If I were a cleverer person, I'd act like I know what I'm doing all the time; no one would ever question me. Instead, allow me to simply plead for mercy and understanding as I flounder through this story (the strange mid-scene focus shifts between Sarah and John and even Lestrade, man… I am so sorry; they just happened and I can't seem to fix them). On that note, do me a massive favour and try to let it slide whenever Sarah acts like a teenager. I've never been a 39-year-old woman, but I've certainly had a lot of practice at being a teenage girl.
Fun fact: I hate the word "splutter", but I've used it here, for you guys. Saliva and breath are serious squicks for me, so the connotations of the word… Well, I don't find it pleasant. (I believe Twilight at one point reads, "I smelled his cool breath in my face", after which Bella purposely inhales. I feel nauseous just thinking about it. As if the series wasn't already squicky enough.) And yet here I am, trying my darnedest to improve your reading experience by using accurate verbs. Let it never be said that I was not a generous author, frequency of updates aside.
tl;dr: I'M SORRY FOR THE BITS I HATE, BUT I JUST REALISED THERE ARE 21 PEOPLE SUBSCRIBED TO THIS AND THAT MADE ME FEEL HAPPY AND GUILTY SO I HAD TO POST THIS TONIGHT/THIS MORNING.
The Wished-Aways
Chapter 2
As it soon became clear that Sarah was not going to elaborate on the matter of her careful diet, regardless of any attempts at coercion, Sherlock wasted no time in hustling both her and John out of the flat, declaring that they were going to examine the scene of the crime. Their journey passed without incident, although as the cab pulled up in front of a nondescript block of flats something occurred to John.
"Hang on," he said when Sherlock made to follow Sarah out onto the pavement. "You said Sarah quoted Shakespeare before. How did that manage a place on your hard drive when the Earth going 'round the Sun got deleted?"
Sherlock gave him an impatient look and, in a tone to match his expression, replied, "It's Shakespeare, John," before ducking out of the cab.
Once inside the small, relatively unkempt flat, Sherlock had immediately headed for the nursery, dragging John along with him and leaving Sarah to console the grieving mother, a task which, for want of a more explicit phrase, was not going well.
Lucy Taylor, a plain, rather frazzled-looking woman in her early-thirties, let out a choked sob. "I don't know why I even asked Mr Holmes to help. I know what happened. My little Andrew is gone and… and it's all my fault!" The distraught woman sniffled pathetically, perched on the edge of a worn couch.
Sarah said nothing, shifting awkwardly in her chair and avoiding Lucy's eyes.
"I just keep thinking that maybe… maybe there's something…" Lucy sighed, the sound rough and scratchy. "I don't know. I just can't bear to give up, not when, if it weren't for me, he'd… he'd still be here." Voicing this thought seemed to trigger a fresh round of tears which were clumsily wiped away with a handful of scrunched-up tissues.
Feeling the distinctly uncomfortable pangs of past guilt as it dusted itself off and prodded at her conscience, Sarah sought to change the subject, if only slightly.
"So the police were here." She motioned to the lines of yellow tape crossing the doorway to the nursery, just visible down the short hallway.
Lucy nodded somewhat jerkily. After a hard swallow, she said, "They say they're going to find him, but…" Her lips tightened over a badly stifled whimper. "They can't, can they? Not where he's gone."
Watching as Lucy buried her face in her hands, Sarah bit her lip, wondering how best to word her response. "Away with the fae, you mean."
Lucy jolted, dropping her hands. "Where did you h– Oh." She glanced briefly down the hallway. "Right."
Sarah said nothing.
"Mr Holmes doesn't believe me, of course," the mother informed her, expression somewhere between heartbroken and haughty as she brushed aside an errant lock of ash-blonde hair. "No one does, and why should they? But he's still trying, just to humour me." She managed a weak, watery smile. "He's been such a sweetheart."
Privately thinking that, from what she'd seen of him thus far, Sherlock had never "just humoured" someone in his life, Sarah nodded. Now for the tricky part.
"Lucy," she said, willing herself not to fidget, "I believe you."
Lucy stared, which was a welcome alternative to the crying, and Sarah rushed on. "I've sort of made a study of cases like yours, people like you. I… well, I guess you could say I'm sort of an expert."
Lucy continued gazing blankly at her, until finally –
"So you're a doctor, then. You think I'm crazy."
Blinking in confusion for a moment, Sarah hastened to backtrack before Lucy could shut her out. "No, no! Not anything like one! I'm a high school teacher," she assured her earnestly. "I've never even seen an episode of In Treatment, I swear."
Eyes still suspicious, Lucy eventually motioned for her to go on.
"I believe what you say about wishing him away," said Sarah, injecting her tone with as much sincerity as she could muster. "I… know a few things about it and about how it works. And I have to ask…" Here we go, she thought with some dread. "Did you… see anyone? Or anything?"
Lucy looked bemused. "I don't understand."
"After you wished the baby away," Sarah clarified hastily. "Andrew," she added, mentally kicking herself for her tactical clumsiness. "Was there anyone there after you wished Andrew away?"
"No one," said Lucy, looking to the floor as she dabbed at her moistening eyes. "I walked back in and he… the cot was just empty."
Sarah deflated, her hopes – insignificant though they may have been – dashed. "I'm sorry." It seemed the appropriate thing to say. She cast her gaze about for some way to politely exit the conversation, or at least switch the topic, and her eyes fell upon the nursery doorway. "I better go see how they're doing."
As she was about to stand up, though, Sarah made a decision on a whim. She leant forward, clasping Lucy's hand in her own and looking the woman in the eye, filled with an oddly fervent need to ease her burden.
"Listen… what you did, it wasn't right, but you weren't to know what would happen and you certainly aren't the only one. I did it, too, when I was younger. I wished away my baby brother."
Lucy gasped, her own grief pushed temporarily to one side. "Oh, my God. I am so sorry." She squeezed Sarah's fingers in sympathy.
Sarah made a small, dismissive motion with her free hand, waving away Lucy's concern. "I got him back in the end, but I just wanted you to know I understand how these things happen. You're not as guilty as you believe."
Too late, Sarah realised she'd made a terrible mistake.
"So… my Andrew," said Lucy slowly, hope beginning to edge its way into her expression. "I can get him back?"
Her gaze falling almost as quickly as Lucy's heart was surely about to, Sarah slipped her hand free and reluctantly shook her head. "I'm sorry," she muttered as gently as she was able. Her chest felt unusually tight.
Despite an indignant voice in her head demanding that she stay and comfort the poor woman, Sarah stood without another word or glance in Lucy's direction and headed for the nursery, feeling more horribly guilty than any time she could remember since that wretched night all those years ago. From behind her drifted the sound of Lucy resuming her broken sobbing.
The nursery was better furnished and more brightly decorated than the rest of the flat, the walls a pale blue. A cot which looked second-hand but seemed in good condition stood in one corner, with a changing table in another and a chest of drawers under the closed window. Stepping through the doorway, Sarah's gaze immediately fell upon Sherlock and John, who were squatting in the centre of the floor. Sherlock had pulled on a pair of medical gloves from God only knows where and was carefully brushing something from the carpet into a glass vial.
"Try not to inhale it," advised John, noticing Sarah, "or get any in your eyes."
Sarah nodded and crouched down beside them, still a safe distance from the small cloud that was being produced by Sherlock's activities. Squinting slightly, she watched as the cloud seemed to shimmer, microscopic particles dancing in the muted light filtering in through the window, like magic made tangible…
"The glitter," Sarah murmured almost reverently, catching both her companions' attention.
"Glitter?" repeated John.
She inclined her head slowly, eyes focused on the gradually settling particles. "That night, there was glitter in the air. It came with him. And the labyrinth… it was coated in the stuff."
Sherlock and John shared a meaningful look as Sarah seemed to break from her reverie.
"By-product of the magic, maybe," she suggested in an airy tone, daring them to scorn her.
"Maybe," Sherlock said lowly in what Sarah would later term his "thinking about things too complex for you to comprehend" voice. Stoppering the vial and divesting himself of the gloves, Sherlock straightened up and pulled out his phone.
With some effort, John joined him in standing. "What are you doing?"
"Texting Lestrade," said Sherlock, ceasing his typing with a glance at Sarah, who was still on the floor, captivated by what lay amongst the fibres of the carpet. "We need more data."
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was in the middle of normal day at New Scotland Yard. His coffee was fresh and not nearly as bad as usual, there was a large supply of doughnuts in the kitchen and the stack of paperwork in his inbox was increasing at a rate of approximately three hours' worth every hour. It was all completely standard – barring the quality of the coffee – and looking to continue that way for the remainder of the day. So, naturally, his phone just had to alert him to an approaching disruption.
Need a favour.
SH
Lestrade sighed. Of course it was Sherlock. Resisting the urge to reply with some choice and not particularly polite words or, better yet, just not reply at all, he quickly thumbed out a message.
Little busy. What is it?
Sherlock gave the DI just enough time to resume his attempts to complete the report he'd been working on before texting back:
Pull cold cases of missing children, all of them. Will be at Yard in half hour.
Lestrade briefly toyed with the idea of refusing, but, taking into account that this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with and therefore the probability of the man taking "no" for an answer was somewhere in the vicinity of zero, ultimately decided against it. Reluctantly, he stood and headed for the records room, wondering if enlisting Donovan's help would ease his suffering or just make it worse.
Lestrade met them just outside his office.
"Think we got them all," he said wearily as they approached. "Now what is this – hold on!" He blocked Sherlock's entry to the office by throwing an arm across the doorway. "What's this for?"
"A case."
"Not the Taylor baby case?"
When Sherlock didn't respond, the two engaged in an impromptu staring contest which was quickly ended by Lestrade, who had better things to do than stand around waiting for Sherlock Holmes to volunteer information.
"All right, fine. But first," he added hastily when Sherlock made to push past him, "since you're here, I could use your advice."
He took Sherlock's silence for acquiescence – a common practice, given that silence was often the best one could expect from the detective when he was feeling uncooperative. It was certainly a step up from insults.
"Woman in her forties, married for twelve years, found dead on her kitchen floor this morning by a neighbour. Time of death estimated to be two a.m.. Stabbed."
"The husband, obviously. Now…"
"Yeah, hold on." Sometimes Lestrade truly hated asking for Sherlock's help. "The husband's been pulled in for questioning, but he says he was asleep and didn't hear a thing until his neighbour's scream woke him at nine-thirty. Complete rubbish, but we can't find the murder weapon. CCTV shows no one entering or leaving the building, so it's gotta be in there still, but the kitchen knives are all clean, as well as his craft ones."
"What does he do?"
"Unemployed at the moment. The wife worked."
"You said he had craft knives. Hobbies?"
"Real arts an' crafts kind of guy. Painting, pottery, candles, you name it."
Sherlock didn't even pause to order his thoughts. "Check inside the candles – any wet pottery as well, though he likely would have thought it too obvious." He shot Lestrade a contemptuous look. "Really, Lestrade, a little transparent, isn't it? Even for you."
With that, Sherlock ducked under Lestrade's arm and made a beeline for the tower of files sitting on the desk. The DI really, truly hated asking for Sherlock's help.
"Right, thanks," muttered Lestrade, turning back to John and Sarah, who had been watching the exchange with fatigue and fascination, respectively.
"Uh, this is Sarah Williams," John said before the silence could grow awkward. "Sarah, Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Lestrade managed a diplomatic smile in spite of his ruined mood. "Ms Williams. It's a pleasure."
Sarah returned the smile warmly. "Just Sarah, please."
"Of course." Lestrade shook her extended hand and, after an uncomfortable pause, said, "So are you and John, uh –"
"No," said John, cutting him off. "We're not –"
"Oh, no," said Sarah. "I'm just –"
"Sarah's just –"
"A colleague," Sherlock intoned without looking up.
Three heads swivelled briefly in Sherlock's direction.
"Another one," commented Donovan as she wandered by their little doorway social, eyes on an open file.
Lestrade turned back to Sarah, clearly unfazed by his colleague's snark. His voice held traces of humour when he asked, "You a doctor, too?"
Sarah laughed. "Not with my fear of needles, no. I'm a high school teacher, actually."
That earned a raised eyebrow. "Just moved here, or…?"
"Visiting for the weekend, though I wish I could stay and do some sightseeing." She gave a small, rueful smile. "England is beautiful. I've wanted to visit for as long as I can remember, but it never seemed like a good time." A chuckle escaped her. "Turns out all I needed was a little help in the motivation department."
Lestrade hummed, unconsciously slipping into detective mode. "And how did Sherlock provide that help?"
Suddenly very aware of herself, Sarah lost the growing sense of camaraderie and replied in a careful, clipped tone. "He asked for my input. It wasn't anything in particular."
"You had to travel across the Atlantic to give him your input?"
Sarah bit her lip, knowing as she did it that she was giving herself away. In her mind she cursed her terrible poker face. She wasn't even doing anything illegal, at least as far as she knew. Why did cops have the ability to make her so nervous?
"It's, ah, involved," supplied John. "Sherlock insisted. You know how he gets."
Terrible poker face, perhaps, but Sarah still had the presence of mind not to send John a grateful glance for his smooth cover-up. That would have been slightly more telling than a bitten lip.
Fortunately, Sherlock chose that moment to rejoin them, having apparently finished with the missing children's files.
"We're done here."
"Right. And exactly what were we doing here in the first place?" asked John.
"I told you – gathering data. And we're not finished yet." With a nod to a suspicious, irritated Lestrade, Sherlock turned on his heel and made for the exit, leaving John and Sarah to make their abrupt goodbyes to the DI and hurry after him.
The laboratory at St Bart's was of great interest to Sarah, much like everything she'd seen so far in the UK. She considered the notion that she might just be in the tourist mindset – after all, John Bowne High had labs, and she even took homeroom in one of them – but felt that her admiration was well-deserved in this case. She doubted she could even put a name to half the equipment in the room.
Upon entering, Sherlock quickly became preoccupied with a rather fiddly-looking endeavour involving various chemicals and strips of coloured paper, leaving John and Sarah to amuse themselves by looking about the lab. John's patience lasted all of fifty-two seconds before he broke the silence.
"Sarah, you said earlier… you had a theory that you wanted to check with Miss Taylor?"
Sarah looked to Sherlock, who, despite being engrossed in the microscope's eyepiece, had his ears perked, figuratively speaking.
"Well…" She wrung her hands. "See, when, uh… Okay, it's like this." They were going to think she was crazy, or crazier, anyway. "When I wished my brother away, someone – the Goblin King, I mean – he, um –" Sarah took a deep breath and, eyes fixed firmly on a nearby burette, forced the rest of the sentence out. "He flew in through my window and offered me a crystal."
John blinked, glancing at Sherlock, who hadn't even lifted his head, and back to Sarah. "He… flew in through your window?" said John. He looked as though he was hoping she was just attempting to make an extremely poor joke.
"And offered me a crystal in exchange for letting him take my brother without a fight, yes," Sarah confirmed, nodding. "He said it contained my dreams."
"Uh, okay." John pulled himself together with seemingly little effort. Sarah couldn't help but admire his stubborn refusal to be fazed. "Go on. What was your theory?"
"Well, that's just it, see. Lucy should have seen him. It's part of the lore. The Goblin King shows up and gives you two options: take the gift or run the labyrinth."
"Wait, hold on. 'Run the labyrinth'?"
"That's how you get the child back. There's this enormous labyrinth that surrounds the Goblin City, with the castle right in the centre, and you have to make it to the castle in thirteen hours or… you lose, basically. The book I showed you earlier, it's called The Labyrinth."
"Right." John gnawed on his lip. "So you ran it."
"Yes."
"And won."
"That's right."
"Okay, so… people who wish away their kids are supposed to run the labyrinth to get them back."
Sarah grimaced. "They're supposed to be given the chance. Most of the people I've talked to about it tried, but… Sometimes people do stupid things, you know? Young mothers, kids who didn't understand… It seems like an obvious choice to you and me, but when you're there, being given this huge decision to make, and it's already so confusing, you just sort of – I thought about taking the crystal," she admitted. "It was so beautiful and you wouldn't believe how much I wanted to live out my dreams back then. They seemed like all I had. Toby was – he was my half-brother, and I think I thought that didn't really make him my brother, or my responsibility. I don't know. I didn't realise I loved him so much until I chose him over my dreams, I guess."
John respectfully gave her a moment before asking, "But the Goblin King didn't offer that to Lucy?"
Sarah shook her head. "I don't understand it. He has to. It's not something they're given a choice about. The fae are bound to certain rules."
"Apparently not."
Sarah and John turned to look at Sherlock, who had finally abandoned the microscope.
"They are," said Sarah firmly. "There must be something about Lucy, or maybe it's something that's going on in the goblin kingdom that's suddenly created a loophole."
"If that is the case, it certainly isn't sudden," Sherlock said evenly.
Sarah froze, right down to her breathing. "What do you mean?" she asked after a few seconds, once her heart had remembered itself.
"Those missing children's reports at the Yard – none of them mentioned anything about the involvement of another party. The children just vanished."
Overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness, Sarah fumbled for the nearest stool and all but collapsed onto it, dropping her head into her hands. "For how long?"
Sherlock surveyed her for a few seconds before answering. "There was a case with circumstances similar to this from twenty years ago."
Sarah let out a long, shuddering breath. Twenty years – not long after she'd wished Toby away. She looked up. "What if this is my fault?"
"What? Sarah, no," John protested.
"What if when I beat the labyrinth, I – I don't know – broke whatever magic forces J– the Goblin King to let people run it? And that's why this happened to Lucy, and to all those other people! Because of me!" Sarah blinked back tears as the room blurred and her breathing grew louder, speckled with rough sounds that were well on their way to becoming sobs.
"It's possible."
"Sherlock!"
Sarah swallowed, her voice hoarse and low as she said, "I had no idea… Everyone I've spoken to on the forums wished their kids away before I did. There's been no one more recent than me. It's so –" She paused, working to regulate her breathing while mulling over this influx of new information. "I guess it makes sense, though. How would they know about the labyrinth unless they tried running it? How would they even know anyone else had done it, too? Wishing kids away, I mean... it's all just a story, until you live it."
Neither Sherlock nor John seemed to have a response to that, as, after a hollow silence in which Sarah tried valiantly to compose herself, the doctor redirected the conversation.
"What do you mean by similar circumstances?" John asked Sherlock. "In the unsolved cases."
"A number of them bore much the same markers as Miss Taylor's case, however a few stood out. Forensics noted the presence of aluminium flakes."
Sarah's attention was caught. "Aluminium flakes?"
Sherlock gestured to his little workspace.
"It's aluminium?" asked John disbelievingly.
"Presumably left there by the kidnapper. The spread was far too wide and fine to have been left by shoes, so it must be a product of something they do while there."
"So something that leaves these flakes… that you'd do while kidnapping a kid?" John huffed, spreading his arms and shrugging, clearly nonplussed. "How the hell are we supposed to work that one out?"
"The more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be," said Sherlock cryptically as he began gathering his belongings. "A narrower scope is always preferable." He glanced at his watch. "Back to the flat – I have something I need to test out."
"I'm not going to! No way!"
Sherlock was, as ever, completely undeterred by adamant refusal. He stared calmly at Sarah from his relaxed position in the armchair by the fireplace. "My investigation cannot proceed without this experiment, and you obviously want closure, even if you won't admit it. This is the logical step to take and the only remaining option we have."
"No, I have another option: getting a flight back home! And lemme tell you, that option is looking a hell of a lot better right now," said Sarah, resisting the urge to bring her fist down on the nearby desk in an emphatic but sadly inappropriately dramatic gesture.
"Very well. Then I'll do it without you."
Sarah's eyes widened. "You can't."
"I have done far worse in the course of an investigation than saying a few words from a children's storybook. Your involvement, however, would ensure the safe return of the test subject, assuming the fae exist, as you believe. If you refused to participate and the subject was taken irretrievably, it would weigh on your conscience."
"You would be the one –"
"– who did the wishing, yes, but it's your help that would make the difference. You will take part, because you couldn't stand not to."
The argument came to a temporary halt as Sarah considered this, glaring at Sherlock all the while, although some of the effect was lost as she chewed her lip in thought.
"Even if I did, it wouldn't guarantee anything. Lucy never had the opportunity to rescue her baby, and she's almost definitely not the first. The same could happen here."
"If the subject is taken, I highly doubt your Goblin King would pass up an opportunity to gloat. You beat his labyrinth, after all," said Sherlock in a tone somewhere between challenging and sarcastic.
Sarah shoved her fingers back through her hair with a huff of frustration. "But you don't even believe any of this! So why are you so determined for me to be here?"
"Well, I can hardly think of a better way to prove you irrefutably wrong."
"That's great, Sherlock," John said wearily as Sarah opened her mouth to reply. "Very clever. But exactly who is this test subject gonna be?"
Sherlock and Sarah exchanged a meaningful glance.
"Great," said John. "That's just great."
Sherlock sighed with exaggerated impatience, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.
"Maybe you don't care, but if I'm going back into the labyrinth I'm going to be prepared this time," called Sarah from where she was rummaging through their cupboards for sealed packages of food. Her coat pockets already contained several appropriated muesli bars and a small carton of juice she'd dug out of the back of the fridge once John had moved any and all body parts out of her way.
"You won't be going 'back'," said Sherlock. "Nothing is going to happen."
"And I'm not doing a thing until you've put on some shoes and a jacket," she continued, ignoring him. "Last time it was summer back home, and I have no idea how the seasons work there, regardless."
Sarah, having apparently collected every scrap of suitable food, left the kitchen, stopping dead at the sight of John standing at the ready by the mantelpiece.
"This is a terrible idea," she said decidedly, turning to Sherlock, who simply walked past her. "You're risking his life here, I hope you realise that."
The detective spun around suddenly and strode right into her personal space, forcing her a step backwards. "And what about the lives of all those children, Miss Williams?" he said in a low undertone. "Don't you feel responsible for them?"
Sarah paled, head tilted back to face the man as he towered over her. "They're not… I'm not…"
"It's all in the Yard's files," Sherlock said harshly. "All those missing children who were never found, who disappeared from their beds, no sign of a break-in."
"How many?" Sarah asked quietly, sounding as though an answer was the last thing she wanted.
"In London alone? At least three in the last twenty years. Five, including the probable misrules."
Sarah was beginning to look ill, but Sherlock wasn't finished.
"Their parents will never see them again, so I think that perhaps you should stop playing the reluctant heroine and start doing your part to make sure this doesn't happen again."
Biting her lip, Sarah nodded, and if John wasn't horrified by the mere thought of a crying woman, he'd almost consider her to be close to tears for the second time that day. At Sarah's nod, however, Sherlock dropped the fierce glare, turned away and walked back through the kitchen.
"Besides, nothing is going to happen," he repeated unconcernedly as he disappeared into his bedroom.
John waited a moment before placing a hand on Sarah's forearm, jolting her out of her mildly dazed state. "Really, it's all right."
Sarah blinked a few times, slowly coming back to herself with a small headshake. "No, it's not. John, if this works, you'll have to be careful," she said. "Watch what you say, don't make any deals and don't accept food or water or anything, okay?" She handed him two muesli bars and a container of fruit salad John hadn't even known they had.
Ordinarily, the sensible doctor would have brushed off the advice, but something in Sarah's tone and the serious, determined set to her eyes made him pocket the food and give a reassuring nod to show he understood.
Sarah smiled sadly. "You know, when I read the email, I didn't think for a moment I'd be getting caught up in something like this again. I guess adventures are like that, though. Unexpected."
John said nothing, unsure of whether or not she wanted a response.
Sherlock rejoined them, now clad in his trademark coat and scarf, feet shod. "Finally ready, then? Or do I need gloves, too?"
"Just one question," said Sarah with a somewhat strained air of casualness, probably still smarting from the very recent dressing-down he'd given her. "Why the both of us?"
"You said it would work."
"I said I thought it would work. I've never heard of anyone wishing an adult away, so if we're lucky this won't work at all, but that's not the point. Why do you want both of us to say it?" She gave a small, artificially sly smile, her dour mood too potent for convincing light-heartedness. "If you don't believe, that is."
"Precaution," Sherlock said after a pause in which his eyes rested briefly on John.
Sarah gazed silently at him for a moment, as though inspecting him for ulterior motives. "All right. Do you remember the words?" She rolled her eyes at Sherlock's scornful expression. "After three, then."
The three unconsciously shuffled into a triangle formation.
"One."
Sarah swallowed.
"Two."
Sherlock and John's eyes met.
"Three."
John blinked.
"I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now," chorused Sarah and Sherlock in respectively reluctant and dispassionate tones.
Five seconds later, John said, "Uh… Well, I guess it's plan B, then."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and started for his armchair, which held Sarah's copy of The Labyrinth, bookmarked in half a dozen places.
Sarah, however, remained where she was, straining her ears for scuffling, a giggle, anything. She'd hear it sooner or later, she knew, because one did not simply speak those words and get away with it. The Goblin King didn't allow it.
It took a moment. John was halfway to the kitchen (presumably to brew more tea) and Sherlock was reaching for the book when there was the patter of light feet by the couch. As if someone had hit pause on the remote, everyone froze, not even daring to breathe, listening, just as Sarah had been, for another sound. For seconds, there was nothing but the hum of passing traffic and the clatter of dishes from the downstairs apartment of the landlady, whom Sarah had met very briefly between getting to Baker Street and leaving it. In those seconds, it almost seemed like they might have imagined the noise.
Then the lights went out and everything went to hell.
"Has to be some sort of drug – a hallucinogenic," Sherlock said, the panicked pace of his speech belying his rationalisations. "You said you don't eat anything made by a stranger. Ever since you wished your brother away, correct?" He didn't wait for confirmation. "But you slipped up. Today. Somebody must have given you something, at Bart's or –"
"It's not drugs, Sherlock!" Sarah yelled, stepping backwards as something skittered past her feet. "It's goblins! How many times – I told you –"
She was interrupted by John's urgent call.
"Sherlock…"
"John," breathed Sherlock, eyes going impossibly wider.
They abandoned their bickering, whirling to face John. There, clinging to his pant-leg, was a mean-faced, little goblin. It grinned wickedly at Sarah as several of its fellows joined it, attaching themselves to the doctor's shins.
"No!" Sarah rushed to him and clasped his hand. "John, we'll get you back, I promise!"
"But –"
"I am so sorry," said Sarah, taking a second to close her eyes tightly, blocking out the terrifying situation in which she'd once again found herself, if only for an instant, before meeting John's bewildered and just slightly fearful gaze. "We'll get you back."
The sound of a breaking lamp – shoved off the desk by one of the goblins – drew both Sarah and Sherlock's attention, and, just like that, Sarah's fingers were holding nothing but air. When she looked back, John was gone.
"John!" Sherlock's yell was anguished. He sounded more human than Sarah had thought him capable.
It was then – in the aftermath of John's disappearance, with goblins scuttling around the room just at the edge of Sarah's vision – that the woman began to properly panic.
"Crap, crap, crap, crap…" Sarah knew exactly what came next and, despite all her prior misgivings, she had no doubt that the Goblin King intended to follow through. She opened her mouth again, planning to say something to Sherlock – reassurance, maybe, or more likely a warning – but faltered at the realisation that no amount of words could help any of them now, least of all John. As someone for whom words were both a profession and an obsession, Sarah found this remarkably frustrating, which momentarily distracted her from her panic.
This distraction did not last long, however, as, with a deep roll of sudden-onset thunder, the pair was caught up in the paper blizzard caused by a bizarre gust of wind which certainly didn't come through the permanently closed windows. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, protecting her head and face as best she could while the sound of large wings beating furiously grew steadily louder – uncomfortably familiar, considering the sound of these particular wings was unique to this and one other instance in her life.
Finally, eyes closed, heart racing, completely surrounded by utter chaos, Sarah did what any person does when faced with a situation for which conventional words are simply not enough. She cursed. "Fuck."
As if that had been a signal of some sort, albeit one with an extremely delayed effect, the scurrying, giggles and general pandemonium died down. Sarah tentatively opened her eyes to a swirl of glitter and another sight which, while distinctly less child-friendly, held its own in the breathtaking department.
In front of the window, outlined by the murky glow of streetlights, stood an imposing figure. With his angular features, self-assured posture and sweeping cloak that seemed slightly too black and not entirely tangible, he gave off an air of authority, arrogance and, above all else, danger.
"Jareth."
The figure stepped forward, calmly observing the two with an unmistakable quirk to the corners of his mouth. "Hello, Sarah."
Sarah swept her tongue over her lips. He was just as she remembered, although she suspected he had been working on his intimidating pose. All her instincts, not to mention the common sense she'd picked up with regards to the fae, were telling her in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of there. Nevertheless, she forced herself to keep a cool tone. "I don't suppose this means we get twice the usual time?"
"Half, actually."
"What? That's not –" Sarah cut herself off as Jareth's smirk widened. "Fine," she said icily. "Fine. Six and a half hours, then. Let's get this over with."
"Ah, ah, ah." Jareth wagged his finger in taunting admonishment. "I haven't decided to let you run the labyrinth yet."
Sarah's eyebrows drew together in confusion, while Sherlock, who, she could see out of the corner of her eye, was standing a few feet to her left, twitched noticeably. "We're not going to take whatever 'gift' you have to offer."
"You misunderstand, Sarah. The running of the labyrinth was part of the story, as was its defeat." His smug expression flickered but did not fade. "Now that that portion of the story is complete, I am no longer obligated to offer the chance to reclaim a wished-away child or any consolation prizes. I don't even have to make an appearance."
"Then why did you?" Sarah spat, though she looked pale; Jareth had just confirmed her fears.
"Curiosity," replied Jareth casually, unmoved by her ire. "Unusual circumstances, these. A grown man wished away by two people at once. Your idea, was it?"
Sarah shook her head, eyes flicking towards Sherlock, who had yet to say anything.
"And who's this? New beau? Really, Sarah, I thought wishing people away would have stayed off your list of suitable date activities. Although I also thought you preferred blonds," he said, glancing disdainfully at Sherlock's dark curls.
"We're not – and I don't prefer –" Sarah spluttered. "Look, what will it take for you to let us run the labyrinth?"
"Well, let's see. I have in my possession someone you apparently care about greatly. Whatever you offer will have to make me willing to risk losing him. So, as the human expression goes… start your bidding."
"Me," said Sherlock before Sarah could stop him. His face was wan but determined. "If neither of us reaches John in time, you can have me." The strain in his voice betrayed his struggle to remain calm and in control.
Sarah watched, halfway between fear and hope, as Jareth considered it, while very fervently wishing she could punch Sherlock.
"As noble as I'm sure that was intended to be, I'm rather at a loss as to what to do with one man wandering about my castle, let alone two. Then again," the Goblin King added in an innocently thoughtful tone Sarah didn't buy for a second, his eyes sliding in her direction, "I could perhaps make an exception for the sake of revisiting the classics. How is Toby these days, Sarah? A little old to be turned into a goblin, I expect, but I could find something…"
Sarah inhaled deeply. "All right. Me. Same deal as Sherlock – if we don't get to the castle by the end of the six and a half hours, you can have me."
Jareth laughed delightedly. "A little egotistical, don't you think, precious? You're worth no more than any other human. Nevertheless, I think we can reach a compromise. I'll agree to your terms, but not for one or the other – for both of you."
After a moment of hesitation and a tense nod from Sherlock, Sarah stepped forward, hand held out. "Deal."
Jareth grinned, returning the handshake. When he let go, Sarah found herself swamped in darkness atop the same hill that had been the start of her adventure twenty-four years previous, very suddenly devoid of Jareth. In fact, the hill was devoid of anything except some scraggly trees, a thirteen-hour clock with both hands halfway through their journeys and Sherlock, who was standing with his eyes closed and fingers steepled, looking entirely out of place in his designer coat and tailored suit.
"So, still think I made it up?"
God, it's nothing but dialogue. And I suck at dialogue. Also, uh… spot the original Sherlock Holmes quote?
Some of my notes from the first, handwritten draft of this chapter:
"Why am I doing this? How can I possibly keep it from turning into crack? I think I'm sending Sherlock Holmes into the labyrinth, for God's sake!"
And, as an irritating and unwanted bonus, my conversation with my little brother discussing the likelihood of aluminium flakes being the true explanation behind the glitter:
"Why would it be aluminium flakes?"
"What, you think the Goblin King just throws a handful of glitter in the air whenever he appears anywhere?"
"Who's to say he doesn't?"
"I think he has a little more dignity than that."
"In an ideal world, he would, but he doesn't."
"Look, this aluminium thing is now my headcanon, okay?"
"Yeah, well, my headcanon is that David Bowie is a very flamboyant man!"
As always, if you intend to review, the good with the bad, please, unless you can find no good, in which case join the club. (I bake cookies for our fortnightly meetings. They taste of tears and bitter regret, although sometimes I like to mix it up and put chopped up Mars Bars in.) The pointing out of stupid and not-so-stupid mistakes is very welcome.
-TeamVampire