Chapter 10: Kill The Man I'm Not
Killing. The most condemned and
disapproved of all crimes and sins, and the most
acclaimed between villains. It's to ruthlessly
put and end or cause failure or defeat to
another living being. Complete annihilation.
John's mouth tasted as if he had eaten a handful of dirt for dinner, and his limbs were numb and stiff as they recovered their supple mobility. The sun had already risen over the horizon when the spell had been broken, but now that it was fully out the blonde still couldn't help but thinking life as a rock had been nothing short of shit. His whole body shivered at the mere memory of stillness, and not just from the cold morning breeze. He wasted no time pondering any of it though, his insides already churned at the deep worry which had settled upon him about not knowing what had happened and where Sherlock —or even Mary— were, and whether him being conscious meant they had won; that the mess their lives had become as of late would be over.
His blue eyes scanned the scene for the hundredth time. The last thing he remembered was being cursed near the castle's entrance, —Mary's face of fury forever tattooed on his mind now— but the place which surrounded him looked nothing like he knew it. If he hadn't lived there his whole damned life he would have a hard time knowing where he was standing. Whatever had gone down there had left it almost unrecognisable. The beautiful gardens where he had played since birth and which had lent him an inspired background for much needed thinking balcony-time were all but wiped out to ashes, and his home's facade was completely destroyed. John searched around for his father's statue but couldn't place it among the debris, his trepidation climbed when reality of the devastation started sinking in. He was terrified to know the outcome that could only be possible in the face of it, but he still needed to find out.
The royal moved quickly, inspecting everything for any sort of life or person in need of assistance, —and if he particularly searched for a purple head of curls just a tiny bit more than for everything other, no one was there to witness or comment on it. However, his search soon proved fruitless, he couldn't even see the gravel trail beneath his feet, as there was a layer of shimmering ashes covering the expanse of it under all the waste and vegetation; There was no way he was finding anything there.
He approached the castle, but the fallen stones and glass blocked his entrance completely, making it foolish for him to even attempt at dislodging or climbing any of it to get through. John sighed in helplessness and searched around for something to aid him, resorting to action instead of indulging in the very deep fear of his family and Lady Hudson being in there, and the state they might be in.
"John!" He heard someone shout to his left, his blonde head turning quickly to find it to be Irene approaching, closely followed by Greg and Archie, all of them in one piece even if their faces looked as pleased and calm as he supposed his did, which was very much not at all. It still felt like the holidays come early to see them.
"Thank goodness you're all alright." He found himself exclaiming, much more passionate than he had anticipated, but he was tired and scared and all he really wanted to do was wrap his arms around his friends until he could make sense of the world once more. Which is exactly what he did. He ran towards them and crossed his arms over the thin girl's frame in uncharacteristically unabashed fashion. Irene, for her part, looked taken aback at first, but circled her arms around him any way. John had never been so glad to see anyone in his life, to know he was not alone in this.
"We were worried." Greg added, crackling his knuckles and looking around as if the hidden monsters were about to spontaneously spring out at them, as if the answers to their mystery would follow them. The blue eyed wasn't judging in the slightly, he shared the sentiment fully.
Once John released Irene with an apologetic smile and watched her trying to smooth out her now wrinkled dress, he noted Archie wasted not time taking his place, pushing his disheveled head to the side of her abdomen. "What the hell happened?" The girl asked, her smart olive eyes checking his face for any tell of their current situation. If he was confused, he couldn't begin to imagine how worse it would be to be privy of only half of those already meagre details; but truth was: John didn't know himself. He had missed the majority of the apparent action and the best he could offer them was a head shake and a shrug, nothing else. "Where's Sherlock?" She continued, visibly not satisfied, and the royal loathed to disappoint her with yet another unanswered query but there wasn't much else he could give. He didn't know whether his plan had panned out, if it had made any difference, but if Sherlock were there he would say judging by the evidence presented it was doubtful. As the boy made to dissent for the second time a more feminine voice obliterated his chances of reply.
"I may know the answers to that." Eurus said from behind them, resulting in Greg immediately turning around and adopting a battle stance as if presenting the strong front she would have to face were she to attack them —even if John was a bit sceptical of its actual level of strength at the moment—. Irene wasn't looking too thrilled by her presence either, weary of her fickle intentions now that her primary source of reward was gone. None of them knew which side of the dome she would be willing to fight for, and in all honesty, after Mary and Sherlock, the king wasn't sure he would be able to understand what that meant even if he did know.
Eurus didn't appear phased at their confrontational posture in the slightly, choosing instead to faux-casually turn on her heel and take stunted steps towards was was left of the charred rose beds with an apparent destination in mind. The blonde shared a small, confused and hesitant look with the others present, but it was obvious they had no other choice but to cater to her whims and follow.
It was only really a few steps away, not far at all, and John would wonder how was it possible he hadn't noticed before when he was searching around if his mind weren't currently occupied with heart stopping alarm and worry over seeing Sherlock lying face down right at the centre of the worst of the destruction, completely covered by what was left of the royal rose bushes. He didn't think twice, he rushed forward, choosing to ignore almost making Irene trip over her own boots as he all but nudged her aside in his haste.
When he arrived, he made to kneel down and get him out; scratching his arms on the thorns as he dragged him away and checked him over, finding the violet haired boy to thankfully still be breathing, but far from conscious. No matter what John did, he didn't stir despite repeatedly being shook by the shoulders. The king draped a desperate and strong arm over his frame and kissed him, square in the mouth as if a few millimetres would matter, even if in his mind a cynical voice —that sounded entirely identical to that of the rebel boy— reminded him True Love Kisses were nothing more than fairytale nonsense created to romanticise or diminish basic magical abilities. He kissed him nonetheless.
When that predictably failed, he raised his gaze to Eurus, eyeing her with suspicion, he didn't want to be accusing, there was another much stronger contender for the blame of this than her, but he had learnt to be cautious of what he thought he knew lately. He made to haul his boyfriend up, ready to seek him some assistance if answers were not forthcoming.
"How could Mary do all of this?" Greg asked, gesturing the desolate scene which had once been brimming with colour and life and hope, knowing only insurmountable rage and emotion could have managed to undo something so utopian. Irene crossed her arms and nodded in agreement.
"She didn't." The teal haired girl replied, receiving shocked and confused gazes in return. She indifferently gestured to the true offender with her head, causing the blond's chest to fill with ice when he found her line of sight directing him to the boy in his arms. It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility, —the king himself had planned for it to happen in a way— but seeing the surreality of it being materialised was an entirely different ball park for him.
Choosing not to dwell on it, resolving to be practical, he got Greg to help him support Sherlock's weight to move out of the barren battlefield. The charred hole burned through the other's silk shirt signalled a powerful curse placed at the very centre of his boyfriend's chest, so very close to his precious heart that it made John's throat close up and left him nearly gasping for air.
"And what did you do?" Irene was quick to question, passing a protecting arm around Archie's shoulder from behind. Her expression was not hiding the heaviness of concern for her friend, hovering just above the surface of outrage. They all knew Sherlock had screwed all of them over twice by now, but Eurus had walked away from them too, and now she was clearly not about to let it go if she had something to do with the rebel's state.
"I helped him save John Watson." Eurus replied, dismissing their apparent distrust. "Like he asked." She smiled and bent down towards the ground, retrieving the now shinning blue ember next to John's feet, hiding it inside her baggy white clothing and looking to be the only person in the kingdom who had gotten exactly what she wanted out of the horrific situation. Perhaps she had managed to understand something about her half sibling; and if what she said was true, he owed his current well being to her too; but she would have to forgive him if John didn't rejoice after the damage already done to his life.
He sighed, not entirely in the mood for her riddles and mystery, all he wanted was to get moving so they could get Sherlock through the east entrance. He wasn't sure how much use getting him inside the castle without Lady Hudson's powers to reverse the spell would be, but physical comfort was the only aid the blond felt he could provide, and he would make sure to get him the softest mattress in Auradon.
As they slowly travelled, Eurus was an uncomfortable shadow trailing behind them, despite seeming more curious of their behaviour and reactions than concerned for her brother's possible permanent demise and spelled state. Their party of six had passed the floored courtyard when John noticed something else covered by what remained of the royal rose beds, something which worryingly looked very much like another victim. "Someone's there." He said, pointing with his chin. "Can someone go see if they need help?" Irene took his words into action immediately, but it wasn't until they were much closer that he recognised the crest embroidered in black over the dusty pink leather boots. His heart sank.
Irene was quick to confirm what he already knew but wanted so desperately not to be true, but her tone of voice crushed down all the hope he had harboured at her being okay. He made sure Sherlock would be secure and safe in Greg's hold and stepped forward, approaching the pink and black figure sprawled on the floor. She was unconscious and breath could still be drawn into her lungs, but her condition was clearly much more dire than her opponent's. When his hands searched for a pulse he found it to be far from erratic, it was faint and slow and only added to the horrible ghost which had settled in the royal's stomach and just refused to stop growing. In the battle for the kingdom it looked like Mary had gotten the short end of the stick, but they both had lost.
The first thing he noticed when he woke was the heavy cloud of confusion at being alive settling in, the wonder at having the ability of stirring back into the world. It was the second time in his short life such sensation had manifested for him and he could decidedly say the second time was equally —if not more— disconcerting, and all of it was still with his eyes closed. When he finally opened his eyelids bright light entered his brain immediately, bathing his vision in whites and golds; the delicate work on the panelled walls only representative of one of two possible outcomes: he was laying in John's soft bed and had outlived Mary's vengeful bender; —or he had finally lost his mind— although, when he made to sit up and piercing pain expanded from his chest, he realised 'outlived' was perhaps a tad of a stretch.
"Probably a good idea to stay lying down." The voice of his brother reverberated on his already pounding head, matched with the materialisation of his impeccable figure next to the bed which he had failed to notice before. "You've made quite a number on yourself this time." He continued, his displeased expression not enough to mask the fading worry Sherlock could see being transformed into relief, possibly at seeing him awake —or alive, he couldn't be sure—. He chose to ignore the faint curl at the corners of his own mouth at the sight of it.
Still, Mycroft was still Mycroft even if Sherlock had just come back to life and he couldn't help himself at ruining whatever favourable thought his little brother could experience directed at him. "Which is no wonder considering the mess you left outside." He said, making the violet haired boy wince with the shooting pain rolling his eyes had caused. A smile still managed to draw itself on the ginger's hard features, or as much as a smile as he was able to manage whilst looking down on you. Sherlock was too in pain to care either way.
"Oh, piss off." He eloquently replied, replacing his heavy head on the soft, plush pillow under it for a moment and wishing the other would just vanish for a few seconds and let him shut his eyes and mind once more. To return to rest and let the events of the last day wash over him and bring back all the hours —days?— he had missed. That was the moment his eyes opened fully, making him impulsively sit up again and swing his legs to the side of the bed to place his bare toes on the cold floor, ignoring the agonising sensation in his chest and the way his head spun when he moved. As he made to stand up, one of his legs buckled down under him, sending his frail body flying towards the ground. It was embarrassing how his brother was the only reason he didn't end up with his face planted on John's honey coloured hardwood floor as he had managed to rush over and held him up, depositing him back into the mattress with an annoyed scowl at his antics. Nothing new.
"Lady Hudson instructed you be in strict bed rest for the next few days." Mycroft said, allowing his tone to convey this was not open for argument. "And I have to say I quite agree." There was absolutely no way Sherlock was staying in bed now, not when he had been chasing the mystery for moon cycles; that eluding solution out of his reach, and now he woke up to realise he had somehow missed the resolution to it all. He was sure John would know-
"Where's John?" Sherlock turned to ask, his silver eyes locked into his brother's in an attempt to read the information off before he even had to utter a single word. He grabbed unto one of the bed's posters and hauled his body up once more, nearly making it this time; but ending up on the ground again. He didn't care, if his brother wasn't going to help he was fine on the floor; he would crawl if necessary. "I need to see him." He said, and the ginger was quick to shake his head and reassure him the royal and his friends were all alive and unharmed. Telling of how he had had to physically pry John away from his bedside to at least get a bath. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, and basked in the knowledge of not all being lost for a minute.
His brother was watching him give up his relentless movement from across the bed, but there was a monster at his back he couldn't ignore forever.
"What happened to Mary?" He asked, almost wincing himself as he heard her name uttered out loud. He didn't want to ask, he really didn't want to find out the extent of harm his spell had left behind. "Is she-?" He had to pause at the middle, needing to clear his throat to push the words which didn't want to come out. "Is she alive?" Sherlock finally asked, and the expression on Mycroft's face only served to make the want to stand up and flee ever greater.
"I think it's best if we let you rest." He said, probably thinking he was protecting him form the truth of what he had done. No matter the fact of it not being completely intentional; his calculations were skewed by Eurus magnifying his spell and lighting the ember again, by the time he had found out what was happening it was already too late to revert it back; but he was the one who had fired the shot, who had put the intention and meaning behind the harmful projectile, and whatever the consequences of those actions were, be it permanent damage or something worse, were only his to atone for.
When the silence stretched indefinitely Sherlock couldn't take any more of the torture. "Mycroft!" He spat, frustration and self loathing taking over the relief he had felt at looking at the familiar face of his big brother. Preferring to hear it from him than anyone else.
Mycroft sighed, and the violet haired boy could almost hear him debating with himself whether satiating that need for knowledge or hiding the information from him would be better for Sherlock —and everyone else in the process, judging by what happened to the kingdom gardens when he decided to 'experience an emotion'— in the long run. After a moment his face seemed to settle on something and he walked to the doors, asking the guard to procure something for him. When he came back, he ignored Sherlock's looks and questions of confusion.
"Better see for yourself." He said, motioning to the two guards rolling in a golden wheelchair.
When Sherlock entered the bedroom it wasn't hard to notice all eyes were on him, not merely because he technically rolled into the room in a wheelchair at the hands of none other than Mycroft Holmes, —which for John was already enough cause to make him doubt the veracity of the vision— but it was easy to see everyone present was conflicted on how to react to it too. For the blonde there was no real discord but on the fact that he wanted to rush to him, hold on and never let him go, yet he also knew if he were to indulge in said impulse right then none of the important stuff would be sorted out, and the dire situation was not willing to wait for anyone.
Still, John watched as the violet haired boy took in the others' expressions, all of them hesitant to show the bulk-load of relief they felt at knowing he would pull through and Sherlock could do nothing but watch in contrition. Sherlock's eyes shifted to Irene first, staying for a moment and then leaving her apprehensive face to land on John's, and the blond hoped the other boy could see written all over it the bone deep affection he still felt for him. Sherlock nodded once, acknowledging they had an infinity of things to talk about once they were done there.
It was Greg, of all people, who broke the stalemate in a sudden flurry of movement, arriving at his side and only placing both his hands over his shoulders in fear of jostling his injured body too much. "You bastard," He said, but a smile still split his face as he laughed. Sherlock chuckled too and everyone visibly relaxed at the new found calmness, even if the scene was very far from cheery or easy, the figure at the bed making it impossible —and selfish— to linger on feelings of good will. Sherlock rolled himself towards her, visibly flinching right away. Whether at his own pain or at taking in the whole view of Mary's state, the royal couldn't tell you.
Sherlock frowned, and hesitantly reached out his hand to touch her pale arm, sighing in mild relief when he seemed to realise she was alive and visibly unharmed from his terrible curse at least, —according to the pieces of data Eurus had deign to give them—. He placed his palm on her forehead, closed his eyes and whispered something under his breath which John failed to catch, but by the looks of it he tried to wake her with a spell, to no avail. Lady Hudson had tried everything under the sun already and every second she remained unwoken she grew weaker. The curse consuming her very bones away.
After a few tries the violet haired boy grew apparently irritated, desperate and angry at his inability to undo what he had done; ignoring the obvious pain he was in with his increasingly more aggressive movements until John stepped close and parted said hands from the girl's body to make him retreat.
"She's slipping away." Lady Hudson commented after the boy growled in frustration. His silver eyes scanned her once more, taking in the ink black stains in her skin which kept spreading despite her being parted from the sceptre —now safe in the museum where it belonged— the dark magic still cursing through her mortal veins.
"It's okay." John reassured, although no one in the room seemed very comforted by his words. "There's nothing you could do." He continued, placing his hand on the other's cheek to try and make him listen, but Sherlock shot out his hand sideways, palm up and waiting for something to be placed within its grasp. It wasn't until Eurus left her skulking place at the corner of the room and stepped forward to hand him the glowing cyan ember that John understood the final chance they still had literally up her sleeve. He stood up and stepped away to let the other work.
The boy's fingers closed around it slowly, and when he opened his eyes again John could almost swear his hair had more shades of blue in it than it normally did. His hands passed the ember expertly over her figure, as if catching metal debris with a magnet; but after a few moments, it was evident the situation was not changing. Sherlock sighed under his breath, whispering something about it 'not doing everything for you'.
"Will it work?" Irene asked, taking one step closer to his hunched frame, her hands were still crossed over her chest but her expression was much more open than John had seen since all of this began.
Sherlock shook his head, resting his arm on the mattress even though his hand was still curled in a white-knuckled grip over the gem. "There is only one person in the whole kingdom who might be able to do something about this." He said, and his grimace told John he was not going to like what he had to say even before he explained.
Mike, apparently could read it off him too, since even before the boy uttered a single name he cut him off. "That's madness." He said, leaning his weigh on the trusty umbrella to go with the scowl on his face.
"We've got no other choice!" Sherlock exclaimed, the volume rising and startling half of the ones present. "We're lucky I can even do this much." He gestured and John didn't miss his shaking hands and his eyes flashing green at his older brother. The reality of the aftermath was clearly taking a bigger toll on him than the king would have thought, Sherlock had always been passionate and emotional, much more than how he often presented himself, but this was him at the end of his rope, merely hanging on by pure will and inertia. Not matching with the picture of destruction he had caused outside, or perhaps resembling it too much.
"We can't risk bringing-" Mike countered, but John couldn't stand by and watch this go any longer, whatever it may be, he needed to make that decision. Holmes' had already done enough for now.
"Anyone care to tell me who we're talking about?" He said, stepping forward and obliterating the steam right out of their confrontation, earning a proud smile from Lady Hudson to his right. He smiled back at her, but turned his stern face to the others, awaiting for one of them to clue him in.
It was a surprise, however, when that person was Sherlock, and not Mike like he had expected. "Culverton Smith." The violet haired boy said, looking like he knew it was a terrible idea, but resigned to the fact it was the only one they were going to get.
"The God of Death?" John asked, not quite sure he was understanding correctly. "The one who attacked you and stole half of your magic three days ago?" It felt like a lifetime ago, but not so much that the king had forgotten how determined he was to take something which wasn't his in order to get out to do God knew what. Sherlock had somehow gotten the ember from him, but that didn't mean any of them had any reason to believe that man would ever so much as care to listen if they asked for help. Specially not for the hundred cycle princess' daughter.
Sherlock nodded. "Also my dad." He said nonchalantly and almost made the blond choke on air at the revelation. "Well, kind of." He was quick to amend, but John was already walking on a different reality, one where Sherlock had somehow come from what they would deem as the underworld, and he hadn't even known. Although he was loathe to admit it made sense in a way. "My power's father you could say." He explained, not really clarifying anything with it; but none of them were ready to question or do anything other than take it at face value at the moment. John could see this had been a shock to all of them too, except for maybe Mike and Eurus who must have known something of the sort, but they appeared to be shelving the discussion for later.
All of them waited for the king to respond as his eyes turned to look at Mary, laid down on the bed and looking to all the world as if she were just merely sleeping, instead of slowly dying, —which according to Lady Hudson was a very real possibility even if they did managed to wake her up. He thought about all the memories he had with her, the good and the very bad, and even the ones where he recoiled at his own behaviour. It was a big risk, he would be a fool not to heed his advisor and best friend's warnings when he had so impossibly always been right and hadn't led him astray once.
His gaze shifted to stare at silver eyes, which told him endless stories of falls and redemptions, knowing perfectly well Sherlock was deducing the stream of thoughts off his face, and showed him he was sure about this. What Mary had done was horrible, but that didn't mean they had to keep the destruction and heartbreak going, his whole life he had dreamt of being able to do right by the people on The Isle, the innocent children and the guilty adults alike; and even though that vision would probably never be materialised, —now more impossible than ever— he could do this for her. He could find it in himself to forgive her regardless of whether she forgave him in return. The kingdom had endured so much over the cycles, but if it wasn't able to hold true and stay standing in order for him to save a life, then maybe it was time it fell.
"I'll have to send guards." The king declared as his decision.
The weather was much the same as it always was on Auradon as mid afternoon approached, golden sunlight bathing houses and vegetation alike and missing completely the patch of land across the ocean. Irene stood perched on the balcony's railing, her sight was fixed upon the big grey cloud covering must of the light and clashing horribly with the perfect picture around it. The Isle of The Lost an open wound in the kingdom which none of them knew how cauterise. Irene felt a sigh begin to grow out form her lips but she couldn't take her eyes off the place she once called home.
"It's weird, right?" Greg's voice broke through her endless mental roaming. She turned at last to look at him, attempting to decipher what he had been saying while she was distracted. The other smiled and raised his eyebrows. "That we'll never go back there." He explained and Irene didn't need to be a Holmes to note there was a hint of sadness and nostalgia in his tone. "Hell, we did have a shit-ton of fun times there as well." They both knew once Smith was put safely back into the magic-less prison —regardless of whether he had managed to succeed,— they'll probably shut any entrance or passage off for good. Locking it as truly 'lost' forever in time. The events which had transpired recently only served to support the decision they had already made before all of it began. There would be no swaying their minds now, and Greg seemed to know it too.
"They're doing what they think best to protect the kingdom." She answered, hoping her words sounded more convincing than what veracity they carried. She understood, at some level she knew it was the logical choice, which would be all the appeal needed to convince any Holmes of it being the right one; but she couldn't help but thinking in all the souls they would be condemning at attempting to save themselves. It was all still a surprise for her, how she had constantly dreamed of being there, but before arriving to the kingdom all those moon cycles ago, she had never anticipated this cause would make such roots within her own happiness. She had thought owning some castle would suffice to call it a day.
"I know," The other replied, "It just feels like none of them get it, you know?" His hands formed fists over the railing, clenching and releasing tension. Irene found the fidgety action gathering her attention away from everything the other sight available brought forth. "And Sherlock would but-" He started, but was cut off before the thought could be materialised.
"I do." The violet haired boy's voice sliced through the calm ambience of their intimate talk. "Get it." He said, leaning on the ornate doorframe and trying to pass it off as nonchalant but clearly just a support which allowed him not to fall on his face. His expression more serious than she had ever seen it. "This was never about me not seeing what we all would be giving up if we truly lost access to The Isle forever." Sherlock's hands were inside his pockets, and his grey gaze shifted between the diverse details of the scene, probably gathering facts about them, but diverting when he found he couldn't meet their eyes. "That thought never left me." He admitted, appearing unsure but honest, in which the indigo haired girl was almost hesitant to relish. Given the circumstances, confidence at this point would sound like a lie.
The three of them stayed silent for a moment. Greg turned to her, exchanging a careful glance and very plain about the question in his expression. Irene nodded, her own heart hammering inside her ribcage. She didn't like the thought, the consequences they were accepting, but holding it against their friend would accomplish nothing. "It's okay." Greg put forward, shrugging and stuffing his strong hands inside his pockets. "Family comes first." He said.
Irene thought that would be the end of that, but Sherlock didn't appear pleased as she had anticipated with their concession. Instead, he was frowning. "You are my family." He said, and turned his eyes now to them fully, his intelligent gaze clearly searching for an explanation for his confusion with their sentiment. "You've always been and I've always trusted you." There was earnest urgency in his words, making him take a step towards them and all but collapsing to the ground in his attempt to make them believe him. Irene saw Greg rush to hold him up by the arm, shifting his weight and probably regretting even suggesting otherwise.
"I'm not going to pretend I don't stand by my actions." The violet haired commented once he was again perched on place, which she had already known. Sherlock had gone through fundamental rotations of his world crumbling down in front of his eyes time and again for various reasons. If she and Greg had experienced a shift in their view of reality, he had had that reality obliterated. Which is not to say his deception hadn't hurt her deeply.
Sherlock seemed to lift the words right from her face as he usually did, because his eyes averted quickly and his stance grew more open and vulnerable. "But I do regret lying to you about it." He said, "You deserve better."
Irene felt her mouth tug up, a smile breaking out from her face at the words outlining what would be the closest the other would ever get to an actual apology. "Yeah, we do." She said, "But we're stuck with you." Sherlock scoffed at that, rolling his eyes up but not managing to hide the relief from his face.
Just as he was about to answer. Archie came bounding to the door, looking frazzled. "He's here." He said, putting an end to anything more they could have to say.
The moment Smith's shoes hit the pavement outside the castle's eastern entrance —the main one was still a pile of debris— John was sorry to realise this had probably been the worst idea any of them had ever had; and cursed himself for not thinking the same sooner, when it wasn't already physically sauntering in. Mike would chastised the head off his shoulders if this went wrong. He had grown up with stories of the underworld, and its devoted keeper, but seeing him in the flesh was an experience he never anticipated to live. All in all, it was too late to back out now. The nervous glances his guards sent his way were already filling out the quota they had to spare in being uncertain about it. John needed to be sure. Or to at least appear like it.
"Thank you for coming." John stepped forward, feeling the heavy weigh of his official crown resting on his head as he avoided looking at the other's shackled wrists. The knowing eyes were out of the question too. "It means a lot." He said, hoping the honesty and earnest expression would be enough to placate the other away from whichever scheme he could be planning. John knew squaring his shoulders did nothing but make himself feel as if he were in control of a situation which was way out of his depth.
Smith took a deliberate step towards him, making all his protection also advance in time to prevent an altercation. The other just smiled and held both hands up in surrender. "It's fine." He answered. "We're all friends here." His tone sounded amicable, almost jovial, but John had heard enough Holmes Speech to know when a seemingly innocent remark could be turned sour, definitely what Smith said next confirmed how unimpressed he was with him. "You didn't just drag me here, you know?" He commented and John nodded, showing he understood the message.
The both of them entered the castle and were shown to the room were Mary was laid. His parents, Mike and Lady Hudson were already waiting inside, with Mary's grandmother glued to her bedside and clutching the stained-black hand of her granddaughter while she stared at them as if they all were personally responsible for what had happened, —which John would have a hard time proving to be untrue. Of course, Sherlock's presence created a whole new layer of tension, despite being all but incapacitated at the moment.
Only once the threshold was passed and Culverton's attention shifted immediately to Sherlock did the blond noticed the other had kept eyes on him the whole way. Sherlock had discarded the chair even though John knew his leg must be killing him for putting weight on it, and he was still standing in the centre of the room, waiting confidently in his coat when Smith walked up to him, not taking a single step back, —not that he actually could.
The staring off didn't last long, mainly because the king got impatient, and a tiny bit apprehensive, with the whole ordeal and blurted out the main thing which came to mind. "Can you wake her?" He asked, making the others turn to regard him. One with amusement, the other with eyes hiding a million words.
"I must have missed so much being trapped over there." Culverton said, in the conversational tone John was beginning to recognise for an attack but not moving beside his head while he inspected the soft pink of the room. "Since when do royals care about villains?" The question was startling, and the king knew he should have seen it coming, but his head was still reeling at the fact Smith was there at all.
"She's-" He began to explain, almost feeling relieved when Culverton immediately cut him off, since every excuse on why she was different he could conjure in his head sounded hollow and cheap, and completely prejudiced.
"One of you." The man accused, the statement dropping between all of them as an unfused bomb. John needed only to look at their expressions to know they were all aware of what was coming. "When one of you tries to destroy the kingdom it's an error in judgement," Smith started, his voice turning more sinister with every word. John shifted his weight and raised his chin, but doubted it would make the intensity of the blow any lesser. "But when it's one of us…" Smith trailed off, but didn't stay silent for very long as his sight locked again with a very specific person. "Well, not always, of course, some people are untouchable. Although I imagine there's a personal reason for that." He said, clearly enjoying the discomfort he caused on them at the different layers of implications of such a thought. His mother looked livid, and John had to admit he wasn't feeling very amused either. Sherlock, however, had quite a different expression on.
"Brighten up!" Culverton said, putting his hand on his own mouth to muffle his loud chuckling. The blonde did his best not to boil. "Can't you all take a joke?" He asked, and his father all but growled from his place, taking a step forward in what John could recognise as a sure attempt to attack him, and while he himself could sympathise with the sentiment entirely, they couldn't risk angering him at the moment.
"Dad." John put a hand on his father's shoulder, hoping to make the steam run out of him with on single gesture. For a second he appeared to have failed, but the beast eventually relented with an angry sigh at the first glance from his kid's hopeful blue eyes; stepping off and away with a nod.
The blond was impatient to get things moving, to be able to put all of the nightmare of the past few hours behind them, so he swallowed back his own words of anger and aggression and asked again. "Can you wake her?"
Culverton stared at him, his eyes narrowing in the bright light of the room, and made a quick arm movement towards him, making the room around him come alive as if struck by the sky's most powerful lighting. Mike even arrived to his side in record time, ready to defend. Smith stopped and raised an eyebrow in satisfaction at their thinly veiled alarm. He raised up his shackled wrists to the light and smirked. "I'm gonna need to use my hands." He commented.
It was completely and utterly useless. They had gone through the trouble of risking mass destruction to bring Culverton to Auradon and now it had been more than eighteen point seven minutes and Mary was still lost as a permanent resident in the dream world. Sherlock's uninjured leg was bouncing in impatience, his two hands in front of his face as he alternated in watching Culverton's attempts —which looked more and more like staged movement rather than actual work every second it passed— and meeting John's worried expression. The charged atmosphere was impossible to miss, and the girl's grandmother was all but perched next to her, refusing to move even when asked.
The minutes grew into long decades of uncertainty for them, with the violet haired feeling more and more like he wouldn't be able to get away with his transgression the time that mattered the most. Then, as Sherlock was about to demand some sort of resolution from Smith, Mary rose from her supine position, gasping and definitely awake, but not very conscious at all; there was a spasming quality to her movements as clouds descended over her eyes. It was clear she wasn't experiencing a second of the mindless rage fit she was in while trashing on the beddings.
It was enough for them all to startle and look in expectant, but merely a moment later she dropped again to the soft pink sheets, too weak to even hold her body up anymore. John, of course, was the first one to react. "What did you do?" He demanded, having forgone his suit jacket now, throwing to the winds every caution he should take to keep on the God of the underworld's good graces. He heeded no non-verbal warning from Sherlock either. His parents took care of coaxing the now hysteric old lady next to Mary out of the room, though.
"Overruled his spell. Woke her up." Smith replied, the smirk over his seemingly innocent features enough to send Sherlock out of his chair and limping towards him, as intimidating a figure as he could be at the moment.
John, however, seemed to have run out of steam and looked to each of them with a lost and questioning gaze. "But why does she-" He started, searching for answers across them room.
"Look like she's got poison in her veins?" With a laugh, Smith cut him off. Not hiding his enjoyment at seeing the distress and the apparent denial the king had at the very clear reality of the situation. Lady Hudson approached his side, and placed a gentle hand over the blond's shoulder. The rebel could read in her sympathetic expression she too, had no idea with what they were dealing, and that didn't bode well for anyone involved.
Not willing to wait on the sidelines any longer, Sherlock made a second attempt to stand. "Take her magic away." He declared, figuring it should have been their first course of action. "That's what's killing her, so take it off." He explained plainly when the others turned to regard him as if he had suggested they all danced a round of salsa. It should be simple, she was never supposed to have it in the first place, why was it such a shock for him to want it gone?
Culverton stayed silent for a moment, regarding him as if the very words which had come out of his mouth had matched exactly what he had wanted him to say. "Not with this level of corruption, Mr. Holmes." He said, tone very far from empathic or genuine. The personable attitude he often portrayed was tinged with a mocking quality, making Sherlock shift his own weight between both his feet. "The only reason it didn't kill her at first touch is because she was useful." Smith said, sending the boy's brain hurling at the implications such an idea could have. Could her willingness to destroy everything the kingdom stood for be the answer to the mysteries plaguing him since the coronation? Black magic sensing her intentions and choosing her as a champion? Between Sherlock providing the instigating ember of injury and the sceptre fanning those flames, could she still be faulted then?
"Then what can we do?" John said, not concerned at all with questions or plans, just worried for the girl he had grown up with. Classic John. Frantically searching for a way to bargain with the universe and bring her back from the horrible abyss in which she had pushed herself. Attempting salvation for the damned.
"Say your goodbyes." The other said, turning now to face the king once more, whose expression crumbled completely. "It would take centuries for her to sleep the black magic off." He continued, and Sherlock did his best not to tune everything but those words out as he turned to look at his brother, a grim frown the only thing the ginger was able to offer. "We could move her to my favourite ro-"
"No!" John jumped to deny, a horrified face painted over his features at the mere suggestion of leaving Mary's body and soul at the villain's mercy. Sherlock shuddered to think the means Smith would take to make sure her demise came sooner rather than later. Him having the taste for turning souls into things he could own. Which made him think about his own willingness to sell his spirit to someone arguably worse.
"We'll deal with it it." Lady Hudson commented, seemingly having shared the same nightmarish idea. Her steady and kind hold never leaving the blond's shoulder for a second. None of them were certain they actually possessed the ability of dealing with anything of the like, but her reassuring tone was like a white-lie balm to John's worry, Sherlock could see its effects working already.
John turned to regard Culverton, clearly lost on what the next course of action should be. Smith, for all his distasteful traits, was no stupid man. "Is that all?" He asked. "Am I to be tossed back now that you have no use for me?" The king cringed visibly, trapped in an intrinsic sense of politeness and diplomacy which prevented him from ever admitting to having participated in such a blatant exploit of advantage. Sherlock still had no concrete proof for the reasoning behind the God of Death even accepting to help them, but it was clear no fondness was lost for the kingdom as he uttered his next words. "That's not a very compelling picture for a king." Smith said, and everyone around them stayed frozen, not knowing how to interfere with what was basically a lesson in truth hurting worse than any injury for all present. Even Mycroft looked disconcerted. Sherlock hands itched to do something, smooth the devastated frown from his boyfriend's forehead, or preferably punch Smith in the face, but he could do neither in fear of making it worse for everyone.
The awkward glances didn't last long, as Smith let out a loud laugh at their unwillingness to confront him. "Our mutual friend was right." He said, hitting Sherlock like truck. "The same, all of you, Jim always said." He showed his wrists once more, waiting for John to command his guards to handcuff him. The blond stood frozen for a moment, but eventually could see no other choice but to nod in agreement. "Thanks for a glimpse of the sun." Smith shouted a few moments later, as he was being dragged away and leaving a disconcerted party of varied people behind. All of them feeling the deep sting of the slap his words caused to be a steep price for the scarce progress they had made in regards to Mary.
John turned to him, his big blue eyes uncertain. "What are we gonna do?" He asked, and although the silver gazed knew he was being rhetorical, he still had one last resort he could be able to apply.
Looking at the bright ember the other had left discarded on the pink rug, Sherlock nodded. Culverton had said 'centuries' after all.
Sherlock was awfully quiet, —specially for him,— but John figured the events of the last couple of days were finally starting to settle after so long repressing them, as they had done within him the moment he had seen the boy laying unconscious outside the castle. Still, the blonde felt worry for his boyfriend descend over his shoulders on top of the concern he had for everything else, mainly the figure on the bed before them.
Everyone else had already left, including Lady Margaret who had to be convinced there was nothing left for any of them to do but to have some rest now. What Sherlock had managed to do was the best they could hope for in her state; not that any of them were pleased about it.
"All this chaos and destruction is my fault," The violet haired commented, having succumbed to sitting on the chair once again now that it was just them both, his eyes not straying from the girl before him. "Which makes a part of me very proud." The little laugh at the end sounded genuine, but not joyful in the slightly. Still, his hard stare didn't waver.
John sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, contrastingly only wanting to look at everything but Mary. He didn't know how to reply, the other wasn't right, he had no reason to place all the blame on himself; but he wasn't wrong either. They all had contributed to this, Mary herself not being the exception.
After some minutes of silent pondering Sherlock spoke once more. "I ended up becoming my mother." He said, this time turning to watch John's reaction. The blond looked back noticing the upset features on the other's pale face. "Down to the last letter it seems." The whispered words sounded more like an admission to himself than conversation. Which was why John had to passionately disagree.
"No." He said, almost instantly. "What she did was horrible," It had been, famed as one of the worst villain acts anyone had ever experienced, and while what Sherlock had done didn't lack in horrific elements either, it was so far from similar. "She intended to hurt out of spite." John stood a bit closer as he spoke, his earnest eyes not leaving him as he placed his hand over the other's curls. "This was mercy." He said.
The other didn't appear convinced, —stubborn as he was,— but the royal knew somewhere deep inside he should be able to see the difference between cursing a baby along with a whole town and this. 'Necessary' or 'the only obvious solution' weren't enough to make just anyone give up on all those hundreds of extra life cycles gifted to them since birth by way of demi-immortality, most people wouldn't even consider it. True, he had had to spell Mary into an almost permanent sleep for it to work, for her to be able to wake up centuries from then, but the action lacked the heartless motivation his mother's had.
"Lady Margaret would disagree." Sherlock was quick to counter, argument with which nobody in the world would find fault. Yet, the animosity Mary's grandmother felt for them —and the situation— while understandable now, didn't mean it was fair or accurate. The king wished she would come to see it that way someday, to recognise it for what it had been.
"It's possible I may owe her an apology." The silver eyed boy commented as he closed his eyes, not doing anything to deter the king's fingers carding through his hair. Visibly ignoring his own pain as his leg remained untreated, a feeble ice compress the least they should do. John resisted the urge to ponder whether the ice should be on their heads too, since he felt as if the last days had added a hundred's worth on his body.
"I do too." The blond commented, "For a very long time now." Perhaps if he had done it when it mattered all the bad blood would have been erased. She had wanted to hurt them, both of them equally, and the web she had weaved caught her too, there was no other way to spin it. But John wished he could, he wished he would wake up to find everything to have been a bad dream.
Still, it was over now, for better or for so much worse, it was done.
"Will you ever tell me what she was hiding?" John said, letting the conversation twist as he gestured the girl with his free hand, the black ink on her skin already starting to recede. He would be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about it, even if his priorities had prevented him from pondering fully. Now, he figured, was as good a moment as any to ask, he might even get Sherlock to stop torturing himself about everything meanwhile.
"Nope." The other was quick to answer, with a tone which left no doubt in the other's brain there would be no changing his mind about it. "What would be the point now?" He said, and although it sounded logical, John was left reeling at the mere notion of Sherlock not wanting to disclose information he had deduced.
"So you're just gonna keep her secret forever?" The blond asked, his hands wriggling in nervousness as he searched the other's grey eyes for the sudden loyalty. An out of character decision to restrain from doing the very thing with which he had earlier admitted to have threatened Mary; with full intention to see it through had she not kept her end of the bargain. John still wondered why he didn't.
"From one villain to another." Was all Sherlock had to say about it, a small smile curving one side of his mouth as he left John to wonder the depth of said self-imposed commitment and it implications. He had long since given up trying to understand the other's predilection for mystery.
"Mary was right to doubt me though," He added, almost as an afterthought, making John's head whip down to him. "I'm still surprised you don't." The violet haired boy continued, the emotion in his voice sounding distant compared to the very present discombobulation. "I spell you, I lie, I do horrible things, and you forgive me?" John couldn't help but chuckle at his boyfriend words, at his obvious confusion with the concept. "You still trust me with your life and those of the ones close to you." The amazement wasn't difficult to miss, but it wasn't exactly news to the royal, Greg always described Sherlock as having a strong moral compass, the problem being that no one ever knew where it pointed, not even Sherlock himself; but John was alright with that because Sherlock somehow enjoyed helping people, solving problems for them —even if he'll never be caught dead admitting it— he just didn't love the fact that he did. Plus, for John, it was honestly part of what made the rebel so irresistible. "That's reckless." Sherlock continued with his point, almost as if reading his transparent thoughts.
"You did save me though." John reminded him, knowing it was the one thing which could actually make a difference for the other. "And the rest of the people." His mouth stretched into a tentative smile even as he said it, he knew Sherlock acted as if he held little to no regard for the kingdom itself, and while the royal believed that not to be entirely accurate, he still knew Sherlock was a very selfish man, and that between Auradon and what was important to him, the kingdom would never even be a contender. It was what had allowed him to make the right decision.
"Which takes me to another thing." Sherlock continued paying him no mind, turning in the chair to face fully up to the other boy. "What you said to Mary, what you did," He started, his face not betraying to John whether the question would involve rationality or the much more elusive sentiment. "It was… good." He finally admitted, "Brilliant even." A small smile painted over his features as his uncertain eyes sparkled at him. The king felt himself fill with relieved pride at the words. "Did you mean it?" Sherlock asked, now showing the real objective of bringing it up, the vulnerability the both of them knew they had to discuss some day.
"Every word." John answered, the whole unchangeable fact. "And I knew she wouldn't like that." He had provoked Mary with a truth he knew she'd hate, and at once gave Sherlock the unburdened freedom to use his powers without wasting precious energy on protecting him, and the motivation to not accept defeat as an outcome. He was lucky it had turned out according to his feeble plan.
The brief joyful sentiment lasted only a few seconds on the other's face, as it was soon replaced with realisation. "You did it because you knew it would push me out of my reservations." He declared, not needing confirmation in any way. Now understanding fully why John had had to break his heart first, why he couldn't let him know in advance, knowing the rebel wouldn't have allowed him to risk it. Not for the kingdom and certainly not for himself.
"It was the only way I could think to help." The royal replied, now reaching out his hand to take the other's into it. He was aware the only way Sherlock would accept help would be on his own terms, but John had been willing to trust. Anything that happened to him personally was just collateral damage, as the rebel put it.
"So you took that choice away from me." Sherlock's tone could have been accusing, instead the amazement permeated all the syllables. His pale hand gripping harder on the chair's armrest as he looked on with an earnest expression. "Sounds a lot like manipulation." He said.
John laughed at the honesty, "I had a great teacher." He shrugged. Watching as the other averted his sight and smirked, pleased delight oozing out of his body. "You don't have to look so proud." The royal commented, but the other didn't heed his command one bit —as usual— and continued looking satisfied in a way in which were Lady Hudson there with them she would deem indecent. "Plus I know you love me so it was easy to trust." John said.
Sherlock turned to face him now in reverence, looking at him as if he were an extraordinary creature. "John," He whispered, the king's hand in a death grip under his as he inhaled to probably prepare for one of his uncharacteristic rare moments of emotion and vulnerable romance for another person. John didn't want to admit it made him a bit anxious. "You may be finally starting to catch up to the skull." Sherlock finally breathed out, the bastard. And John knew his laugh sounded manic as his heart tried to recover from the attack the other had nearly given him. The silver eyes shone in mischief, but John didn't need to be a genius to read the reality behind them. He had had something to ask him for weeks, but figured the perfect moment would keep eluding him for now.
The both of them stayed on the room for a few more minutes, winding down and trying to pack away all the emotional and psychological residue the situation had left them with. After, he rolled Sherlock back to his own royal quarters —there was no way he would manage to get him out of the castle and all the way to his own room that day,— and instructed for him to sleep at least enough for his energy to come back fully. John sat on the bed and watched him intermittently through the witching hours of the night. Hoping all would be okay come morning.
They had messed up, but that didn't mean they couldn't be better going forward. People fail and fall all the time, and then get back up again, often times wiser and stronger.
Falling doesn't always kill you.
Landing does have a way of leaving someone out of sorts when diving uninvited into another's mind. It certainly often did for him. The tower's rooftop was a nice detail though, as well as oddly familiar, as if he had walked into it once upon a dream. No matter how many times he did this, the location was always different; unexpected, and Sherlock was annoyed at the unwelcome feeling of admiration and thrilling expectation which spread through his chest when he entered. The tower was tall, and the ground far below gave him vertigo despite knowing nothing could really hurt him at the moment. The reason why the other always had to choose either deep waters or incredible heights wasn't lost on the rebel.
Said man was sitting on the ledge, no crown on top of his head this time, but still looking as if his birthday had come early. "You just can't help yourself." Moriarty uttered, looking out into the far blurring horizon, the edges of Sherlock's soul fading out like the kingdom line in the distance.
The boy felt a tiny pice of him get chipped away every single time he visited the twisted mind, never to be recovered again even after he was out. "Huh?" He asked nonchalantly, hands in his pockets but sight never straying much from the tantalising edge.
"From crawling back." The other explained, his smile splitting his face in two when he saw Violet's prodigal son fight hard not to show any weakness stemming from the fear of falling, but Sherlock couldn't stop himself. Jim stood and slithered to stand beside the boy, looking down with him. "Eerie isn't it?" He said, "You know it can't kill you, but you still have that horrible urge to jump."
The abyss seemed to get deeper at his words, more dangerous; but unlike the laws of physics there, Sherlock refused to be completely at the mercy of James fucking Moriarty. "Enough!" He snapped, turning away from the ledge and leaving all thought of free falling, flying through the air, behind. He was there to look ahead. "You're gonna tell me how you poisoned my kingdom." The boy said. "And you'll do it now."
Moriarty had the audacity to laugh. "We're calling it your kingdom now, eh?" He said, pacing around him as a vulture in wait for his pray to do what nature had determined it should. "I see full conversion therapy has been successful then." Sherlock had the strange feeling Jim somehow could recognise in his voice what had happened with Mary; but it was a moot point anyway, by forcing entrance into the other's mind, he too had allowed the other admittance inside his, and it must show him images of his plan working perfectly, whatever it was.
Answers weren't forthcoming, nothing new from all the other times he had tried, now seeming to have dug himself deeper inside an abyss of him grasping for information and the other just talking in circles around him. "What did you do?" Sherlock insisted, refusing to give into the urge of tearing his purple hair out. "What am I missing?" The demand sounded more desperate than intimidating as he wished, but not knowing was not only making his skin boil, but every second which passed the curse, whatever it had been, would grow and the damage would sail away further from the shore of reversible.
"You could've been brilliant, Sherlock." Moriarty shook his head, his dark black eyes looking at him in naked disappointment. "Incandescent." He said. "But you chose to be on the side of the angels." The man knew exactly how the aversion of being anything close to typical had always been nestled and nurtured within his soul, an affinity they shared which both exhilarated Sherlock, and drove him to want to spill his insides. James might as well be the devil himself, but Sherlock wasn't going to pretend he hadn't been the one holding the poisoned apple this time. And if Moriarty could be brought down by someone who only half knew what he was doing, who's to say what the monster had planned wouldn't bring him down the same way?
"Would an angel do something like this?" He said, gesturing around him at the very palpable proof he could never be considered anything other than made from the same mould.
Moriarty smiled at him. "My dear," He whispered from behind him, his claws digging into the skin of his shoulders through the fabric. Sherlock attempted to brush him and his words off, yet they glued to his back as if commencing absorption. "They do so much worse." He said and before Sherlock could predict it, he grabbed him by the neck and threw them both over the edge.
Author's note: I can't believe we're this close to the end. I hope you all liked it and would love to know what you think.
The final chapter will be up 6th of December.