Chapter 4: Death, He Whispered

Death may be well defined by the act of
dying, of ceasing to exist; but it could also mark
the moment of the end, the most final and
inevitable of all destinations. A path that villains
and victims alike, must take.

He knew Mary was coming for him next. There was no question about it. The counts of people affected by the spell became larger as the events grew closer and closer to the palace. It left the king in no position other than to do something about it, although what exactly he could do, was yet to be determined. In just a matter of minutes Mary had managed to put half the kingdom to sleep and this was the moment his friends —specially his boyfriend who was arguably the most powerful sorcerer they had at their disposal, right there with Lady Hudson— had chosen to just vanish off the edge of the world. John passed a hand through his face to try and rid it from the strain the situation was causing him.

He stood up, away from the light casted by the lamp on the large wooden desk and approached the windows behind it, not able to stand any of the prints and papers strewn on the smooth surface at the moment. All those hours perched over them, attempting to not let the realm fall into chaos, —made more difficult with every passing day— seemed utterly wasted now. Not to mention he appeared to have been ignorant —and still was, since 'knowing' didn't mean 'understanding'— about a big list of things happening around him.

The book he had found on his bedroom while looking for clues of his boyfriend's whereabouts still clung to his mind. The same book Sherlock had left —more like finished reading and then promptly forgotten about its physical existence completely— spoke of some troubling secrets left ignored or hidden by the royalty for cycles and cycles, spells neglected to get fixed or neutralised scattered around all of them as if everything else wasn't already enough to deal with. The mild row he had had with Mike when he found out the ginger had known about it hung in his shoulders, despite how logical his reasons had sounded.

In light of all that, and the rate with which Mary was advancing, there really was no time to prepare an elaborate plan, much as Mike would loath to accept; and a few precautions were as much as they could manage with The Defender of Light at the wrong side of the kingdom visiting one of her non-magical sisters and not picking up her phone. All the physical entrances to the castle had been undeniably blocked, and every guard still available was standing in some strategic post ready to defend the royal family and their fortress from the oncoming storm if need be, but John wasn't naive enough to believe that would be able to stop a curse from Violet's sceptre.

He would be lying if he said the mystery of his missing friends wasn't gnawing at his soul too. Sherlock probably would have figured out what was happening, and by whose hand by now, and John expected they would have gone into hiding somewhere, or most likely for them into destruction mode; but there hadn't been any reports from defiance or confrontation from Mike's informants. All of them had just vanished, leaving him there with no means of rescue or aid for both them and himself. The blonde sighed as his hands curled up in fists; he just hoped they were unharmed; specially since Mary was probably going after him too.

Waiting for her to show up would accomplish nothing but make them more vulnerable, possibly victims of the same fate as the rest of the kingdom. If Sherlock were there he would be yelling to the heavens how stupid of a course of action standing on the balcony with the biggest target on his forehead was. But there was still a part of John that wished to understand, that wished to erase the betrayal and suspicion drawn in his mind which he knew neither of them deserved to forget. It was as close as a physical need as he had experienced, —humans and magical beings alike excelling at denial— and he felt he owed it to his kingdom to at least get an explanation for all this destruction.

He sighed to the vision of the kingdom past the panels of his balcony doors, fighting against his body's desire to let hope grow inside him in any way. Allowing its vines to consume him now would be the worst course of action he could employ, yet its call was impossible to resist. An unmitigated disaster waiting to happen.

When Sherlock crossed the threshold his senses were attacked with nothing but complete chaos. The multiple bookshelves lining the walls were stacked to the point of overflow while several of its tomes and scrolls laid discarded on the floor by the fall from high shelves. There wasn't a single space unoccupied by some questionable object which showed no signs of having been used for several moon cycles. The violet haired boy had never been there before —usually going out of his way to avoid contact with its inhabitant and his simultaneously leering and dead-eyed stare, despite the fact that Moriarty had often made use of his services— but it didn't take a genius to notice the place was way past its days of glory. Left uncared for by unreachable magic after the fall from the villain empire thirteen cycles prior. Sherlock still wasn't exactly keen for a visit now either, but he had run out of alternative paths to take. Sitting on the chair on the far end from the entrance across the table, taking the fortune teller's place of control, he waited for its owner to arrive.

The man entered the room walking slowly. Evidently aware of the intruder trespassing in his lair by the unlocked door and drawn colourful beaded curtain. He stepped inside with his hands inside his pockets, exuding a controlled dominance over his person and his surroundings. His dead eyes framed by round spectacles analysed the situation, probably attempting to read him as he could so very accurately read him in return.

"Shouldn't you be in Auradon?" Magnussen said, the flat tone only slightly tilted at the end, showing how surprised he truly was at finding Violet Holmes' son draped casually where he had never voluntarily been before, and where he had no clear business or possibility of being at the moment.

Sherlock turned his kaleidoscope eyes to him haughtily. "I am in Auradon." He replied, his slender fingers fidgeting with the trinkets on the wooden table. "Although the scummy backside." The words were descriptive, not exactly derogative, but he could still see the moment they landed on the other's face.

Magnussen approached, the candles making his sharp features more defined and stark against the darkness inhabited by the rest of the room. A violent face even on the softest of illumination. The owner often came across as a deceivingly good mannered, educated business man, but Sherlock had no illusions of just how much of a predator the man was.

"Is it?" He asked, taking sure steps and placing himself on the other chair, amused expression condescendingly smiling at the violet haired boy as he crossed his hands over the surface of the table top and waited.

"In my opinion, yes." Sherlock answered, not even turning his face to regard him. His attention drawn by the voodoo incantations displayed on the walls in an array of colours and multiple handwriting. Possibly remnants of the few trapped fools, now nothing more than dull lights inside the rows of little hanged men swinging on a threat from the ceiling. The rebel frowned at their empty expression.

"Look at you," His thick accent was not enough to disguise the 'appreciating' from his lazy words as his dilated pupils rove over him, not enough to deceive the rebel at least. "Little Sherly finally all grown up." The man continued. Sherlock was very glad he had told Irene and Greg to wait outside and keep an eye on Archie, there was no way they would have been able to reach a civilised deal if the oldest of them suddenly decided to take offence on his behalf and serve him up a trademark blow to the nose.

"Don't-" He answered, a strange, almost forgotten sensation rising on him as his temper rose with no purple magical dragon to follow it, the link to which he was so used severed by the events of the last twenty four hours. Another sign that the blue ember was indispensable if he was ever going to be him again. If the curse didn't kill him first, John was sure to finish the job for being reckless and doing exactly what he had promised he wouldn't do anymore. "Don't call me that." He emphasised, lending a sliver of disgust to his words as his hands curled up tightly.

"Mrs. Watson, then?" Magnussen was quick to reply, his dead eyes boring into him in search for a reaction. "Is that all you are now?" He asked, clearly aiming for ridicule, prodding for a soft spot to jab his sticky fingers in. The violet haired boy wasn't impressed however, he had no time nor any real reason to feel insulted. Yes, he was half fairy of darkness, a race often attributed to females, the kingdom will just have to get over it.

"I want you to give me the address to your friend's favourite room." He said, cutting through the other's entertainment, making his eyebrows rise slightly in surprise, only to lower back into a passive stare as his shark-like teeth showed through his smirk. There were a lot of questions to which the silver gazed hadn't found answers yet, but he was aware of what Magnussen and said friend had done for Moriarty, —and his mother way before that, if his suspicions were correct,— and the only way he had to fight fire right now was to ignite it on its very source.

"I have plenty of friends," The man replied, casually scratching the bright yellow beard on his face, unable to hide its true colour under the dome. He stretched forward and snatched an ancient book from the violet haired boy's hands. Leaning back again and using wraith-like fingers to open it. "And none of them would appreciate such indiscretion." His said, just before his tongue came out to slowly wet the tip of his digits to pass the pages without looking at their content.

"Oh, I believe you can be more indiscreet than you let on, Magnussen." Sherlock smiled benignly and took care not to give way to any emotion on his tone. Dropping the sound until the words appeared more like a hushed promise. "Given the right incentive." He said.

"So how are you convincing me then, Mr. Holmes?" Magnussen took the bait immediately; and the rebel tried his best to contain the satisfaction of fooling him from his expression. "I'll admit I'm quite looking forward to it," The other man continued after a pause, still with a hint of suspicion —he wasn't a stupid man after all— on his voice, as if pushing to see how long he would allow the bluff to go. Magnussen leaned forward once more, the book discarded on the floor as he slowly adjusted his spectacles. "I've never had a prince before." He concluded.

'And you still won't.' Sherlock thought as he stood up. He reached inside his leather coat and retrieved a small object; he then casually let it drop unto the smooth surface of the table in a heap. The older man frowned in mock confusion, but seemed entirely unimpressed by the soft voodoo doll and silver gazed boy who attempted to make a difference with it. "Nice sentiment." Magnussen answered, "But I'm afraid I will have to decline," His words oozed from his lips as a finger jabbed the soft belly of the small offer. "With the barrier up this wouldn't exactly be a smart business." He wasn't wrong. The rebel knew some voodoo trinket and a half-hearted promise was not going to make the best blackmailer of the kingdom give up any secret; except maybe how to get out of his sight immediately.

Which is why the boy didn't stop there. He grabbed a pair of scissors and with a swift movement he cut a curl of purple hair off. Tossing it on top of the tan yarn almost triumphantly, as a haughty grin appeared over his sharp features. The other's eyebrows rose, and a small expression of approval painted his face at the prospect.

'Got'cha!' Sherlock thought.

"He finally lost his mind." Lestrade commented, his strong arms crossed over his chest as he angrily slumped on the brick wall next to Appledore Fortune's entrance. Gloomy light fell from the sky and casted shadows over the wet surfaces of the Isle. At least it had stopped raining.

Irene, who was much more gracefully leaning next to him, inspected her surroundings and turned to look at him, a frown forming on her perfectly defined eyebrows. "You know how that wanker is," Greg explained, he was aware his words were delivered too quickly to appear calm, but he couldn't hold them in; Sherlock was taking awfully long in there and the thought of something going wrong had him wishing he could just punch someone. "There'll be a catch." He said. "There always is." The boy sighed, pushing off from the wall to pace small circles on the pavement.

"I think he knows what he's doing." She replied, but her expression betrayed how confident she truly was at her own affirmation. Both of them knew the reputation the most powerful fortune teller of the island had, and judging by what they had witnessed when they lived there, it was very much earned. He was a dangerous individual, even without the aid of his magic, and Sherlock wasn't exactly at peak mental condition right now either.

"Does he?" The boy asked. The digits inside his fingerless gloves twitching as he recognised the same anxiousness on the indigo haired girl's body as well. "He didn't really see Mary coming, now did he?" It sounded harsh, even to his own ears, but he was still having trouble believing Mary would be able to fool all of them, specially someone who seemed to know what her position entailed intimately. He was basically her replacement, for fuck's sake! Sherlock might have suspected, —and suspected he did; Greg had heard the words fall from his very lips, although at the time he believed him to be delirious. Turns out the kid is right even when he's not trying to be— but not seeing this particular outcome on the horizon, even on the realm of possibility, was quite out of character on his part.

"No, he didn't, I suppose." Irene replied, her legs were crossed casually and one of her arms rested on the other in front of her torso in support. She pursed her red lips as if to rid herself from a sour thought. "Although I don't think that has anything to do with intellectual prowess, to be honest." Her olive eyes shone with meaning behind the statement. The boy didn't need an explanation for that.

"Guess not." He replied, the grimace on his face growing when he pondered to what end would that lead them. Their purple haired friend was surely incapable of doing anything by halves, unfortunately for them that also included self-destruction. The girl shrugged, offering no more insight as she returned her attention to the alleys they knew so well. The both of them fell into heavy silence after the words were done.

As he was distracted attempting to chase himself away from the thought of dread he knew was bubbling on the surface of his skin while simultaneously watching as Archie inspected various nearby abandoned boxes for forgotten treasures, Greg heard a very distinct noise in the distance. "Wait-" He said, shattering the uneasy tranquility and placing an arm over the other's arm as if to shush even the slight sound of her breathing. After a few moments, they noticed the rumble more clearly.

"Is that-?" Irene turned her face to him in recognition, coming to life as the two of them straightened in alarm and sprinted from their posts.

"The bikes!" Greg exclaimed. Running towards the clearing where they had parked them. He turned the corner of a cluttered alley, almost slamming his foot on a pile of crates, to see the last thing they needed at the moment. A couple of pirates sitting astride the vehicles, their hands griping the handles with determination as the engines roared under them.

"Wow," Irene lamented as they approached. "Rookie mistake?" Her irony flew right past Greg as his vision turned crimson red in wrath when he recognised the face grinning at him. His dark heavy boots slapping on the pavement, —rain drops flying everywhere from the earlier storm— with every step he took in their direction.

"Long time no see, Greg!" The man greeted. The long, deep red coat over his shoulders was hanging behind him, and his bright green eyes shone with unmitigated mischief. The other man beside him snickered at the comment as he started backing from the wall on one of the motorbikes.

"Get off my bike, Trevor." Lestrade growled, ready to launch himself at them and wrestle them off their —technically John's— property. If there was someone he could not find it in himself to tolerate, even a tiny sliver, was Victor fucking Trevor appearing out of nowhere in their lives again to mess everything up. Specially considering the fact that after his perfect-teethed mocking smile, cold calculating teal eyes were sure to follow; and that was a problem too many for them to handle.

"No," The other responded, faux apologetic expression transforming his mouth into a pout. "I don't think I will." Victor winked and drove in reverse. Rushing away as he tossed a finger at them. "See you never!" He exclaimed, his ginger hair reflected what little sun had managed to peak between the grey clouds as the two pirates disappeared into an adjacent back alley while the noise of the engines faded.

"Over the roofs!" Irene barked to Lestrade, as she took to running after them to not loose them from sight. The boy grabbed a secure grip over a stray rope hanging from the plumbing of a tall building. After confirming it would hold his weight, he expertly hauled himself up towards the roof; climbing as he had many times before and making use of any imperfections on the wall to reach the top in mere seconds.

He swiftly ran through the roof and jumped across from structure to stairs and other buildings. Rolling and rushing towards the loud sound of the motorbikes, as his heart pounded inside his strong chest. He ignored the satisfaction that doing this again awoke in him in favour of focusing on finding those bastards. He couldn't wait to break the idiot's perfect nose.

When he reckoned he was ahead of them enough to ambush them, he wrapped his fingers on a railing and slid down, planting both his feet firmly on the pavement below only to see the bikes turn a steep corner and charge right towards him. For a moment he was sure they were going to run him over, but they passed on by without slowing down. Victor's laughter howled over the sound of the engine as they got lost between the sea of citizens stepping away from the line of collision. "Fuck!" Greg exclaimed.

Irene arrived running, skidding to a halt when she saw him, both of them panting as they shared an expression of frustration. "Sherlock is going to kill us." She commented, neither of them very keen for the sulk of epic proportions this would cause in their friend, probably adding to the already worst week of his life. Still, they had no other choice but to accept defeat and return before the boy had to come and look for them.

Irene started walking, her strut particularly less prominent as they reached the outside of Magnussen's place. Both of them stood awkwardly, waiting for the other to appear as Archie seemed not to have noticed —or cared— they were gone. Greg just hoped they didn't spoil all the trouble they went through to get a deal from the master of blackmails by losing their means of escape.

After just a few minutes said violet haired boy came out looking satisfied. However, the silver eyes took one look at them and his expression instantly turned. "Any chance our bikes are parked in a locked garage?" He asked, a deep violet eyebrow arched as he stepped closer. Lestrade had the suspicion an answer was not needed at that point.

"Yeah," He said anyway. "Not so much." His hands immediately went into his pockets as a grimace appeared on his face. Sherlock's gaze turned to Irene, probably reading who were the ones who had taken them from the folds of her dress or the wear on the high heeled boots. The exasperated scoff which left his lips attempted to compete with ancient tragedies.

"So the bridge it is then." He commented, having resigned to the only other way they had to get back to the kingdom and stop Mary from causing any more trouble, and not the type of which they liked. Greg suspected it also had something to do with him needing to lay down a plan of escape if they managed to lift the ember off their intended target.

"We still need the remote to open the barrier." The girl offered. Lestrade mentally kicked himself, that hadn't even occurred to him. Not only had they just handed the keys to the kingdom to a couple of pirates who had been known for scheming with the violet haired boy's murderous sister to destroy it on a silver platter, they had effectively stranded themselves in a magic-less island designed to keep villain kids from breaking out.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Sherlock replied casually, waving a hand in dismissal as he moved away from the entrance of the fortune parlour. Irene frowned in confusion to his right, and Greg knew his face must be making quite a similar expression at the other boy's nonchalance. The rebel sighed, suffering from having to spell out why they shouldn't worry about Victor and Sebastian riding out for Auradon. "Archie?" He said, an approving smile growing as he looked at the kid in expectation.

"I lifted it off you," Archie said apologetically, reaching for his jacket and presenting said device up as evidence of his misbehaving. "I thought it could be useful." His innocent smile and big eyes almost took away the possible belief of that boy managing to expertly take something from the likes of them and being completely undetected,— almost completely undetected.

"Sweet!" Lestrade couldn't help to exclaim, ruffling the brunette locks on the kid's head as he laughed. He couldn't deny he was proud of having taught him something useful.

"You're making it very hard to berate you for this." Irene commented. Chuckling along with them in relief as she lifted the remote from his small fingers and secured it on her thigh-holder.

The four of them walked through the alleys in direction for the next and final stop, neither of them daring to comment how uncertain they were at the nature of it. "So, did you have any luck?" Lestrade asked, choosing to focus his mind and efforts in their intention, the endgame. Working to block out any other emotion but determination to claw its way into his brain.

Sherlock took an object from the inside pocket of his dark leather coat and presented it forward, the silver and blue key dangled from a heavy chain as light bounced off it, giving an almost otherworldly glow. If Lestrade didn't vividly remember where he was currently standing, he would almost call it magic. "Luck didn't have anything to do with it." Sherlock said, his smile incredibly smug for someone who was about to face off with the most inevitable of destinies.

The entrance alone was already promising to live up to the legends. Enclosed at the end of an old abandoned underground parking lot, —now an unused remnant of the days prior dome— the surroundings didn't look like much, the polished cement floor stretched far as could be predicted and the low ceiling over their heads made their steps echo on the confined space, yet none of it was particularly special. Just another low end suburban hideout now barely used by gangs or homeless criminals.

However, the big hole on one of the walls in front of them was enough to convey their destination was no laughing matter. It gaped at them like a mouth ready to devour anything that dared enter its dark cave-like insides. The black tunnel of nothing ahead caused the hairs on his arms and nape to stand up, as if his body were familiar with the desolation inside and were attempting to warm him against going in. Sherlock had no other choice but to ignore the suggestion.

He stood in front of it, the artificial lights above them flicking unstably, key dangling on a thread from his hand, and he couldn't help but think how ironic it was that this —Mary, John, Auradon— was what had finally brought him there, at the practical gates of hell itself. Its mere existence had always been a mystery weighing on his mind, luring him in; a myth he had wanted to explore for himself since he had first heard about it when he was five cycles old and still stumbling under the tutelage of Jim bloody Moriarty. It was typical of his fortune that he now found himself there at last, not to quench or satisfy his curiosity as he had believed he would, but in order to save something; and that, more than anything else, caused no small amount of dread to attach to his bones and arteries. Apparently, the curse hadn't been the only thing that had managed to change him.

Sherlock took a step forward and inspected the singed rim of the entrance and the wall surrounding it, recognising a magical hand as its creator by the mere brutality of the destruction left behind. He delicately traced a finger over the cracks, feeling them almost brim with damaged brick; a violation to the matter itself. No mortal would be able to tear open a physical passageway such as this, not to mention it would prove straight up impossible for them to connect it with the famed reality at the other end of the tunnel. The whole scene screamed at him to walk away, forget the hopeless quest and find an alternative, whatever that may be, it would be preferable —counting as red flag number two— but his feet stood rooted to the edge, not able to turn around despite how discouraging the calculations seemed in his head.

The others were standing behind him, staring ahead as if caught in a freezing spell by the daunting image. The violet haired boy was able to detect a slight shifting of weight on Lestrade's feet, clearly anxious about going forward. "Do we really have to go in there?" He asked, almost confirming the other's deduction as he attempted to conceal the shakiness in his voice. Irene pursed her lips at the suggestion, but remained quiet.

"You're allowed to go back." He replied. Sherlock could understand perfectly his friends' wish to escape. It would be stupid to go in there, guaranteed to end in tragedy for anyone involved. There was a reason why Magnussen was willing to give him the means of entrance just so he wouldn't have to face his so called 'friend' himself. But the silver gazed didn't have the luxury of other options at the moment. It was either death or fire in his veins.

Irene crossed her arms in disbelief, her frown displaying her faith in such a thing happening. "Yeah, like we're letting you go alone." She said, her voice flat against the echo. "John would have us gutted if we let you get yourself killed by the god of the underworld." She made no move to approach him, just as Sherlock straightened up from his inspecting crouch and turned the collar of his leather coat up to his cheekbones.

"He's got no magic." The rebel replied, shrugging despite feeling his own jaw set tight at the mere thought of how scarce their chances were regardless. He took a step past the threshold, whipping a small torch out of his pocket as he turned his stormy eyes away from the tunnel to regard them. Waiting impatiently to see whether they will actually follow through with their promise and enter.

"Neither do you." Lestrade grumbled but went inside the tunnel anyway, sighing away in reluctance; as if Sherlock weren't completely aware the magic on which he had learnt to rely so much in the past moon cycles had vanished away as an option for him the second his mother's sceptre had been turned against his chest. The rebel made a gesture to proceed and hurried inside the black unknown, hearing Greg's boots resonate behind him within the cave. The indigo haired girl rolled her eyes but followed them too.

The place got significantly darker and more spacious the deeper they walked through it —judging by the loud travelling echo of any small movement they dared to make. Sherlock's silver eyes tried inspecting their surroundings, hoping to detect any danger and avoid finding themselves ambushed by shadows in the dark, —the last thing he needed was being caught off guard again in less than a day— yet the light coming from the torch made but a feeble and failed attempt at illuminating anything beyond their own feet and immediate floor before them, plunging them in near complete blackness.

As they walked, a heavy feeling settled in his bones, as if the very air was heavy, cloying with it. Unable to identify the sensation and unwilling to give it voice, he continued in silence.

"This place gives me the creeps." Greg said, cursing loudly when he almost tripped over his own feet behind him. The violet haired boy made a shushing noise at him and returned to navigating through what seemed an irrational maze of caves of confusing structure. He could not determine the reason, but something told him they had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He frowned and searched the area with his hand stretched before him, choosing to let the boy's previous comment unanswered, obvious declarations never sitting well within him; specially at the moment, with doom hanging over them, following like a dark cloud. The place wasn't creepy, it was suffocating. The very atmosphere of it sent waves of pinprick dread through his veins, the need to find the end of the smothering lack of oxygen growing stronger with every second passed. Most thrilling danger quickly growing into straight up aversion.

A few moments went by, the sound of their feet hitting the ground the only thing breaking the mirage of floating through an empty vacuum. Yet, it seemed it was the perfect time for Irene to decide she wanted to have a tedious conversation. "By the way," She whispered, her voice low and serious, made all the more ominous reverberated by the desolate space. "How the hell did you managed to get Magnussen to just hand it over?" The words appeared nonchalant, but had been carefully chosen. A question which was clearly eating away at her since he had appeared in front of them with almost all of their problems solved in the form of a single key.

"I made him an offer." He said, turning his grey eyes towards the both of them at his back, but he could barely make out their shapes, let alone their expressions. He shifted forward once more, and continued with his search. Noticing how the heavy coat on his shoulders was no longer able to keep the cold sensation from seeping into his bones.

"And what was it? To make him say 'yes'." She asked stubbornly. Refusing to let him avoid the answer as he always did. He admitted his friends may be too used to his usual antics; he wasn't sure he liked it. "Did you promise him the kingdom? 'Cause there may be a line for that." The joke came as a disguise for something she didn't really want to consider, let alone ask him; but he could deduce from her tone she had forced herself to do it anyway.

The violet haired shrugged. "Just my soul." He answered. It hadn't exactly been easy to get Magnussen to accept nonetheless, but he had known he had him the moment he recognised the spark twinkling in his eyes when he considered owning Sherlock's most permanent and complete existence. His token reluctance and protestations had been just that. Moron.

"What?" Both Greg and Irene exclaimed, drawing an exasperated sigh from the boy's lips as they made a horribly loud noise. So much for not announcing their presence to the whole kingdom. He ran a slender hand through his purple curls, brittle and bleak as they had become. Another sign he was a cursed man borrowing seconds from the magic-less dome above them.

"Don't be dramatic," He replied, waving away the whole exchange as he focused on finding the correct way back towards their path. He felt satisfied when the stench of damp and decay rose as they approached their destination. They were close, he could feel it. "I'll buy it back." Sherlock assured.

The others were not so readily convinced, however. "Yeah?" Lestrade asked, "With what?" His voice sounded far away, but he saw the contours of their figures right behind him, keeping up with his strides. "What could possibly be more valuable than that?" It was a valid question, one he would have trouble answering were he really inclined to explain his whole plan. Yet something more pressing saved him from ever having to make something up to reply. Sherlock's step bumped into something on the ground, something hard which made him topple forward, almost losing his balance to fall face first into whatever had caused his stumble. He swiftly directed the light of the torch towards it, only to recoil his feet as the other two gasped at the sight it revealed. Greg letting out an imaginative curse.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he knelt down, taking in the fascinating —if a bit surprising— presence of human bones scattered in heaps before them. He could feel the corner of his own mouth curl up as he extended his hands and ran a finger across the smooth planes to shake off the dust gathered. They appeared to be several cycles into the ground by then, clear remains of the fools that had dared to enter the place from which there was no accounted exit. At least no living exit. The same place to which they were going with nothing but an abstract plan as guarantee.

"We're close." He said, standing up and dusting off his coat. The light directed at his friends showed incredulous faces, which he promptly ignored. Their chance for turning back had come and gone, and if they were to have any hope of getting out of there with their lives, let alone their sanity, they needed to work as they did best. The rebel stepped over what he could avoid of the remains, completely banning from his mind the few crunching noises he could hear when one of them missed a step. The appropriateness of there being dead bodies at the entrance would be irritating if it weren't a stark reminder of their most probable future.

A few meters further the stone cave walls started bleeding into polished marble, dark and cold to the touch as they navigated by touch more than sight. The echos which sounded overwhelmingly powerful before were now hollow as they bounced back at them from a narrower opening. It was until he almost bumped headfirst into the giant black doorway that Sherlock understood how close to the entrance they really were.

The double doors stretched towards the high ceiling in monumental height and intimidation. The marbled details framed it between hard, wide columns with a couple of torches hanging way above their eye level. They had started burning the second his skin had made contact with the surface of the doors, as if awoken under his attention; casting blue light over their faces as they stared at them. The cyan fire shining from them way too familiar for the silver eyes which had encountered its kind several times outside the isle and in his nightmares since. The rules against magic seemed to be a bit loose there, since there was only so much one could make to stifle the powers of someone such as the creature guarded inside. Sherlock didn't fear them. For him, they signalled the solutions awaiting for him at the other side.

He took the key out from his pocket once more. Clutching the skull-carved bow and plunging the slender part into the opening at the centre of it, hands almost shaking in what he hoped was anticipation. He turned to the others then, watching as they waited anxiously for him to twist it open. Greg was putting his brave face forward, determined to get it over with, and Irene's expression spoke of her worry for him instead of her own self as they stared back. The violet haired boy frowned in momentary confusion, then shook his head to rid it of distractions and delicately turned the key. Both doors gave way immediately to his push, opening to a vast room which appeared even darker than the tunnel had been. But as they stepped inside the fog cleared and, as if a switch had been pulled, a blinding bright light attacked their eyes, causing them to stumble back.

As they adjusted to the unforgiving garishness of the illumination after so long in the total dark, Sherlock analysed their surroundings for the first time. The tall, imposing walls revealed rows and rows of cabinets upon cabinets, what must be thousands of them as small little metal doors intending to convey their fate. Sherlock didn't have to wonder what was inside each of them, and even if his heart pounded loudly in his ears at the sight, he refused to be intimidated by a mausoleum with a grandeur complex. At least that's was he chose to tell himself.

He stepped further into the room, small steps not unlike ones those a condemned man would take towards the guillotine. He took in the cold seeping inside his skin from the sterile and clinical space; its fingers tightening in his extremities and closing in around his throat. The whispering lights hummed and flickered way above their heads, as if commenting on their presence. Beside being surrounded by nothing but death Sherlock felt several eyes watching him from around him. He didn't particularly wish to think them anything more than his friends'.

He regarded Greg, who stared uneasily at what was in front of him, glancing at it as if the danger would jump out of the unmoving walls and ensnare him into a seductive curse. The atmosphere was worse than that of the enclosing tunnel, Sherlock concluded, there was really no reason for them to stay a second longer than necessary.

The violet haired boy hurried forward, even if his mind protested against such a thing, and ripped opened drawers and doors. Not caring one bit if he disturbed the peace guarded there. Searching in every box or surface he could find for a clue of the whereabouts of what they were there to steal. His focus narrowed as his brain fought hard to shake off the impending doom he felt closing in on his back. Breathing on his shoulders as he made quick work in his tense task, growing desperate by the second as the un-physical presence became bigger and bigger behind him.

He half wondered how his friends had managed not to say something about what they surely should be seeing, certain as he was then that the sensation was personified, and real, and closer. Ever closer. Consuming him until Sherlock could feel bony fingers closing around his shoulders, violently pulling him and somehow dragging him into a land of darkness and oblivion.

"No, no!" John exclaimed into his mobile, "I want the Auradon knights guarding the citizens, not some stupid relic." The hand holding the phone was growing numb from the sheer pressure of his relentless grip, his knuckles white and stretched to the point of becoming painful. At the other end of the line, one of the commanding officers of the Royal Guard was making a great attempt at souring his mood even further by insisting on ludicrous plans of action. "Yes, I know its historic val-" The blonde said, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration as he paced the length of his royal study and listened to the other's arguments.

The panic had already swept through the kingdom, reaping fear and recklessness into those who remained unaffected so far. Impossible for any of them to predict when the next attack would be, they were forced to pull the security thin to cover more ground, which resulted in very inefficient defence; and will continue to be so as long as their magic wielders remained at large. "Well, not everyone's asleep!" He replied. "Just get those guards where they can protect the people, and get me Lady Hudson on the phone." His orders sounded final enough, so he put down the mobile and ended the call, confident as he could be given the situation that they would do their best protecting what's important.

John let himself fall once more unto the big wooden chair in front of his desk. Planting both elbows on the surface and supporting his own head on his hands. He took a deep breath as he tried to cleanse his mind from worries of his friends and the future of the realm. The feeling of despair growing. The summer sun was in full swing outside his window, making him feel even more suffocated inside the white dress shirt from which he had been unable to change since this whole thing had begun, his closed blue eyes hurt from the pressure he was inflicting on them with the heel of his hands.

After a few moments, he could hear steps coming from behind him, it was a testament of his state how he hadn't heard his advisor enter the chamber. He sighed in relief at the presence of the other as if his support and counsel were an oasis in a never ending drought. "Mike, thank goodness." He said, his vision still concealed form the room as he spoke. "Has anyone seen Mary?" The question was futile, he knew; the silence at the other end of the conversation proof enough. If the girl had turned up somewhere, it would be impossible for anyone to account for it, the devastation she left behind would be the only way of knowing it had even happened. John still wondered how Molly had managed to escape the spell. "Do we have her list of demands?" He asked.

"Just one." A feminine voice answered, making the blonde freeze on his seat. Unless Mycroft had a well guarded secret, that was certainly not him. He lowered his hands and turned his head to look at the figure behind him. Mary was standing confidently, framed by the window doors behind her and clad all in vibrant rose leather. The cape behind her hung from her shoulders in a waterfall of black feathers and her head shone cyan and pink under the sunlight. In her left hand the sceptre was gripped as a dangerous lifeline. The only thing John could think about was how wrong it looked. "I demand my life back." She said, her tone flat as her expression betrayed not a single emotion.

"Mary?" Said the king. He was quick to stand up, not comfortable on the vulnerable position as long as the girl continued to speak violently. "What the hell is all this?" He demanded, unable to keep the confusion away from his words. His hand turned into a fist as he felt a corner of his mouth tug up, the enraged smile he was hopeless to avoid in such situations. "If you wanted to get back at me for what I did, I get it," He started, because he couldn't exactly fault her for the resentment he had sow on her life. "But the kingdom is-"

"Oh, John, grow up." She cut him off. An exasperated sigh being released from her dark pink lips as she stared at him in scepticism; as if she weren't able to believe he could be that gullible. "This isn't about us." She said, taking a step towards him, her big blue eyes surrounded in soft pink shadow, tracking over his frame coldly. "But that doesn't mean you can't fix it." Her hand came up and rested on his arm, somehow John didn't find the gesture affectionate. "I can wake everyone up right now, make them forget this ever happened." Her voice took an edge he had never heard on her before, frozen and calculating. The juxtaposition made the anger seep out of him immediately to be replaced with mounting distress. They had been playdate mates, friends, more, in each other's lives since they were toddlers and now John had the sinking, growing feeling he had never really known her at all. "You are clearly not fit to rule, John." She said.

A suspicion took hold inside of him, making his mind grasp at the only thing left that could match what he saw with what he thought he knew about his friend. If Sherlock were present he'd berate him for trying to twist evidence to fit his preconceived theory; but the rebel wasn't, so the king was left to take a careful hold of the hand in his arm and enclosed it in both his own. "Did someone put a spell on you?" He asked; calm, soothing voice which he hoped sounded non threatening. "Just tell me who and-" He offered, but the girl snatched her hand back and scoffed at him.

"And what, John?" She challenged, a sardonic grin breaking out in her face at his apparent surprise. "What if I told you it was Sherlock who did this?" Mary's expression turned curious then, watching his own reaction like a hawk ready to pounce on vulnerability. "What would you do then?" She said.

The blonde took a step away as if singed, distancing himself from the mere thought of her daring to even suggest such a thing. His eyebrows growing closer to each other as he stared at her in incredulity, "I'd say the hair dye has gone to your head." He replied flatly, his sympathy slowly running out as he felt personally offended by something which he knew wouldn't sound as ludicrous to anyone else.

"All of this is real now." Mary replied; she turned around and walked towards the balcony behind her, clearly sure he wouldn't attack her even with her back turned away from him. The king knew they had prepared for this, he was to press a single button and all the guards outside his room would come running in his aid and try to arrest her. But seeing her now, he recognised how futile that would be, most definitely resulting in all of them lost in a land of dreams. At least this way, he had a chance of figuring out how to stop her —not that his attempts held much promise at the moment. She extended her arms, showing him the extent of her transformation, a show put on in mere mocking of certain other three individuals. She brought a hand up to bring a strand of bright pink hair away from her face and behind her ear. "This is me now." The declaration sounded as if she were revealing a secret, handing down crucial information and meaning that he wasn't sharp enough to disperse. He had a feeling Sherlock would fare much better in his place.

"I liked the old Mary better," John heard himself saying, only noting the irritating tone coming back once the words were out. "She wouldn't want to hurt Auradon." He said, watching as her eyes turned away from him, and for just a second he allowed himself to hope he could get through to her. He waited as he saw her shoulders release some of the tension. The blonde then turned his blue gaze to the object in her left hand, a thought crossed his mind of how perhaps parting her with it would get them halfway there. "Just put down the sceptre, and we'll forget about this." He said softly, getting closer so he could coax her into letting it go. "We'll forgive you."

Clearly he had been mistaken for the hundredth time in the last twenty four hours, for her demeanour changed completely the second the offer was made. Drawing her body up in outrage as her eyes narrowed at him wildly. "Forgive me?" She snarled, the sceptre now securely clutched in her dominant hand, as the left came up to push a finger at his chest in warning not to get any further. "No, I don't think so." Mary said finally, an ironic smile twisting her lips. "Not after what I did to him."

The king felt his face blanch at the statement, there was no need to ask who 'him' could be. The air on his lungs deserted him as if he had been dealt a punch to the chest, "What did you do?" He demanded, unable to decide what distressed him the most: the fact that Sherlock could potentially —most assuredly— be injured, or the knowledge that the girl in front of him had been the cause.

Mary scoffed at his alarm, staring at him with eyes that spoke of disappointment too great from which to move past, the crown on her head glinting under the sunlight. "Sleeping is too good for you." She declared, her blue eyes opening wide with realisation as the skin around them turned from pink to raven black. Her determination was palpable. "Sleeping is too good for Auradon." Was the last thing he heard her murmur before she pushed the sceptre in his direction and blinding pain struck him on the abdomen.

As he fell back, she turned her attention to the vastness of the kingdom outside the balcony and repeated the motion, the flair of white light climbing towards the sky to permeate the whole realm. A few seconds later, John saw her vanish from the balcony through unfamiliar eyes.