Hi everyone!
*waving to the crowd of angry readers*
It's been...3 weeks...!
*ducking to avoid rotten tomatoes*
I'm really sorry about that! I had this chapter all written and ready to be posted on a memory stick, but I accidentally erased everything that was on it (I did it on a friend's computer and I noticed I had lost everything at home, and it was too late.). So I had to re-plan this story using what I remembered from the original plot, and re-write this chapter.
*sympathetic smiles from the crowd*
I think procrastination is also guilty for the lateness of this update.
*boos from the crowd. More rotten tomatoes to dodge*
Anyway, I am really sorry and I'll try to update sooner from now on (hopefully!) xD
*cheers*
This chapter was not in the original plot. I added it after it was suggested by Guest = Thank you so much for your support and ideas, and I hope this will live to your expectations! :) :) :)
Jayfire: Thanks! I hope you'll like this new chapter!
Guest: I love your review! I just do!
Rocker Lullaby: First, I think your penname is really poetic! :) As to your review...I am trying to get to the meeting as quickly as possible. It will hopefully be in the next chapter (I am really looking forward to writing it, but I have to set everything before making it happen). I am sorry I am taking so long! xD
TobiasBoon: I honestly hadn't thought about that! *laughes* It is such a great idea! I am brainstorming every idea I can come up with as to what Mycroft's special ability could be. If you have a suggestion, feel free to make it :)
Juliette: Thank you so much for the review! I am really happy you love their relationship! Please keep reviewing!
A huge thank you to all that alerted or favorited this story!
So, here is another Sherlock-centered chapter :)
Allons-y!
Chapter 11
Sherlock rode into the village at dawn. He had left Camelot the evening before and had only stopped once at a little stream to water the horses. So far, he had not crossed bandits' paths, and he was grateful for the time saved.
It was the first village he encountered in Essetir. He was only two miles away from Camelot's borders and as much as he told himself he was being silly, he was still on edge. There was no way Moriarty was chasing him. He knew perfectly well that Sherlock would have to walk into his trap in Essetir. But Sherlock's childhood memories were resurfacing, and he couldn't help but be afraid. There. The emotionless Prince was scared.
He dismounted his horse and tied it to a tree by the only village's tavern. He would have a little nap before resuming his race towards Essetir. The last time he had had a proper sleep seemed like ages ago. He yawned as he pushed the tavern's door open.
The room was dimly lit, the only window obscured by wooden shutters. It was desert apart from the tavern holder and a fair headed man sitting at the back of the room. Ex-knight, limp to his right leg. He would cause no problem should he engage a fight. The man was quietly eating his breakfast. Talking of which…his stomach rumbled.
He sat down near the door after ordering a full meal to the overjoyed tavern holder. Obviously clients were rare in that small village.
The man was even humming to himself as he prepared Sherlock's food. Yep, clients were definitely scarce. Which was good; no one would come in and disturb his quick rest.
He swallowed down the enormous place the tavern holder put in front of him, leant back against the wall and closed his eyes. After a few peaceful seconds, the tavern holder tapped him on the shoulder to tell him he was going to get supplies and trusted him for guarding the place for a quarter of hour. Sherlock just nodded and closed his eyes again with an annoyed scowl.
Just as sleep was beginning to take over his tired body, the door burst open.
His warriors instinct kicked in and he shot up from his seat.
A small girl, with dishevelled red hair and a shabby brown dress, five years old max, ran into the tavern and ducked behind the bar, banging into chairs as big as her on her way. She let out a scared whimper from her shelter.
A burly man in his late thirties entered next, an old blunt sword in his right hand. He stepped inside the tavern and banged the door close behind him.
He obviously hadn't noticed the fair-headed man at the back, nor Sherlock, who was standing in the shadows behind him.
His strong voice boomed across the almost empty tavern.
'Where ar'ya, witch? Sneaky littl' druidess…Come out, and ya' death'll be quick!'
Sherlock's blood ran cold. This situation was too much alike the one fifteen years before during which he had lost his little brother. He looked around to find a suitable weapon. His eyes zoomed on a candlestick of sorts decorating the table at his right. He would have to be quick to conserve the effect of surprise.
Before he could lean and grab the candlestick the other client took out his sword and lunged towards the burly man with an angry shout. The latter brandished his own sword and blocked the first blow.
The other man kept shouting and bringing blow after blow over the burly man that was three heads taller than him.
'You'
Clang.
'Have no right.'
Clang.
'To attack a young child'.
Clang-clang.
Sherlock lunged towards the chandelier and joined the other client's side, who shot him a short surprised glance. The Prince grinned at him as he felt his adrenalin rushing through his veins.
The burly man yelled in anger 'how dare you!?' and with a strong hit sent the smaller fair-headed man's sword flying. He scrambled after it, momentarily leaving Sherlock to guard his back.
The Prince tried to parry another strong blow with the weird candlestick thing, but it broke under the impact and Sherlock had just enough time to jump backwards and dodge the slash. This sudden movement made him lose his momentum, and he stumbled back. The man sent the Prince flying against a chair with a kick and put his sword to Sherlock's throat with a furious growl.
Stupid stupid stupid! I should have known better!
He knew the man would not hesitate. He was out for blood.
The Prince frantically looked around him for some solution, but there was nothing close enough to him. He was going to die here, on a stupid diplomatic mission. On the ground and unarmed. Seriously, if there had been a next time he would have forced Mycroft to move his lazy backside and go to Camelot himself. He closed his eyes and waited for the sword pressing against his throat to slash it open.
He heard a faint sound of footsteps behind his executioner and slowly crept one eye open. The man holding him at sword point crunched his eyebrows and started to turn his head to look behind him, but he was knocked out before he knew what was going on.
The fair-headed man rubbed his fist with a smirk and helped Sherlock up.
'What should we do with him?'
Sherlock's answer was immediate.
'Tie him and leave it to the villagers to decide.'
His mouth then twitched into a weird scowl. He did not like admitting he had needed help.
'Thanks for, you know.' He looked down. 'Saving me.'
The other man smiled.
'No problem.' He gestured in the bar's direction. 'What about bringing the girl to a healer? She seemed very frightened and to be in a pretty poor shape.'
A few minutes later, the other man and Sherlock had brought little Lily to the town's healer. The man had wanted to ask someone the location of the healer's house, but no villager was up at this unearthly hour of the morning. He had been about to go back to the tavern and wait for the holder to show up again when Sherlock had yawned and tiredly raised his arm to point a house near the village's entrance. The man had cast him a questioning look and been really surprised to see Sherlock had been right when a kind-looking healer had answered the door. The woman had fluffed over the 'poor red-haired thing' and closed the door, leaving the two men to stand awkwardly in front of the house, waiting for news.
The fair-headed man, whom the woman had called 'John', fidgeted on his feet for the third time in a minute. After a few more seconds, he looked at Sherlock, and finally started the conversation.
'Why did you help me?'
'Why did you want to stop the man from hurting a druid in the first place?' Sherlock shot back. He did not let the man answer though. 'We are near Camelot, and most people here are opposed if not downright hostile towards magic.'
Sherlock smirked.
'But you obviously are not from here. You were a head knight in Essetir until one year ago, when you decided to leave the country. You have never returned there because you would be in danger. You suffer from a limp in the right leg, which disappears when a fight's adrenalin kicks in. You also have a little brother called Harry that hasmagic and lives with a group of druids.'
John's eyes were round as saucers but he managed to choke out a: 'Stop reading my thoughts!'
The younger man grinned before answering.
'Am not. I simply observe. The way you reacted back in the tavern shows you have a close relative that has magic. You also acted very protectively, which means this relative is younger than you. You were reading a letter from a certain Harry that, from the type of paper linen and ink he used, lives with the druids. Younger brother with magic. The fact you were a knight but stopped is obvious because of your general stance.'
John shot him a mock-offended look.
'Oh, come on. You hold yourself square and straight even while eating breakfast. It is so obvious. You carry a fine-crafted sword, so you could be a rich merchant, but you keep it close to you in a way only soldiers do. You are not on duty though, and have not been for quite a long time, because you have not sharpened your sword for a long time. There was no need for it off duty. As for your limp, you were leaning slightly on your left leg while sitting, which means the right one bothers you. It was injured during battle and left an underlying ache, which disappears when you are in the middle of a fight. Some would think you want a normal safe life, away from the war, but it isn't true. You have been yearning for action ever since you left duty.'
Sherlock rubbed his hands, waiting for a verdict with a weirdly amused smile.
'Wow.' He grinned. 'And that was the hugest understatement of my life.'
'The name is Sherlock Holmes.'
:) :) :)
I just couldn't resist using that quote!
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