Author's Note: Because Tom Hiddleston and Benedict Cumberbatch need to battle each other in a moment of sexually-tensed, sharp-tongued brillance.

"Sher-Sherlock. What exactly are we…up against, here?" The wrinkles ever-present in John's face just became more evident with the look of confusion and worry, his voice just above a whisper.

The implication hung in the air, the question within the question that the ex-soldier just couldn't bring himself to verbalize. Is it Moriarty?

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to his mate for just a second, blue-grey as unreadable as ever, but his eyebrows had that one line between them, and John knew he was fitting the urge to bite his lip. Such an expression was rarely seen on the detective, for it only meant one thing.

Sherlock Holmes didn't know.

Though, he wasn't at a complete loss-there was something burning in the back of his cranium, cataloged deep within his mind, almost in an area forgotten and untouched. He'd used the same knowledge to solve the case of the great assassin, Golem. So, maybe, Sherlock did know. But, he was doubting it, doubting himself, doubting what such a fact would imply.

"Sherlock."John's insistent voice brought him back out of his mind-palace, and he quickly deduced that his friend was starting to get frightened due to his lack of response. Dilated pupils, quicker breathing, his stance, it was all there. All because the world's greatest, and only, consulting detective hadn't immediately burst out in a boisterous display of solved case like he usually would.

"John." Sherlock righted himself, grunting softly as he fixed his coat and loosened his scarf just a bit, and the ex-soldier had those movements memorized. His friend had finally gotten a lead, and he was more than ready to chase it. "Do you remember The Golem? He based himself on an old myth, a fairytale, if you will." John knew he wouldn't be able to get a word in, and thus, settled on a single nod before his flatmate continued. "Well. There is an old myth, I remember documenting it from my years as a child. Norse mythology, to be exact, there were three brothers. Gods. Thor, Baldar, and Loki. Loki, the youngest, 'the doer of good and the doer of evil', a Trickster, Shapeshifter. He would create crimes, start wars, kill people, just to cause chaos, then be the only one to solve it and come out on top."

For a moment, the room was silent aside from Sherlock's labored breathing. John could practically see the pieces snapping together in his friend's vast mind, creating a mental map, along with the excitement in his pale, twitching fingers and how he stood up higher.

"John, this is exciting."

And there it was, that blasted grin, the one he'd had the occasional pleasure of kissing off, and the ex-soldier couldn't help but huff, hands raised in exasperation. "No, no, Sherlock. This is frightening! You're saying we're after a Norse God! A man who can cast spells and-change his gender, for crying out loud! Sherlock, he killed 80 people in two days!"

And, suddenly, John found himself gazing up into blown, stormy eyes, face warmed by every exhale his flatmate released just inches away from him. Fingers were digging into his shoulders, and the surgeon couldn't stop his thoughts from reeling back to a rather heated incident that hadn't happened but a few days ago, and Sherlock followed those thoughts like a yellow-brick road, obvious he knew by the small curl of his lips.

"You know, some people have referred to me as a god before." The detective had dropped his head, along with the natural octave of his voice, and purred into the flushed ear of his friend. It was a game, one that John was surely losing, but familiar with. And, so, grasping what ever self-control he had, he piped up, "R-Ragnarok?"

And, as quickly as Sherlock had invaded his space, he was gone, body standing tall and regal as he gave John a definite nod, though the spark of excitement and arousal was still glinting in his eyes. "Indeed, John."

—

The kitchen was dark, for the owner of the flat had previously been sleeping. But now she sat, stiff as a board, at her dining table, electric eyes unblinking, but seeing. Seeing everything. Everything except the form hovering around her, and the iridescent glow of a power unknown to Earth.

A soft, deep chuckle rang throughout the room, and pale, nimble fingers brushed course brunette locks out of the woman's face before a chilly kiss was pressed to her temple, by the very same amused lips.

"Don't you see, Mrs. Hudson? Surely, you must understand it now."

Though silence was the man's only reply, it seemed to be what he expected, slipping his hand down to give the land-lady's shoulder a gentle squeeze whilst his gave lifted upwards to the ceiling, knowing very well of the above occupants.

"Emotions. So, so easy to control. A few magic tricks, and everyone kneels before you. He understands. He has them kneeling before him, like ants to a Queen. He is a god living amongst dull creatures. He is worthy, and soon he shall see."

As silently as he had appeared, the man vanished from the flat, sinking into the shadows the darkness provided.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes didn't return to their natural color.