Part III
by ElenaC

Another successful day was drawing to a close – this one concluding the investigation of a glowlamp manufacturer's heir and her nefarious plot to murder her father by contaminating his heating system with sulphur, which had slowly poisoned him. Sherlock had traced her connection to the chemist who had manufactured the sulphur; he had managed to find an obvious, to him at least, manipulation of the underground hot spring in question and trace it to the lady via a small burn mark upon her hind fin, whereupon he had proceeded, by some judicious breaking and entering, to add more damning proof: finding the tool used for the manipulation in her possession. A simple and straight-forward chain of events, and yet overlooked by the police, who were too unobservant to notice the very suggestive injury that had first set Sherlock upon the right track.

All in all, two days well spent; and so Sherlock felt justified in rewarding himself this evening. Ignoring the recent memory of Mycroft scoffing about his obsession – and, oh! Brother Mycroft was certainly possessed of extraordinarily acerbic wit when he chose to so exert himself -, he secured his abode behind him and made for the surface.

As the deep blue gradually gave way to the greens of the warmer water, Sherlock repeatedly looked behind and below him to check for pursuers. It was, after all, possible that he was being watched. Just to be on the safe side, he increased his speed until he was swimming as fast as he could, keeping the tempo up for quite a while and veering off his course this way and that until he had come a full, if erratic, circle. He considered himself a fast swimmer, and his endurance, without undue modesty, was exceptional. Anyone following him should be in front of him now, exhausted and confused. There was no one.

These elementary precautions out of the way, he finally ascended all the way towards the surface, where he knew Sire's boat would be cruising, as it had almost every day for the past week.

Contrary to Sherlock's expectation, the landman had not forgotten about his rescuer. On the contrary - he had spent much time in his little sailing boat, calling and waiting and calling again, and generally exhibiting behaviour that Sherlock would not associate with someone who might attack him on sight. There were two explanations for this that he could think of. First, Sire had no idea about merfolk in general and the hostilities of several centuries ago in particular, and he was genuinely curious and grateful; or second, it was a trap.

Sherlock tended towards the first explanation for the simple reason that one landman, in a small fragile wooden shell upon the ocean, even armed, was no match for a merman literally in his element. If nothing else, history should have taught them that. Therefore, any trap would certainly involve more people and more boats in the vicinity. Still, for security's sake, Sherlock had allowed a whole week to elapse without once approaching the boat.

But today, he was not willing to wait any longer. He had to see him, talk to him. Whenever he was not working, his mind was dwelling upon the landman, recalling his voice, the way Sire had clung to him in his mortal fear, the way his peculiar legs had wrapped themselves around Sherlock's body, pressing distractingly close to his most sensitive region. He had smelled of animal hair, land flowers and something else, something intoxicating. Sherlock had recalled that moment again and again, and he had practiced landspeech whenever he was alone.

Upon catching sight of the little sailing boat, Sherlock felt his heart rate increase for reasons wholly unconnected to his recent exertions.

The boat was drifting, far enough from the coast to permit Sherlock to approach it without being observed from the shore. No one save Sire must see him. No one else must know that Sherlock was about to break a centuries-old edict.

He could hear the landman's voice before breaking the surface. Apparently, Sire was again calling for his mysterious rescuer, undeterred by the fact that no-one had answered for a week. Sherlock surfaced.

"You saved my life," Sire was calling out to the sea, facing away and thus presenting his well-formed, broad-shouldered back to the merman. "Please don't be afraid. I know you're down there somewhere, and I know you're not just a dolphin. Dolphins don't have arms. You have arms. I felt them. And you must have hands, and fingers, or you wouldn't have been able to throw my crown back aboard. Thank you for that, by the way. Father would have been quite put out if I had come back without it. More put out, in fact, than he would have been if I hadn't come back at all. Wait, no, that's not true. That was an unfair thing to say. Forget I said it. Anyway, I want to thank you. Please show yourself." He fell silent and slumped despondently.

Sherlock used the pause to completely evacuate the water from his lungs and call out, "Must you shout so?" The hard consonants and monotonous cadence still felt strange to his tongue, used to the chanted string of vowels that made up merspeech, but he had practiced, and he felt competent to get his meaning across.

The reaction was spectacular. Sire started violently and whirled around, his beautiful sea-coloured eyes growing as wide as that of a deep-sea fish, almost upsetting his balance with his sudden movement and throwing his arms wide to prevent going overboard. The little boat shook, the sail billowing this way and that in the still evening air.

The sudden flurry of movement, in turn, startled Sherlock badly. Thinking he was being attacked after all, he dove back under the surface, his tail fin inadvertently splashing water all over the landman.

"Wait!" John called, his heart beating wildly, water dripping off his hair and nose. He leaned over the side and peered into the water, but he could see nothing. "Come back! I'm sorry!"

Several minutes passed, and John began to fear that his senses had deceived him, that he had not in fact heard a melodious voice nor seen a young man apparently stand to his hips in the water and then disappear in a flash of metallic scales and fins, or, worse, that he had succeeded in scaring him off for good.

Then he saw something glint down below, and seconds later a human head broke the surface, hair clinging to the narrow face, water streaming from nose and mouth. A slim, beautifully muscled upper body followed, rising until the water covered but his lower body, where John could see a suggestion of greenish-golden scales that reflected the sunlight in glints and sparkles. Long hair framed his angular face, falling like a shimmering black velvet shawl around his strong shoulders. There was a pearly sheen to the being's pale skin that added to the overall impression of unearthly alienness.

John stared, stunned. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

The merman – for that was what he was, surely, a creature of legend come to life and floating in front of him – returned his appraisal stare for stare.

It was the sardonic tilt to the other's head and the amused glint in the storm-grey eyes that finally enabled John to recollect himself. His royal training came to his aid as he realized that he suddenly was acting as ambassador, opening diplomatic relations with this being of the sea. Of course, he was not wearing his boots or crown, which were both stowed below deck. Also, he was wet, his hair clinging to his skull and slowly drying, salty crusts forming upon his eyebrows and moustache.

Well, he could but make the best of it, just like he had been trained. Pulling back his shoulders, he inclined his head politely. "How do you do, sir. I am John, Prince of Albion. I am pleased and honoured to make your acquaintance."

The merman's eyes widened. "John?" he half sang, half said. "But I thought –" He interrupted himself. "Of course. How stupid of me. John." Closing his eyes briefly in what John could clearly identify as self-directed annoyance, he likewise assumed a more formal posture. "My name is Sherlock. The pleasure and honour are all mine." In addition to the charming singsong to his voice, he also had the most curious accent, lilting vowels and carefully enunciated consonants, words flowing into each other as if he did not care where they ended nor began.

John was aware of a delighted smile that was fighting to spread upon his face. He was talking to a merman! His mysterious rescuer was real after all, a being of flesh and blood. "Sherlock," John repeated carefully. A strange name, but what did he expect? Pushing aside his fascination with an effort, he concentrated on what he had wanted, for a whole week, to tell his rescuer. "Thank you for saving my life," he said, solemnly. "I am eternally in your debt."

The merman nodded with a touch of impatience. "You are foolhardy to venture out here if you cannot breathe underwater, nor keep your head above it," he stated. "So many of you die; so many of your wooden vessels sink to litter our grounds. One might think you would learn eventually. You were lucky I was in the vicinity."

Surprisingly, this overt criticism of his behaviour and implied slight to his intelligence, something he as prince was not at all used to, did not irritate him. On the contrary - the merman's honest words were quite refreshing. Feeling he had been given license to be less formal as well, he abandoned his rigid pose and sank down upon the side of his boat. Besides, he could not deny the veracity of Sherlock's words. "I know," he said ruefully. "Again, I thank you. In fact, I shall reward you, if you would but tell me what would be adequate. I have never met one of your people before, and I am somewhat at a loss to know what I can do that would be of use to you."

The merman's face showed an expression of sardonic amusement. "Reward me? No reward is necessary. I acted on impulse, as I would free any dolphin from your fishing nets if I happened to be nearby." He looked away, towards the shore. "But I must ask you to tell no-one of the fact that you have met and talked to me. I am at present breaking a law, outdated and non-sensical though it may be."

John nodded, distracted by the sight of Sherlock's tail that he could barely discern moving steadily beneath the merman and keeping him half out of the water. "Of course," he said quickly, afraid to be caught staring but unable to avert his eyes from the tantalizing, alien sight. "I won't tell a living soul, not that anyone would credit me. We do not believe you exist outside of fairytales."

This garnered him a surprised look. "Indeed! You do not record your history, then?"

"Yes, we do," John said, somewhat on the defensive. "We have historians, and there are written records in the great libraries and universities. But I don't think your people are mentioned anywhere, at least not by the term 'merfolk'. Unless there is another name by which you call yourselves?"

Sherlock appeared to consider this. "'Merfolk' is an accurate translation of our word for it, I assume. Our scientists have others, but they are really only translations of the same concept into ancient tongues that are not spoken anymore. Some use the name of the geographical region that a certain legend claims is our ancestral home." He sang a succession of vowels and frowned. "It is impossible to say in the air, I am afraid."

John could not help himself. "Would you say it again?" The short song was utterly beautiful.

The merman smiled quizzically but complied. It sounded like ah-ll-ah-nn-ih.

"That is your word for what you are?" There was something familiar about the syllables. John felt that he never been so fascinated in his life.

"According to some," Sherlock said. "And while we are on the subject of words, why does your companion call you 'Sire'? Is it a title?"

"It's a form of address," John said quickly, not wanting to dwell any more upon his royal descent than he had already. "But, how have you heard it? Can you come onto the shore?"

"No. We lack the peculiar second set of arms that you possess to walk, and the air is not for us anyway. I have been listening while you two talked, and I heard him address you thus. Do not look at me like that. Of course I observed you. How do you think did I learn your speech?"

"I – have not thought about it," John admitted, still stuck upon the image of having four arms, two of them for walking. "Do you mean you learned our language by listening? But that is fantastic."

"Oh, tut, it is not that formidable an accomplishment," Sherlock said dismissively. "Your speech is very simple compared to ours. It is a mere stringing together of words, with the meaning determined by the word order. Hardly any grammar, and you do not use cadence at all. Once I had determined that, the rest followed easily. The most difficult part was identifying and memorizing enough words. I have deciphered much more complicated codes than this. Any halfway observant and intelligent child could do it." Despite his words, John thought he could detect something akin to pride in Sherlock's words.

He could not fault him. John could not conceive accomplishing anything of the kind himself. Even with patient tutoring, he was still far from proficient with the languages spoken in the neighbouring kingdoms, and they all had common roots. "Well, I think it is fantastic," he said with genuine admiration. "You must be possessed of extraordinary gifts to be able to do it, and in so short a time, too."

At these words, Sherlock smiled with almost childlike pleasure, looking away bashfully. He suddenly appeared very human and approachable, and John lost some of his awe, replaced by genuine liking.

Indeed, they were almost chatting like old friends. John thought he had never been part of such an intelligent conversation. In fact, he could not remember talking as an equal to anyone, including his father. Sherlock's refreshing lack of respect for John's exalted position was immensely liberating.

John sat more comfortably upon the little boat's side, casually putting one foot in the water. However, he noticed that the merman was obliged to hold his position halfway out of the water by constant motions of his long tail, which was no doubt strenuous. "Would you like to hold on to the boat?" he invited him, indicating the stern boards in front of him. "It's surely less exhausting than swimming all the time."

Sherlock hesitated, then followed the suggestion, putting his surprisingly normal-looking forearms onto the planks and peering curiously at the lacquered surface. Looking up, he fixed his grey eyes upon John. "I have a question," he said, with less assurance than he had heretofore displayed. "It is rather personal, but I hope you can forgive me. I have, as I said, been observing you for some time. You say you are a prince - which, incidentally, is somewhat ironic -, which surely means that you are comfortably situated with no need to hunt for your food or worry about a place of shelter for sleeping. Your clothing and the crown you own, even if you have chosen not to wear it today, seem to confirm this. Why, then, have I seen such a dejected expression in your eyes whenever you came here? What is it that saddens you so?"

John looked down to study his hands and the way his fingers played with the brocade fabric of his trousers. How to respond? Should he smile, say that it was nothing, and change the subject? But he dearly wanted to talk to someone about how he felt, and there was literally no-one in all of Albion in whom he could confide. It was a sad state of affairs, he mused, to find that his first and only real friend was a merman.

He sighed. "You are very observant." Raising his eyes, he regarded his new friend and wondered if the merfolk had similar problems, or if their world was free of the concerns that so often plagued his life. "I may be rich and privileged, but my position holds a great deal of responsibility," he began. "I have to play a role, the role of heir apparent, at any minute of every hour of every day. I hate it. My father, King James, has many enemies, who would gladly seize any weakness to pressure him into doing their bidding, and they regard me as one weakness. I have never kept secret the fact that I do not look forward to becoming king. It would be an understatement to say that we are not on the best of terms."

He fell silent. All of that was true, but none of it was the true reason. He was lonely, pure and simple. His existence was dull and abhorrent to his character. Sometimes, he felt like he was living another's life, while the true royal-born son sat aboard his little fishing boat and wondered what had happened to his servants.

But those were mere fancies, and nothing he should tell his new acquaintance. At least not today.

Sherlock was nodding, apparently content to take John's words at face value. "That would be a difficult situation," he said with an ironic half-smile upon his pale lips. "And so you come here to escape."

"I love the sea," John confided. "Everything seems so insignificant when I am here."

The merman nodded briefly. "Excuse me," he said abruptly, letting go of the boat and sliding cleanly into the water.

John, confused, leaned over the side. There, about a yard beneath the surface, he could see the mass of Sherlock's long black hair curling gently about his head. The merman appeared to be floating, almost motionless. The next instant, he appeared again, hair sticking to his shoulders, water streaming from nose and mouth, and casually retook his position, arms leaning against the side of the boat.

"It was becoming hard to breathe," he explained in response to John's befuddled look.

"But you can breathe air, obviously."

"For a while. It becomes more and more difficult as the tissues dry out. I estimate I would lose consciousness after a while and be dead within half a day, less if the sun is out."

John was alarmed. "But I hope it does not harm you to be talking to me? I mean, you do not risk anything by being here with me?"

"Not physically, if I do not overdo it," Sherlock said dismissively. "Legally, it is a different matter. We are forbidden by law to approach you. I risk banishment if I am caught. But do not worry, no-one ventures out here into the shallows, and I do not intend to honour a law that makes no sense."

"Forbidden to approach us? But why?"

"Because of past history."

John looked blank.

The merman took pity upon him. "Centuries ago, there was war. My people, of course, claim that yours started it. The truth, even if we do not admit it, is that no-one can say for certain. Only one thing is proven: There were many casualties on both sides. Since then, we have been in hiding. That is the short version. The long and florid version takes up several large tomes and has given rise to quite a few stirring theatrical productions that either cast landmen as quintessential evil beings, brutally slaying innocent merfolk and utterly laying waste to everything we accomplished, or they depict gripping epic battles with heroic merfolk who, after much hardship and long monologues of personal woe, valiantly vanquish the vile airbreathers." He snorted. "Utter drivel, of course."

His tone was so comical that John could not help but laugh.

Sherlock, too, smiled. "That is better. If you are not careful, you will develop a permanent frown line. That would be such a pity."

To his surprise, John blushed and found himself smiling bashfully in response to the compliment. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," he teased gently, amazed at his audacity.

Sherlock looked confused. "I do not. Their appearance does not interest me."

"No, no, I meant – It was a -" John fell silent as the implications of Sherlock's words sank in. He blushed again.

"I must leave you," Sherlock said abruptly while John was still groping for words. "There is something that requires my attention, I am afraid."

"Will I see you again?" John asked quickly, hopefully.

The merman threw him a sardonic glance. "If you insist on risking your life like this, I daresay you will. Few things would sadden me more than finding your lifeless body, ripped to pieces by sharks, food for the fishes." His stern expression dissolved into a beaming smile. "Be here in the evening, as often as you can. I shall find you."

A splash of shimmering tail fin, and he was gone.

To be continued...