Hello, dear readers! I hope everyone is well and not too downcast at Sherlock's ending. Never mind, we have another Hobbit film and the new series of Doctor Who to take our minds off it... Anyway, I just wanted to convey thanks to all my reviewers for getting me past the 250 mark! Yay! Thanks also to Chris, Rosa, Nonimouse and Garnet Dark as I can't message you. And Garnet Dark, I hope you get better soon!

So, without further ado...

The evening of the sixth day found John in his bedroom wearing a three piece suit, polished shoes and uttering pejoratives about his recalcitrant bowtie. He had never owned an evening suit, certainly not such an elegant one, but it had mysteriously appeared in his wardrobe and he had given into Mrs Hudson's pleas about wearing it. His bowtie, on the other hand, was moments away from being stomped on.

Just as the bloody thing slipped from his grip for the fifth time, he heard soft footfalls coming up behind him; a pair of long elegant hands snaked over his shoulders, and with a few skilful finger flicks, tied it perfectly.

John smiled wryly. 'You've been practising,' he remarked, turning to face Sherlock – and promptly losing all capacity for rational thought.

Sherlock was absolutely stunning. A striking man even when he was at his most bedraggled and scruffy, now he was a gloriously handsome vision. His black suit fit him perfectly, highlighting his broad shoulders and long limbs and concealing his bony knees and elbows. His hair, only partially tamed for the evening, shone with its reddish undertones and the faint flush of colour in his face had driven all shadows from it, leaving his crystal blue eyes to capture John's own gaze and make him flustered and faint with desire.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. 'I meet with your approval, then?' he asked, his voice coming out velvety and rich. The bastard – he knew the effect he was having on John and the question was purely to force an admission from him.

'You'll do,' John answered with as much coolness as he could muster, and was gratified to see Sherlock lose his smile and start pouting in consequence.

John burst out laughing at that, and after a few moments Sherlock's smile returned. 'You're adequate also,' he informed John graciously. 'Shall we go down and get it over with? Mrs Hudson will be fretting by now.'

John sighed. 'I don't know Sherlock. I feel ridiculous in this suit. It's not my sort of thing at all. Could I get away with something more casual?'

Sherlock blinked in surprise at the question. He personally thought that the suit was very much John's sort of thing. 'Mrs Hudson would never allow it,' he pointed out. 'Besides, I want you to wear it, that I might have the pleasure of taking it off you later.'

It was John's turn to blink – and then that bright smile that Sherlock loved spread across his face. 'Well, when you put it like that...'

Sherlock merely chuckled and held out a graceful arm. John took it, and together they walked from the room, down to the celebration.

Mrs Hudson met her boys in the front hall, which was elaborately decorated with royal blue drapes and candles for the occasion. The candles in the chandelier had been lit, and the little flames cast spangled rainbows all around the room, which contrasted with the warm golden light from the candelabras. The interplay of light danced over everything there was to see, making the hall and its decorations look especially beautiful. Even the carpet had been magically turned blue to match.

As promised, Mrs Hudson was in a purple dress with a long skirt – they could see the skirt and some of the bodice by now – and silver embroidery glimmered at its hem. Raghnaid was there too, freshly scrubbed, her fur combed and with a handsome green silk cloak slung around her massive shoulders, fastened with a gold broach.

'You look very lovely, Raghnaid,' John told her, and she preened proudly.

'The cloak, Sherlock – it was one of your mother's,' Mrs Hudson told him, rather nervously. 'When she saw me getting dressed up, she wanted to join in and I didn't have anything to fit her –'

'I don't mind, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock reassured her. 'Raghnaid's welcome to it.'

The griffin in question rubbed her head against his stomach, and for once Sherlock did not grumble at her, just tickling her under the chin in an affectionate manner.

'And you both look very handsome,' Mrs Hudson informed them proudly. 'We're just waiting for Uly, he's dressed up too!'

'What did you do to him?' Sherlock asked in alarm.

'I put a sweet little bowtie on him,' Mrs Hudson answered happily. 'He looked darling in it, wait till you see –'

There was a hoot from the balcony leading away from the landing, and Ulysses swooped down from a dark corner to land on Sherlock's shoulder. Clutched in his beak were the tattered remains of what had once been a red bowtie, shredded by his sharp talons. He threw the scraps of material to the ground in obvious disgust.

Sherlock and John burst out laughing and Mrs Hudson harrumphed in annoyance.

'Well, really!' she exclaimed. 'That's not in the spirit of things at all, young owl! You'll look a little ragamuffin now!'

'Surely we can let him off just this once, Mrs Hudson,' John said, still laughing. 'It's his first party after all, and he's not familiar with the etiquette. We should make allowances.'

Mrs Hudson tutted at Ulysses, but then conceded defeat with a shrug of her shoulders. 'Now then, John,' she continued, 'it's your birthday, so you must lead us into the main dining room and open the celebrations.'

'All right,' John said agreeably. 'Er – where is it, exactly?'

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' Sherlock muttered, and grabbed John's hand, dragging him off in the right direction, ignoring Mrs Hudson's objections and the fluttering of Ulysses as he tried to keep his grip on Sherlock's shoulder. 'You've been here nearly two months and you don't know where the dining room is?'

'It's not like I've ever eaten in there!' John protested. Sherlock just shook his head in exasperation and tugged him along, until after a few turnings they arrived at a massive set of double doors, reaching right up to the ceiling, a height of at least fifteen feet. Unlike the doors to Cerridwen Holmes's laboratory, they were of plain polished wood, heavy and smooth, but with ornate golden handles, shaped like lions' heads holding rings in their mouths.

Sherlock put out a hand and touched one, and the doors swung open of their own accord.

John stared, and his eyes opened so wide that for a moment he thought his eyeballs might actually fall out and go rolling across the floor. He stifled a hysterical giggle at the notion, and wandered forward, admiring. Sherlock watched him, looking at John and his reactions rather than the dining room.

The word 'room' did not do it justice, in fact. It was a massive, grand hall built for entertaining royalty at the very least. There were tall windows at each end of the rectangular room, with the walls in-between decorated with tapestries and painted murals depicting anything from red-coated huntsmen to medieval pageantry to snowy woodland. The ceiling was painted too – panels bordered in gold leaf, each depicted a different sky. Cloudy, starry, clear blue, grey and stormy...

John pulled his gaze back down to the rest of the room with an effort. This time he couldn't restrain a snort of laughter. A vast polished oak table took up the bulk of the long room. It was elaborately carved, with ornate curving legs and surrounded with high backed chairs, made from the same wood and with equally ornate carving, upholstered in red velvet. John estimated it would take him a full fifteen minutes to walk around the thing. At the near end, absurdly dwarfed by the massive table, was silverware and china set up for three people, with a large silver platter at one place, presumably intended for Raghnaid.

'Is something the matter, dear?' came Mrs Hudson's anxious voice, and John reined himself in sternly.

'Sorry,' he answered. 'It just looks odd to see that table set up for so few people.'

'I don't believe the dining hall has ever been at full capacity,' Sherlock drawled. 'Despite my family's wealth and influence, we have never been popular amongst the magic-handling community. My father's talent for alienating people was near-miraculous, according to Mycroft and Aunt Cerri.'

John thought mischievously that if Holmes senior had been half as rude as his offspring that was unsurprising. But there must have been more to it than that – for all his impoliteness and misbehaviour, Sherlock had still won the affection and loyalty of Mrs Hudson, Raghnaid, Ulysses and himself. Something must have been rotten on the inside where Sherlock's father was concerned. For a brief moment he was not quite glad, but relieved, that Sherlock had never really known his father. John had the uncanny feeling that much of Sherlock's life had been a balancing act, with Sherlock treading the thin line between dark and light, wrong and right. Perhaps it was only the early influence of his mother and aunt that had so far prevented him from turning to dark magic.

John shivered. Sherlock would be an infinitely more terrible dark magician than his nemesis Moriarty had ever been. John didn't believe Moriarty had ever had so far to fall.

A hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump. 'John?' he heard Sherlock ask. 'What is it?'

John shook his head, unwilling to launch into an explanation that he wasn't sure Sherlock would understand. 'I'll tell you later,' he said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not at all happy at being fobbed off, but before he could voice any protest, Mrs Hudson chimed in.

'Yes, save it for later dear, or this party will never get started!' She began bustling over to where she had stationed the food under a set of silver dish covers, on a long narrow table over by one wall, making rather a noise. Raghnaid pressed herself up against Sherlock, attempting to nibble his shirt cuffs in the usual fashion, and in trying to thwart her Sherlock was distracted.

John heaved a sigh of relief, despite the uncanny feeling that Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid had somehow known where his thoughts were drifting to. Sherlock's potential, for both good and ill, was immense, John knew that much. He would have to keep a close eye on Sherlock once the curse was ended. The other man seemed to have gained moral strength over the past couple of months, but John was well acquainted with Sherlock's propensity for leaping into action without thought for the consequences.

Then all such serious concerns were driven from his head as they settled down to dinner. Mrs Hudson had outdone herself with the food, and even Raghnaid had a little nibble at the hen lobster and truffles she served. The griffin spent most of the meal daintily eating a huge, raw haunch of venison, however, careful not to get blood on her borrowed cloak. Ulysses, by contrast, spent the meal gulping down some dead dormice provided for him and then coughing up pellets all over the shiny table top, dodging Mrs Hudson when she tried to shoo him away and eventually taking refuge on the back of Sherlock's chair.

John just smiled at their antics. Sherlock, oddly for him, took little notice of his familiar's mischief or Mrs Hudson's annoyance, instead focusing all his attention on his lover. His direct gaze made John flush red and writhe in his chair, unable to quite meet Sherlock's eyes. He sighed at his own hopelessness.

Sherlock, for his part, could look at nothing but John. His fair hair, those neat strong hands that could tease and tantalize him into a frenzy, the movement of his body not quite concealed beneath the tailored suit, his predictable yet adorable embarrassment at Sherlock's scrutiny... Sherlock never grew bored with looking at John, never got tired of his company or sick of his conversation. He had no idea why, despite devoting hours of thought to the problem. Still, he was confident he could work it out, given enough data and mental effort. For now, he would simply surrender to the impetus and enjoy the effects.

Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid were also enjoying the effects immensely. Making idle chit-chat in bird-speak for the sake of appearance, they spent most of the meal trading meaningful glances and feeling a glow of satisfaction at John's bashfulness and Sherlock's evident infatuation. Mrs Hudson in particular sighed with happiness at her boys' obvious feelings for one another. She had always wanted Sherlock to find love and if she could have chosen anyone in the world for him, it would surely have been John.

Of course, neither of them had actually admitted to being in love yet. Either they didn't realise they were in love or were unwilling to give voice to the notion. But they had plenty of time to come round to the idea, Martha thought contentedly.

And erroneously.

The meal passed off in blissful ignorance however, and after dessert (chocolate cake for the humans and Raghnaid and a dead shrew for Ulysses) Mrs Hudson began to hustle them all towards another immense set of doors located midway down the massive hall.

Sherlock groaned as he realised where they were headed. 'Do we have to go in there, Mrs Hudson? Surely dinner was enough of a celebration?'

'Are you implying I'm not worthy of a big party, Sherlock?' John asked in offended tones.

'No, of course not...' Sherlock hastened to respond, before he caught sight of the glint in John's eye. He pouted, unwilling to admit he had been taken in by John's teasing.

'Now, boys,' Mrs Hudson said blithely, more out of habit than chastisement. 'Settle down. And yes, Sherlock, we must go in. This house has been silent for so long, but you boys can put that right. I want to see you dancing and being happy.'

'Dancing?' John asked worriedly. 'I can't dance!'

His good humour restored at the prospect of John's shuffling about half-heartedly, pink with mortification, Sherlock winked at him and then pushed open the doors with a flourish. Even Ulysses paused to take in the spectacle of the mansion's ballroom.

It was smaller than the dining hall though the ceilings were just as high. The ceiling itself was curved and arched high above them all. All down one side were sets of French glass doors leading to small balconies, with high round windows above them showing the night sky, and John realised that both doors and windows looked out onto the front gardens of the mansion. But it was not the simple design of the room that took the breath away, but how it was decorated. The ceiling was painted dark blue and was spangled with starlight – real starlight, John realised as he gazed up at it. The walls were painted the same colour, but inlaid with diamonds and deep blue sapphires and seed pearls, scattered in intricate patterns and glittering beautifully. The floor was clear, unflawed glass, and water floated beneath it, casting reflections all over the room and rippling wherever their feet touched the glass. At intervals round the room stood willow trees – not potted, but actually growing through the floor. John could see their roots trailing through the water. Their leaves shone with a pale green, opalescent light, adding to the rippling reflections of the water and the shimmering starlight and the glimmering gems to produce an effect that was... well, magical.

John wandered forward, very slowly, unable to think of any words that would do this enchanting place justice. Raghnaid, similarly bewitched, walked beside him. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson stood, looking partly at the room and partly at their companions.

'I'd forgotten how beautiful this room is,' Sherlock remarked softly. 'It's the work of Mama and Aunt Cerri, of course.' He turned his attention back to his lover, who was apparently struck dumb – only to be rendered speechless in his turn, a most uncommon occurrence.

John's appearance had not altered during the brief moments Sherlock had been gazing at the ballroom rather than him. He was the same stubborn, spirited, fair-haired, blue-eyed individual that Sherlock had just shared dinner with. But it was his expression that captivated Sherlock anew. That look of sheer wonderment, the unmistakeable proof that whatever horrors and sufferings John had undergone, the world was still a marvel and a delight to him. He might lapse into cynicism, or appear jaded every so often, but that wasn't who he truly was. He was someone... hopeful. He was someone with heart, to contrast and compliment Sherlock's intellect.

Sherlock turned his keen sight inwards then. John might affect world-weariness, but it is a masquerade. I've been forced to look like a monster – but perhaps it is as John tells me. That too is a masquerade, a disguise, and I am someone else altogether. Who, I wonder? The good man he is convinced is inside me?

Had anyone been looking in the right direction at that moment, they might have seen the tips of Mrs Hudson's fingers come into view.

But no-one, not even Sherlock, was looking at that precise moment. Instead, after a few more seconds savouring the expression on John's face, Sherlock assumed a mischievous grin and snapped his fingers. From nowhere a harp began playing a gentle, lilting melody. For an instant John thought that the music had been magicked out of the air, but then he noticed the minstrels' gallery, discreetly situated high up at the far end of the room, hidden by curtains the same deep blue as the walls.

'Show-off,' he said, the words belied by his smile. But he hesitated as Sherlock held out a hand, suddenly feeling very awkward and shy. 'I – I don't know how, Sherlock.'

Sherlock frowned, not at all happy for the second time that evening, but Mrs Hudson saved the situation. 'Don't worry, my dear,' she said, hurrying up and getting hold of John before he had chance to object. 'I'll just waltz you around the floor a few times and you'll soon get the hang of it. And if you don't, nobody here will mind.'

John was obviously squirming, but he would never push Mrs Hudson away and risk hurting her feelings. Slowly, hesitantly, they began to move around the floor, John shuffling in much the same way Sherlock had imagined and staring hard at his shoes. The harp played a waltz, slow and easy to dance to.

Sherlock watched in amusement. Raghnaid watched curiously, and then chirruped, striding over to Sherlock. Before he could react, she reared back on her hind legs, put one massive paw on his shoulder and grasped for his hand with the other.

Raghnaid laid her head on Sherlock's opposite shoulder with a gentle, reassuring pressure, and led them in the dance. She steered him around the room with sinuous grace and complete assurance, the unforged steel of her claws holding him upright. They whirled past John and Mrs Hudson, who had paused to regard them in fascination. The tempo of the music increased and Raghnaid spread her wings out to balance them, feathers whipping out around her like the most golden and delicate of ballgowns.

Then the music faded away, and Raghnaid released him with a courtly nod of the head before sinking back on her haunches. Sherlock smiled and bowed to her in old-fashioned manner, before looking over towards John and Mrs Hudson and beckoning to the former.

John came forward, hesitant but resolute. Raghnaid performed the same motion as before, standing on her hind legs with one huge paw on John's shoulder and the other swallowing up his much smaller hand. The music started again, another stately waltz, and John found himself being steered around the magnificent ballroom by the equally stunning griffin. He did not shuffle or hesitate. There, looking into Raghnaid's depthless, jewelled eyes, he saw reflected there the intelligence of a sentient being mingled with the instinctual urges of a world of fur, blood and grace that humans had long neglected. Beauty and the beast; embodied in one remarkable creature. She was not human, but she was a being.

Sherlock wants to be human, John thought. It's what I want for him. But Raghnaid's not human, and yet she's one of the best people I know.

'Raghnaid?' he murmured as they danced. 'I'm glad we met, I'm glad you're my friend. I hope you're happy here, that you're not too lonely for other griffins.'

Raghnaid looked at him with a curious mixture of warmth and thoughtfulness. She slowed in her movements, until they were barely moving along, just rocking lightly from side to side. John stroked her fur as they swayed, hoping, wishing that Raghnaid was as glad to be here as he was to have her, and then a curious thing happened. The glimmering ballroom seemed to fade, blur and change shape, melt away around them, and they were standing in a dense fog.

John stopped dead, and he felt Raghnaid cling more tightly to him. 'What's happened, Raghnaid? Where are we?'

That question was answered a moment later, as the fog receded, leaving them in darkness. John could hear the drip...drip...drip... of water on stone somewhere nearby. There was coolness in the air, but it wasn't chilly. John could feel a hard rocky floor beneath his feet, and he winced as Raghnaid tightened her grip on his shoulder and hand even further, ripping the fabric of his dinner jacket and scratching deep enough to draw blood. He could hear what could only be described as a sob coming from her throat.

'Raghnaid?' he whispered. 'What is it?'

She sang one mournful note, and an instant later a series of lanterns sputtered into life, illuminating the huge cave they were in. It was dry, with a sandy floor, with craggy rock walls and a ceiling boasting a few stalactites. It would have been largely unremarkable had it not been for the skeletons scattered about the place.

Griffin skeletons.

Author's Notes: yes, back to my usual cliffhangers I'm afraid :-p But don't worry, John and Raghnaid are tough.

The scene in which Sherlock and then John dance with Raghnaid, together with quite a bit of the description, is taken from Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus, first published in 1984. Carter is one of my favourite writers, so daring and imaginative. When it came to John's birthday, I thought of a scene from her book where the protagonists waltz with tigers, and knew I had to steal it.

As for what's happened - you'll just have to wait, sorry! Till next time, dear readers.