From a prompt by keeperofthebooks over on tumblr: Sherlolly, Sherlock as Hades and Molly as Persephone. I've been finding I can't really say 'no' to AUs lately, so here this is! Posted over on Ao3 as well as tumblr on the PantheonOfSeeds blog. This is going to be a longer, drawn out fic of an indeterminate length. Not sure how long it'll be, yet, but I'm aiming for chapters around 2000 words long (give or take) so yeah.
I'm going to try to get around the noncon/dubcon elements that are inherent to the Hades/Persephone narrative because something that has been bothering me of late in the Sherlolly fandom is how controlling Sherlock has been portrayed. A man who wants Molly to look at no other man, who wants no other man to look at Molly, who wants to possess her entirely. I don't like those, at least the ones where Molly just has to go along with it. Notable exception to this would be Petra Todd's Thorns series because, well, it is well explained that that is what Molly wants. So along the way here I'm going to try and subvert all that as best I can.
TLDR: Sherlock is the Hades of Britain, based out of London which is his city of the dead, and he has his entire court filled except for a companion. He has no Persephone.
Enjoy!
Being king of the dead really sucked sometimes. It was boring. Sherlock had come of age some twenty years ago and Mummy had wandered off shortly thereafter—he didn't really care, because wherever that had been had been out of his specific territory. In those twenty years, Sherlock had accomplished very little and recently branched out to more human professions. He'd decided to become a detective, helping the humans of London out as he could with solving crimes, murders usually.
Those were the times where being king of the dead was actually sort of nice—he simply needed to point out the details humans never looked at or for, and they could solve tricky murders with childlike ease. It made him feel good, in his way, that he was helping those who he ruled over. Though no one really liked someone who was king of the dead, and he was apparently no exception even if they didn't know his true identity. People who tolerated his casual disregard of death were few and far between, the rest viewing him as somewhat of a freak. Well, they weren't wrong. He was, in the sense of their timescales, immortal.
Everyone died, even the gods of course. Someday—far in the future because he was still young—he would be taken by a Thanatos to sleep for eternity.
Oh, not by Mrs. Hudson, of course because she was close to retiring she claimed. Though she'd been claiming that for at least a hundred years, so Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of her insistence. He had the feeling that she was sticking around to make sure he had the ropes of his job well in hand. The gods of death had to be on a fairly even keel concerning duties and responsibilities, and he knew that she would sleep easier at night if she knew he had a Persephone at his side. She was already quietly searching through her own tips on local seeds to find a replacement for herself but she was also on the lookout for someone to be his companion.
Everyone around Sherlock would sleep easier if he had a Persephone, and deep down even Sherlock knew he would sleep easier. But there rested the problem. Such people were rare gems among the rocks, and it was difficult to pry them out intact. What was the point of having a Persephone, in Sherlock's opinion, if her spirit of sweetness and kindness was broken in some way? It was a difficult task for any Hades to manage, because they took an exceptionally long time to grow emotions of love and kindness. People who were born, raised, trained and elevated as a Hades couldn't be ruled by their heart and for the most part were trained to ignore trivial things such as sentiment.
If they gave over to sentiment they couldn't do their job right.
That didn't bother Sherlock, and the idea of stalking through the city looking for seeds didn't bother him either. What really caused him discomfort was the notion of people-watching with intent to kidnap. He knew that Mummy had in fact spent a decade sitting on a park bench just observing the men who walked by. It took patience that he hadn't cultivated despite having an excellent eye for seeds. He would learn patience when it suited him, and at the moment it did not suit him.
He'd found a new Cerberus within days of Stanley's retirement—a man named John Watson who had exactly the kind of unyielding loyalty and strength that marked the position. Position. That was what being a god meant these days—more of a job, an occupation, than an exaltation. Sherlock didn't mind, but he knew others who grumbled at the 'loss' of such reverence. John didn't know about his recent promotion, though, because at the moment Sherlock was trying him out—to see if they could stand one another for any length of time because John could potentially be hanging about for a long, long time.
It had taken him ten years to begin solidifying his court, ten years too long according to his elder brother, and now all he lacked was a Persephone. A wife, more accurately—biological children of gods were more likely to be seeds themselves which made it easier for open positions to be filled in later years. Now that he (hopefully) had a younger Cerberus he felt able to adequately look after such a woman.
A woman he'd have to fight for on several fronts, ones he hadn't in a long time if ever. Persephones were strong willed, sweet like spring, and fiercely beloved by a parent. Or parental figure, that would do too. His particular woman would stand up to him, who wouldn't fear him for what he was or presented himself as. Someone whose spirit was opposite his own bitter nature and who already knew love far more devoted than he would ever, ever be able to give.
Mrs. Hudson gave him not-so-subtle hints that the daughter of the landlady next door showed more than a hint of being a Persephone seed—a lot more than a hint actually. Sherlock tried to dissuade his landlady (as he'd nicknamed her) as best he could. He wanted a woman who was as fascinated as (or at least not perturbed by)he was with mystery and death—a woman who practiced mortal sciences as he did, with whom he could share interests and pursuits. He truly was a Hades, though, wanting these things while not being the least interested in the things a Persephone would take to—kittens and flowers, kissing children and hugging the elderly. Those were, for the most part, things endured rather than shared.
Sherlock wanted to endure as little of these habits as possible, so he looked in science conservatories, and police agencies—using his mortal cover as a detective to gain entrance and trust. He was a private detective as well as a consulting one, he told the people he encountered—what he'd told John, even—and he was searching for something. Someone, actually. Sherlock never told them what or who, only elaborating that his own business had led him straight into theirs—that he was here to help them solve whatever mystery lay before them before moving on with his own case.
London was his domain while the entire island of Great Britain, from the very northernmost spit of land in Scotland to Sennen in the far, far south was under his watch. Sherlock knew every single street, every single sign, the timing of every light, the new districts, the places which only barely concealed the ravages of the century, the cemeteries, and the foreign restaurants. All he had to do to amuse himself on a given day was walk through his city, eyes closed, knowing the patterns of human movement and dodging those in his path. The warmth of their lives, the improbability of their happiness, and the occasional cool breath of a seed.
The gods never were anything special or immovable by time—it was only chance that the old Aegean names had been taken up at all—they were in fact born and died much the way humans did. They were humans of a sort—humans who could choose to age. At least that was what Sherlock was able to determine from studying tissue samples of his fellow immortals. Their breath was a hair cooler, their souls a touch older, and it was from the temperature around them and the crunch of their eyes that one could tell. Sherlock was excellent at it—he had filled his entire court entirely himself he was so good at it.
His wanderings always brought him back home—he'd recently moved to a new residence, wishing to keep up a more mortal appearance. 221 Baker Street, flat B—Mrs. Hudson had quite happily moved into A and set to work on fixing up another one of the rooms for the new Cerberus. John. Names, Sherlock, names. Mycroft had, of course, put up token resistance—he'd been quite attached to Stanley himself and didn't believe anyone capable of looking after Sherlock as well as the old Welshman had. Doctor Watson had proved undeniably able for the job, according to his elder brother. According to Sherlock too, having been saved by John from a rather uncomfortable night recovering from the deathly poison. A night made even more uncomfortable by having to explain to John exactly why he wasn't severely dead from said poison.
As he climbed up the stairs, he knew from the lovely smell in the air that there would be biscuits and tea in the living room—and the knowledge that caring for him and being sweet to him were out of the purview of his landlady and his new flatmate hit him. Sherlock came to a stop, standing flatfooted on a single stair step, his long coat hanging heavy on his shoulders. The boredom he could deal with. He always had and he always would. The dead were by their very nature boring. It was this entirely new wave of loneliness that caught him off guard. He'd never in his life—a life of well over sixty years now—had someone who made biscuits and tea in anticipation of his return home, and this was not something which would be repeated often.
Mrs. Hudson was only making the flat welcome for John to entice him to stay and put up with Sherlock, once she was assured he would stay she would likely decrease things like tea and biscuits—and that made him incredibly lonely. He wanted to share his life with someone, and at the moment he was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
The quiet townhouse of 221 suddenly shrunk around him, the air growing colder in his lungs as he breathed in and out. Mummy had said a day like this would come if he didn't put early enough effort towards his search for his Persephone. His feet felt like they were nailed to the step. With nails made of ice.
"The air will choke your every breath, and even the whole of London will close in about you. It seizes, you, Sherlock, it seizes your heart and tries to drag it from you. You'll look for her whether you choose to or not, because the state you'll be plunged into will be untenable in the long-term."
John poked his head out of the flat, a half-eaten biscuit in hand. Sherlock sealed his lips shut and flicked a smile up at the man, acting as normal as he could on command—just a twitch of the lips and a nod, really. The other man saluted him with the biscuit, a good natured smile touching his lips as he chewed the bite he already had.
"Mrs. Hudson left us some biscuits—said you'd wander back soon. Saved you some."
Though his feet were hard to move, as though weighted down and ponderous, Sherlock started up the steps once more. John smiled at him again and popped back into the flat. John was not a pet, no Cerberus was, and he had to remind himself of that—besides, he needed a wife at his side more than he needed a dog. Even a three-headed one nearly made of loyalty.
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