APRIL FOOLS!

(kind of) (and yes, it is a bit late)

We hope you noticed the date of publication for the last chapter, or else you might be very, very confused. And if you still are, we don't blame you.

The events of the last chapter are still, however, semi-canon to our fanfic. See, Gwaine is now un-potion-ified, but we'll leave it up to your interpretation whether or not Cas and the Doctor were really there.

Now that you have an explanation for "Chaporer tWelbw," here's this chapter, no strings attached.

Clop clop, clop clop.

Garman stared at the ground, allowing himself to fall into the rhythm of the monotonous sound of the horse's hooves on the dirt path, trying not to think too much about getting home. As he'd lain in Gaius' chambers, he'd had plenty of time to reflect between bouts of unconsciousness. He'd run through the scenario of his brother's death, analyzing a thousand times every moment he could have done something more to prevent it. Three clammy nights and delirious days of this, and then Gaius had declared him fit enough to make the trip home he was on now, as long as he rewrapped his side regularly and kept off his feet. Garman knew he'd made a speedy recovery, and accounted it some on the sweet-tasting mixtures Gaius had fed him, though Garman wasn't sure if he'd imagined them or not.

Despite his physical regeneration and the fact that he was going home, the hollow feeling in his gut made Garman feel less than whole. Garman wasn't even sure that, as long as his brother was buried there, he would ever feel at home in his own village again.

But at the same time, Garman wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep, even if Edgar would not be sleeping in the identical straw mattress across the room ever again.

Garman wasn't so damaged that he wasn't thankful, though. He was especially thankful for the rock in his left boot that dug into his heel. Its physical presence distracted him from the bitter thoughts he could feel pressing on his mind on all sides, ever-present.

His horse halted suddenly, jerking him forward, and bent its head to drink out of a stale-looking puddle of brown water on the side of the forest trail. Wrinkling his nose, Garman yanked up on the reins. Spotting a well through the trees up ahead, Garman dismounted the horse and patted its neck. "We can do better than a puddle," he said, leading it forward by the reigns.

As he reached the well and began to lower the bucket, it occurred to him how refreshing it was to be doing a menial task that occupied his brain and muscles. He was able to focus on the creaking sound of the rope and the squeaking metal-

"Hey!"

Garman's head whipped up, and he released the wooden handle of the crank. The wood clattered around as the bucket fell to the bottom as he scanned the forest around him, searching for the source of the voice.

There was a thunking noise from the bottom of the well, quickly followed by a series of splashing noises and curses.

Garman flinched and crept to the wall of the well, peering over.

"How… Who-"

"Grab that rope!" a deep voice called from the bottom of the well. Garman narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher anything in the darkness of the well.

"But who-"

"I don't have time to answer questions!" the voice snapped. "I have hold of the rope. Pull me up!"

"Okay, okay!" Garman sputtered, grabbing hold of the crank. He began turning it, clenching his teeth at the new resistance.

By the time a head of black, sopping-wet hair was visible over the side of the stone wall, Garman's muscles ached from the effort. He carefully reached over and grabbed ahold of the man's forearm, keeping a trembling hold on the crank with his other hand. The man's slippery hand grasped at Garman's arm in turn, and Garman's face paled at the sight of the man's bloody fingernails. The man's fingers were scraped and his sleeves tattered.

Garman tried not to stare as he struggled with the weight. With a sudden heave, he yanked the man over the wall, transitioning the weight from one arm to the other. The stranger rolled over the stones and collapsed with a squelching sound.

Garman cleared his throat. "How long have you-"

The man turned his head to look at Garman's face and frowned, surprised. "Garman?"

"How do you-"

"Nevermind." The man shook his head, attempting to get to his feet. Garman let out a breath upon noticing the man's twisted ankle.

"Are you-"

"Can I use your horse?"

Garman watched the man limp over to the horse. "No, I have to-"

"Thanks for the help." With his good foot, the man hoisted himself over the saddle and kicked the horse's flank, causing it to take off back in the direction from which Garman had just come.

Garman blinked in shock. "Wait," he said weakly. He took a few steps, then broke into a sprint. "Wait!" he called again when the man showed no intent of stopping.

"It's still thirsty!"

Gwaine's heart raced as he pushed past carts and people, barely able to accelerate to a jog, it was so crowded. He clenched his teeth in frustration. He had to get to the castle. He had to get more knights and bring that murderer to justice. However, with every step he took, there seemed to be ten convincing arguments to run in the opposite direction.

It's too far-fetched. No one will ever believe me. Hell, can I even believe it myself? They think I've been drunk this whole time, anyway. I was drunk that first day. Why did I have to do that? And what will they think of me, unable to save just two people from a Chimera?

Gwaine chuckled under his breath despite himself. Keemera.

Gwaine looked up, feeling a rush of frustration at how slow he was moving. Couldn't the people ahead of him see he had somewhere to be?

He was about to order them out of the way in the name of the king, when he caught the eye of Percival from across the street.

His initial reaction was relief, until the man began to wade across the sea of bodies with aggressive force. Gwaine did not like the look of the expression on his face.

Percival stopped a foot or two from where Gwaine stood. Annoyed passersby flowed around the two rooted figures. Percival stared at him with his arms crossed. His jaw popped.

Gwaine cleared his throat, and said as urgently as he could muster, "Percival! We have to-"

Percival grabbed the front of Gwaine's shirt suddenly, barking, "Where the bloody hell have you been?!"

The people rushing past picked up their pace. "Look, mate-" Gwaine started, trying to pull back.

"It's not beyond me to have a few rounds once in awhile. More than a few. But this? It's been three days!"

"Perc-"

Percival shook his head. "Who am I kidding? You're probably drunk as a bat even now."

Gwaine stepped out of Percival's grip and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the grease and realizing he must have looked a mess. "I'm sober now. I can promise you that. Now, you have to listen to me!"

"Listen to you? I've been waiting to give you a piece of my mind ever since you missed the first meeting!"

Gwaine grabbed Percival by the shoulders. "This is important. I know who the murderer is. She drugged me. That's where I've been."

Percival shrugged his hands off. "Look, Gwaine, being drunk for three days is one thing. But coming up with a lie like that, just to keep your rep-"

Gwaine clenched his fists. "Won't you listen to me? I'm not lying! Don't you trust me?"

Percival glowered. "Come on now, let's not bring trust into all of this. You were gone for three days. That's all I know."

Gwaine looked to the castle and wondered again if anyone there would believe him. He grit his teeth. They had to. If they wanted to catch the murderer, they had to believe him.

Gwaine pushed past Percival. "I don't have time for this." He felt a grab at his shoulder, but pulled away and dived into the crowd. Gwaine plowed through the mass of people, ducking between bodies. He focused on gaps in the flow of people, urging himself toward them, but they always closed up with the sway of the current. Cussing fluently under his breath, he doubled his concentration and pushed forward, feeling like a salmon pushing upstream.

He heard several indistinguishable shouts from behind him and the crowd around him began to push to either side of the road. A clacking sound raised over the noise of the street, growing ever nearer, and Gwaine saw all the faces around him turning to see what it was before diving out of the way. He furrowed his brow and turned.

A horse advanced up the street, galloping past the masses of people that had leapt out of its way. The man atop the horse was comically wet but his face was stern with determination. An idea popped into Gwaine's head.

"Hey!" He called. The horse was getting closer by the second. "Down here!"

The rider's blue-green eyes flicked down at him. His dark eyebrows raised when he saw Gwaine had no intention of getting out of the way, and he pulled up on the reins.

Gwaine breathed a sigh of relief and triumph.

"Out of the way!" the man demanded. Gwaine shook his head.

"I need to borrow your horse," he said firmly, then hastily added, "in the name of the king."

The rider frowned. "What are you? A knight?" he called. The masses of people around them were already stirring into motion again, a few of them staying to take in the conversation.

"My name is Sir Gwaine."

The corners of the man's lips raised slightly. "I've heard a lot about you." He looked towards the castle, anxiety creeping back into his features. "I don't have time for this. Get on."

"You're going to the castle?" Gwaine rounded the horse and took his place behind the man.

The man didn't bother to answer. Instead, he kicked his horse, jolting them forward.

"Who are you, anyway?" Gwaine called over the sound of wind rushing past them.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"You're Holmes? I pictured you more. . . dry."

Sherlock didn't answer, only picked up the pace.

Gwaine wrapped a forearm around Sherlock's waist to steady himself. "Why are you in such a hurry? Not that I'm complaining," he promptly added.

"John is in grave danger. Who knows where he is by now."

"John? You mean the mate who came to see me at the tavern?" Gwaine furrowed his brow. "What sort of danger?"

"Someone threatened to kill him two nights ago. I've been in a. . . compromising situation since then—this is the soonest I could get here."

"Someone? Does this someone happen to, you know, run a tavern, have shapeshifting capabilities, go by the name Marie. . ." Gwaine drawled casually. Inside, his heart was racing. He closed his eyes, waiting for Sherlock's response.

Sherlock's upper body stiffened under Gwaine's arm. "Shapeshifter?" He paused. "Did you say Marian?"

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "No, it was Marie. And is that a yes?" He shivered as a slow wave of relief passed over him. Sherlock was believing him.

"Short for Marian," Gwaine thought he heard Sherlock mutter. Then Sherlock said aloud, "That's where you've been?"

"Yes! She-" Gwaine started excitedly, but they rounded the corner into the courtyard, then, and the words caught in his throat.

A mountain of rubble and dust was strewn from where one rampart had once been. The grassy fields beyond the yawning gap in the wall's stones were in full view. Twenty or so sweaty men were hauling the wreckage into wooden carts.

I leave them alone for three days. . . thought Gwaine.

Sherlock urged the horse closer and called to one of the workers, "What happened here?"

The man straightened and wiped his gleaming forehead with his already sweat-stained shirt collar. "Apparently someone-or-other tried to kill that Watson fellow and now both him and Merlin are in the dungeon for. . ." the man squinted his eyes as he tried to remember, "'Sorcery' and 'withholding information.'"

"Arthur threw Merlin in the dungeon?" scoffed Gwaine. "For withholding information?"

"No, no, no, you've got it backwards. Merlin's the sorcerer, Watson the traitor."

"Merlin? A sorcerer?" Gwaine stared at the man incredulously. "What's gotten into Arthur?"

"More than you might think," murmured Sherlock.

"I'm just repeatin' what I've heard said, sir."

"So John's in the dungeon? Alive?" Sherlock asked the worker, sounding relieved.

The worker nodded and leaned back over the pick up a chunk of debris.

Sherlock barely gave Gwaine enough time to thank the man before spurring the horse forward to the castle.

They dismounted and headed for the steps, walking with a quick limp. Gwaine trailed behind the cloaked detective. Halfway up the steps, Sherlock turned suddenly, and Gwaine nearly ran into him.

Sherlock fixed him with a look that Gwaine couldn't identify. "Didn't you have somewhere to be?"

"Well, seeing as you're probably the only person who will believe me about where I've been, I am where I need to be."

Sherlock seemed to ponder for a moment before grabbing Gwaine's elbow and yanking him behind a pillar. He glanced around as he spoke. "Listen, this is going to sound hard to believe, but I have reason to suspect that your king's will is not his own at the moment." He paused, looking up at Gwaine.

Gwaine nodded his head. "Okay. So what do we do?"

Sherlock frowned, as if unable to tell if Gwaine was being sarcastic or not. "You see, there's a species of magical snake called the fomorroh, whose severed head is able to-"

"Look, all this magical creature stuff goes straight over my head," Gwaine interrupted quickly. "Just tell me what I need to do."

Sherlock seemed to be recalculating, his eyes squinting at Gwaine. He took a quick breath in and said smoothly, "Arthur is priority. We need to knock him out and get him to Gaius."

"Sounds simple enough," said Gwaine.

Gwaine stood outside the door to Arthur's chambers, pressing his ear against the wood as Sherlock paced by his side, keeping an eye out for any potential guards. "I think he's alone. . ." Gwaine pondered quietly, kneeling and attempting to peek through the crack between the door and the floor. "He's not talking to anyone, so I think-"

"All right, remember the plan?" Sherlock asked Gwaine, fixing him with a glance as Gwaine stood up and moved out of the way of the door.

Gwaine nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're going to-"

Without warning, Sherlock took a deep breath and burst the door open. Gwaine heard from his place pressed against the wall Sherlock panting heavily as if he'd just sprinted to Arthur's corridors.

Cursing under his breath, Gwaine leaned closer to the open doorframe, attempting to look around the corner and determine when he'd be able to slip in without Arthur noticing. Through his narrow field of vision, Gwaine saw Arthur stand from his desk, nearly jumping back at Sherlock's sudden appearance. "What are you-"

"I found it!" Sherlock announced. "I know who the shapeshifter is."

For a moment, a look of unease crossed Arthur's face, but it was gone so quickly Gwaine thought he could've imagined it. "Who is it?"

Sherlock began pacing, heading over to the dressing screen and yanked it around so the inside faced the room. The man did an impressive job of masking his limp.

"See this bloodstain? This indicates that while you were gone, someone was attacked, if not murdered, right here. Since you didn't mention it to us, it must mean that you didn't know about it. The only other person with obvious access to your chambers is. . ." Sherlock trailed off, looking at Arthur expectantly, whose eyes were following Sherlock like a hawk as the black-clad detective paraded around the room.

Arthur stepped in closer, his back now facing the door. "Merlin."

Slowly, Gwaine inched forward, stepping into the room. All of Arthur's attention seemed to be on the detective. Gwaine bent down and reached for the metal water pitcher that was stood on the floor near the table, keeping his gaze trained on Arthur. He crept forward, impressed that Sherlock didn't even glance in his direction.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, spinning around to face the king. "Merlin must be in league with this shapeshifter; after all, warlocks tend to conspire together."

Arthur was nodding. "Words taken from my own dear father's mouth."

Gwaine felt his stomach churn at this warped version of Arthur. Suddenly, Gwaine lunged forward, swinging the pitcher towards Arthur's head, knocking the king to the ground with a loud clang, accompanied by splashes of water gushing from the pitcher.

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment but was interrupted by a groan from Arthur as the king struggled to push himself up from where he lay on his stomach. He got halfway before his feet slipped in the water and he dove headfirst back on the ground.

Gwaine snorted in laughter but cut himself off after meeting Sherlock's alarmed stare. They hadn't counted on the king's regaining consciousness in their plan.

Sherlock looked the closest to panicked Gwaine had seen him, which was still not much less than serious. "Hit him again!"

Arthur had finally planted his feet on the ground but was still buckled over. He began to charge at Gwaine like a bull, but his eyes widened when Gwaine began to pull the pitcher back to swing again.

"Wait!" Arthur began to slide, practically diving towards Gwaine by now. "I'm your king! You can't-"

Clank. The pitcher met with Arthur's temple again, and he was sent sprawling against the wall, the slippery water aiding his journey there.

Gwaine approached the fallen king slowly, hissing through his teeth upon seeing the small trickle of blood dripping from Arthur's forehead. The king's chest rose and fell steadily, but he was out cold. Gwaine smiled guiltily at Sherlock with a small shrug, who replied with a long breath as he ran his hands through his still slightly damp hair.

Gwaine looked at the pitcher still clutched in his hands and chuckled. "You'd better be right about this."