I apologize for taking over a month to update, but I've had a lot of personal shit to sort out. It's been a tough six weeks for me, but I'm happy to be back writing again. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Next chapter will be a POV switch to Sherlock for a big confrontation with some of the main villains.
John peeled himself off the smooth floor of the ice palace and watched Sherlock disappear behind a wall. He stood, staring face to face with what seemed to be a pure snow wolf. The wolf snarled at him, curling its lips up at the edges.
It set him on edge, instilling the fear Sherlock had meant it to. He backed away slowly, hoping to keep the beast in front of him at bay while he formulated a way to leave quickly. The wolf followed his every moment, backing him down the room and towards the staircase. John watched the monster with precision as he took the stairs backwards slowly, careful to watch his balance on the slippery ice.
The wolf shifted colors, seeming to transform from its original snowy white and light blue into a menacing combination of dark red with intimidating black undertones and highlights. John's breathing sped as he realized the beast was reflecting the colors of the ice around him, flashing in multiple shades of red, responding to the events that happened as if it was attached to the emotions of Sherlock himself. He exhaled a small sigh, thinking the wolf didn't want to harm him as long as he kept moving towards the exit. All was good. Well, he wouldn't be torn to shreds from a snow beast, and that was something.
John continued to back track, keeping a careful eye on the wolf until his footing gave way and he ended up on his back. At first, John thought the wolf was just going to look at him with that mean glare it wore, but as soon as he made a move to stand, the beast grew icicles on its back that were sharpened to a fine point. It snarled at him, eyes glowing and jaw pulled back to show off the two rows of sharp teeth concealed beneath its white fur. Without a moment's hesitation, John was off the ground and scrambling out the front door, the roar and clatter of claws hot on his tail.
He flew out the front door and down the first few stairs of the carved ice before turning around. The wolf slid on its nails, shaving ice off the top of the smooth porch of the palace. It growled at him, never dropping its gaze. John panted, adrenaline gripping his chest and giving him an odd sort of calm mixed fear. It was an amazing feeling. Common sense took place of his sort of adrenaline high and he scurried down the stairs to the awaiting Greg that was staring in terror at the beast at the base of the palace on the cliff above them.
John grabbed Lestrade by the shoulder, running back through the woods and detouring towards a clearing that lead east from the palace and towards the outskirts of a hidden lake. Greg ripped his arm away from John's death grip and glared at him with a mix of terror and rage.
"What the hell was that, John? I told you! I told you! Sherlock doesn't care about anyone but himself!" Lestrade yelled, visibly holding himself back from tearing him a new one.
John huffed, trying to regain his breath and process what had just gone on. Pain shot through his left shoulder like venom coursing through his veins. It left icy bites along his muscles, similar to that of frostbite. He grasped at his shoulder, trying to rid himself of the pain by sheer willpower.
Lestrade laughed dryly, turning his gaze away from him.
"Oh no. You are not going to be playing the injured card with me, John Watson! You made a mistake in judgment, and you're just going to have to live with it! Don't fake an injury to get me off your back!"
Greg was practically screaming, but it was all a dull hum to him. John pushed his shirt and coat off his shoulder. He had to know what Sherlock had done to him. The world fell away when he saw the mark left on his shoulder. It was a spider web like scar, extending from his clavicle all the way to his sternum. He ran his fingers over the raised skin, fragile and freezing below his shaking hands. The skin around the hit area was turning off-white, blending blue and purple into a sickly looking bruise. John placed his hand on the damaged skin, pulling back quickly when all he could feel was the bite of ice.
He heard a small gasp and wondered if it was his own, dispelling the thought once Lestrade's silvery brunette hair was blurring in his vision. A hand was placed gently on his shoulder, a barest of touch, before being taken away. He felt hands wrap around his torso and a head rest against his right shoulder before pulling away.
"Oh, John, what did he do to you?" Greg whispered, careful not to touch the skin of his left shoulder again while pulling away.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, wanting to spill out and into the frozen air, but they stuck to his throat. He couldn't say them. Not here. Not to Greg. Not when he didn't believe them.
John looked up at the taller man for a brief second before directing his gaze to the snow beneath them.
"It was Sherlock," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He got upset and hit me with an icicle through the chest. I made him upset. I pushed him into this because I was so upset and afraid he'd abandon me again and it's-"
He trailed off, feeling a sob wrenching itself from his lungs without his permission.
"It's all my fault." John concluded, muffling his second sob with his hands as he felt the hot tears poke at the corners of his eyes threatening to spill over his cheeks. No. He couldn't cry in front of Lestrade. Not again.
He shoved all his emotion down with a thick swallow and took a step away from Greg, clearing the tears blurring his vision. From this moment on, John Watson was not going to show his hand so easily. Emotion makes him weak. Terrible for a soon-to-be ruler.
Lestrade sighed. "Look, John, I know it's tough, but you're stronger. You'll get through this. We have to get you to an expert in this stuff to take a look at that nasty scar, though. I think I might know someone who can help."
John nodded loosely, barely aware of what Greg was saying.
Sherlock had actually struck him. He pushed him away. Again. All those years of guilt that it was his fault he was abandoned…maybe Sherlock truly is a monster. His mum had always told him that the monsters to be most afraid of were those that resided in the hearts of man, for they are the ones that act out of spite and from greed and from jealousy and fear.
Lestrade gave a swift pat to his back and ushered him around the frozen lake and towards a small clearing in the trees. The snow falling made it hard to see what direction they were going combined with his haziness from the events of the past twenty minutes. It was a blur. The beauty he once saw in the contrast of the forest colors was gone, replaced by a sinking feeling and a heavy symbolism in the loss of something beautiful to a bit of ice. The guilt and anger buzzed around his skull like angry wasps.
Their trip through the trees to a grassy meadow surrounded by snow was filled with silence, one that John was happy Lestrade allowed him to have. He wasn't up for discussion about anything, especially with his head as foggy as it was.
Lestrade rubbed his hands against John's upper arms in an attempt to keep them warm through his coat, which he was grateful for, but was failing miserably. It cured the cold on top, but the ice was biting him from the inside, sloshing around with his blood and freezing the valves that keep him alive.
A woman's head appeared from behind a thick evergreen tree. She had long black hair and brown, kind eyes. John gave her a terse smile, focusing on counteracting the freezing sensation currently gripping him tight.
"Why have you brought such witchcraft into my home, travelers?" She spoke, casting a weary glance towards the two of them.
"We need your help. My friend was hit by the prince's black magic. Please." Lestrade responded, voice taking on the same softness he'd spoken to him with earlier.
The woman narrowed her eyes further. "Prove to me he is not the sorcerer that has caused this ice age, and I shall help you."
John gave into the urge to shiver and gazed at her, watching as her figure remained mostly concealed behind the needles of the evergreen. "How do I do that?" He asked.
The woman blinked at him before answering. "Create a man of snow."
"What, like a snowman?" Lestrade questioned, casting a weary glance at John before returning his eyes back towards the woman. She nodded before turning her gaze pointedly towards John.
He would very much so like to leave. That would be cowardice, though. A bit not good.
John took a step forward from Lestrade, placing his shaking arms out in front of him and swirling them like how he vaguely remembers Sherlock used to when they played on the snow covered hills. Now he finally understands how Sherlock never ran out of snowballs during fights. Bastard.
Nothing came from his fingertips, but the energy to continue standing was drained from his legs as he felt an icy stab in his right thigh. Within seconds, his vision was filled with the grass he'd previously been standing in. His hearing went in and out, filtering Lestrade's voice and the woman's honey-like voice.
The dull sound of footsteps approaching rang through his head with a determined buzz. Hands were on his back and sides, rolling him over until his vision was filled with the sky above him and Lestrade. Arms hoisted him up, placing him back on his feet softly. His knees buckled again, but Lestrade was there with an arm around his waist and pulling John's arm around his shoulders.
John's vision stopped swimming and he could see the same woman from before, except she had came out from the trees and stood before him, hands held at her sides. She had slightly olive skin that was tipped with a pink dusting from the weather. The dusting trailed down her chest until it met the soft fur of the rest of her body.
At first he thought he was delusional, but one outstretched hand briefly stroked the side where her hip would be had definitely brushed fine fur. She was a centaur; a unique one at that, as she had half the body of what appeared to be a deer. It was a little adorable, not that John would admit that out loud.
She tsked at him when he looked at her with a confused stare.
"Now, now. Staring is rude, young one. Didn't your mother ever teach you that?" The woman stated, taking his hand in both of hers and examining it.
"You're a centaur."
"Falka, actually." She laughed, smiling slightly. "Closely related, but very different."
"Right." John said, still processing the fact that a centaur- falka- was standing in front of him. "I'm, uh, John." He mustered.
The falka's smile softened, casting her eyes a warm overtone. "My name is Janine." She responded casting a quick glance towards Lestrade.
"I am curious as to how you found me, but we shall discuss that later. I have offered to help, and I intend to follow through." Janine said, gently tracing a finger around John's palm.
The smile on Janine's faced seeped away, replaced by a worrying frown. "Come, child. Let me see your scar." She whispered.
John nodded and pulled his coat and shirt off his shoulder, biting his lip when the frostbitten skin clashed with the frozen air around them. Janine took in a small breath before gently tracing the outline of the mark.
"I do not bear good news travelers. You have been hit in the heart by a Congelada. The one who possesses this power is much stronger than I am, as his ice can not be swayed by my touch. He was born into this gift." She remarked, retracting her hand from his chest and replacing it by her side.
"What does all that mean?" Lestrade asked quietly, eyes fixated on the skin around John's wound.
"It means I can not heal you, nor can the one who has cursed you to die in such an awful way. I have seen this once before. She was cured through an act of true love, but like legend, magic can change." Janine responded, gaze never leaving John's.
"An act of true love? That sounds like a fairytale." John remarked, averting his eyes towards the evergreen behind Janine.
Both Janine and Lestrade laughed at that, effectively clearing a bit of the obvious tension that clung to all three of them away.
"Her story was based on love. Yours is not. Yours is entwined with selflessness. You must do a great selfless act to save yourself, or forever shall you be frozen." Janine finished, casting them pitying looks. "I will take you both back to the village if you wish, but I will have to leave you on the edge. My kind will not be accepted well beyond the border."
John nodded in response, letting the sinking feeling from earlier wash over him once more.
Yes, I realize the snowman John was not mentioned this chapter. That would be because he's still in Sherlock's palace and he plays a part in the next chapter.