Rated M for one brief mention of a gory death.
Leprechaun
"Tonight you die, Sherlock Holmes!" cackled the suspect, Paddy O'Brian, waving his gun madly.
The wind wailed up and over the low cliffs, as waves crashed against the below. This same wind tangled the dark curly hair of the Worlds only Consulting Detective. It blew his coat out behind him and passed into the empty grass covered hills.
It was the dead of night and ten miles to the nearest village. No help would arrive; this was indeed to be the last bow of Sherlock Holmes. And now at the end, he realized that he didn't want to die. He felt his skin crawl with goosebumps, and suddenly he was so bloody cold.
"Say nighty-night, Sherly, " crowed O'Brian.
"Really, that's it?" asked a voice in the dark. "Paddy O'Brian, are you really preparing to kill the greatest mind ever to grace these hills? Not to mention he plays the fiddle like an angel; it made me cry. And have you seen his face? His cheekbones could break your heart. They broke my heart."
"Who's out there?" demanded O'Brian harshly.
"Just me," said a light tenor. "M'name's John."
O'Brian goggled. Even Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly. A tiny person, perfectly proportioned but only about four feet tall, seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He grinned at Sherlock, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
"That's a fine pistol you have there," said the small man, walking slowly forward. Sherlock noticed that his hair glowed silver, from the moonlight of course. Really, the little man was rather attractive, albeit very short.
"Don't come no closer, les' you want to die," snarled Paddy, having redirected the gun at this little person.
"Nah, you don't want to shoot me," said John, who had moved himself between Sherlock and the gunman. He made a rather inadequate shield, although he was certainly brave. "I have something you might like. Run, Sherlock. Do you like gold, Paddy? I have gold. Run, Sherlock. In fact, I have a whole pot of gold. Dammit, Sherlock, when a supernatural being appears out of nowhere and tells you to run, you run."
"You're just trying to trick me!" shouted Paddy angrily, turning his handgun back on Sherlock.
"Look, Patric Seamus O'Brien," yelled John. "Look in my hand, it's gold. We'll make a trade, I'll give you my gold, and you'll let this lovely man go free. Really, run now, Sherlock, please. Oh, look at the gold, Paddy. It's real, and it can be yours."
Several gold coins gleamed in John's hand, indeed they seemed to glow.
"Are you magic?" asked O'Brien, his thick stupid lips gaping in shock.
"Of course he isn't," said Sherlock.
"You're both sodding idiots!" cried John, fairly dancing in anger. "Of course I'm magic. A four-foot man appears out of nowhere wearing stupid green breeches and a stupid green coat and he offers you gold. What the bloody hell does that tell you?"
"That you're a very bad tempered, possibly delusional, little person who performs slight of hand tricks with fake gold coins," suggested Sherlock, who smiled down at the cute little man.
Sherlock was struck in the head with a coin. It smarted rather a lot. The cute little man glared darkly at Sherlock. It was strange that Sherlock could see that this John's eyes were blue, dark blue.
"Hey, that was my gold coin," protested O'Brian, breaking the spell between John and Sherlock.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," muttered the small, angry man. "Look here," he said walking slowly towards O'Brian. "See, here's FIVE gold coins."
Sherlock stooped to pick up the coin, which had probably left a bruise on his forehead. It was heavy, heavy like gold. And it was a soft metal; a key easily scratched the surface of the coin, which was consistent with gold...but then the coin could also be made of lead too.
"If you're a leprechaun," said Paddy thickly, "then there should be a whole pot o'coins."
"That's right," said John encouragingly, getting closer and closer to the hulking man.
"No. There's no such thing as leprechauns, and even if there were, you are clearly not Irish. Your accent is a bit odd, but I suspect..."
"I said you had a brilliant mind, Sherlock, but I fear that I was wrong," said the really small man with the really expressive face, who might be blond and who definitely had a sharp tongue in his mouth. "You're actually an idiot. Here I am trying to save you. And you argue with me, in spite of the evidence. Now, I've heard you going on and on about trusting the evidence. You were brilliant, a bloody genius. So. please pay attention, genius. I appeared, magically. I made gold appear, magically. I am glowing, magically. Paddy here wanted to shoot you, but now he's magically more interested in becoming really, really rich, thanks to my magic gold. So, this…this is the time when you exeunt, stage right. Mmmm?"
"If you were Irish, your name would be Eoin or Seán," insisted the consulting detective.
"Shut up, Sherlock," said John, with a sigh.
"Gold, real gold," breathed O' Brian.
"Possibly real gold," interrupted Sherlock, who was tempted to bite the coin to test its authenticity, irrational though that thought might seem.
"I want the rest of the gold, leprechaun," snarled the gunman. He pointed his pistol at the little man's head, which bothered Sherlock more than it should. He wanted to protect the fey little man with the shinning hair, who had twice praised his intelligence (while still calling him an idiot) and who had once praised his music.
The wind blew John's hair, which wasn't shining so much as it was glowing yellow and gold like the sun. Sherlock stepped forward.
"Stay back, Sherlock Holmes. The gold is not for you," commanded John.
Sherlock couldn't move.
"Yeah, stay back; the gold is mine," growled O'Brian.
"Patric Seamus O'Brian, if you want the gold, then follow me," said John, holding out his hand to the man towering over his head. "You must take my hand, if you want the gold. Take my hand of your own, free choice."
O'Brian appeared to dither, shifting from foot to foot, his gun all but forgotten.
"Do you want my gold, Patric Seamus O'Brian?"
"Yeahhh," murmured the big Irishman.
O'Brian took John's tiny hand in his huge paw. And the two men both glowed golden, their hair standing on end. The consulting detective remained frozen in place, as the two men smiled at one another like mismatched lovers.
John took a deep breath; he cocked his head to look back at Sherlock with his glowing blue eyes-blue like the color of the sky at dusk. His smile fell from a large, insincere grin for the bewitched O'Brian, to a small, sad half smile. Indeed, his lower lip trembled.
The glowing little sprite smiled sadly, a golden tear trickling from his eye, "You should have run, Sherlock. Goodbye luv..."
"No, wait," yelled Sherlock, released from his stasis. "Wait, John, wait."
There was a brilliant flash of golden light, and Sherlock was knocked to the ground by a powerful, yet silent blast.
Sherlock rose up on his elbows, looking for John, looking for O'Brian, looking for storm clouds, because he might have been struck by lightning. There were no storm clouds, and John was gone. O'Brian was forgotten. The detective was trying to stand and crawl at the same time. He needed to look over the cliff's edge.
Then three gunshots rang out in the night, cutting through the wind and chilling Sherlock to the marrow.
Sherlock ran towards the sound from the gun. He was running to the ruins of an old church, or perhaps it was a monastery? He vaguely remembered it from a map. He couldn't remember for sure.
Oh, what did it matter?
He ran heedless of the danger. He ran, tripping over the uneven ground and long grass. He ran until he tripped over the half-buried foundation, barking both his shins and falling face first into the dirt.
For the second time that night, he rose unsteadily to his feet. The half moon lit up the old churchyard and revealed two bodies. He ran to the massive body, which surely belonged to O'Brian, he kicked the gun out his ham-sized fist. No response. He bent to check for a pulse, and then saw the long metal spike sticking out between O'Brian's ribs.
The consulting detective was far from squeamish, but gasped nonetheless at the man's macabre death.
Then he scrambled over to the small form of John. Apparently, John was not magic after all. He also lay lifeless, as blood seeped out of his torn shoulder. Sherlock half-lifted the small body to find the small entrance wound on John's back, it was the messy exit wound on the chest that was bleeding.
O'Brian had shot John once in the back. The coward deserved to die a second time.
Sherlock looked back up at the smaller man's face, to see dark eyes shining at him.
John?
"John! You're alive."
"Mmmmm. An'...an' it...it doesn't feel good," muttered John. "H,hurts."
"John, shh, I'll call for..." Sherlock stopped and frowned; he hadn't been able to get a signal up on the headland, and that was less than a mile away. He checked his phone, no bars. Which meant he couldn't call for help. And John would die.
"Ohh, oh your long distance...mobility telephone! " squeaked John. "I been...wantin' one of those."
"Hush, John, save your strength. And let me think..." muttered the frantic detective.
Seeing the small man shiver, Sherlock ripped off his long wool coat, placing it gently over the little man, who appeared to have grown almost a foot? Surely he was almost five feet tall now. Maybe I'm going into shock too, wondered Sherlock.
The taller man stared in bemusement at John, running his fingers through his silvery fringe.
"I think...that...you're s'posed to kiss me," whispered John.
After the bizarre events tonight, Sherlock was willing to do anything. He bent down. He breathed in and smelled John, who smelled of loam and grass, sage and thyme and starlight. No, wait that made no sense at all. But it was true nonetheless.
John's eyes glinted in the dark, his lip turned up into a half smile.
Sherlock pressed his lips against John's cold lips. He cupped John's face, pressing three more chaste kisses onto John's smiling mouth.
"John, my dear, nothing's happening."
"Sorry, luv, if I wasn't so weak...I'd make sure...sure that somethin' happened…for you."
"Idiot!" snapped Sherlock trying not to laugh for fear that it would make him cry. "I thought you meant that if I kissed you then...then..."
"The wha? Then...I'd magically heal?" John made a gasping sound, half-giggle, half-sob. "I doesn't…work like that…I, I just wanted a kiss, my love."
Sherlock wanted to cry. He didn't even know this man...being...whatever… and now he was losing him...and Sherlock wanted to cry.
Over the sound of the wind, he heard someone calling his name.
Lestrade.
Lestrade would have been searching for Sherlock back at O'Brian's hideout. Lestrade must have heard the gunfire too.
"Lestrade!" bellowed Sherlock. "Lestrade! Over here. There's a man. He's hurt. Hurry!"
"John, hold on. Help is coming."
"Kay," whispered John, grimacing. Then he whispered, "If I'm not dyin', then maybe you should put pressure on...on my wound?"
Sherlock cursed himself for a fool before wadding his scarf and pressing down on the wound. John moaned and writhed in pain.
It was intolerable to see the once shining man, dimmed, suffering and possibly dying.
"Sherlock! Are you all right?" Called the detective inspector. He came running and gasping like a bellows. "I heard the gunshots...I called for backup...They'll be here...in a few...Oh shite, who's this then?" Lestrade dropped slowly to his knees, checking for a pulse.
"This is John. He saved my life. That," said Sherlock, pointing to O'Brian's corpse, "is the scum, O'Brian."
Lestrade stared at the body, then began cursing, "Shite, shite, shite… Sherlock, did you kill O'Brian?" demanded the detective inspector.
"No. I think he fell on a knife, a long blade thing, maybe a sword...oh, who cares? John, needs an ambulance."
"Yeah, good luck with that. No, sorry. Not funny. Look, we got a helicopter in bound..."
John's eyes snapped open. "No! One of them... whirly-round-and-round flyin' machines? Oh...oh, Sh'lock, I been wantin' to... try one of them...for years," John whispered breathlessly, as his eyes squeezed shut. "God, Oh God...Sh'lock...it hurts..."
"I know. I know it hurts. But…but stay with me, John. I hear the helicopter, John. It'll be here soon," murmured Sherlock. "We'll get you to hospital. You'll be fine. Just stay with me...and you'll be fine." He caressed the pale, worn face. He bent and soothed John with kisses and tears.
Lestrade gaped, "Christ...they said this place was enchanted, but you…Sherlock...I mean..."
"Shut up, Gavin," he snapped at Lestrade. His voice to John was soft and heavy, like a down comforter, "John, I want you to look at me." said Sherlock. "That's right. Stay, stay with me, John. Stay..."
A/N So I was listening to Irish music against my will, when this plot bunny was born. I know next to nothing about Ireland or Leprechauns, so I apologize in advance for any weird mistakes concerning Ireland or Leprechauns.
Also, this was not beta'd, nor Brit picked nor Éire picked. If you see mistakes (and we all know that they are in there), please pass them along and I'll fix 'em.
This may be a one shot if there isn't much interest. Then again, if there is interest or if the plot bunnies conspire against me, there might be a couple more chapters.
This is probably where I should stop babbling and politely request reviews. Reviews make me and my bunnies very happy. Please review?
No matter what, Happy St. Patricks Day!
Ritual Disclaimer, because I want to be a lemming and do what everyone else is doing. I do not own the rights to BBC SHerlock or any characters from the show.