AU, Magic Arc



No one had expected it to happen. The Magus often sent students to deal with the magical fauna that sometimes wandered onto the school grounds. It was a very large part of learning. Banishing banshees and defending against griffins or malign spirits was all a part of learning to use their magic in difficult situations. No one could have known it would be a Questing Beast. With a body of a leopard and head of snake, a Questing Beast was a product of old magic, even older than dragons. It was the eldest magic, the magic of life and death. A single bite meant certain death.

There were seven of them—less powerful than a formation of three, but still retained a prolific mystical significance—and the beast had nearly killed them all. Holmes, the strongest of the group, had stayed back to shield their retreat as the Magus flew in to intervene. They came only a second too late as the Questing Beast shattered Holmes' shields and clawed a gaping wound in his side. There was no bite, but Holmes was dying anyways.

Watson then performed his first and only healing spell. There were no words to it or components. It was the deepest magic a mage could perform. The first magicks, before man could speak or knew what forms to take with his hands, only required a wild and powerful will to change. Watson reached with his magic and changed this tiny and infinitesimal working of the universe to save Holmes' life.

He fell into an eight month coma in the process and when he awoke he was not the same. His magic had been extinguished. The Magus were forced to condition his mind into forgetting the world of magic. When Holmes protested, the Magus told him he was lucky to not have been bitten. If he had, Watson might have extinguished his life force as well. The night before he was to be sent back to the Other world, Holmes snuck past the wards and barriers to speak with his sleeping friend one last time.

"I will find you someday John Watson. I promise you that."

Eighteen years later, wounded from his time in the army and quickly running out of funds, Watson seemingly by chance met with a strange and eccentric gentleman who was willing to share digs with him. Holmes had an odd knack for finding things, especially the things Watson needed, which would suddenly and conveniently appear when he wanted them most. He also kept a strange assortment of chemicals and a blue and purple salamander in a jar. Holmes had asked him once if he was interested in it. Watson couldn't say he was.

They eventually became partners in Holmes' private detective agency and became infamous in the criminal world.

It was a moonless October night when they had been cornered in an alleyway. There was only a brick wall at their back and four men wielding chains and clubs coming rapidly towards them. Holmes hadn't brought his revolver and Watson was out of bullets. They engaged as best they could, but when Watson saw the stolen police baton making a stunning arc towards his friend's head while he disarmed one of the men wielding a switchblade, Watson's desperation got the better of him.

Taking a split second to grab onto Holmes' collar, he held out his other hand like one would in order to conduct an orchestra and ripped an entirely unfamiliar word from his throat and flung his hand into the air. Streams of fat, white sparks billowed forth from his fingertips, bouncing off the alley walls and showering up and then down onto the six of them. They all should have been blinded except for Watson, but Holmes was soon tugging at his hand to follow him through an archway that appeared to have materialized out of solid brick. Watson didn't know how far they ran, but they didn't stop until they were safely in their apartment at Baker Street.

Holmes whirled Watson around to stare into his eyes. "Watson, tell me, have you remembered?"

"Remembered what?" Watson repeated dazedly. He was shaking, causing him to sink wearily into the settee when his legs refused to support him.

"How were you able to do that?!" Holmes exclaimed, eyes gleaming with Watson didn't know what.

"Holmes please," Watson said, hoping to diffuse a situation that was spinning wildly out of control, "if you wish to keep me as your biographer instead of being incarcerated to an insane asylum you will let this pass and never speak of it again. It's never worked before in any case."

Holmes quieted for a moment. "Watson, I will do no such thing, but you must tell me how you did it."

Watson shook his head, now a hint of fear in his face. "No."

Holmes sighed and with the deftness of a born performer, mirrored Watson's previous actions and muttered a similar word before flinging a barrage of gold sparks all across the room.

Watson's eyes widened in shock. "How did you—?"

Holmes' lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "You first, my dear fellow."

"I—When I was a boy I used to have dreams of a place where I could do things, the sort of things people burned for in the past. The dreams felt so real, but whenever I tried to do them when I was awake nothing would happen. I hadn't thought about them in years, but when I'm around you I feel like…" Watson trailed off, trying to think of a way to best describe the feeling. "Since I have come to live with you, sometimes," Watson started again, "sometimes I can light the candles without remembering if I struck a match or not. Earlier in the alley, when I grabbed onto you, I could feel it inside me. I know it sounds insane—though how you can do it too I have no idea—but that is all I can tell you."

Holmes' smile grew warmer. "I have something to tell you as well, my friend."

It turned out that Watson's magic had not been extinguished after all. He had just placed it somewhere else.


A/N: The Magic Arc will consist of 4 drabbles and might continue to appear randomly throughout this collection.