused and said caustically, "he probably just bought what was on sale at the store. Deductions based off color psychology are hazy and hypothetical at best. No more prevarication, Mycroft. Why. Am I. Here?"

Mycroft folded his hands on his desk. "You're going to be working together," he said abruptly. "On the case of the person who was burned at the stake."

"I don't work with people," Sherlock sneered.

"You work with John."

"John is my roommate. And my one and only exception."

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair.

"This is not a discussion, Sherlock. You will work with Merlin Emrys or I will damn well make sure you never touch this case you're working on again."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft! Has your sanity finally collapsed under the combined weight of your minimal social interaction and your gargantuan swelled head?"

"This case you're working on. It presents some-interesting- characteristics, does it not?"

"It's violent, ritualistic, and evidential of a truly disturbed and disturbing mentality. So, yes, it's interesting. Why must I share?"

"I know how you like to play with your little murders" Mycroft said in a bored tone. "But this is far, far, bigger than you can possibly imagine. The potential consequences of this murder are cataclysmal, but above all, a crime of this sort must never happen again. I don't speak lightly when I say the fate of the nation rests on the killer being caught and punished as quickly as possible."

"People get murdered all the time. Why are you interested?"

Mycroft's eye twitched. "You don't have the security clearance to know yet. Suffice to say there are some factors you are unaware-"

"Unlikely."

"Unaware of," Mycroft finished. "Ergo, you agree to play nice in the sand box with Merlin-who is a specialist in this sort of thing-

"What sort of thing? Murder? He looks like a very unlikely assassin."

"You don't need to know. You will aid him in this case, or have the case removed from you entirely. Your choice."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Three, four, five, seconds passed. Then-

"Fine. But only because you have now made me curious."

Chapter Four

Merlin glanced up from his magazine again when Sherlock exited Mycroft's office and went out the door on the other side of the waiting room. Before the reverberations of the door the detective had slammed behind him had died away, a cool female voice announced over the intercom:

"Mr. Holmes will see you now."

Merlin rose, straightened his leather jacket, and took his own sweet time before sauntering over to the office door and gently opening it. From his desk, Mycroft looked up and smiled politely.

"Ah, Merlin. Do sit down."

A slight half smile turned up the side of Merlin's mouth; he leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose fractionally. "I understand you are a very busy man-"

"Not really. I just finished my latest doctorate, and I'm terribly bored, or else I wouldn't be here. You said this was of the gravest importance to the future of Britain. So get on with it."

If Mycroft's eyebrows rose just a little farther, they would vanish into his hairline, but he slid a file across his desk without comment.

Merlin didn't pick it up. Mycroft sighed. "A man has been murdered, Mr. Emrys. Horribly murdered."

"People die all the time, and horrible is such a subjective term. Why should this concern me?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and stared at the warlock. "You know, legends tell of a time when you wouldn't have asked such a question. The fact alone that a man died would have been enough."

Merlin's eyes were a clear, deep and guileless blue, but for a moment there was a gold flicker in their depths of something old, powerful, and very angry.

"It has been a long time since I was a servant and concerned myself overmuch with the fate of others. A very long time."

"The man murdered was a sorcerer."

"So? Users of magic can die."

"There is evidence that he was murdered because he was a sorcerer."

Merlin was silent. Mycroft continued.

"I am sure that I do not need to specify the potential consequences of such an act of hate. The magical and non-magical community has enjoyed a peaceful truce for over seventy years. A truce based on mutual agreement to leave one another alone. If some bigot has decided to break that truce and violently attack sorcerers, another war would surely ensue. You above all should understand why this would be…..undesirable. People say that you still wait for Arthur, even after a thousand years. Surely you must want to preserve his kingdom?"

"Don't deign to think you can manipulate me, Mycroft," Merlin said softly. Mycroft flinched involuntarily; he could swear the temperature in the office had dropped ten degrees.

"My motivations are none of your business," Merlin continued. "However, you make a good point. But, you still haven't said why you need my help."

Mycroft coughed slightly. "Well, this a matter of grave magical importance-"

"The truth."

Mycroft blushed slightly. "My brother is working on this case," he said in his driest and most proper voice. "He doesn't know about magic. Although he doesn't know it, he's far out of his league."

"So tell him."

"I can't. Such knowledge would just give him a-a challenge. He would be happy. Over the moon. And before I could stop him, he'd be turned into a toad, or worse, turning people into toads himself!" Mycroft looked suddenly very tired. "And taking him off the case would just encourage him to look deeper. He takes such a lot of looking after."

Merlin was silent for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, laughed. "So, you want me to babysit some arrogant prat who doesn't have a clue while he tries to save the world?"

Mycroft coughed again. "I realize that of course I have overstepped-"

"Actually," Merlin said grinning, "I'll do it. This should be very entertaining."

He grabbed the file from Mycroft and turned to leave.

"And like I said," he called over his shoulder, "I'm bored."

Mycroft collapsed back in his chair and wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead.

I don't get paid enough for this.

Chapter Five

Back in his flat, Merlin put a kettle of tea on to boil and turned on "Shout" by Tears for Fears to play over his speaker system. He had a certain fondness for 80's music and classic rock, although he had always thought the fashions from the same era were hideous. He poured the tea before he sat down at his kitchen table to look through the file. Kilgarrah, his large orange tabby cat, bounded onto the table in front of him and sat down smack in the middle of the papers, his huge claws kneading them while his large golden eyes stared at Merlin accusingly.

"Oh come off it! A man is dead, I can't help?" Merlin said irritably.

Remember what happens when you "help", the cat thought accusingly. You still dream of the results.

"I'm a grown up! Actually, I'm the equivalent of several hundred generations of grownups."

You're just bored, the cat sniffed.

"Alright, fine, I'm bored. But I'm channeling my boredom productively. Don't judge."

You'll regret it, the cat warned, but Kilgarrah hopped off the file and left the room, tail twitching. And switch that stupid song, you know I prefer Bad Company.

That cat, Merlin thought acidly. Always has to have the last word. He squelched a nagging feeling of guilt and opened the file.

Fifteen minutes later, he closed it and stared off into the distance, neglecting his freshly brewed cup of tea.

In short, two days earlier, a construction worker laboring on a new skyscraper had discovered the burned remains of someone tied to a stake on the unfinished thirteenth floor. Forensics had declared the man was alive when burned, and had identified him as one Thomas Malory. There had been a single spray painted message in front of the corpse:

Death to sorcerers.

Merlin knew Malory slightly; the man had been a sorcerer of some standing in the magical community. Overpowering him wouldn't have been easy, which led to the disturbing conclusion that probably more than one person had been involved in his death.

Merlin frowned. His murderers wouldn't be ordinary people either; the magical community, faced with hatred, misunderstanding, and bigotry, had long ago decided to keep their existence secret from the general populace. Therefore, the fact that whoever killed Thomas Malory knew that he was a sorcerer meant that they were either exponentially high up in British Government, or, a member of the Other Government.

Scary thought.

Mycroft was right; an act like this left unsolved and unpunished would surely result in war between the magical and non-magical factions, and almost certainly would lead to the revelation of magic to the world.

Why stop it? Merlin thought. After all, I've wished my entire life for magic to be accepted by the world. If all was revealed, I would no longer have to hide. He sighed. But I'm old now, and if not wise, then I've seen enough of the world to know that would only lead to misunderstanding and death.

Merlin hated getting involved. He didn't killing people, and every time someone died, he felt like they took a little bit of whatever goodness he had with them. He was tired of sacrificing his own morals for the greater good.

But sometimes, it was necessary.

He would start by questioning the people who directly knew Thomas Malory, and knew the man was a sorcerer.