Chapter 11: The Laws Of Good And Evil
Evil is a game, an impulse, an
appetite for everything amoral and
reprehensible inside every sentient being.
A necessity which doesn't exist despite
goodness, but because of it.
Clean up duty had been much harder for John and Mycroft than for the numerous workers restoring the castle's facade and the Royal Gardens to their former beauty, and they had been working tirelessly for days now.
The kingdom's morale had been in shambles once everything was over. Panic, resentment and confusion had made a home in all his subject's hearts and they had had a hard time explaining the situation while still keeping Mary's memory intact and Sherlock's reputation very much not destroyed completely. All of the villain kids had suffered from accusations of guilt and it had taken Anderson's account of the events to make everyone believe this hadn't been just a grand, arduous scheme set up to make a dear princess take the blame for the terror; specially since none of them would ever come to see her awake in their lifetime again. There were still a few small groups of people who were of the opinion none of it would have happened had the king not rocked the boat with his proclamation, —he was still surprised Lady Margaret didn't lead any of such gatherings— but nearly everyone in the kingdom had made peace with the news and just focused now on the upcoming festivities for the national holiday. It was the only time the blond felt thankful his kingdom was able to forget so easily.
John, however, was another matter altogether. He wasn't really in the mood for cheer and parties at the moment, but he supposed his people needed the distraction, so he would grin and wave and let Molly handle the planning if that meant they could collectively let go of the awful weeks. John was just glad to see them done.
Well, almost. There was still something they had to do before the realm would truly be able to put everything behind them and lock it in the past. The last unpleasant thing they would have to endure.
The dome's surface sparkled under the setting sun, reflecting most of the light off and keeping none for the inhabitants under it. John stood with the others on the bridge before it, all of them silent with not a clue on what to say. Half of them were audibly brooding, not happy with the situation in the slightly; the other half dragged their feet all the way there in defeat. The king was somewhere between the two.
"Thank you." John was quick to say when he realised none of them would dare to break the ice and risk the moment to actually come, he figured he at least owed them some gratitude before pushing them back in, never to be thought of again. In all honesty, he wasn't feeling too sure towards their decision, he knew it was the best for the kingdom, but saying yes to it had made him feel somehow dirty, as if he had sold his soul to a cause in which he didn't believed, and now that he had accepted he found it hard to die on said hill. Still, there was nothing left to do about it now. "On behalf of the Royal Family and the whole of Auradon." He continued, his voice holding passion and honesty. It was true, they couldn't have gotten out of any of it without their help, albeit reluctant and ill-intentioned as it had been, and now he wasn't able able to fulfil even a part of what had been promised to them in return.
Eurus stared at him intently, only parting her gaze when she appeared satisfied with what she found and she turned to her usual point of focus. Greg exchanged worried glances with him as they waited for the others to respond. It wasn't until Victor scoffed in exasperation at the stare off between his captain and them that John felt he could breathe again. "Yeah, whatever." The ginger said, waving a hand with an expression which could never be mistaken as anything other than fed up. "Just throw us inside already, I want to get to the bait shop before the sun sets and the rats come out." He said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Always a pleasure speaking to you, Victor." Greg snapped, his already sour mood made worse by the loathing smirk the other was giving them. Specially to John. The royal had offered to let the three of them stay, make them the last addition to the group of villain kids who would get an opportunity to change and forge their own future, but surprisingly, they had all declined. Perhaps the lustre of the kingdom wasn't enough to cover what the Isle represented for them: freedom. Or perhaps they just wanted to spite him.
"That's the best part," Seb added, the grin on his face far from making him appear amused. "We'll never have to worry about speaking again." He said, to which Greg immediately stood down, turning to look at his boots as the awkward veracity of exactly why they would never see them again was plain. It was hard for John to blame the attitude when he was not happy with said decision himself.
"Except for you, Sherl," Victor commented, smiling lewdly at the violet haired boy, who had stood back and remained silent for the whole journey. "I'll really miss our talks." The ginger said, not wasting a last opportunity. Sherlock's expression turned sour.
"Talks?" Seb laughed, "Is that how they're calling it these days?" He said, and whatever Sherlock was going to say died in his throat at the comment, making him swiftly set his silver eyes on John, only to avert them a second later. The royal was still wondering what said look could mean.
Wilkes continued laughing as Irene cleared her throat, turning the attention towards Archie who was trailing behind her, a tattered old bag on his shoulder. "Are you sure you don't wanna come back with us?" Irene asked, kneeling to get on eye level with the snivelling boy. Archie shook his head in denial, shrugging his shoulders as everyone else watched. John had known the kid for a number of days only, but he could tell how his wish to go back to stay in the Isle had devastated the three of his friends, including Sherlock who did his best to hide it. Irene looked close to tears as well. "I'm so sorry." She said, reaching both thin arms to embrace him, not letting him go for a good sixty seconds, —not that the boy appeared to want her to.
"It's okay." Archie answered, wiping away the last of his emotions and smiling. "I wish I could be in both places at the same time." He said, but he couldn't. John had taken that option away from them all. Friends, places, even families —despite being dysfunctional at best— were being carelessly left out from the lives of the ones who chose to stay on Auradon. Archie's sad eyes and resigned smile were threatening to make him weep too.
John allowed them some time to say goodbye, mainly so Archie could hug each of them to his heart's content despite Mike sighing in impatience to his left. The blonde ignored this and waited until there was nothing left to say. After a few minutes he instructed Lady Hudson to open the gate, a hole being ripped in the dome wide enough for them to get through.
Victor went first; closely followed by Sebastian. Next was Archie who hoisted his bag and just ran inside, his still short legs losing momentum once on island ground again. Eurus stood still for a moment, not having uttered a single word for the day. The royal grew anxious when she didn't appear to be making any move to get through, just standing there as if awaiting for something, when he turned his gaze towards Sherlock, he could see in his face the other knew exactly what that was.
"You were right." He said, and elaborated no further.
His sister, however, didn't appear to need explanation, her eyes stayed on him a moment longer, the air around them turning heavy with the confusion in everyone else present. Then, she slowly started walking backwards, determined steps until one of her feet breached the barrier. Eurus paused there, for just a second, then her remaining foot came to join the other at the other side. Effectively inside.
It wasn't until Lady Hudson had closed the rupture and had locked the dome forever that John asked himself whether he would be able to live with the fact of making his parent's same horrible mistakes.
Molly wasn't expecting the knock on her door, certainly not this early in the morning on a weekend. Adjusting back to regular schedule and classes had been a challenge after what they had lived, but she had found —after staying home the first day and finding it even more stressful— that being busy was a great way to stop thinking of the lingering fear and nightmares the past days had imprinted on her mind; plus John had assured her business as usual would help the community as a whole to recover, and she was willing to help. So, to say finding the very king at her door at 6 am on Sunday was nothing short of a shock was an understatement. A part of her insides churned in anxiety at the very possibility of something being very wrong to be the reason for the sudden urgent visit, but she opened the door in her patterned silk pyjamas anyway. Bracing herself for another round of impending doom.
John's face was beaming at her, which should have eased her worries, but she could barely see past her own apprehension. "What's wrong?" She breathed, watching the blond eyebrows in front of her frown in confusion, but the girl wasn't able to stop. "Is it Mary?" She asked. "Or Sherlock?" Her mouth formed words unintended as she saw her best friend's face grow concerned for her state of mind. "Oh, please don't tell me someone-" She never got to finish, since John placed his hand on her arm and chuckled. Committing a miracle at even being able to halt the stream of words coming. Each more anxious than the last.
"No, Molly." He said, "Everything's fine." The blond took a step back while he talked, as if to show her the honesty of his statement; his expression amused but open and friendly. "I'm fine," He assured, and Molly felt herself relaxing a bit at the ease the other carried, a balm to her very soul. "Sherlock hasn't burned anything down, that I know of." John added with amusement, making her chuckle nervously too. "No danger."
The fact he was so sure of it allowed the brunette to let go of the last paranoid whispers inside her head, making her nod minutely when the other asked her if she was alright now and whether he could come inside, suddenly waking her up to the reality of them still being in the hallway and probably disturbing all the other inhabitants of the dorm floor. She smiled while she agreed to both, and together they made their way inside Molly's comfy rooms.
Once inside, Molly sat on her own unmade bed, willing her fingers to stop fidgeting and gesturing John to sit wherever he wanted as always, but the other remained standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and looking at her, his hands gripped the cardboard box he bore just this side of too tightly. There was something to say for the pavlovian terror the past events had planted on her that she hadn't even noticed the object until that very moment.
"I know you said it's fine, and you don't want another party," John started, "But I also know you were looking forward to it and your birthday ended up being a disaster." His voice was very unlike to when he addressed the kingdom; To them he was always sure, and strong, and kind, but now he was just rushing through his sentences, his tone getting higher the longer he spoke without taking a breath. The John Molly had known since they were children.
"John, it's not your fault." Molly was quick to reassure, because it really wasn't. She could see how her friend blamed himself for what happened still; for inadvertently inching Mary aside, for not seeing it coming, for letting Sherlock handle and dictate so much of the situation that he made himself a big target for whoever was out to get him. But the brunette disagreed wholeheartedly, and every time she saw the strain or weight that guilt caused on her friend she felt something shatter inside of her. Thankfully, these days that shadow seemed to be lifting, vanishing back into the fear-filled abyss from where it came, and the golden sunshine was growing back into the expressive face she was going to miss so much next semester.
"I know, but I still wanted to do something." John replied shrugging; making the girl chuckle in sympathy. "You're my best friend, and you've always been there for me and now the others too, so…" He smiled as he reached his hand inside the large box. "Here." The blond said, in his arms now a small ginger kitten curled in on itself, practically born out of Molly's every dream. A wish she had had for as long as she could remember, but never got to materialise since students weren't supposed to be allowed to have pets in the dorms. "Maybe it's a bit much, but I figured since your'e going to Yard Forest next semester he could keep you company." John added and placed the animal carefully inside Molly's receiving arms.
"John!" Molly exclaimed, her attention now fully on her gift. "It's perfect." She breathed, and heard the blond laugh to her left. "Thank you." The words were not difficult for her to say, specially not to someone like John, and she wasted no time in wrapping her free arm around the other's sturdy frame in gratitude.
"I knew you'd like him," The king beamed at her and stuffed his hands on his pockets when they parted, finally sitting on Molly's baby blue armchair with an expression of calmness now descending over them both. "And perhaps you can get him to teach Greg some tricks." John joked.
Molly laughed and agreed. "Cats are easier than boyfriends." She said while placing the new pet on her soft white and periwinkle duvet, sitting next to the other.
"Don't I know it?" John replied, rolling his eyes good-naturedly and allowing the lines of worry in his face to disappear completely. Making himself comfortable to stay and spend some time there as they had frequently done before John had been deemed old enough to cater to his royal duties and he became too busy for almost any free time. Molly felt grateful for each minute.
She alternated her gaze between the sleeping kitten on her bed and her best friend. He had grown so much, —specially in the last sun-cycle— and had become wiser and stronger than she had known he could be; she smiled and promised herself to never underestimate his character in even the smallest of ways again. He was a good king, and a great friend, and she hoped he someday can come to see both of those things for what they meant and how special and blessed they were for everyone around him.
For a moment, Greg never thought he'd see the day when the kingdom was prospering again. It had been touch and go for so long now that thinking all the danger done and gone was proving quite difficult to believe. It was funny how their lives had changed in the span of one sun-cycle. When before he would have never been able to envision a future such as this, now he was having trouble seeing what world could lay past it. After Auradon. He would find out for himself soon enough though, when he transferred to Yard Forest next semester. He knew his excitement was visible, but somehow he felt changing schools and addresses all over again wouldn't be the problem.
He stood back as Sherlock threw a fit at Irene attempting to tame the wild purple nest on his head without his magic's aid, swatting away her hands and grumbling curses —figurative curses— under his breath. Greg laughed and looked as the girl's levels of exasperation veered closer to a definite murderous destination.
As he waited for them to finish getting ready for the ceremony, Lestrade stayed seated. He wasn't planning on getting in the middle of such mess, —one only makes that mistake once— but he found no urge to stop watching as the situation deteriorated; it was a peculiar pastime he had developed back at The Isle when Irene first joined their makeshift alliance and it hadn't lost its entertaining factor to the day.
"I give up," Irene exclaimed, throwing her perfectly manicured hands in the air. "You're impossible." Her words were met only with a very intense eye-roll as she walked to the other side of the room, her back now to them, the finest silk of her festive dress trailed behind her in a wave of deep midnight blue. Sherlock, for his part, was very keen on making it known how unbothered he was by her outburst.
"You should've remembered that before deciding to pester me." The other shrugged, on his way to a massive sulk. Sherlock flopped down on his armchair carelessly, looking around his room with a bored and haughty expression, which Greg was very sure was all for show. Not that such mercurial mood-swings were unheard of when it came to him, though.
It was true Greg sometimes wondered how these two would fare without him around to buffer whichever squabble they managed to dramatise when he was gone. Both of them quite the experts on conjuring something up to argue about even when there wasn't any need. He thought on whether his presence had mostly acted as adhesive sticking them together, and if his own relationship with them would suffer because of it in his absence. He wondered almost to the point of making him hesitate leaving in the first place.
Irene turned and took one look at the other's posture, probably wrinkling his ceremonial suit beyond repair, and all but snarled. "I swear, you must be a great shag for John to put up with you and not've thrown you off the castle's window by now." She said, and Lestrade released a laugh from his lips. His amusement quick to die down, however, when both the others turned to serve him twin death-glares for a moment only to get back to their stare off seconds later, reminding the brunette how alike to each other they had always been.
Irene waited, but when no reply seemed forthcoming she sighed and turned again, reaching for a leather purple coat and inspecting its quality and cohesion of style. Of which Lestrade understood nothing. "Wouldn't you like to know?" Sherlock called after her, huffing but accepting the coat from her offering hands anyway.
Irene smirked and appeared to think it over, "Still a lesbian, though." She concluded, her smile breaking into amusement when she saw the visible shudder going down Sherlock's spine at the suggestion. His horrified gaze immediately turning to seek out support from Greg in the face of such a though.
Lestrade chuckled and finally stood up from his perch on Sherlock's messy bed. Walking to him and reaching out his tan hand to ruffle the perfectly styled violet curls into a more disheveled —not Irene approved at all— look. "As long as it's not Victor again, anything is good." He muttered, to which the girl broke out in laughter and the boy turned crimson —despite remaining indignant— and even more annoyed.
They had survived so much together, and it had definitely never been fair or easy, but Greg somehow believed that to be proof of how deep their connection was. Of how alike to what people on Auradon called family and often took for granted it was. Despite the fact that both of them —one more vocally than the other— would huff and deny the sole resemblance at all, it was there.
Looking at them now, Lestrade knew they were going to be okay.
Warm, humid air greeted him as he made his way up the stairs towards the balcony. The sun was beating down over the kingdom and made Sherlock wonder whether he still had time to make a run for it and just face John's —and Molly's— wrath later. Or perhaps he could even convince the blonde to let Mycroft handle the diplomacy by himself and escape the celebration all together with him. At least they'd know he wouldn't be able to catch them. But Alas! he was bound by threat of real punishment —the confiscation of his precious violin— if he so much as thought of causing any trouble today. Both his boyfriend and his brother agreed the last thing they needed was more chaos when they were trying to draw attention away from the fact that not two weeks ago the kingdom was in a state of almost irreversible crisis. The rebel was of the personal opinion something interesting would be exactly what they required to get their little brains away from what happened. But what did he know? For him it had been a great idea to choose a mid length purple leather jacket to wear to a celebration he knew would take hours under the unforgiving sun, so clearly his judgement was to be questioned.
In the last few days, he had done his best to remain inside the line, even if he did venture a toe out here and there. But it had been imperative to refrain from causing too much trouble, drawing too much attention to himself, —at least as far as everyone else could see,— even if chaos and freedom called to him like a melodious siren.
He adjusted the high collar, wondering whether the dragon-wing shoulders and faux-scales lining down the fabric were a bit much, —despite the fact Irene had assured him time and again they were exactly right— and sighed in boredom, which quickly turned into exasperation when he saw his brother approaching. Technically, he wasn't allowed to overexert his leg, —the 'bed rest' only allowing him out the chair for a few days— but he would be willing to risk it.
Mycroft paused beside him, clad in royal gold and dove grey, and looking as if the weather weren't boiling at a thousand degrees. He stood stoically, barely making eye contact and choosing instead to look somewhere in the distance as they both waited for John to arrive. His brother remained silent for a moment, making Sherlock hesitantly hope he would get away without a deep and cryptic conversation for the day, but sooner than he had feared, the silver eyed realised his tentative peace was to be disturbed after all.
"So, the day is saved," Mycroft commented, tone not conveying much in the way of intention. Sherlock was certain the other was going to make him work to gather the meaning behind his words, as he always did even before they got separated when small. "All the dragons slain," He continued, only to pause and quickly amend. "Figuratively of course." To which the other rolled his eyes, there was no way he was believing it had been a slip up. The thin smile was proof enough. Mycroft carried on without a hitch on his speech at his disinterest. "And the kingdom will once again prosper under John's rule." The words were released as if it would transform them into reality, now loaded with meaning. A notion with which Sherlock was surprised to find himself agreeing. For the most part. Yet his brother's decision to converse about it had Sherlock's brain still attempting to discern the planned destination he had with such a line of discussion. The boy tilted his purple head slightly to the left and narrowed his eyes. "No more need to go looking for shadows in the night." Mycroft finally spoke, bringing realisation and pause to the other in equal measures, now that the full picture of the warning —disapproving?— edge was revealed before his eyes.
Sherlock had never stopped searching for the answers missing. Checking under every bed in the kingdom for monsters without alerting everyone of the fact of his dissatisfaction with the 'result' Mary's defeat had brought, —or anyone who wasn't a nosy, over-bearing brother too preoccupied with everyone else's business—. At first, he had been ready to ignore the voice ringing in his ear, reminding him of the unsolved resolution and plunging him back into compulsive, obsessive hunt for the truth. Everyone had collectively agreed the matter was to be put to rest; the whole situation spoken for and never to be brought up again even in curious wonder; listing a long queue of reasons he should just focus on his life now, and for once, Sherlock had made an active and honest attempt to honour that pact and silence the ever-whirling theories roaming around his mind. John had all but begged him to stop turning stones in fear of finding demons beneath; and he had been willing to do so. If not for anything else than for him. Problem was, he knew himself enough to know he turned the stones in hope of finding them and it had been only a matter of time before the longing call of those facts unknown would be answered. In reality, that attempt had died a swift and painful dead.
He had gone back to the forest, and while his spell had contained the blue flames, they remained ever-burning. Completely unchanged; and he suspected each of the ones underwater were too. Sure, he now understood the reason why he had managed to escape living out the same fate as Moriarty, —their likened magic had heightened the strength of his unconfident spell, giving him a control over it impossible to replicate in any other circumstances— but that hadn't left him with any explanation on all the pieces still missing, and he loathed the idea of letting down his guard only for the solution to shoot him in the chest once again. No, this time he wanted to be at least one step ahead, not two behind as it had inadvertently become the norm lately. Knowledge by price of self-reveal was no less frustrating than guilty parties confessing to a perfect mystery. Still, the rebel wasn't willing to share the myriad of information he did have with his brother yet.
"Seems that way, yes." Sherlock replied, shrugging up to him deliberately. Mycroft, however, was visibly not fooled by his thinly veiled attempts, and was also aware of the expert way in which he shut down the line of inquiry. In lieu of calling him out on it and ruining what was planned to be a day of cheer, his brother let it slide.
"I would love to tell you our mother would be very proud, but-" He trailed off, leaving the other with something akin to whiplash at the sudden need to speak of parental figures and their expectations —or lack thereof— for him.
"But she really wouldn't." Sherlock was quick to complete. He had no notions of earning his mother's —or Moriarty's for that matter— appreciation. Not even if both of them were not currently dead to the world. Specially not after catching feelings for a royal and all but siding with the people who decapitated the very symbol of everything in which they believed —which also happened to be his family. "Does this conversation have a point, or should I just fling myself from this balcony already and end both our suffering?" The boy leaned his weight on said sand-coloured stone railing, hoping to chase the ginger to the point.
"It's tempting." Mycroft commented, turning to look at him with his thin smile again, playing along to the seemingly animous dynamic as the other waited. The silence stretched before them as did the shore beyond the courtyard and bay. A multitude of Auradon subjects all dressed in pastel were trickling in, ready to greet the royal family and let them chase every worry away with a graceful wave of their hands. A world in which Sherlock had integrated himself as an afterthought but which had nothing to do with him save for a few exceptions. The young man beside him being one of them.
It was as the violet haired boy's mind started wandering to the point of almost forgetting the other's presence that Mycroft muttered the real intention for all of this. "I am, you know?" He said cryptically, to which Sherlock just made an inquiring sound, despite his curiosity being honestly piqued. No need to make his brother know hw was capable of inspiring such. "Proud of you." Mycroft said, and Sherlock's insides instantly crumbled. His brain not sure —or ready— on how to process such information.
A few cycles ago, he had thought his brother lost forever, either dead or so far gone he would never, in a million universes, see him again; and he had made his peace with it. When one lives in The Isle of the Lost one tends to realise rather quickly that sentimental attachment only leads to further misery for yourself —you either learn it yourself or you have the notion almost beaten into you by repeated circumstances. When they had finally found each other it wasn't really a surprise they were different people now, shaped by what they had lived into something that should be almost unrecognisable; but Sherlock couldn't deny a part of him he had smothered to death on the island alleys, had been filled again now that they had managed to end up on the same side —in all ways possible. And now, Mycroft had decided to go and say that of all things, and the silver eyed boy found it was impossible to even attempt responding.
"I believe the heat is affecting you." He answered instead, not able to help the smile tugging at one of the corners of his lips. His frowning eyebrows not doing much to hide any of what he judged was currently written on his face by the other's knowing expression. The good —and most annoying— thing about his brother though, was you never had to spell out anything for him to know. On which Sherlock was counting.
"Clearly." Mycroft said, and if there was a hint of affection on the ginger's words, the rebel wasn't going to be the one to point it out. He chose instead to bear out the wait together in silence, up until the king and his family would arrive and their day got filled with incessant chatter and expectations. For the first time in a long time Sherlock felt he and his big brother could just be.
Of course, such tranquility would never last long in the rebel's life. And honestly, that's how he preferred it. The court ascended in signal of the royal family's arrival, Mycroft started and adjusted his pristine suit, rushing —or as fast as his brother would ever walk, which wasn't much— away to greet them and make the announcement, but Sherlock's attention diverted immediately towards the figure clad in deep royal blue. He saw him approaching with confidence and an amused smile towards him, hand already stretched out for him to grab hold of the glass of champagne he offered and the other hand to take in his.
John beamed from his left, it seemed to the rebel his bright blue eyes were shinning under the ever present sunlight as they walked towards the railing. Sherlock followed in his wake, since misbehaving at the moment would only mean adding minutes to being roasted in his suit. The quicker they got through all the check boxes of chores the faster he could slink back to the shade and ignore every other Auradon citizen which wanted to hear the heavily-redacted account of the battle —which Mycroft had edited to death— yet again.
The balcony looked out into a clearing before the ocean, in which people waited animatedly for the festivities to officially begin. The violet haired boy could see his friends in the distance already making mocking salutes at what he deduced his expression conveyed, specially next to John's ever kind and cheerful. He responded with a rude hand gesture, which the blonde didn't miss, but let go with just a warning glare to his direction in retribution. Sherlock often —always— found these royal duties torturous, but John had the special, —nay, near-magical— ability to make everything more tolerable, and so for now, with a mischievous grin on his face, he endured.
John extended a hand and waved the people to quiet down their fervent cheers so he could speak, "Thank you all for coming to celebrate with us the turning of the season and for accompanying me to welcome harvest and all its blessings," He started, and was met with even louder feedback, leaving the silver eyed boy amazed once more at the whiplash nature in which their favour towards them changed, one minute criticising the king's decision making and the other cheering him on as if he could do nothing wrong. Adoration for him, Sherlock could understand —and sympathise with— completely, it was the other which annoyed him. John, however, didn't seem to mind much, and continued on with that unshakable hope stained over his face no matter how much life attempted to wash him clean of it. "Thank you," He laughed, and raised his glass in toast. "Let us rejoice, rebuild and prosper together." He said, but his face lost a bit of excited lustre when his sight settled on the Island across the ocean, "And remember everyone that can't be with us to do so." The words were released more like a sigh he was unsure anybody else could hear, but Sherlock did. Perhaps doing this with visible proof of the dream he had had to give up hadn't been the best idea. Perhaps, this was too soon for them after all.
The crowd below didn't seem to catch his change of tone though, but Sherlock ignored them as he observed John's hesitant smile when he took a sip of champagne. His silver eyes boring into him and lifting words off his posture and clothes to form a clear picture in his mind. Good thing he wasn't trying to be subtle, because the royal sensed his gaze right away and turned to look at him with a questioning frown, the small grin on his face growing more genuine the more Sherlock refused to avert his gaze.
The blond laughed, and put a hand over his shoulder, smiling at him with a faraway gaze as if privy to an ancient secret only he knew. It was the violet haired boy's turn to grow mystified at the meaning. "What?" He asked, and watched as John's expression turned sober once more, downing the rest of his alcohol in one go and giving the crowd a furtive glance as if to check whether his attention could be spared from them, it reminded Sherlock an awful lot like gathering courage. "Listen," He started, "I know I should probably wait until we're alone to bring this up, but I'll probably lose my nerve again." He chuckled, his free hand scratching the back of his head. "Did you know-?" He started, but his apparent nerves were making Sherlock's heart uninvitedly race too, which meant his mouth started forming sounds unheeded. John had been working up the guts to speak to him about something since before all the mess had happened, now it seemed the time had finally caught up with them and the violet haired boy couldn't do more than cut him off.
"Probably." He added, to which John paused and glared at him, making him effectively shut up and impatiently wait once more. Until the royal released something puzzling from his mouth.
"Your mom was queen of darkness, mistress of evil, so that technically makes you a prince too." He explained as he settled his now empty glass on the railing, not really disclosing anything at all. "If you like, we could start the legal process to give you an official title." He said.
Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, attempting to piece together the notion's inception for John to consider such a ridiculous thing. But no matter how he twisted it, the numbers didn't add up. "Mycroft too, of course." The blond continued, almost compulsively. "If he also wants to."
"And why in the hell would I need one of those?" Sherlock replied, now convinced the events of the past weeks had finally caught up with John and had made him loose the white knuckled grip he had on sanity. He couldn't help the satisfied smirk drawing on his mouth at the interesting turn what he had anticipated to be a dull day had taken.
"Well," The other said, clammy hands grabbing a hold of one of his. "If you had a title, that would automatically make you eligible." His words were careful, rehearsed, and clearly chosen with intention in mind, Sherlock was thrilled by the mystery.
"Eligible for what?" He muttered, grinning. Not even knowing himself if he wanted the other to just spit it out or whether his impatience could hold off long enough for him to parse it out himself.
The amusement he carried within his chest died at the other's words of reply. "To marry someone from the royal family." John said, calmly. As if he hadn't just detonated a bomb on them. As if he were sure. Putting a very definite halt on the other's thought process. "Not now, of course, but maybe in the future?" He continued, but the sand in Sherlock's mouth thickened and not a soul nor a spell seemed to help the rebel with his problem. Sherlock was speechless and John couldn't stop talking. "I know ruling a kingdom this way isn't what you had planned when you came, your dreams were probably more along the lines of a dark throne and fire but-" He shrugged now, his confidence running out the more the rebel went without answering. The part of Sherlock's brain that still worked could read the apprehension on the other, but he was having trouble breathing at that point, a shadow gnawing at his mind as words jumped out at him, tugging and distracting. Practically banging him on the head, and taking away the meagre ability he could have to answer.
"It's-" John continued, unaware of the other's condition, or perhaps, in a way, also frozen himself. "It's fine." He assured, now placing both hands on the other's cheeks as if to drive the truth home, "It's probably too early anyway, but the process takes cycles, and it's very draining. I may have gotten…" He continued, but the words trailed away to mute for the other. That word taking over him like a deadly disease.
Future. Dreams. Ruling. Draining.
It had been staring him right in the face the entire time, his own brain furious at him for not being able to identify the big fucking pattern when it had been right there. He had been worried Moriarty had planned something to destroy the kingdom's future and legacy, a terrible strategy to challenge them even if he was not present; not having any desires of being alive if he could cause more trouble being gone. But Sherlock failed to account the possibility of them having already lost a long time ago.
An overwhelming feeling of sick delight bubbled up inside him at the revelation. All those dreams, nightmares in true form, the statues, the fires, even Mary, had all been there waiting for him before he even arrived, and it was obvious now what they had been doing. As the boy deluded himself with notions of schemes and cloak and dagger he should have just listened to his evil urges instead. Because, in the end, he should have never allowed himself to get derailed, not away from what he truly was.
"I may have gotten a bit carried away, but it doesn't make it any less true." John said, hoping the explanation made him sound less like a clingy, desperate creep and more like someone who meant it. He knew it was probably too early, —too much—, but Sherlock had been one of the best things to happen to him, and he didn't see that changing any time soon.
So worried was he on laying his intentions clear to be true and fretting by the lack of reply, it took him a moment to realise Sherlock was laughing. And no soft chuckle or nervous giggle either, but full, uncontrollably, maniacally laughing. "Sherlock?" The royal asked tentatively; but the boy didn't stop, his laughter just turned louder and more wry; jarring enough to attract the attention from the ones around them.
John looked around at the witnesses, as if to check he wasn't hallucinating; but once he found no proof of anything amiss his blue eyes turned to the other once again, debating whether they were in the middle of one of his tricks. But despite Sherlock often acting up and turning him round the bend, this wasn't normal. The rebel's eyes shone back at him in unquestionable ecstasy, making an uncomfortable ball settle on the blond's stomach. "Anderson." Was all Sherlock could answer amidst some sort of fit, and did nothing to appease his confusion. Mike arrived to their side, and the royal could see Lady Hudson and his parent's concerned faces looking their way too.
"Uhm, that is…unexpected." John tried for levity, chuckling in nervousness, but the pounding inside his own chest had extended to his head in worry, thinking he may have committed a terrible mistake in pressuring him, causing him to finally lose grip on sanity and cracking them both in the process. Perhaps he should've stayed quiet after all. He was unsure on whether they'd survive a repeat of last time Sherlock felt he couldn't cope with the king's expectations.
The violet haired boy's face contorted in disgust at the notion, "No, you moron," He said. "Not that." But his explanation didn't continue. Leaving the situation hanging and John even more confused as to Anderson's sudden importance.
He turned to share a look with his advisor, meeting the gaze to find equal disconcert for his brother in the other's expression. "Okay, you're scaring me now." John breathed, dropping all pretence of amusement, shifting his weight between both his feet. He hesitated on reaching out to touch him, in fear of making whatever was going on worse, while awkwardly trying to gain Sherlock's attention back.
"I've been an idiot." Sherlock huffed, mood veering into dangerous as his words of delight were laced with a hint of frustration. "A complete an utter imbecile." He said as he started pacing away from the edge with his fingers tugging at his purple curls, leaving the other to follow. In a strange chasm of willing them to understand and berating himself simultaneously. "Can't you see?" He asked, "Anderson. The dreams!" He reached to shake John by his shoulders, but his insistence wasn't making matters any more clear, only painting him in a more deranged hue than usual. He threw his hands in the air when the lightbulb didn't turn on in their heads.
"Moriarty beat us!" Sherlock's silver eyes were alight with life and exhilarating revelation, which the king was still struggling to understand. Specially so soon after having delivered what was the most nerve-wrecking question of his life. But he still exhaled and listened attentively. That all could wait for now. For this, for Sherlock, he would wait a lifetime.
By then Irene and Greg had made their way up to the balcony and were staring in confusion too. "And that's funny?" Greg asked, the incredulity on his expression matched by Irene's, who frowned and crossed her arms.
Sherlock didn't answer, but John could see in his face it was a very resounding 'yes'. "He wasn't planning to bring down the barrier," The other started. "He didn't need to, he knew we'd do it all on our own." His words were sure, but John was having trouble believing in what they meant. For him, Moriarty had been nothing but a moment's threat, —despite his infamy,— and he couldn't imagine what in his history could possibly make his cleverer-than-life boyfriend believe everything they had done and sacrificed meant nothing at all.
His apprehensions must have shown in his eyes, since Sherlock stared more intently and spoke a little more slowly, —or as slowly as physically possible for him when this excited— as if to convey confidence. "It appears the dream we both had as kids is about to come true." Sherlock said, unable to rid his words from the amusement completely.
"I'm afraid not." Mike was quick to intervene, the displeased expression at his brother's antics very plain on the furrowed brow. The blond could understand the sentiment, they had worked their whole lives to keep the kingdom together, to steer it away from the brink of tragedy in which the War of the Light had left it, letting go of that balance wouldn't be an easy thing for anyone involved.
John, ever willing to calm the waters though, turned his eyes from Mycroft Holmes to address his boyfriend. "Sherlock, explain?" He requested, as he often did when the other's head had run away from both of them. The familiarity seemed to have unlocked something on Sherlock, since his attention returned and his whole demeanour snapped back into place. At least enough for him to make sense.
"Those dreams, John." Sherlock stated heavily, and now it was the blond's turn to be scrutinised by the others there. He had never let anyone else but Mike and Mary know about them, and there was a reason for that, but the rebel continued nonetheless. "How it always feels like you've been cursed after you wake up?" He said, and John could do nothing but clear his throat and raise his chin at the weight of their eyes on him. Trampling down the urge he felt to return his stomach's contents at the vulnerability.
The violet haired boy paused and frowned, his eyes going impossibly soft, and displaying extremely rare sympathy on the silver of his irises. "I'm willing to guess you're not the only one who has them." He concluded, making John's eyes snap up; and to his utter surprise, he encountered every born royal present standing awkwardly, unconsciously concealing their hands and none of them willing to meet his gaze. John found himself breathless at the implications.
He twisted around and his hands reached, almost on their own accord, to grab Sherlock's shoulders. The beat of his heart echoing louder and setting his synapses on fire. "The dreams, the ember, the fires." The violet haired boy went on after flashing a reassuring smile, John attempted to listen amidst the whiplash. "All of them are stealing magic from the spells, waiting to transfer it to someone, and we played right into their game."
"What game?" Irene asked from the left, curious intonation as she stepped forward. The sound of her voice worked wonders in bringing John back to reality from the nebulous world Sherlock always inhabited and to which he always dragged the king even when he was sometimes reluctant to go.
Sherlock, however, was more keen on making John, in particular, understand. For what purpose, the king had yet to find out, but knowing him it could be any number of things which will all probably —most definitely— land them both in trouble. "What happened the last time someone used a magical object to steal powers away from another villain?" He asked.
John didn't have to search for the answer. "Mary." He was quick to say, feeling the same adrenaline bubble up inside his own chest as proof of their dire situation was uncovered. His fight or flight instinct being mixed with an undeniable rush for thrill at the hands of Sherlock's words.
"Worse." The other negated, but smiled encouragingly. The blond took it as a sign of him getting warmer and warmer towards the right answer. And then, as Sherlock smirked at him with the sun filtering through the strands of his hair and making the purple appear electric under the light, a very clear suspicion grew into a certainty within him.
"Your mother." He concluded, and bathed in satisfaction as Sherlock nodded and beamed conspiracy at him. The rebel had had a worrying meltdown —although he would later argue it was nothing of the sort— with processing he had basically been a magical 'petri-dish' baby, bred with just his mother's plan as destiny in mind and no regard for his own individuality or say in the matter whatsoever. It was no wonder he rejoiced in finally understanding what that purposed entailed, even if John was still struggling to.
"The curse has been feeding off of everything it can find since before the War of the Light, even nightmares," Sherlock continued, "Moriarty must have planned to trick my mother to gather all the magic the curse was draining, then use me to harvest it for him," His voice sounded flooded with passion and now John understood why, sleep and nightmare curses had been his mom's speciality. "I think not even them knew the feast their curse would encounter a few cycles later." Sherlock chuckled at that as he smirked back at him.
"So, what is it eating now?" Greg had the sense to ask, strong arms crossed over his chest and interested expression on his face, always ready for battle.
The violet haired sighed audibly and answered with haughty words. "If only there were a massive on-going spell left unattended for it to consume, roughly the size of an island." He said.
"You mean-?" John asked and looked up at him, but he was smart enough to not need confirmation. He couldn't help but laugh along now, realising the irony which had fuelled his boyfriend's manic episode. How fucking fitting it was that the very thing they had built to stop villains from cursing their kingdom and its citizens any longer was providing the perfect power for their worst spell yet.
"Mycroft, I have strong reason to believe the spell over the kingdom is weakening the dome." The violet haired boy now turned to his brother, acquiring a formal demeanour John suspected was more mockery than genuine at the moment; but he still had the sense to report his findings instead of cloak and dagger this time, and the king counted that as progress.
"And why do you say he's won?" Mike replied, an sceptic eyebrow arched at the mere idea that someone could have the upper hand over the best Auradon had to offer. All of them were well aware of how dangerous people like Moriarty were, but for the violet haired boy —imaginative as he was— to declare there was nothing else to be done, was understandably hard to believe.
"Because, we have no other choice, do we?" Sherlock challenged, crossing his hands to mirror the other. "The moment they put up the barrier, our fate was sealed," He said. "And he knew it," The rebel appeared more than ready to see his brother even attempt to order him to do something. John reckoned he, himself, would have trouble doing so at the moment too.
At that, Lady Hudson approached, in her hand was her magic wand with which she had been supposed to cast a symbolic good luck spell to the renewal of the season. "If he's correct," She started, "Either we bring down the barrier now and cut off its main food source, or we let it consume its magic completely until that power can be transferred to someone else," She explained, and even if no one could deny she was a sweet and gentle woman, she commanded attention and none present dared to question her stern wisdom. "I'm assuming for nothing good." Her words were final, laying the choice they had presented in front of them clear. Stay living in fear and letting it eventually consume them all, or give something new —and possibly devastatingly worse— a try.
Sherlock smirked, and the royal almost did a double take at the expression, recognising the delightfully wicked passion spreading all over it. He knew what that meant, he had seen it countless times before, and he knew it evoked danger of some sort, and that it would end up involving him in some way, be it in assistance or clean up. John found himself with a similar feeling building inside his chest.
Mike must have read his agreement on his face, or his shoes, or the turns of his shirt sleeves, because he stepped forward with all the authority he knew how to portray even being 24 cycles old. "We can't do that." He stated and tapped his umbrella on the marble floor as finite.
"It's not up to you, Mike." John declared, for the first time in his life stern and unmovable against his most trusted advisor and closest friend. "And I choose to be a king who protects his people." He declared, "All of them." The blonde knew the risk they were taking, and valued the ginger's concerns, but doing nothing wouldn't actually protect them from anything; the last few weeks had proven you never knew where evil —and therefore good too—is going to come from, and he had to believe his people would make the right choice when presented with it, as he was trying to do now.
Mycroft seemed taken aback for a second, as the king had never seen him, but his composure returned swiftly, and the surprise in his face gave way to a subdued pride and agreement.
John nodded to himself, and breathed out, his decision already burning at the back of his throat, begging to come out. "Sherlock," He called, and met the other's expectant silver eyes to his. "Turns out, I should've let you do what you had planned all thway back at my coronation." John said as he turned back towards the island across the ocean. He saw the big black cloud hanging over it, blocking most of the sunlight, and the words just tumbled from his mouth. Free at last. "Please, bring down the barrier."
"As you command, my king." Sherlock replied, a frisky smirk painted over his features as he beamed and turned to Lady Hudson for the wand. John heard Mike sigh in worry, and to his left Greg and Irene were already vibrating with unconcealed anticipation.
Lady Hudson smiled at John and turned an approving eyebrow at the rebel as she placed the precious magic wand on his pale spidery fingers. Sherlock's silver eyes turned green for a second as he contemplated the object of so much conflict on his life. Once again in his hold to finish that which the royals had started, but instead of seeking to harm them like last time, now acting for their perseverance. John figured the turn of events would warrant a lot of chaotic introspection later.
After a few seconds, a determination seemed to dawn over the violet haired boy, making his fingers tighten around the wand and his expression lock in a vibrant calm as his gaze rose. Sherlock grabbed John's hand excitedly and all but raced to the edge of the balcony again.
Once at the railing, his boyfriend was leaning out of it with his hand already outstretched, and John couldn't help but comment, even though his fingers curled around Sherlock's hand steadily, "This is a terrible idea, isn't it?" He asked.
Sherlock turned to give him a radiant smile, his eyes shining under the bright sunshine. "I know," He started, "Isn't it brilliant?" He said, and with a flick of his wrist sent a ray of sparkling white light forward.
The magic rushed through the air, over land and water and made a home at the barrier, piercing it swiftly with a bright bang and leaving behind a big hole over its surface. After a small moment of a silent kingdom, the dome started cracking. Shattering. Falling like rain and breaking apart like glass shinning under the light.
Gone forever.
Between all the commotion, the small arms which wrapped around her waist felt like an attack to Irene. It was only the shrill excitement on Archie's voice which managed to stop the indigo haired girl from lashing out at the perceived threat.
"You're here!" He exclaimed, and squeezed harder. For a moment Irene let herself enjoy it, not thinking about all the possible ways this could go wrong and only savour the taste of her realised dreams. And she did. Not only having Archie back —whom she thought she'd never see grow up— but what she had spent moon-cycles fantasising about.
At first, there had been a small pause descending over her and the other Auradon citizens as the barrier dissipated. All of them stared awestruck at the receding magic, unsure of what it meant. Incredulity taking a moment to catch up until the first of them started taking notice of the previously broken bridge connecting both lands now repaired to its former glory, some swift-reflexed villains already running across it to reach the kingdom. It was complete chaos after that.
Now, it had mostly died down to just mild panic after the magical beings had attempted neutralised the most immediate of the threats. The majority of alarmed royals had already left to lock themselves in their homes in fear, while the others remained on the clearing and watched as several very confused islanders experienced Auradon for the first time. It was a mesmerising view, even if none of them knew the real reason behind John and Sherlock's motivation for granting said opportunity. Greg had eventually come down from the balcony with her, leaving an exasperated Mycroft who appeared to be berating the functionality of the decision and Sherlock snarking back at him as his boyfriend watched in growing worry, —you know, fun times— and they met up with Janine and Molly instead, catching up as they rushed to find out what had happened.
"I'm so glad to see you again." Irene said to Archie now, passion behind her words as she knelt down to eye level with the boy, hugging him once more in a rush of impulsive happiness. No matter the motivation, the gift she had received that day she would never forget. "Did you come here on your own?" She asked after a few minutes had transpired, her uncontrollable smile now shared with the friends who witnessed the moment. Archie moved to hug Lestrade as well, shaking his head in denial and shrugging his small shoulders. He gestured past the ones present and directed the girl's vision towards the three people they wanted to see least, and who they probably should had anticipated having to deal with.
Victor was the first one to stop. Clad in his usual crimson coat, he looked up to the balcony, where Sherlock could be seen speaking animatedly to John and Lady Hudson as said recipients of his tirade looked on in confusion. "Girly eyes came through." He muttered almost to himself, the surprise in his voice and expression very evident. His frown set off the way the corners of his mouth tugged up unbidden as some sort of realisation dawned on him.
"He always does." Lestrade responded, when he stepped forward with arms crossed. The animosity was still there, —Irene doubted that would ever change— but the tone of his comment sounded less irate, just mildly exasperated as he waited for Trevor to arrive at a conclusion they all had known since the beginning.
Janine stayed back with Molly, as Archie clung to Irene's side like a life-line. She shared an amused smirk with her as they watched Greg struggle to remain civil in the face of Victor's very obvious surprised gaze then turned leering. Janine frowned in outrage, and silently let Irene know she wouldn't stay on the sidelines on that. There was a reason why the indigo haired girl liked her.
"And he's definitely taken." Janine added, an eyebrow raised as Victor finally turned his sight away and came to regard who had dared to interrupt whatever was happening inside his mind; which Irene didn't need a map to arrive at the exact destination those thoughts had taken.
"And who are you?" Victor turned to ask, smirk and attitude back on place as he looked at Janine in disdain. But she stood her ground against him, with Greg and Sebastian now closing in to watch the scene. Irene decided she had had enough of that, and directed herself and Archie to check in on the third and missing member of their pirate gang; it wasn't long until they found her.
Eurus was frozen in place, the frown of confusion on her face so deep Irene grimaced in sympathy at the expression lines she would get from it. Only one thing was on Sherlock's sister's mind and nobody would be surprised of its subject. "You could just ask, you know?" Irene said as she approached the other girl. Figuring if someone didn't shake her off her current trance and fixation she would stay standing there for the rest of eternity; forever wondering what could have gone through Sherlock's line of reasoning and how did he feel about the new start he had inadvertently granted them.
Eurus took a while to turn, and when she did, her teal eyes tracked her without passion. "I can read him in less than a second, what would be the purpose?" She asked in return, and while it was a valid question, Irene felt she was missing the point completely.
"He'll surprise you." Irene answered, a smile forming on her expression at the other's confusion. "He does that sometimes." She said, and found she didn't really care on whether Eurus ever figured it out. That was her problem and decision. If even face to face she couldn't see past their differences in hands dealt but look at the insurmountable similarities, then Sherlock's life was better without a sister anyway.
The other girl stayed quiet, pondering whatever value she had placed on Irene's suggestion. "They are coming." Eurus commented instead; her mind running far away from them just when the indigo haired girl thought she would be able to catch up to her. Irene pursed her lips and shifted her weight at the notion, feeling comfort when she noticed Greg coming to stand beside her once more.
"Who?" Janine asked, and the rebels knew exactly who. It was an inevitability of their reality, one of the prices they would have to pay for the freedom of their people; that didn't mean they weren't going to put off thinking about it for as long as possible. It was just their parents, and they had managed to survive living with them for the majority and most vulnerable parts of their lives without perishing in the attempt, they should be fine; although that had been before they betrayed them and their ideals. "You mean your parents?" Janine clearly read the apprehension on their faces, but that didn't stop her from looking interested. "I actually think it'd be cool to finally meet the legends." She said. Eurus smiled at it, genuinely and surprising everyone around her. She walked away to follow Sebastian and Victor who had already rushed away to get lost inside the forest after that; Irene imagined they would have to find them eventually. Bring forth all the consequences for what they had yet to commit, but that was work for another day.
"Cool?" Molly brought them back to the matter at hand, still looking terrified at the idea, turning her brown eyes towards Greg who smiled in reassurance, and if said grin was a bit empty nobody commented on it. In reality, Molly will probably handle it better than anyone thought, that girl had been dealing with Sherlock's antics for a long time now, and she was the only one who could call him out on his bullshit to this day. She'll be fine.
The two of them, however, was another story.
"Perhaps it is time to see the old man," Greg commented thinly, and the both of them nodded, slowly stopping as they really thought about what the worst thing that could happen was.
"We'll need more guards." Irene concluded quickly, and saw Greg nod in dreading agreement, already walking towards the stairs leading back to the balcony.
"I'll tell Mycroft." He said as he rushed away and left her on the clearing, in wait for whatever fate had in store for them.
"Are those little crowns on your pyjamas?" The chuckle in Sherlock's voice made John groan out loud and press a tan hand over his very tired face.
The day had been probably the longest he had had —excluding Mary's vengeful rampage— in all his existence, and he wished, for the sake of the kingdom and his own sanity, it would remain that way for the foreseeable future. But judging by what had transpired in it, he very much doubted it. The people of The Isle of the Lost were free, finally released by means of desperation, but very much in accordance to what he had wanted, —albeit more sudden and comprehensive than he intended. But still, free of the prison known as the barrier they were. However, at setting them free they also had liberated the kingdom of its peace. Sherlock, Lady Hudson and any other magical ally they had had tried to contain the most dangerous villains as much as they could, but they could do very little to stop them from running free, and hundreds of them would do so until John and Mike figured out a way to set up something Auradon hadn't needed for cycles: a working judicial system.
And now, he had finally been able to retreat to his room to rest, —by Mike's insistence— but the eluding thing didn't seem to want to come at all; so he stood barefoot, clad in blue and gold trousers and a thin shirt in the balcony. The breaking dawn air hitting his face relentlessly as he stared at the meekly growing —recently re-planted— garden below in silence. However, Sherlock always had something to say, and now there they were, discussing fashion choices after the maddest of moments.
"Well, not everyone is willing to risk a heat-induced fainting spell just to wear that coat in late summer." He replied, but he knew his words —though tired— sounded far too fond for the snark to be believable. The violet hair boy smiled at him, and shrugged. Clearly not regretting the decision to wear it or to comment on the king's choice of sleeping garments one bit. The blond hadn't expected him to, honestly.
"What do you think the kingdom will be like now?" He breathed, watching his visible cold air travel away from them and into the growing morning. Both of them staring out into the swift changing colour of the sky; Mirroring the change their life had just taken. "With villains." He explained.
Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, but didn't hesitate to speak the words once he'd found them. "Chaos, I hope." He answered, and immediately turned to watch what John knew was his withered expression of disapproval mixed with amusement. "At least at first." Sherlock emended, but its hollowness of meaning wasn't fooling anyone, least of all John.
"And then?" The blond continued, moving past the slight hiccup, —he will probably get back to him for that later. He was aware, despite appearances, Sherlock couldn't actually predict the future, but it was still an insight John valued, almost above all else, and he wanted a way to sooth his own apprehensions, or at least pretend they weren't there for a few minutes.
"Perhaps they'll change." Sherlock shrugged once more, twisting around to lean backwards on the railing and look unabashedly at his boyfriend, not entirely convincing. His thin fingers curled and stuffed inside the silk dark blue dressing gown he often 'borrowed' when he was —supposedly not— in John's royal chambers after hours.
"Have you?" John's tone was inquisitive, but he hadn't planned the question to pass his lips and run away from him, yet now that he had said it, he figured it wasn't a stupid line of discussion at all. It was closer to inevitable at this point. The silver eyed boy arched an eyebrow at him, as if he didn't quite grasp what he meant. That becoming the second thing John hadn't believed in their conversation so far. "Changed, I mean." He explained.
Sherlock smirked at him, sighing as the royal stared at him in earnest. "In the last two weeks," He started, a conversational, almost bored tone present in the sound of his words. "I stole the ember, lied to the people who trusted me the most." He listed each one with his fingers. "Made promises I very much didn't intend to keep, cheated, manipulated, almost burned the whole kingdom to the ground, and cursed a princess to a near permanent dream." He concluded, and John was unable to refute any of those. Not one single one.
He was in no way blind to what Sherlock was, they way he often behaved in a deplorable manner, never even attempting to play by the rules; but he was also, ironically, the kindest, wisest and most selfless person he had ever met. Ready to forgo even his own life to save other's, to fix a problem. Someone one hundred and one percent authentic; and he would be lying if he said his life —and the kingdom— didn't need someone like that. Insincere, front-only good-doers, they had in abundance; but a 'villain' with a conscience was difficult to find, and John supposed he was also a tad biased when it came to him and his intentions. He really did love him after all. In some way, he fitted right into John's view of his ideal future.
"Oh, and I also melted all of Greg's gloves for an experiment last week." And then Sherlock went and said things like that.
It took a moment for John to register what he was hearing, turning his now frowning face in search for a way to understand the information given. "What?" He asked, "I thought that was the cleaning crew." Greg had moaned about it enough for him to be sure of that.
The other boy had the audacity to laugh, "That's what I told them." He said, and the blonde tried not to laugh along, not to encourage him, but at the sight of the other's knowing smile he knew he had lost. "Can you believe Molly wanted me to 'come clean and accept responsibility'?" The disgust and incredulity in his face were very evident.
"She's clearly crazy." John replied, making sure his sarcasm was not missed, but the violet haired boy didn't appear to care either way. "So you decided to blame an innocent bystander." The king said as he nodded in resignation, then did a double take, "Wait," He said, the cogs turning inside his head. "You were supposed to be in bed rest last week." John knew he had been adamant to the point of suffocation when it came to his recovery, no matter how many times Sherlock insisted he was fine to move about and how bed rest and 'constant mindless empty routine was sure to kill him before any injury or curse ever could, John.' but he wasn't about to take any chances after everything that had happened. He was terrified of having a repeat of Mary or Moriarty.
"I got bored of that." Sherlock answered truthfully, and the royal had the suspicion he knew exactly how ridiculous he was being since his beaming face was now directed inwards, as one does when throwing themselves towards the fanciful, it was very much John's favourite from the array of fast-changing Holmesian moods; and so, he relented.
The royal groaned for the second time, pushing away from the stone railing to pace in front of the other. "You're a menace." His words were mingled with laughter. The adrenaline of danger and the events of the day finally wearing off and manifesting as an uncontrollable mirth of merely being alive still, when it seemed like they shouldn't. After so much.
Sherlock cut him off from his amused spell, his voice veering towards serious abrupt enough to make the king stop. "So, the answer is no." He said, and stared as John watched him in confusion at his meaning. "I haven't changed." He explained, with conviction on the faraway look in his grey eyes. John got the unexplainable urge to gather him in his arms despite the other not looking vulnerable at all. Perhaps it was just the fact it was the third lie he had heard pass the other's lips that day, or perhaps because this one was the only one which wasn't directed at John, but at himself. It was almost disconcerting how Sherlock couldn't see how different he was to the boy who first came here with a too-complicated plan to steal the wand and no knowledge of what strawberries with chocolate were. Yes, there was no denying many things had lingered from then, but it was heart-wrenching to think the other wouldn't think so.
"Good." The king muttered and smiled, and that was what this boy had made of him now: a liar too. Even if by omission of the part of him which half-disagreed. Or perhaps there was no deceit to begin with, and that change had just meant growing up, steeping into what he had chosen to be despite the universe attempting to keep him the same and in line with its plans. Maybe it was the fact the blue eyed was just glad the fierceness, that fire and determination in his eyes and heart had remained unchanged which made him rejoice at said inaccurate statement. To allow the lie.
After Mary, John had understood so much he had ignored before. He had stopped attempting to naively fit and base his world in either the rules of good or the spontaneity of evil. Had come to know, even as a king, there were things which were out of his control, reiterated by proof of the way his dream of citizens of the Isle being released had come to reality, but not in the way he wanted them to. He had usually preached his advocacy for freedom of choice to his kingdom countless of times, —made even more evident by his proclamation,— but it wasn't until someone he cared about —someone he truly trusted— had turned around and threatened that very belief that he understood completely what he had been talking about. But that's the problem about utopias, they're never real.
"As for the other thing," Sherlock continued, pulling him out of his pondering once more. His face now a tad softer and devoid of any witticism in sight. This was him at his most sentimental —which granted still wasn't much. Although lately it had been coming out to play more often—. "I believe I owe you an answer too." He said, and by then the blond had figured out where the conversation was going.
"Oh." John muttered, sighing and letting his hands hang at his sides, his feet separated and planted firmly on the marbled flooring. His sight was diverted from the other's honest eyes, and fixed on the royal ring on Sherlock's finger, the one he had given him the day of his coronation. "And what is it?" He tentatively worded, he had no desires of pushing his boyfriend into an uncomfortable position or a future he didn't desire, and he wasn't exactly keen on hearing the truthful rejection he was sure to get to his ludicrous idea either. But he still needed to know, if at least to put the matter to rest.
One corner of the violet haired's mouth tugged up, turning his gaze and fingers to fiddle with the overgrown vine on the railing in faux indifference. "I hope you know what you're getting into." He said, almost as if only confident in releasing it towards the quiet vast of the kingdom. But John could hear it perfectly, and had the weird feeling he'd never stop hearing it inside his head from that moment on.
"Shouldn't that be my line?" The blond asked, smirking now as the reality and hope of the other's words started dawning on his consciousness. "Is that a yes?" The question could be deemed as superfluous by then, specially judging by the smouldering expression the other was giving him, but John didn't care if 'obvious' was the answer, he preferred to have concrete agreement.
Sherlock appeared to mull it over, but the royal could see he was sure. He wouldn't have even brought it up if he were still torn about it. Happy to leave it to oblivion until he deemed it important enough to bring it back to life. "Perhaps." His grey eyes shone now towards him, the unabashed cheeky smirk making a return as he looked for the delightful fondness and exasperation in the king's expression.
John couldn't hold himself away anymore, and stepped forward to grab the other by the waist and kiss him in equal parts emotion and frustration. Sherlock responded more than enthusiastically. "You berk." He said, knowing now that explicit agreement will never be granted in words.
"Irene and Greg will never let you live this down, you now?" He said after pulling back as a mean of retaliation, already looking forward to everything this choice would bring. Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned out loud at the notion. Yes, all of them would have a field day with this information for days on end, much to the rebel's dismay. "And we'll need to have a ceremony for the announcement." The royal beamed, as a horrified expression grew into the other's face.
"You've been successful on changing my mind already." Sherlock answered, to which John laughed and stopped his mouth from making any more objections. Not right now. They would surely argue —explosively fight— over the details later, but for now John wanted a moment of peace to bathe in the impossibility what his life had become.
Sherlock understood immediately, and, after they finally parted, he did his best to stay silent, despite fidgeting distractingly a few seconds into the calm. John's hand stayed the other's as they both looked ahead to the ocean surrounding the land beyond. And for the first time in a long while, John saw dawn break fully over the island from his bedroom balcony.
"How's the prisoner today?" Sherlock asked as he deftly removed his leather gloves and purple scarf. The kingdom's weather had taken a sudden turn since the barrier's dissolution, lady Hudson had said it would come back into balance once an adjusting period was finished, but weeks later they were still left to deal with winter-like freezing winds in the middle of autumn. Though the sun had refused to cease its daily appearance for the entire time, the violet haired boy suspected that would soon change too.
"Same as always, your grace." The guard answered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. It had only been nearly one moon-cycle since they had officially started the tedious process to authenticating his title, yet somehow every guard and royal staff in the kingdom had taken to calling him by regal addresses, despite the million times he had insisted they shouldn't. He imagined this was his brother's attempt at humour. It had Mycroft's sugary fingerprints all over it.
"Dead to the world." The guard continued, and Sherlock nodded in understanding. He wasn't actually expecting Moriarty's condition to change overnight —or anything at all— yet a part of him still drove him to check. The daily visits had become now more of a routine than an impulse, despite the fact it was impossible to have an actual conversation with the person he was there to see. Every time he was allowed into his brain, Jim did nothing but manically laugh for hours on end, and no matter how frustrating it could become for Sherlock, he had remained drawn to do it. Whether there was a level of addiction or guilt there, he was unable to tell you. Or perhaps it was just as a mean of calculated precaution, which would seem uncharacteristic of him if not for the subject at hand.
The kingdom had changed considerably, —which at least made for more entertaining days for the silver eyed boy— and the inclusion of every island citizen into Auradon society was far from a smooth one. Crime had gone from basically inexistent to very recurrent, magical attacks and feeble —if a bit pathetic— attempts to seize power had made an appearance; and the already sceptical had latched onto that to prove their point like a lifeline. They weren't wrong per se; what peace they had had after Mary's own attack was now obliterated, a distant memory, and it was difficult to believe this could ever be what John had wanted when he first made his proclamation and dreamt about a free kingdom. But Sherlock had never seen him complain, in fact, he looked oddly calm about the whole thing. As if all the chaos was still worth it, and he was just pleased to ride along.
"Don't think this one will rise and shine soon." The man commented as he punched in the code for the very complicated padlock. It had already been replaced and upgraded four times since the villains were free to try and liberate their rightful ruler now that Sherlock —their supposed champion— had consorted with the enemy. The royal family was, once more, a target, but the number of villains which had it out for the boy who betrayed them was enough to form a line. Of course, not every villain had opted for mutiny and anarchy; most of them actually, had rejoiced and were now happy to be able to feel the real sunlight, some of them for the first time in their lives; and that was mainly what John and Irene focused on.
The silver eyed sighed at the smalltalk, attempting not to draw in the smell of rotten eggs too much. Not really keen on listening to a stranger's input when he had no clue of what had happened. This guard's mind couldn't begin to grasp how important it was that Sherlock made sure the situation hadn't changed, no matter how tedious, any new development now would shatter them. It wasn't likely to happen, in fact, every book and master of magic agreed it was impossible, and perhaps the boy was wasting valuable time in going there every morning. Was locked in the past, expecting it to bite him at every unchecked corner. He was aware he was most likely overreacting, but it wasn't as if he had the right to stop; it was an option which hadn't even crossed his mind.
Sherlock then stopped and considered, his hand almost to the door handle which would permit him to enter the chamber. He didn't know whether the smell had gone to his head or the guard's chatter had finally driven him insane, but his hand came back down, almost unbidden to his side. The door in front of him remained shut, trapping inside all which made up the entirety of his nightmares and sleepless nights alike. There to stay undisturbed, never to be risen again. Not even by him.
"Actually," Sherlock said, taking a step away and then wondering when he had decided to do so. "I think I'll skip today." He found himself muttering, the words a revelation for him too.
The man appeared confused as well, "Of course, your Grace. Like you command." He bowed and stepped forward to arm the padlock once more and secure the multiple locks on the heavy door. Sherlock stood back and watched as his unsure decision to break routine that day got materialised and made all the more real by definite actions. Changing his mind now was out of the question, he struggled not to let the trepidatory thought consume him. One day would be fine, he'd come back tomorrow, or the day after.
"There are much scarier island scum out there that need watching, if you ask me." The other continued, breaking Sherlock's musings and causing him to roll his eyes as he specifically hadn't asked for conversation. Casually bypassing the insult. Royals could be such idiots in the most simple of occasions it was almost a talent. They placed security on someone and didn't understand the very reason there were seemingly more vicious villains running rampant on the kingdom was because the one inside that very cell had designed it exactly that way.
The guard, however, oblivious to his real problem appeared to realise what he had said, and turned apologetic eyes to him. "I didn't mean anything by it." He pleaded, all but throwing himself at his feet. "I'm sure you don't do bad things anymore, your Grace." He said, certain of that to be the truth and hoping to convince Sherlock he knew it. Like he said: idiots.
Sherlock ignored the obvious desperation from the other and walked out. Even Anderson's incredibly irksome company would be preferred at being almost pawed at by someone in order to keep a very boring job, and Philip was in a swirl of obsessive theorising since Mary had called him 'brother'.
His feet carried him away from the prison, unbothered by the confused calling at his back as he wondered what his next move would be, as if his whole life had just opened up before him and he were uncertain on how to fill it without Moriarty's presence hanging over him now. He was equally unsure on whether he liked it.
There was no real hurry to arrive to his destination, but there was no reason to delay either, he had no more extra immortal sun-cycles to waste any more; —he had given those away,— so he decided to make his way towards the pier, all while he reminded himself he probably should start thinking about buying back his soul from creepy-glasses Magnussen, now that it actually mattered and he had means to actually cash in on their deal. It was a solution he was looking forward to finding.
Once he arrived at the bridge, John was the first to notice him approaching. "All right?" He said and turned his beautiful blue eyes to him in assessment. Visibly attempting to read off his face the reason why he was early without letting everyone else in. His boyfriend was the only who knew why he disappeared for a few hours every day, —apart from his brother, of course— and telling him hadn't exactly been intentional. He had found out one day when he sneaked back into his room at half hour past dawn and the blond was waiting for him. A confrontation had been inevitable after that, so John was in the know since. Greg and Irene greeted him with slight confusion.
Sherlock nodded and smirked reassuringly in response, swinging one of his legs behind John and astride the bike he was sitting on before settling in at his back, —having to share was punishment for wrecking the previous one to escape to the Isle— and wrapped one arm around the royal in front of him.
"Do you ever miss it?" Greg asked from his own bike to their left, gloved hands ready at the handles as his tanned face looked expectantly at them. The rebel didn't need any more disclosure to know what he meant. The same questions having a home inside his heart too.
"Yes." Irene was quick to reply, smiling wistfully at the dome-less island across the bridge as she always did now, —that longing and sadness erased completely—. Sherlock nodded to himself in agreement almost as if he couldn't help it. Auradon had brought reinvention to his life, a chance to think for himself as he hadn't even realised he couldn't before; but the Isle will always be there, on his horizon, reminding him it was fine not to be so dependent on said change. He was a kid born out of fire, Smith had said, but The Dragon —a symbol of ruthless viciousness as it was for everyone else— was an insignificant part of everything he was. It wasn't the only thing that represented him.
"Do you think they miss us?" Greg asked once more, almost as an afterthought, and it was a followup he had never brought up before when he inquired about the first. Irene was visibly as thrown at the curveball as he was; frowning a she struggled to reply.
John turned to witness his answer with his two friends, and Sherlock grimaced and said: "I don't think they even liked when we were there." He commented, as truthful as he was possible of being. While he still had quite a vast network of villain kids now spread through the kingdom, —with Archie being their leader and Sherlock's favourite member—he wasn't delusional in thinking he was in every island citizen's good graces. He was a traitor, after all: letting John turn him into a prince —in name if not in manners— and the three of them helping the crown seek out the most interesting of criminals who eluded or directly attempted against fellow citizen's lives and well being to bring them to justice, but taking no real part in them getting it after that. That wasn't enough to make up for everything, though. No, they were the worst Auradon and The Isle of the Lost both had to offer to each other.
"Fair enough." Irene answered with an air of finality which spoke of confidence and determination, but her beaming face didn't seem bothered by the notion. She gracefully settled further into her own seat and adjusted her already perfect indigo hair to fall elegantly on one side. No such thing as helmet-hair for her.
"Mycroft says they spotted our speller going south of the west bank." Greg commented, reading the facts off his phone from their latest chase and mystery; one which Sherlock had loved so far. "Donovan is already waiting for us there with the evidence." Lestrade said, and never in a million sun cycles had the violet haired imagined Sally Donovan would one day be helping them in their schemes. The ones they had done since way younger; when instead of catching thieves they were the ones robbing the vaults. But reluctant as she was at their company, she actually respected their crafty talents and their uses.
Sherlock nodded in understanding. Being the brains of the operation usually meant plans of action were his responsibility, —or at least needed his seal of 'not idiotic' approval— even though Irene was close second and the blond could hold his own well enough.
The others prepared to advance. "Ready to go, then?" John asked, placing a helmet over his head and turning forward fully, one of his hands squeezing one of Sherlock's wrapped around his waist from behind, he delayed patiently for the violet hair boy's answer to accelerate and take them back to The Isle. The game was awaiting them on the other side of the bridge, a fight for the own side they had created. Perhaps, in a way, heartlessly refusing to fulfil Moriarty and his mother's lifelong work and efforts had been the cruelest and most villainous thing he could have done to them. He found he was alright with that.
"Let's go." He said to John's ear, and closed his clear, silver eyes to the ocean's scenery next to them and relished in the cool breeze as they took off.
Author's note: And, it's done!
I really want to thank all of you who took the time to follow, comment, or read this journey with me.
Ever since I saw the first Descendants movie I had wanted to see how the story would be with Sherlock characters and how they fitted perfectly in such world. I didn't think I'd end up writing the equivalent to a thousand pages about it, but here we are.
I hope you all enjoyed it and would love to know what you think.
Stay weird! - Impossible Element