Chapter 3: To Dream Of Another's Nightmare
Nightmares. Unpleasant dreams that cause
a strong emotional response from the mind when
experienced. Most typically fear, but also paired with
despair. They can be useful to criminals with the goal
of causing maximum distress to their victims.
Mary watched as Sherlock collapsed on the floor. His long limbs folded in a kneeling position and head bent down as he gasped in suffering. Both his hands clutched his abdomen in an attempt to smother the pain, but she knew it would really do no good. The curse would spread like venom through his bloodstream soon, and no amount of pressure on the entrance wound would be able to sooth or stop the flow. It really shouldn't have come to this, —not that it wasn't every last bit deserved— but he shouldn't have come snooping on things that weren't his business. He shouldn't have left The Isle at all.
She had come to know Sherlock in the past few moon cycles, since his presence had threw all her life off course, and she knew he wouldn't stop until the answers were all his to categorise, he was physically unable to leave any loose threat un-tugged, any truth undiscovered. Hiding from the royal police had been laughably easy for her, but his eyes were different, nearly undeniable. She wasn't stupid —far from it, to be honest— that's exactly why she knew she also wasn't smarter than Sherlock Holmes; but he, for all his high power, had a fatal flaw, and one about which he appeared to be ignorant. It was only a matter of time before he was going to thrust himself at the centre of something which didn't concern him. Sooner or later this was always going to end in tragedy.
Her family had had several ideas on what her life would be, plans laid out since she and John had been mere toddlers, and for a while that had been enough. Now, however, circumstances had changed. Holding her tongue and never straying too much from the line drawn in the sand wasn't exactly going to cut it any more, not when there were villains wreaking havoc in her kingdom to their will. All those people misbehaving while others stayed behind just because they refused to take matters into their own hands. Ironically, the ones who had taught her how to behave had also given her the tools to discard said roles when needed. Perhaps the whole of it was slightly dramatic, but that didn't automatically mean it was not justified or necessary.
Her own original intention had been different, but the moment she had set foot into that museum and felt the sceptre's call for her, beckoning her to just reach out and grab, a world of possibilities had opened up in front of her blue eyes. A chance to fix what all those royal families, —including her own— who thought they actually knew anything of the world and how it worked, had managed to botched up with their stupid decisions. She was loath to say John had been the worst offender of that.
Now all of it was in her veins, in her brain; the unfathomable ability being dumped on her as her fingers had closed around the sceptre's form, unpredictably growing stronger by the moment. Every action of hers had been a reaction to the things such a kingdom had hurled at her, The Isle of the Lost oozing its tendril-like arms into their lives had only made everything worse, contributing insult over the already pathetic injury. Snatching meaning and importance from the lives they lead. And maybe all the others would be able to tolerate it, but she had never been one for settling. This is what she deserved, what they deserved in return, and she couldn't trust the key to it all to someone who was a liar and a cheater at best just because he had given his dubious word; she couldn't trust him not to tell John.
She watched as the other gasped out shuddering breaths. His eyes rolling back as he was desperately clutching for something to hold onto. She would be lying if she said the image didn't conjure up emotions inside of her, but all of them were trumped on by her steel desire to just get everything back as it should be. And here she had the biggest probability of her plans and intentions failing and crumbling into sweepable dust in front of her, and there wasn't anything she wouldn't do to stop that from happening.
To her, it seemed as if she had been standing there looking at him her whole life. Everything she had done before tunnelling in on this moment a string of unreachable memories or visions. She was desperate, almost delirious with the need to eradicate such useless thoughts. She curled her fingers tighter on the staff, her other hand coming up to bring a strand of her hair back behind her ear as she sighed. She sent a flash of blinding green magic towards the pitiful figure, the lights on the chandeliers above their heads bursting with the effort to balance out the gravity on the room as it rendered him unconscious and unaware of his own suffering, sprawled unnaturally on the floor. Mary coldly adjusted the golden crown on her head and turned her high heeled shoes towards the exit, perfectly making her way to the outside word. Glad to hear only silence behind her.
The pain wasn't even the worst part.
It was excruciating and suffocating; pain like he had never known, all sharp, and deep, and scorching. Like the very flesh was melting off his bones, leaving him bare in the most fundamental of ways, never to be put back together again. But the horror, the horror was worse.
It wasn't that he wasn't terrified out of his pants, because he was, but it was the thought of changing that scared him the most. The curse ran through his veins, like a virus corrupting every cell in his body. Changing him from the inside out as it obliterated everything that could be left of him after that, and there was no telling what the outcome would be. He attempted to chase his thoughts, to find a solution or contingency spell that could help him, but they all scattered away as another wave of something rolled over him. Intellect corrupted and impossible to execute through the blockage.
Magic had never been like that for him, it was always strong, and warm, and powerful. Not even when he had believed he would be trapped inside his Mind Palace forever, resigned to wander endlessly bound to a magic he had created. No, this threatened to delete him, everything he was swept away and replaced. Not dead, but definitely worse.
He wondered how could he had been so stupid. The illusion of knowledge a knife undercover piercing him, fooling him every time. The both of them were supposed to have come to an understanding, a mutual cease of arms for respect of both of their feelings towards the king, but he could now see how naive such notion had been, which he normally never was. His reflexes were quick to come into gear despite the agony, but he could not even move his limbs, let alone try to retaliate. What was left of his magic after being drained the day before would not be match to the sceptre's power, —never mind the unexplained mystery of how she had managed to acquire it without perishing herself—. He was at Mary's mercy, his body ablaze while she watched him burning down in flames.
What he was able to see of her face through the pain was cold, a stern and logical gaze that told him nothing. Nothing but how nearsighted he had been, thinking he and John could stay on top of everything. Believing what they did had no consequences at all. He ran across the invisible halls of his Mind Palace, in search for something that would aid him, calm him down and shield him from reality and what his body experienced; but the pain was filtering through his mental processes, not even his own brain could protect him from it as he was cautious to go too deep; knowing what lurked beneath there.
Something fleeted across her face then. There and gone a second later as he struggled not to cry out in agony. She raised the sceptre towards him, appearing to him as in slow motion as he waited for something worse than a curse to befall him. Mary sighed and stroke, then everything faded to a silent black.
Nothing in the kingdom could have ever prepared Lestrade for the sight that greeted them when they managed to enter the museum's Villain Hall. The lights on the chandeliers over their heads were off for some reason, making it difficult to navigate through the exhibition and lending a quite eerie atmosphere to the hall, but the figure lying crumbled on the floor at the centre of it was unmistakable even in darkness. Their friend was lying in front of his mother's sceptre, so still that for a moment they thought him to be dead. The both of them ran towards him, letting out a collective sigh of relief when they noticed he was still breathing, if a bit on the shallow side, but definitely alive.
Irene crouched down beside him, urgently reaching her delicate hand to remove the purple hair from the other's face, trying to take a glance at his face; just then realising how bizarre his skin shimmered in the darkness. She rolled him over to his back, while Lestrade stayed behind, a hand scratching his own arm and looking in worry at her attempts to bring him back into consciousness. Neither said a word, but they could see how bad the damage was just by the fact that Sherlock didn't seem to be responding.
"Sherlock!" She said. "Don't be an idiot, wake up." The girl's frustration was apparent, it rose the longer he went without waking up. She wrapped her fingers around his shoulders and shook him, near violently. When that didn't work, Greg placed a hand on her arm and gestured for her to give him a turn. She stepped aside to give him room, her olive gaze locked in his and radiating worry as she nervously crossed her arms over her chest.
Lestrade knelt next to the boy and regarded him. He cracked his knuckles, and with the force he could muster, he slapped him. Irene was ready to berate him, but stopped the moment Sherlock opened his grey eyes. The boy took an anguished gasp at the onslaught of input, choking on the air he couldn't manage to take into his lungs as if he were thousands of miles under the sea with drowning as his only possible relief. His panicked gaze landed on the other's as he crushed Greg's arm in a white-knuckled grip.
They attempted to tug him into a sitting position to allow for him to breath more easily, but the violet haired boy couldn't hold his own weight, slumping forward as a bag of potatoes and banging his head on the older boy's shoulder quite forcefully. His expression closed off in pain. "Blimey, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, almost startling back from surprise when he watched how his skin shimmered and changed, almost as if it couldn't decide what colour it had to be. "You might want to think of a spell for that." He said. The boy didn't answer, clearly in no state to do either as he writhed on the floor. "What the fuck happened to you?" Greg asked.
"M- Mary." Was all Sherlock could force himself to respond through his gritted teeth, doubling in half as the other two stayed silent. His shaking fingers unable to stay still. 'Terrified' one would call it if one did not know Sherlock, The Dragon Holmes.
Lestrade turned to look at the girl with the indigo hair, the both of them sharing a worried expression as they struggled to comment. Irene sighed, "We need to call John." She stated, already retrieving her mobile to phone for something close to emergency magical services. "Lady Hudson may-" She started, but a disagreeing sound stopped her on her tracks. The mouth from where it had come was pressed tightly, its owner shaking his head with an inhaled wheezing. "No?" Irene paused, incredulous. One hand coming to her own waist as they waited for an explanation.
"You need to go to hosp-" Lestrade's words were confused as he frowned. Sherlock, even through all that, still found a way to manage a condescending stare at the other. The dark haired had half a mind to slap the boy's impossible attitude for good measure, but he was genuinely concerned about him. His arms extended to lean the other back and inspect his face. Trying to absorb what he meant between bouts of heaving.
"Isle." Sherlock gasped, the only explanation he appeared to be able to give. Irene rushed forward, crouching in front of him again as her red lips disappeared from the pressure of biting them. Her olive gaze ran thought his form as if willing his body to reveal the complex logic behind his words. Greg thought he was probably delusional.
"What?" The girl asked, grabbing his hand to draw his attention away from the torture he was clearly experiencing.
"I-isle!" The other insisted, a sulky tone on his pained word. Definitely delusional, then. The rebel wriggled out of the hold and dropped to the floor, possibly ready to crawl there if they refused to assist him.
"Okay, okay." Greg let him go, showing his hands in surrender, "Can you stand up?" He asked, the glare from the other went actively ignored. "Even cursed you're still a menace." He mumbled as he passed a strong arm under his torso to lift him up. After a few moments of fumbling, Lestrade stood up, Sherlock draped over his shoulders like a dead weight as he carried him towards the exit. The boy had incoherently protested to being lifted up at first, but the pain was too great for him to put up much resistance, so he slumped awkwardly, resigned to his fate as Irene watched him carefully while she walked to their right.
"Let's go." She said, and stayed silent the rest of the way.
Despite what Sherlock would say, the decorations had actually turned out quite lovely, if Molly could say so herself. The various tables where arranged in the clearing between the forest and the Enchanted Lake, different blue and white tablecloths draped over them as big, soft pink ribbons and bows tied up the look. The sweets table held all sort of delicious sugary goods arranged in holders and tiny platforms at the ends, a space awaiting the cake at the centre. Several people were laid over beach towels and picnic fabrics all around the water, they laughed and ate the canapés she had prepared, as if they didn't have a care in the world. As if it hadn't been less than twenty four hours when they had been scared out of their pastel clothes.
Molly watched the scene unfold from her place in the stone platform above the water, the architecture around her accented with blue ribbons that climbed up the columns in similar fashion than those of the vines made up from tiny cobalt flowers. A big banner hung from between the pillars with 'Happy name day, Molly!' etched in big bold type at its centre. It was all quite perfect, except for the fact that several of her friends had yet to arrive, not to mention her boyfriend was also a no show so far.
"Looks like Lestrade forgot your name day." A voice cut the thoughts right out from her mind, startling her into the present. She turned her wide brown eyes to him in surprise, watching him complacently smile at her. Molly bit her lip and failed to comment, her gaze once again fixed on the path of arrival.
"Shut up, Anderson." Said Janine from their right as she inspected the gift bench, an annoyed grimace over her strong features as she regarded the boy, knowing perfectly well what he attempted to do. She placed a hand over her own waist as she glared him into silence.
Molly ignored both of them as long as she could, but found she was helpless from refuting them. "Maybe not." She was quick to insist, tugging at the long sleeves of her light jumper. "Maybe he just took the wrong trail or something." They must be on their way, there was no possibility that he would fail to show up, "Or maybe they don't even celebrate name days on The Isle." The words kept coming, to the point where she no longer knew who she was trying to convince; Greg had been a perfect boyfriend so far and she couldn't doubt him. If he was not there there had to be a valid reason. "Like a cultural thing." She finished lamely.
"Or maybe he just forgot." Anderson replied, his smug tone bringing and end to her nervous, very conscious illusion of hope. She fiddled with her ponytail to stop from saying something else, she didn't exactly appreciate his attempts to mock her for believing in Lestrade, specially when he, himself, was somewhat obsessed with the notion of attempting —there was no way he would ever let him— to become Sherlock's friend.
"Hey, Philip." Janine said, pointing towards the rocks at he the edge of the crystalline waters. "Look! they're having a water gun competition." Her words appeared cheerful, but the clear exasperation on them shone through to everyone but him. Molly let out a sigh of relief when his eyes alighted in interest and he stumbled to join, yelling 'Wait for me!' while he rushed away form them and up the rocky hill.
The calm lasted for a few seconds before it was broken. "I'm sure they're on their way." Janine assured, her half smile honest as the other nodded absentmindedly. In reality, she had a horrible feeling of dread when she questioned the reason for their absence, dismay growing the longer they took. Specially since something that involved the four of them —John now hopelessly clumped with them as Sherlock was often glued to his hip— never forbade something positive. Often quite the catastrophic opposite.
"What if he isn't?" She asked, because what if they never really showed up? Would that cancel what she thought was real? All the progress they had made? She turned her head away from Janine, not able to face the answer that was sure to materialise on her honest features at such question and waited impatiently.
But her silent agitation was swiftly interrupted, a cloud of dusty pink smoke rose from the ground in the clearing with a bang, making all of her guest's heads whirl around in surprise. When the smoke dissipated, it left behind an unexpected figure.
She walked with confidence and purpose, her hair completely blue and pink. "Mary? What-" Molly asked, but there were no words to finish. Nothing that could make sense of what she was seeing. Even from a distance, that didn't look like Mary at all.
"Did anyone save me some cake?" The girl asked, a casual, nonchalant expression over her face as she strolled among the tables, as if she weren't dressed for battle and were not carrying a highly dangerous staff made up from black magic. The leather on her pink dress shiny under the sun and her heavy cape swirled behind her as she moved to inspect the guests who appeared even more confused than how Molly felt, which was a feat.
"What are you doing with the sceptre?" The almost brunet stepped forward to ask, raising her voice as much as she dared to in order to ensure she wouldn't be ignored this time; but the other didn't appear to care for her questions, she went on all the same. Molly turned to Janine in search for help, for someone to agree they were witnessing this too and all Sherlock's experiments with potions hadn't left her permanently delusional with their fumes. The expression she found on the other's face was a bewildered confirmation.
"Don't be expecting Sherlock," Mary commented, walking towards the table filled to the brim with sweets and reached delicate fingers to pick up a cupcake. "He's…" She paused, as if considering her words carefully. "Not feeling himself." The conclusion made a pool of panic settle on Molly's stomach. She didn't like the edge nor the intentional ambiguity she heard at such term.
"What did you do?" She demanded, all past worries about her party and her boyfriend discarded in the face of a worse threat. The former blonde had shown up acting as a friend, but Molly could recognise a lot of other emotions brewing under that, amicable business-as-usual was not on that list.
Her knees were shaking with panic, her mind spinning with all the horrible scenarios that could have befallen her friends. "Does that make you sad?" Mary addressed her then, turning her casual face to her, and brushing a pink lock of hair out of her face. "Does it just ruin everything?" She was calm as she said this, too calm compared with the acid dripping from what she was conveying. As easily as if she were talking about the near constant perfect weather.
Molly stuttered, her brain not forming the correct words to reply. Thankfully, she was stopped by Janine "Okay, time out." The girl said, taking some steps closer with both her hands up. "First off, great look." Her voice was friendly and managed to make the pink haired girl stop to listen. "Love the feathers," Janine continued advancing slowly, until she was almost standing in front of her, the other's expression became analytical as her eyes narrowed. "But maybe you can put the sceptre down, we will call John and we can-" Molly could recognise the exact moment when Mary had stopped listening, seeing straight through the thinly veil attempt at containing her.
"And what?" She demanded, stamping the staff on the forest floor, the first outward manifestation of her uncovered purpose. "Bring in more villain kids to fix everything?" Janine gasped silently and took a step back. Molly stayed rooted to the spot in disbelief as she watched. Not knowing how to tie the facts with was she thought she knew of her. That she was a mortal unable to use magic being the first thing.
The other guests had backed away, most of them frightened into stupefaction as they huddled in pairs or groups away from the altercation, but none of them appeared as if they were able to move their feet around and run. Perhaps as incredulous that this was actually happening as her.
Anderson, however, decided to choose the exact moment to do what he did best and make everything ten times worse. He stepped forward with a smirk and started talking. "Before you do whatever you're going to do I was wondering if maybe you wanted a loyal friend by your side?" He asked, Mary's expression souring the longer he kept talking. "A partner in crime?" He offered, running a hand through his black hair as if that would somehow convince her. "Or maybe just a lackey to do your bidding?" Philip said, apparently ready to discard his current obsession in the face of a shiny new opportunity. How feeble his loyalties were.
The girl regarded him for a few seconds, only to swiftly thrust her arm forward and send a green blinding light in his direction. As soon as the sceptre stopped shining, Anderson fell back unconscious. "Wait!" Janine yelled, but Mary appeared to be unleashed, not to be stopped by anyone's opinion on the matter.
"You all like to ignore reality so much," She said, determined frown gracing her face as she spun around. "You'll love this." The sceptre came alive again, pink smoke oozing out of it as tendrils from a poisonous vine. The ones present began to run but as soon as the fumes floated up and entered their lungs they fell down asleep, instant dozing with just one touch of the spell. "Sweet dreams." Mary said, her expression still blank as she watched them fall one by one. Janine slumped down in front of her, too slow to escape the rapidly advancing fumes.
Molly backed away, careful not to let Mary notice her doing so. The pink smoke was lapping at her shoes already as her feet encountered the edge of the platform; And she realised she had nowhere else she could go, she had cornered herself between the curse and the water. And that was when, like lighting to her brain, came an idea. The last opportunity she had of potentially surviving this. With a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her own body and plunged herself deep into the waters of the Enchanted Lake.
John rushed about his bedroom, discarding the stripped blue and golden tie on his chair and ditching the blazer. The light that shone through his big framed windows was dulled by the unusually drawn white curtains over them, now permanently closed as a futile attempt to prevent him from looking at The Isle of the Lost even in passing; he didn't exactly need the distraction caused by the distress that thinking about it and all its damned inhabitants brought out in him. He also chose to not acknowledge how alike to his father and all the other unaware royals such attitude made him. Like a skin suit that didn't fit quite right over his sturdy frame.
He took a moment to breathe out a sigh, placing both his hands over the chair's back and hunching over in order to cleanse his brain from the thought. John wasn't exactly in the mood for parties and celebrations. In reality, he had plenty to do that required his complete and urgent attention, not to mention the break in at the museum was still unsolved, and his boyfriend's sister was at large, and his dreams were being ruthlessly crushed before his eyes on top of everything else with which they already had to deal. Socialising now would be a complete and irresponsible waste of time that they did not, in fact, had; but Molly had always been one of his closest friends, since they were toddlers playing knights and princesses, and if the king allowed himself to let her down on her name day, then he had already lost everything he had ever stood for.
He was aware Molly would understand, would never dare to hold against him a decision he had taken in favour of the kingdom and its safety; still, John found it physically impossible to stop himself from going to her, even if just for a little while. Showing a sliver of gratitude for the countless times she had supported and helped him, specially when it came to Sherlock and the others.
The blonde waited for a few seconds then stood up straight, he nodded to himself and adjusted his white button down as if preparing for slaughter. He would probably be the last one to arrive; that is if his boyfriend even remembered the party at all, immersed in research and plans as John expected he would be. He hadn't heard anything from him since the night prior, and a silent Sherlock was almost more worrying than his stratospheric sulking alter ego. The king made sure to grab the big yellow gift he had bought for her and swiftly moved towards the exit when his mobile came to life with the very same girl's ringtone.
A smile was allowed to stretch over his face as he answered. "Hey, Molly." He said, guilty voice speaking far more quickly than he was used to. "Sorry, I'm on my way to the party now." He pressed the phone between his cheek and shoulder, grabbing his keys and then scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't currently carrying two and a half kilos worth of present. "The meetings ran long and-"
"No!" Molly was quick to reply, her panicked tone robbing the colour out from the blonde's complexion. "Stay where you are, John." She urged, he could hear shaky breath coming from her lips through the mobile's speaker. "Mary's got the sceptre and spelled everyone to sleep." Her explanation didn't really clear anything up, instead tangling the knots in his brain even more frustratingly.
"Wait, what-?" He asked dumbly, not even knowing how to start unraveling the few sentences she had hurriedly spoken. The giant box on his right side fell to the ground in a crash, its existence forgotten as he clutched the phone with both hands, willing it to deliver him solutions.
Molly ignored his half-formed confusion, dutifully continuing as her voice grew worried. "I'm gonna call Gran and tell her to get her wand." She declared, muffled sounds echoing from her side of the conversation, only to hang up immediately after. Behind him, Mike appeared at the threshold of his door, rushing to figure out what the commotion was about.
"Is Sherlock with you?" The king asked into the phone, his blue eyes widening as he found himself completely ignored, "Molly?" He tried again, his brain taking a moment to realise the connection had been severed. The tone on the other side sounding eerily similar to a flatline to him. He cursed under his breath and turned as he lowered his hand in defeat. "Mary has the sceptre and cursed all of Molly's guests." He explained to Mike, watching slightly surprised ginger eyebrows climb the other's forehead.
"My sources hadn't reported back a-" He started, his grip on the umbrella tightening. But John cut him off, shaking his head and pacing back as he distressed himself further. His hands shook as he punched the numbers on his mobile screen. Probably more forcefully than necessary, but gracefulness was not exactly possible for him at the moment.
"I don't know just-" He said, putting the phone to his ear, a chant of 'pick up, pick up, pick up.' falling from his lips as the other end continued unresponsive. "Shit!" He exclaimed, making his friend walk closer carefully, as if soothing a wild animal. His perfectly ironed suit wrinkling as he made big gestures to get him to stop.
"John," The ginger said, but the royal shook him off, continuing his futile attempts and trying anything he could think of to communicate. "Come on!" He yelled, as yet another line appeared to be dead to the world, not a single sign that any of them would be able to take his call. "Sod this," He threw the mobile to the floor, hearing the screen crack irreparably as he made for the door. "I'm going there." He declared.
"John!" Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and slowly pushed him backwards and away from the door. The blonde knew the situation was dire whenever his best friend turned physical in his intentions. John tried to shake him off but the other just strengthened the hold and forced him to look into his eyes. "Just calm down," He said at the face of John's overwhelming distress. "We must-"
"Something happened, I know it!" The king exclaimed, his cheeks becoming warm as his jaw locked. "They're not picking up and I'm sure Sherlock went to investigate even when you explicitly told him not to, and Mary must have gone for him first before going to Molly's par-" The words came out, John unable to halter the flow as they seemed attached to the breath he couldn't quite catch. It was all too much, it had been piling up for hours and hours and now everything they had attempted to accomplish slipped through his very own fingers in a matter of seconds. If something had happened to his friends he would never be able to forgive himself.
"That's not you fault." Mycroft stated, as if he had all but plucked the meaning right out of his skull. His expression afforded no question, though, just as sure of the facts as he had been since the blonde had been five cycles old and had found him wandering in a market, explaining to a vendor how flawed his sales plan was.
John disagreed, "Can't you see?" He said, hands gesturing to the entirety of his royal blue and yellow bedroom as if it were somehow proof of how very incorrect such statement was. "Of course it is." He said. "I don't know what she's doing, but don't you think that she has just a tiny little bit of a valid reason to have it out for us?" He was not delusional, he knew exactly what he had done, or allowed someone else to do to anger a kingdom worth of royals. He couldn't believe she was capable of doing something so extreme, but he didn't exactly have to wonder where the inspiration had come from.
"No, she doesn't, John." The other said, his back straight as he too was beginning to tire of the pointless argument. A hidden layer of worry for his brother and the fate of the kingdom painting his clinical words. "You're a good king." He concluded.
"No," The blue eyed replied, no arguments to be tolerated by the tone he was employing. "I'm useless." He sighed as he collapsed on his chair, stopping himself from stomping his feet in anger as his head searched for a plan, a course of action that could change his passive status.
Mike made a noise as he grimaced, John could see in him the same exasperation he often wore when Sherlock was being particularly difficult in order to wind him up. "You're a man of action," He said, hand releasing and closing in again on the handle of his favourite umbrella. "In fact, you're addicted to it," The truth wasn't exactly a surprise, but it was also something John was unsure on whether he wanted to dwell at the moment. He was ready to storm out of the castle and turn every single leaf to find Sherlock and his friends; put an end to whatever disease was growing in his kingdom and just be done with it all. Logic and sense seemed like a distant, unwanted memory right now. "And you've never stood by and done nothing when you see an injustice being done." The other finished, his face neutral as if he were sure he had accomplished something with his input. John was inclined to agree for once. The Holmes may be powerful, accurate-piercing scalpels capable of precisely cutting through the thickest of barriers —it had happened to him twice now— but he wasn't waiting around for someone to drop a bomb over their heads this time. No matter the cost.
"I'm not planning to." He said as Mike's eyes grew wide.
Irene was not sure how much of a good idea this was. She loved the island, that much was glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain, but there was a reason why they were thinking of closing it down for good, —not that she agreed or would ever really allow that to happen— and there was absolutely no guarantee they wouldn't be attacked the moment their boots touched the ground on the other side of the barrier; and considering they were dragging a kid along and their most skilled strategist was currently doing a believable impersonation of a dead body, let's just say the girl didn't like their chances.
"I don't wanna back." Archie complained, his grip on Irene's waist as they both climbed on the motorbike's seat was relentless. She was half worried they were never going to be able to pry him away once in The Isle. "I just got here." He said, the edge of his voice breaking as his dreams of Auradon sunshine were crushed.
The indigo haired girl sighed, the futileness of the situation sinking deep into her bones as she tore her gaze away from the island across the vast ocean. "Do we really need to bring him?" She asked Sherlock, who was still awkwardly placed over Greg's shoulder, attempting not to writhe in pain and fall off.
A moody grunt was all the answer she got in return. "Fine." She said, her lips pursed into exasperation as she grabbed the handles with both hands. There was not even use in arguing with this.
Lestrade carried the silver-gazed boy and deposited him in the back of the other bike they had 'borrowed' from the royal garage. Proceeding to sit himself and make sure the lump wouldn't accidentally —or not so accidentally if he continued with that attitude— fly off from the rear. He secured the control for the barrier in his pocket before they took off —if they lost it now they would be screwed in more ways than the usual— and turned the engine to life. "Okay, let's go." He said, turning to face Irene, his brown eyes searching for readiness and determination in the olive gaze. "Let's get his Majesty to the land of the the lost and damned." He smirked as Sherlock made a complaining noise just before they were racing over the water.
The island in the distance grew larger as they approximated to where they weren't exactly allowed to go. Irene couldn't help but hope Sherlock had a plan for this, and more importantly that said plan wouldn't end with them incarcerated when they returned.
Sherlock never thought he would ever relish feeling the islander near apocalyptic rain falling in heaps over his skin. However, knowing the alternative as the pain and wrongness of Mary's curse slugging through his arteries, the pouring water felt akin to heaven on earth.
As soon as the bikes were parked in one of the dock's clearing, the violet haired boy gracefully jumped off the backseat and fixed the coat on his shoulders. Brushing the sweat-stuck hair from his forehead and taking the deep breath of a free man. He turned his kaleidoscope eyes towards Lestrade and glared. "If you ever carry me like that again, I'm going to set all your gloves on fire." He said, his arms crossed as he stood brooding in front of him.
Greg frowned in confusion, unconsciously getting one of his legs over to step off the motor bike as he stared at the figure the rebel knew he made. "You're you again!" He exclaimed, once realisation landed on his expression. Recognising the curse had vanished.
"Evil magic doesn't work here, remember?" Sherlock responded, as Irene helped Archie hesitatingly walk in their direction. "That's the whole point." The words carried an edge, and were accompanied with a condescending look as his finger gestured the dome over them; but soon his face turned into an insolent smile as he turned his lean body around and started walking towards their destination. It wasn't like they had time to waste on any more standing around, it was already bad enough he had been made to wait —gasping in pain, no less— while the others struggled to get the means of transportation ready.
"Glad to see you're feeling better." Irene mumbled to his back as she strode to follow him. He could hear the three of them walking behind him, all of them used to the ruthless weather of their homeland. He swerved the crates and rubbish bins and waited for the questions he knew were coming to fall from the other's mouths.
Lestrade was the first to cave. "What happened?" He asked, working his legs to catch up with him and read his expression as he answered. The hands constantly curled up in fists now stuffed inside his trouser pockets, betraying his apprehension completely.
Sherlock turned to regard him fully, deciphering the letters which appeared every time he looked at his strong face. "Apparently Mary decided that being a royal was too out of style for her," He said, playful tone contrasting with his frustrated movements. "So she stole the crown and the sceptre and decided to try and join the super secret villain gang." The violet haired boy stopped in front of a sliding door made out of metal sheets in what appeared to be little more than a dump. "Right before cursing me, of course." He commented as he closed his pale hands behind his back in expectation. When Archie understood the silent command, he struggled forward and his small fist came to knock several repetitions over the surface.
"Wouldn't she need magic for that?" Irene asked, one of her arms on Archie's shoulder as they waited. When the door finally opened, a boy a few cycles younger than them stepped out, his hair cut close to his head and his eyes big as he inspected them; the moment his gaze landed on Sherlock, however, he smiled brightly and move aside to let them in.
"And I'm quite sure she won't stop there." The rebel nodded, striding in. The entrance opened up to one of his favourite boltholes. A big warehouse filled with second hand arcade games that had surely seen better decades, and several mismatched people milling about. Strange, bright music was playing on an old recorder towards the back, next to a small screen and couch.
Archie came alive and shook off Irene's hold, rushing to meet one of his friends there. "What are we doing here then?" The indigo haired girl asked. Both her hands on her waist as her gaze danced around, taking in their questionable surroundings, Greg practically salivated in delight next to her. Too bad they were there for dire circumstances or Sherlock would enjoy hustling him on a pool game or two
"We need the ember." He answered, smiling haughtily while approaching an old machine. He pulled on a lever, making a panel on the wall twist and open; a small hole revealed several tools and seemingly useless knick knacks inside. The silver gazed extended his hand and took out what appeared to be a small soft doll and a pair of scissors.
Irene's frown was practically audible as she stood with crossed arms, looking at him in scepticism. "You mean the ember that almost drained all your powers?" She asked, as he stuffed everything inside his leather coat and stepped aside. One of his shoulders came up in a shrug when he turned to them.
Greg came to join them, an honest frown on his brow. "Oh, yeah!" He said, throwing his arms up, tone not at all thrilled. "Like whoever that was is just going to hand it over." Greg commented, and Sherlock answered with a withering look to his incredulity. There was so much they didn't know about the direness of the situation —that he didn't know yet— but the identity of his magic-stealer was clear to him; and if there was anyone who could get that ember it was Violet Holmes' son. Not to mention there was no other option that ended with him not trapped, hiding away from the spell in the island forever.
"If I'm to compete against her and the curse she gave me I'll need my full powers." He answered, his hands now in his pockets as well, as if they felt naked without the presence of his magic now. The other two wore twin expressions of worry to the word 'curse' hanging over them like the island's black storm clouds. "Plus," He continued. "There's someone with whom I'd like to have a chat." The rebel could read in the other's expressions the multiple questions already forming in their minds; he sighed and resigned himself to a half hour worth of stupid or —as yet— unanswered questions during the walk to their destination.
Just when Greg was about to shatter the silence and engage the interrogation mode, the voice of Archie was heard from the back of the warehouse. "Irene!" He exclaimed, the other kid perched on the sofa and both of them with gaze fixed on the ratty television in interest. "Come look!" He said, beckoning them closer.
The man on the screen carried a microphone and was standing outside the castle; the beast statue standing behind him as he agitatedly reported the breaking news of Auradon as he did every mid-morning. Sherlock hated the idiot and his 'professionally objective' opinions on John's reign.
'The sleeping spell is spreading through the kingdom and still no one knows who is responsible or what do they want, the royal-' He said his voice through he speakers, on the images several people were seen sleeping on the most unlikely places and forms, as if they had suddenly decided on spontaneous nap time. There wasn't a single thing about it that was logical or natural.
The three of them stared in disbelief. "We need to move." Sherlock was quick to step away, just after taking a very small moment to stop and ruffle Archie's brown and coloured hair in approval. Irene and Greg rushed to his step, leaving the boy behind and setting their faces to determination.
"And what've we gotta do?" Lestrade asked, crackling his knuckles inside the fingerless gloves, as if already thirsty for 'messing someone up' as he always so very eloquently put it and Irene was not slacking either, her long dark blue hair already done into a perfect bun; her brand of 'battle stations'. For Sherlock it was enough to turn his collar up and make sure to not forget the calculations of variables he had listed in order for this to work.
"Deal with the devil." He replied, the words were ominous and followed them like ghosts of the undead as they left the safety of the small hide out.