Hi everyone! Loads of thanks due to my lovely reviewers, you've been a tremendous encouragement and a real help in spotting plot holes. More magical goings on in this chapter! Oh, and I know I said I was done with disclaimers, but while I don't own Sherlock or anything related to it, I do own the griffin (most gratifying!). So, enough rambling, on with the show...

Within the span of another week, the griffin seemed to have become as much a part of life at the mansion as Mrs Hudson or Sherlock themselves. Regular meals of raw meat solved the malnutrition and she began to gain in strength. To Sherlock's secret pique, the mansion's pantries had magically begun stocking meat for her, when they had never provided enough for him in his beast form – hence his regular jaunts after prey in the woods. Still, the new supplies meant he could scale back his hunting, to his relief.

The griffin's leg wound was also healing well, though her wing still caused John some anxiety as he had no way of putting it in a sling to aid healing. Still, it didn't cause her too much discomfort.

Tired of referring to her as just 'the griffin', John had also enquired after her name, but her name in griffin tongue – several syllables long and a real jawbreaker – had defeated even Mrs Hudson. So, after consulting books about names in the library, and the griffin herself via Mrs Hudson, he had settled on the name Raghnaid for her, which satisfied all parties. Except for Sherlock, who persisted in referring to her as the 'infernal Greek myth' and the 'featherbed in waiting.'

His grumpiness towards her did not seem to bother Raghnaid, however, and she continued to nuzzle against him and nibble his cuffs and collar just as much as she did with John. And Sherlock soon discovered a few uses for her, such as using her as a footstool when he and John had their nightly bickering session before the fire.

There was one awkward moment, when Sherlock, in beast form, came upon her unexpectedly as he rounded a corner. She had hissed and crouched defensively, getting ready to spring.

'No, don't, it's me!' he had cried, reverting to human. Sherlock had half-expected she would gut him on the spot, but she had chirruped in surprise before snuggling against him as she usually did. Raghnaid had encountered him in beast form several times since then, but seemed to regard his dual existence as a funny quirk of his, rather like Mrs Hudson's invisibility, and behaved with the same affection she showed him when he was human. To say Sherlock found this bewildering was an understatement, but he could not deny it was agreeable.

But best of all, since Raghnaid came to live with them, something seemed to have shifted in the relationship between himself and John. It could be accurately termed a relationship now, for starters. But the reserve he had felt in John, the other man's efforts to keep Sherlock at a distance, the sense that John did not find him wholly comfortable company, seemed to have melted away. Despite the fact that their research still had turned up nothing new or significant in terms of breaking the curse, Sherlock could not regard the time he spent with John as anything but...

Successful was not quite the right word, but it was as close as Sherlock could come in his analysis of the situation. He was not sure what had prompted John's sudden thaw towards him, though as it dated from the night they first encountered Raghnaid it stood to reason it was something to do with the griffin. Perhaps doing – or at least giving into – something John found morally upright had shown his stubborn guest that Sherlock was not quite the depraved individual John had cast him as.

He continued to shadow John around the mansion when in beast form, and noted that the other man was not nearly as jumpy as he had been his first week in the mansion, though Sherlock could tell that John knew he was being watched – a slight stiffening of the shoulders, a glance around at nothing in particular, John always gave the game away. But he did not appear unduly worried by the sensation, and so Sherlock continued to look his fill.

Sherlock had also enquired as to why John had been in such a hurry to get into the forest dimension, quite casually one evening. John had started before muttering something about wanting to explore, which was pertinently a lie, and after some questioning had admitted to seeing the servant returning from the hunt, being spooked by the sight and hastening to get away safely.

Sherlock, furious at allowing himself to have been spotted whilst covered in blood and no doubt looking hideously savage, had not bothered to enquire further, but resolved in future to save his hunts for night when he would not be seen by his companion. John had evidently reached an accord – at least in his own mind – with the monster after their discussion, but Sherlock, jealous of John's regard, had no intention of allowing John to become remotely familiar with his alter ego.

Besides, John's evident fear of the servant burned deeply, and confirmed Sherlock's decision about not telling him the exact nature of the curse. He would never tell him willingly – besides, with any luck, John would never have to learn the truth, not if Sherlock found the solution to the curse. Finding the answer would set them both free.

Sherlock was not quite sure why the idea of John's freedom being granted troubled him a little. So he disregarded it as much as possible, and focused on their research – or at least tried to. Something had to turn up soon.

Or so he told himself, as images of John swimming naked through the warm blue sea danced across his consciousness or the phantom feel of John's body in his arms impinged upon his sense of touch. The idea that the solution was just around the corner was the only thing that could focus his normally forceful powers of concentration on his and John's work – that and the ambiguous realisation that it wasn't his beastly form that had responded to the sight of John unclothed, but Sherlock's inner self.

Such realisation was a relief, a relief to think that it was whatever humanity that remained in him that had undergone such an intense reaction, not his monstrous self. It was disquieting, because whatever had awoken in him at the sight of a naked man had not died down with time. Sherlock had to labour hard to suppress it, and it reared up in him at odd times. So it was all the more vital that they make some progress at breaking the curse and fast. This state of affairs was maddening.

Yet another fruitless afternoon in the library found them in the sitting room, John regarding a sulking Sherlock (feet propped up on Raghnaid, who was gnawing a marrowbone) with equal parts sympathy and amusement. Sherlock had tried an experiment relating to visual perception with John that afternoon, designed to allow the be-spelled person to look through all illusions and perceive the truth – another utter failure in curse-breaking terms, though John had enjoyed the results.

Sherlock hadn't. The spell had knocked John flat on his back, and Sherlock, who was coolly and collectedly beside himself with worry, had just been about to yell for Mrs Hudson and her healing remedies when John had informed him that he could see stars.

'Did you hit your head?' Sherlock had asked as calmly as he could manage.

'Nope,' John had answered, staring in fascination at the ceiling. 'I mean literally. The roof's gone, the clouds have gone, I can see the night sky. It's brilliant.'

If Sherlock's glares (comprised of both anger and relief) could maim John would have lost his arms and probably a leg into the bargain, but he failed to notice Sherlock's mood, getting distracted by a parade of shooting stars. The spell wore off in a few minutes and Sherlock, incensed at himself (for getting it wrong) and John (for scaring him stupid and not noticing, not that Sherlock wanted him to, Gods this is confusing, he thought crossly), had stormed off, pausing only to inform John he would be down in the sitting room as usual later.

So here they were.

'Stop sulking, Sherlock,' John said good-naturedly. 'So it didn't work, we'll try something else tomorrow.'

'Such as?' Sherlock asked moodily.

'How should I know? You're the great magician, I just do the legwork.' John regarded him with affectionate exasperation. 'Maybe we should have an afternoon off. Take the griffin for a walk or go and have a look at another of those pocket dimensions.'

'No.'

John considered for a moment. 'Maybe there are some artefacts or books that aren't kept in the library that you haven't looked at? We could have a rummage in the attic and see what turns up.'

'No. I know every inch of this house and the attic holds nothing of interest.' This was not true, but more than one room up in that part of the house evoked recollections Sherlock found immensely painful, and for that reason he preferred to stay away.

'Well, do you mind if I have a look anyway?' John asked. 'Provided you haven't got a dragon chained up in there or something.'

'Don't be idiotic, how could I fit a dragon up there?' Sherlock grumbled. 'And before you say "how should I know?" for your information dragons are massive animals, usually over thirty feet in length even if they're on the small side. And yes, they do breathe fire, and have very strict notions of honour.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'Right, thanks for letting me know. But seriously Sherlock, perk up a bit. I thought that spell this afternoon was brilliant. I swear I could see Saturn's rings – the whole solar system, up close and personal. I'll never forget it.'

Sherlock looked bemused. 'The what?'

'The solar system – you do know about the solar system?' John asked, disbelief beginning to seep into his voice. Sherlock shrugged.

'It's probably irrelevant to my work – I have never encountered a curse that required knowledge of the solar system to break it.'

'You don't know about the planets? You have no idea that the earth rotates around the sun?' John spluttered, still apparently stuck.

'What possible difference could it make if it goes round the sun, round the moon or – or – round and round the garden, like a teddy bear?' Sherlock demanded irritably. 'It makes no difference to my work, and that is all I care about!'

He pulled his feet off Raghnaid and started storming up and down the living room, just to prove his point. Raghnaid huffed at him before going back to her bone. John sighed, wondering if he ought to cut his losses and have an early night, as well as wondering at the fact that Sherlock knew nothing of astronomy but apparently had a working knowledge of nursery rhymes.

'Gods, I miss my music,' Sherlock muttered as he paced. 'At least when my violin was intact I could play to pass the time.'

'It can't be mended then?' John asked, rather ruefully.

Sherlock paused mid-stride, before heading over to the carved wooden sideboard that adorned the wall next to the doorway. Opening one elaborately carved cupboard door, he extracted the remnants of the violin with a sigh of his own. 'No,' he answered sadly. 'Neither myself nor Mrs Hudson have the magic necessary to fix it, and I haven't the skill to mend it by mundane means. And for some peculiar reason I can't bring myself to throw it away, despite the fact it is no longer playable.'

John stood and crossed the room to join him in looking at the broken instrument. 'I understand, Sherlock. It means a lot to you, whether it's smashed or not.'

They remained in silent contemplation for a minute, before John spoke again. 'I don't think I ever gave you a proper apology about breaking it, you know,' he remarked. 'I am sorry about it, you know.'

Sherlock glanced at him in slight surprise. 'It wasn't you that destroyed it, why be sorry for it?'

John tilted his head in thought. 'Well, call it collective responsibility. It was my idea to try and spend the night here when we all first came here. And I don't think I realised at the time how precious it was to you. I'm sorry it's ruined, no matter whose fault it is.'

Sherlock neither accepted nor rebuffed the apology, remaining silent in response, but the corners of his mouth turned up just a little. With a noise that was meant to indicate his boredom with the discussion, he shoved the remains of the Strad into John's surprised grasp and went to sit back by the fire, propping his feet back up on Raghnaid, who murmured contentedly and shuffled a little to accommodate him. John remained where he was, turning the violin round in his hands.

'Have you had it a long time?' John asked curiously. 'Mrs Hudson said you learnt to play when you were a child.'

'I was six when Mama – my mother – acquired it for me,' Sherlock answered offhandedly. 'I used to take lessons from a friend of Mrs Hudson's, a woman whose magic dwelt in music. She was a good teacher, and I passed the hideously out-of-tune phase before Mama and Mycroft got too fed up. Before my mother got too fed up anyway.' Sherlock paused in his recollections, as a memory returned unbidden to him.

'I used to play for her in this room, in fact. She would sit there –' gesturing at the sofa, '– and I would stand before the fireplace and scrape away. My mother always loved anything one could dance to. On one occasion she got hold of Mycroft and made him dance while I played. He was mortified of course, so I kept the music going as long as I could. He wasn't a bad dancer, as it turned out.'

Sherlock's eyes lost sight of the living room as it was now, recollecting that long ago afternoon, the flushed cheeks of his elder brother belied by his grudging smile, his mother's merry laughter and his own delightful sense of being someone's partner in mischief. His Aunt Cerridwen, a weather witch who had been staying with them at the time, had come downstairs to find out the source of the noise and promptly joined in, conjuring bright sunlight that sparkled through the windows as she did so. How different the mansion had been then – full of life and escapade and unpredictability, so unlike the mausoleum it had become since the curse.

Except... here he was, with a griffin as housemate and a new partner in crime, who was both fascinating and remarkably annoying, and anything but predictable.

Sherlock's black mood faded as he contemplated the life that had returned to the mansion since John had arrived there. For all their lack of success in breaking the curse, his existence was no longer the grey, misery-filled vastness he had known for five interminable years. It was bearable – more than bearable.

With a wry smile on his face, Sherlock returned to the here and now, and turned his head to look at the still unmoving John. And then he felt it – a pulse that travelled through the air and caught at his heart, causing it to tighten for the briefest of moments.

And then John's legs gave out beneath him and he fell quietly to the floor, the violin falling from nerveless fingers with a soft thud.

Sherlock sprang up from his chair, fell headlong over Raghnaid, who squawked a protest, and crawled to John on his hands and knees. 'John?' he asked frantically. 'John!' He laid a hand on the other man's chest, and was relieved to feel the steady rhythm under his palm. John's breathing was even, and Sherlock realised he had simply fainted, though he had no idea why.

Very carefully, he got one arm underneath John's shoulders and the other under his knees and lifted him, cradling him gently, before laying him down on the sofa. John did not appear to be injured, nor had he displayed any symptoms of illness before passing out. Sherlock frowned. What had just happened?

There was another call from Raghnaid, and Sherlock realised that she had left the hearth and crossed over to where the sideboard stood. She was nuzzling something on the carpet, and Sherlock, though loath to leave John, went to see what she was indicating. She looked up at him with a distinct glimmer in her eye, and shifted aside.

His violin lay there – but it was no longer broken and smashed, but whole, undamaged and perfect, as though it had never been touched by any hands but his loving, musical ones.

Sherlock crouched down and picked it up, staring in utter incredulity, which swiftly gave way to sheer delight. His beloved violin, restored to its former glory. He stood back up and leapt over to kneel beside John, still lying on the sofa. Gently, he ran his hand over the other man's soft hair. 'John?' he asked softly. 'Can you hear me?'

John stirred, blinking awake, surfacing as a swimmer would from a long dive. 'Good grief,' he muttered, trying to focus. 'What the hell just happened? I feel like I got hit by a lorry and dragged for half a mile.'

'John, look!' Sherlock held the violin up for viewing, clutching at John's shoulder in excitement. 'It's mended!'

John blinked a few more times. 'So it is. How'd that happen then?'

Sherlock beamed. 'Magic!'

John nodded blearily. 'You found a spell that worked?'

Sherlock somehow managed to roll his eyes in an overjoyed fashion. 'Not me, idiot, you! You worked magic and mended it!'

That brought John fully awake. He raised his head up to look at Sherlock fully. 'What the – Sherlock, don't talk daft. You're the magician.'

'I am,' Sherlock agreed. 'But it's as I told you: nearly everyone in the world has some degree of magical ability, it's just that most never learn about it, never learn to use it. You've been living in a magical place for weeks, having spells worked on you, learning about magic, tending to the featherbed –' Raghnaid squawked indignantly at him, having learned from Mrs Hudson what that word meant '– and generally undergoing a crash course in magic. So what ability you have has woken up, for want of a better term.'

John's face had gone very pale. 'You're joking.'

Sherlock ran affectionate hands over his mended violin, disregarding John's pallor. 'No, certainly not. How did you do it, by the way?'

'I did not – hang on, I was listening to your story, about your mother, and I just remember feeling bad about the violin getting smashed, and just wishing that we hadn't broken it – and that's the last thing I remember, wishing...' John dropped his head back onto the arm of the sofa. 'Oh, bloody hell.'

Sherlock nodded. 'It's not uncommon for novice magic-handlers to make things happen through sheer force of will. I used to make things explode or heat up when I was younger if I lost my temper – Mycroft would tease me in the kitchen to save Mrs Hudson having to cook breakfast.' He snorted indignantly at the memory before continuing. 'You'll learn control as you get used to it – that's why you passed out, it was a large working for a novice and of course you're not used to channelling power. It took a lot out of you, but some rest will help that. I wonder what your magic centres around? Mending my violin suggests an aptitude for healing magic – repairing, fixing, things of that nature...'

Sherlock trailed off as he admired the Stradivarius – there was not even a mark on it to indicate it had ever been damaged. He remembered how, when John had been patching up his feet, his hands had felt unnaturally hot – in retrospect, a sure indication that magic was, if not at work, then lurking in his friend, waiting to manifest itself.

'Sherlock, what's happening to me?'

The soft and apprehensive question made Sherlock look sharply round at John, who was gazing at him pensively.

'I just explained to you,' Sherlock began, but John shook his head a little.

'This isn't – this isn't me, Sherlock. This isn't who I am,' John said, voice very flat. 'I'm an ordinary bloke, I like rugby and going to the pub and working a steady job. I'm not someone who can mend violins just by wanting them to be mended. I'm not a magician, I'm – I'm just me.'

Sherlock stared at him for an iota, before reaching out and stroking John's hair again. John offered no resistance to the caress, and, emboldened, Sherlock spoke. 'This is you, John – it's a part of you. It's not some strange alien thing, it's a hidden talent if you like. You mustn't be frightened.'

'I know nothing whatsoever about it! How can I not be frightened?' John protested. 'What if I hurt someone?'

'You won't.' Sherlock said that with utter surety. 'Because...'

John looked at him wearily as he trailed off. 'Because?'

Sherlock looked a little shaken, and John immediately feared the worst – what if whatever he could do was malevolent? But Sherlock's hand never stilled in its gentle smoothing of his hair, and John leaned his head against Sherlock's palm, finding the motion ludicrously soothing.

'Because of something Mama said,' Sherlock replied at last, into the stillness of the living room. 'She once told me that the truest magicks were neither good nor bad, but – magic is both because nature itself is both, loving and brutal. The only good or evil lies in the heart of the one working the magic, and that's why you needn't fear. You wanted to do good, and that's what you did.'

John lay thoughtfully, regarding Sherlock's expression, which for once was equally thoughtful, devoid of his usual arrogance or impatience. Sherlock for his part scrutinised John carefully, perceiving that reassurance was still needed.

'Besides, you're my friend, John. I'll help you. I won't let anything happen to you,' Sherlock said before he had fully considered what it was he was saying. It made John's blue eyes widen in surprise.

'You just called me your friend, you know,' he said, startled.

Sherlock's hand stilled. 'Was that the wrong word?'

John smiled. 'No, it was very much the right one. You are my friend, Sherlock. I never would have thought it possible, but you are.'

Sherlock was not quite sure how to respond to that, but John did not seem to feel the need for further conversation. They stayed like that for a few moments, John lying quietly, Sherlock's hand resuming its motion across his hair. Raghnaid laid her head on John's legs, heaving a quiet sigh, and one of John's hands reached down to touch her gently.

'So, do I get to hear you play?' John asked suddenly. Sherlock glanced down at him. The other man looked exhausted, but at least some colour had come back into his face. Sherlock nodded to him, and jumped up to fetch the bow from beside the hearth, where it had been left lying ever since John's first day in the mansion.

He drew it experimentally across the strings, unsurprised to find the instrument perfectly in tune – John had done a good job on it. He flicked a quick glance at the clock, realising in dismay that he only had a little over ten minutes in which to remain human. He would either have to leave in short order, or else...

Deliberately, he started playing something vaguely Celtic, soothing and lulling, keeping a close eye on John all the while. John's own eyes were already drifting slowly shut, and Sherlock played with all the lightness and softness he could muster, and as the lament wound its way through the air, it did its work.

Sherlock ceased his playing, and gazed at John. The man was deeply asleep, fatigue having combined with the music to lull him into the arms of Morpheus. Smiling a little, Sherlock went to place the violin and bow carefully on the sideboard. He would fetch a blanket for John in a moment; his friend could sleep here tonight comfortably enough. John would have to rest tomorrow, which meant a break in their research, but that could be endured without difficulty.

His friend... so much for rationality, for keeping a clear mind at all times. But Sherlock could not bring himself to regret what he had said. They were friends, of course they were, Sherlock had merely put a name to it. The pleasant bickering, the working together, the adventure with Raghnaid, the strange liking and respect they had each conceived for the other... friendship was the only term Sherlock could think of that did what connected them full justice.

He refused to analyse what lay beyond that. For both their sakes.

Besides, Sherlock had a friend now, and he didn't want to jeopardise that by voicing his strange feelings and perhaps angering or startling John. He had never had a friend before. Oh, he supposed Victor Trevor might be counted as one, but the mild, boyish Victor had always been more of a devoted attendant than an equal. Sherlock imagined trying to order John about as he had done Victor and grinned. John would probably end by hurling something at his head and announcing he was starting a slave rebellion.

The clock struck eleven, and Sherlock knew his time as a man was up. He looked one last time at John, slumbering peacefully, and at Raghnaid, still lying with her head across John's legs, looking decidedly drowsy herself. He would go and fetch the blankets now, and then return to watch over John again. He would have to leave before his friend awoke, but that was easily done.

With that in mind, he went to the door and reached for the door handle – and froze, in unmitigated shock.

The limb that was outstretched was not the deformed paw and claws of his monstrous form. It was still human.

Author's Notes: Sorry, W L Chastain, but 'Gladstone' never occurred to me as a name for the griffin! 'Raghnaid' is an old Scottish name which means, roughly, 'battle wisdom.'

So, John's a magician... I agonized over this plot twist, as John's role is often to provide a counterpoint to Sherlock's wildness and eccentricity by being ordinary and practical. It nearly got cut out, but I so wanted John to have his own journey in my story, and he's going to struggle with the concept of possessing such power. I'll say no more for now, but please offer constructive criticism!

And yes, I'm cruel and cold, but I do so love a good cliffhanger! What's happened? Well, you'll have to wait and find out!