John's experience with magic was limited. He had never seen someone create fire in their palm, shoot lightning from their fingertips, or flick a finger and have someone completely freeze. He grew up hearing the stories, of course, of all manners of people going to the College of Winterhold, where they practiced and perfected the craft of magicka—Destruction, Restoration, Alteration, Conjuration, Illusion—you name it. Anyone was capable of using magicka. Some were born with an inclination towards it. Regardless, practice was the essential thing. That, and control.
Whenever Harry and he would run around in the woods outside the town, they would inevitably end up with scratches and bruises. Their parents had warned them not to stray too far from home, but they were kids, and kids never listened. Harry was the better one of the two at Restoration spells. She would grab John's arm and hold it close, giggling her head off as her fingertips glowed bright against his skin. In a matter of seconds, the scratch she concealed would be gone, and they would leap up and continue their adventure. Simple as that.
As John grew older, he attempted to cast a few Restoration spells of his own. Harry was a good teacher, and she'd be his practice dummy. "It's easier to heal someone else than yourself," she had explained once. They were in their house, in the cellar. John had his hands out, hovering them above Harry's cut arm. Her dagger lay beside them.
"Why's that?" John asked, wiggling his fingertips and watching the cut slowly disappear.
"Motivation, probably." Harry ran her thumb over the healed skin, smiling at the result. "Everyone wants to heal everyone else, and they forget to think about themselves first. You can't be an adept healer if you aren't taking care of yourself."
John had never wanted to cast ice shards or take control of a Draugr to do his bidding. He put all of his energy into healing, but he neglected to take care of himself in the process, it seemed. You have to take care of yourself first, Harry had said, and when John was curled up in his bed after learning the news of his father's death, hand to his chest, he found himself unable to do much more than warm himself from his head to his toes. His feelings, his heavy heart, still stayed. John had gone down to breakfast the next morning, and Harry was none the wiser.
Sherlock would be at the end of town in ten minutes. John was still in awe of the Breton, and at how much he seemed to want to help. He knew if he had hired a mercenary, they would all think John crazy. Not even good coin would help him, he guessed.
Dragon Bridge was quiet, and the air seemed thick. Hard to breathe. It'd dissipate as the day went on. It always did.
Adjusting the strap of his bag, John traveled to the edge of town. He had no idea what he and Sherlock were planning on doing. Marching on over to the Thalmor Embassy, bash open a few heads, and collect Harry? Seemed like a stupid plan, but it was better than sitting around and doing absolutely nothing.
The mage wasn't lying; Sherlock was standing off from the main road, arms dangling at his sides. He was looking up at the sky, squinting, and the hood of his robe was surprisingly staying in place. At John's arrival, Sherlock turned his head and raised his eyebrows. "Ready?" Sherlock had a small satchel across his chest, a dagger underneath that, and a quiver of arrows and a beautiful ebony bow on his back. John stopped in front of Sherlock and cocked his head.
"What, no staff?"
Sherlock's lips twitched, and he turned away, starting to walk. John hurried up and walked next to him. "I don't need one of those things. I have perfect control of my magicka. You have nothing to worry about."
They continued to walk, Sherlock kicking pebbles whenever possible. John crossed his arms over his chest and looked him over. "You said you knew exactly where we're going."
"Yes."
"Where is that?"
Sherlock lifted his head and glanced at John. He had an amused expression on his face. "Hmm, I did have a thought earlier. We can't exactly rescue your sister like this, can we?" John knitted his brows together and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock waved his hand. "We're heading into the mountains. We'll be facing Gods know what. Spiders, bears, definitely those bloody elves, as you so poetically put it."
John narrowed his eyes and looked on ahead. "We need more supplies, too. I've only enough for, well, me." He turned his head and stared at Sherlock again. He looked well off, especially for someone who didn't seem to have a lot on them. Just that bow and a small bag.
"And armor." Sherlock laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Like I said, mountains, John. You'll freeze to death in that tunic."
"What about you? Those robes look thin, too."
Lowering his arms, Sherlock gave another flourish. "Don't worry about me. I have that covered. Now, as much as I regret telling you this, I have a friend who can get you a suit of armor. He's a blacksmith. Not the best, but he'll do."
John wet his lips and raised an eyebrow. He glanced over. "Why would you regret telling me that?" he asked. John stopped in his tracks, looking around for a moment. The path was familiar, and even in the daylight, John recognized the path as the one he took to arrive. He sighed and looked ahead, staring at the forest ahead of them. "We're going back to Solitude, aren't we?"
"Aha, you've figured it out." Sherlock sounded amused. John, definitely, was not. He continued to walk, despite John's stop, so John marched over to him, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's arm. He yanked, grabbing more of the sleeve than of Sherlock. The mage looked at him, eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I can't go back there!" John pulled his hand away. "In case you've forgotten, I might not be safe if we go to the capital. You know, Thalmor Justiciars and all that?" Sherlock looked blankly at John, who sighed and angrily flailed an arm. "The whole reason why I'm with you right now?!"
Sherlock hesitated for only a second, before he dismissed John with a shake of his head. "Don't worry about that. If you act like you're innocent, then nobody will think you any different." He started walking again, lifting a hand to fix his sleeve.
John had an inkling Sherlock had a lot of experience with acting innocent. He followed Sherlock again. "Okay, sure. What else do I do? Walk around? Don't make eye contact?"
"Mm, I think you've got it down pat." He looked at John from the corner of his eye, smirking. John wanted to reach over and throttle him, but he only smiled.
They kept walking. Solitude was a couple hours away, and John and Sherlock were already off to a good start. Yes, Harry was absolutely in good hands.
When he left Solitude, John had made a promise not to return. Now, not even twenty-four hours later, John walked through the gates of the capital, but this time, Sherlock was by his side.
Sherlock took the lead once they were inside, gesturing for John to follow. "Come on. His shop is just down here." John hesitated, but ultimately followed Sherlock down the small slope and around the corner. If Sherlock noticed his reluctance, he didn't say anything. It seemed like he was also under the guise of acting innocent.
John crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin up, glancing towards the sky. It was a welcoming sight, and the warmth was pleasant. John feared it'd be a while before he could appreciate it again, knowing how cold and dreadful the mountains were.
"Your friend," John started, "have you known him long?"
"Yes, he's a very old friend." Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. "I'm sure you've seen him around. He's been here a while."
John lowered his gaze and kicked at a rock. It skipped along the pavement. "I've only been in Solitude for a few months," he reminded Sherlock, but he was paid no mind. Sherlock had stopped outside a shop, hands behind his back. He looked expectantly at John. John blinked at him, but when Sherlock didn't move or say anything, he sighed and shook his head. "Thanks," he mumbled. John stretched out and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob.
"I won't be coming in with you. I have some business in the Blue Palace."
John let go of the knob and turned his head to stare. "What? The Blue—Sherlock." He faced Sherlock, tilting his head. "This is—"
"—this is important, too, John." Sherlock looked down at John, eyes wide, face open. "Trust me. I'll only be gone a few minutes, and when I'm back, you'll be finished, and we'll be off." He smiled, then, as if that made everything better, and spun around. "We'll be slaying dragons and burning Hagravens!"
John's response was a myriad of curses and insults thrown at Sherlock's retreating back. He shook his head and whipped around, throwing open the door and stepping inside. The door banged against the wall, a bit roughly, and bounced off. John caught it before it smashed into his arm. The man behind the counter raised his head at the commotion and gave John an incredulous look. John cleared his throat and carefully shut the door. "Hello."
"What will it be?"
"Um." John walked over to the front counter, placing his hands on the surface, patting softly. "Well, a suit of armor." He stared at the Nord, who laughed.
"Well, yeah. Figured as much." John smiled, too. "What sort of armor? Make? Material? You know."
John felt foolish. He shut his eyes and sighed. "Oh, sorry. Uh, steel. Please."
The Nord's eyes fell on the sword on John's hip and nodded. "Should have known. Alright, let me get you measured out, and I'll see what I can do." He gave John a smile, and it was filled with warmth. John didn't feel threatened or like he was about to get caught. He'd have an opportunity to relax. He had been on edge ever since they set foot in Solitude.
He was measured, and the blacksmith ducked into the back of the shop. "I think I might have something already," he said before he disappeared from John's line of sight. "Sometimes I have to make armor for the recruits. Bloody tiresome, but, hey. Business is business." He returned with the armor in his arms, his gait slow as he carried it to the counter. "Name's Lestrade, by the way."
Only pausing for a second, John nodded. "I'm John." He looked at the steel of armor in front of him and reached out a hand, pressing his palm against the breastplate. Sturdy, durable. It'll work. John pulled his hand back and looked across to Lestrade. "Will you be sad to see the war end, then?"
Lestrade laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Would I be a terrible person if I said yes?" John merely shrugged and laughed, as well. Lestrade pressed his lips together and tipped his head from side to side. "Ah, well. That's not what you're doing, is it?" He looked at John seriously, then.
There must be dozens of people who came through Lestrade's business, requesting armor to be made. The blacksmith spent hours on each set, only for it to be rendered useless with a single, lucky strike of a blade. John thought of his father. He didn't like to imagine the old Nord meeting a sticky end in the battle field. Maybe it was a good thing that he went missing. Although, if his father had died during a fight, there would at least be a body to soothe John's mind. He had nothing, so he was left with thoughts like these.
"No, that's not for me," John said simply. "I stayed here, minding my own." He took off his bag, his sword, and dragged the armor off the counter. He began to work it on. The steel felt heavy on his shoulders, but it also gave John security and a sense of strength. He was finally wearing some real armor. He just wished the circumstances were better.
Lestrade shrugged, reaching over and pushing the helmet across the counter. "That's fine, too. I would have joined the ranks, but then I took an arrow to the knee."
"What happened?" John picked up the helmet and held it in his hands. He looked down at it; the steel wings on either side of the helmet stared back at him. John ran his thumb along an edge.
The blacksmith gave John a sheepish look. "Well, I wasn't always in the capital, you know." Lestrade moved, leaning forward on his arms. John lowered the helmet, turning his attention from it and to Lestrade. "Lived in Whiterun. I was a part of the city guard. I was young and stupid and I thought I was going to have a big break one day." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I had overheard some of my superiors talking. There was this off branch of the Thieves Guild, planning to hit the shops in the city that night. So, I went off and decided that I was going to save the day. Needless to say, I didn't save the day, one of their blasted archers found me, and I was out of work."
"Until my gracious brother swooped in and rescued you." John and Lestrade both raised their heads, spotting Sherlock at the door. He moved his hand and the door banged shut. While he was gone, Sherlock had exchanged his robes for a set of fur armor. He looked warm beneath the haphazardly placed pieces of gray, brown, and black fur. There was a piece that stretched across his shoulders that John wanted to run his fingers through.
Lestrade lifted a hand, pointing at Sherlock. "There was more to it than that," he protested, but Sherlock only sighed, rolling his eyes. He walked over to John, looking down at him. He spotted the helmet in his hands and wrinkled his nose.
"You are definitely not wearing that." Sherlock opened up his bag and fished out a handful of septims. He passed them over to Lestrade.
"Helmets could save you from a nasty blow to the head," Lestrade said, taking the coins from Sherlock and dumping them into his bag behind the counter.
Sherlock stood up straighter, taking the helmet from John's hands and setting it back on the counter. "John isn't going to war. He's going with me."
Lestrade huffed out a laugh. "That'll help me sleep at night." He placed his hands on the counter and looked between them. "Just go."
John had stood there, looking between Sherlock and Lestrade as they chatted. He was almost too distracted to notice that Sherlock had paid for his armor, until it had dawned on him, as Sherlock was dragging him out of the shop. "Hey, hey, wait," he said, swatting at Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stopped walking, but he didn't look pleased about it. "That was about a few hundred septims you just spent on me."
"Yeah."
He expected more of a reaction. John narrowed his eyes. "You don't mind?"
"Of course not. Now, come on." Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder again, steering him out of the shop and into the street. Before the door closed behind them, John heard Lestrade wish them luck.
"You'll need it!"
They started walking away from the shop. John stayed quiet and listened for a while, hearing the sounds his armor made, and how his sword was finally hitting something made of similar material, not cloth. Looking over at Sherlock and admiring the fur he wore, John knew that he was well prepared for the mountains. Steel could only do so much.
"What business did you have in the Blue Palace?" John asked, moving ahead of Sherlock to push open the gate. Sherlock slipped through and took the lead.
"Visiting my dear brother," Sherlock replied. "And getting better equipped." He patted his chest, referencing his change of clothes.
John moved over, walking alongside Sherlock once they were well away from Solitude's walls. "Does he work in the Palace?" Sherlock hummed in response. John should have known Sherlock was, indeed, well off. If he worked in the Palace, then he was close to Jarl Elisif. His suspicions were confirmed by Sherlock's next statement.
"Mycroft is the steward to Jarl Elisif." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, his nose wrinkling in disgust again.
"Isn't that a good thing?" John turned his head, looking up at Sherlock. "You never know when having someone in a position of power would be useful." Being the steward to the Jarl of Solitude definitely would have its advantages. Power, influence… knowledge. "Hang on." John reached out a hand, touching Sherlock's arm. "Did you ask him about my sister? Any arrests made recently? Any Talos worshippers?"
Sherlock glanced down at John's hand and shook his head. He looked back ahead. "No, I didn't. This is our job, hmm? Besides, I never ask him for anything. He'd think it strange if I suddenly inquire about recent arrests."
John pulled his hand back and frowned. "Oh, right. Of course." He sighed. "Stupid."
"It wasn't stupid," Sherlock said. "A bit thoughtless, maybe." He kept his eyes ahead, not daring to look at John. He would receive a glare if he did. "I didn't leave empty-handed." Sherlock reached down, pulling his bag around to open. He slipped out a pack of parchment and handed it to John. John took it and held it carefully. He glanced into Sherlock's bag, seeing a few books, potions, a smaller purse where John expected gold to be held, and a couple scattered ingredients.
John looked down at the parchment he was handed. "No staff…" he said quietly, glancing over at Sherlock. He saw Sherlock smile from the corner of his eye. John carefully unfolded the packet, and with each section he pulled, it was becoming quite clear that Sherlock had given him a map. It was detailed and color coded by each Hold. There was writing on some parts of the map, little notes about caves and forests.
He lowered it, staring at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. "Did you do all this?"
Sherlock tore his attention away from his bag and turned towards John, leaning in enough to study the map. "Some. Most of it was my mother." Sherlock returned to his sorting, moving aside a very battered book. "She used to be an explorer."
"Used to be? What does she do—?"
"—there." Sherlock leaned in again, pointing a finger at the map. "This is Solitude," he said. "The Embassy is there." Sherlock moved his finger slightly above Solitude and to the left. "Doesn't look far, but we have to go through the mountains." He pulled his hand back for a second, scanning the map. He gestured to the space separating the Embassy and Solitude. "Somewhere here, we can make camp. There should be a cave." Sherlock looked at John. "We can see what we're up against, make a plan, and then return tomorrow, assuming we make it tonight." He slipped the map from John's fingers and began to fold it. He stowed it away in his bag. "Are you ready?" Sherlock grinned. "Last chance to tell me to go away."
John couldn't even imagine telling Sherlock to leave. They hadn't done much of anything so far, but John already felt like he was leagues away from where he had been yesterday. He nodded. "Last chance for you to leave. Most would call me crazy. Say I was in league with a damned Daedric Prince."
Sherlock snapped his bag shut and breathed in. He narrowed his eyes and slowly turned on his heel. "Daedric Princes? That's a bit of a stretch, wouldn't you say?"
He laughed. "I don't care. I want nothing to do with Daedra or their Princes." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, any longer and John decided he was going to nudge him, but he snapped out of it with a clap of his hands.
"The mountains can be treacherous, John Watson. I hope you're prepared."
John hummed and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you just wiggle your fingers a bit, I think I'll be fine."
John had never been in the mountains, and he had only seen snow from a distance. He was sure that he hadn't ever experienced true cold. But right now, with Sherlock, all of that changed.
He let out a huff as he smashed his foot on the spider's back, yanking out his sword. John shut his eyes for a moment, just breathing. He slowly opened his eyes and looked down, shaking his sword. A few blood droplets fell against the snow. John raised his head, spying Sherlock a few yards away. His right arm was extended, palm out, a stream of fire striking his own spider. John straightened up and watched as the spider let out a cry and withered beneath the flames. Sherlock's face was calm, composed. It was... amazing.
Sherlock closed his fist and spun around, the snow crunching beneath his feet. He looked over at John and tipped his chin up, too. They stayed still for a second longer than perhaps necessary, and Sherlock turned away first. "Come on. We're almost there." He stalked away, and John jogged to keep up.
John sheathed his sword and shook his arms, trying to keep the warmth that possessed him after his fight. "This cave, did you discover it or your mother?" Sherlock glanced down at him and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked back ahead. "Come on. Shouldn't we get to know each other?"
He received a hum. John pursed his lips and shook his head. "So, I can spill my life story, but you won't tell me yours?" He lifted a hand and scratched his head. Snowflakes fell off.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said with a huff. "I am a Breton, and a mage, trained at the College of Winterhold. I like to catch things on fire and learn all I can." He lowered his hands and quirked an eyebrow. "Is that enough?"
John shook his head, sighing. "For now, I suppose." He looked ahead, squinting. "Sherlock." He reached out a hand and caught his elbow. Sherlock jerked a bit at the sudden grab, and he threw John a glare behind him. John lifted his other hand and pointed off to the right. "Is that the cave?" he asked, voice low. He didn't know why he was whispering. It wasn't like anyone was going to hear them. As far as John knew, it was only him and Sherlock in this stretch of mountains.
Sherlock followed John's arm and immediately perked up as he spotted the opening to the cave. He gave John a quick glance before smiling and darting over to it. John ran after him, holding onto the hilt of his sword. It wasn't entirely wise to go darting into a cave, no matter if Sherlock—or his mother, for that matter—had discovered it. Other people could have stopped by, made a home. Creatures could have moved in, setting up more than just a simple home.
"Hey," John murmured as he stepped into the cave. It was dark. He could barely see anything past his own hands. Where had Sherlock gone? How far did he go in? John's questions were answered when he bumped into Sherlock, who was standing still. The cave was quiet and damp. Water occasionally dripped down and landed on the ground. John moved around, standing beside Sherlock. "Wanna wiggle your fingers a bit?"
No snide comment came from Sherlock. He held up his hand, palm up, and a small ball of light appeared. Sherlock threw out his arm, then, the ball soaring through the cave. It landed somewhere in the middle and illuminated the cavern. John's suspicions proved to be just that—suspicions. There were no makeshift camp waiting for them, and animal nests were nowhere in sight. Sherlock knitted his brow and tilted his head to the side. He took a step forward, examining their surroundings. John did the same, going off in the other direction. The main cave had a branch off to the side, but that was about it. Compared to most caves, this one was small.
John went into the other room, not realizing that he was still gripping his sword. He flexed his fingers. This section was pitch-black, and John paused a quarter of the way in. He pursed his lips and tried his best to squint, staring further, but without Sherlock's candlelight, it was useless. He turned his head, ready to call for Sherlock to float on in here, just as a deep, putrid smell hit John's nostrils. John recoiled, lifting his arm and covering his nose. "Oh, Gods," he breathed out, resisting the urge to gag. The smell grew stronger, and John could hear movement. Whatever it was, it sounded like a person, though they were slow, their feet dragging across the scattered leaves that littered the floor.
"Sher—" John started to shout, but he was interrupted by a low groan. It shook John down to his bones. It was close, and John stumbled backwards. "Gods!"
A ball of light hurled through, hitting the opposite wall and sticking as it lit up the entire room. John turned his head and saw a Draugr walking towards him, mouth hanging open as he groaned, and its arm rose, axe in hand and ready to strike. John was quick; he withdrew his sword and swung it as hard as he could, knocking the blade against the Undead's neck. The head flew off its body, rolling across the floor. Its eyes stared at John, alight and blinking. He watched as the light slowly died and heard an arrow whizz past his ear. John whipped his head around. The Draugr's body had still been staggering towards John, though now there was an arrow sticking out of its chest. The axe fell from its hands, and the body soon followed.
John shook his sword and looked over at Sherlock, who stood off to the side, bow still raised. "Thanks."
Sherlock slowly lowered his bow and placed it on his back. "Don't mention it." He walked past John and towards the fallen Draugr. He stepped on the decaying body and reached down, yanking the arrow out and slipping it back into his quiver. Sherlock gave John a quick smile. "Nice swing."
He laughed. "Yeah. Well." John shrugged. He sheathed his sword and pushed himself off from the wall. With the light, John noticed this room was much like the main one, albeit smaller. More debris was on the floor compared to the first, though that was understandable. Most travelers probably kept to the main areas, rather than slink deeper into the unknown. He cleared his throat and turned back towards Sherlock, who was still standing by the downed Draugr and staring at John with narrowed eyes. John shrugged again. "I used to decapitate a lot of practice dummies. I've become a bit skilled." Probably not the wisest thing to say, but now Sherlock knew not to tread on his toes any, lest he end up like the Draugr.
Sherlock soon smiled at him before turning and walking into the central cavern. "I'll make sure to get on your good side, then." He worked on gathering up piles of leaves, pushing them towards the center of the room. John tried not to make an ungrateful comment. It might actually be more comfortable than the beds at that ratty inn. "Pick up some branches," Sherlock commented, plopping down on the makeshift bed. "I'll make a fire."
John was already halfway there, a few branches in his arms. He nodded and sped up his gathering, though he was certain that Sherlock didn't need that much material to make a fire. "You're already there," John started, glancing over at Sherlock. "My good side. Don't screw it up, or I swear to Talos—"
"—no need to throw threats around," Sherlock interrupted, waving his hand. "Though, I wouldn't be shouting Talos' name where anyone can hear it."
John dumped the branches and sticks a few feet away from their bed of leaves. He was sure Sherlock could control the fire to be contained on this single space, but the distance was a precaution. He looked over at Sherlock, where he was reclining back with the aid of one of his hands. Sherlock looked far too comfortable for those just to be ordinary leaves. He narrowed his eyes at him. "You don't believe?" he asked.
Sherlock only gave John a look before he turned his attention to the sticks. "It doesn't matter whether or not I believe. It's illegal. That's the whole reason we're doing this, yes? For Harry?" He gave his fingers an elaborate wave and fire twirled, igniting the sticks. "Maybe some stranger heard you making comments like that? Hm?" He didn't look at John, only continued to stroke the fire.
That made John pause. Could it have been his fault that Harry was taken in? Like Sherlock said, could he have been overheard speaking to Harry and let slip Talos' name? No, that couldn't be it. He was always careful. Always. John minded his words in public, and he made sure the amulet he wore around his neck was hidden away. He had an inkling Sherlock already knew what John's amulet was, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he will in the future, or maybe he won't. Sherlock was observant. John resisted the urge to tug at the chain as he looked down at Sherlock.
"No, that's not possible. And even if I thought that I was somehow responsible, I would have told you. Or you would have figured it out then. I'm not a good liar."
Sherlock dropped his hand, the fire crackling comfortably now. He eyed John and gave him a small smile. "I know."
John didn't know much about Destruction magic or the special qualities of these flames, but they must give off incredible warmth and very quickly. John's palms felt sweaty, and he cleared his throat. He turned away, pressing his lips together. "I think I'll scout on ahead. I'll come back after I get a good look around." He slipped his way towards the entrance, running his fingers through his hair.
"Expecting me to stay here?" Sherlock called.
"Yes. Hold down the fort." John stepped outside, the cold instantly hitting him. He wanted to duck down and run back into the cave, but he couldn't do that. The cave was suffocating right now. Something about that fire or something about Sherlock... Whatever it was, John felt on edge, so the snow he must embrace. He grumbled as he marched forward. The Embassy wasn't far from here, and the sun was beginning to set. Unlike Sherlock, he couldn't summon light in his palm. He had to be quick.
He couldn't imagine making this trip on his own. For starters, he would have dashed into the mountains in nothing but his tunic and trousers. The cold would have bitten his skin and caused him to be frozen to the ground. If Harry ever found out his fate, she would have surely laughed her head off. Tad bit embarrassing. John was no expert while it came to fights, either. He could manage himself, yes, but he imagined the Thalmor were highly skilled in combat, both physical and with their magicka. Being outnumbered was a high risk, and even though he just had Sherlock, two against them all was better than being alone.
Sherlock was a blessing in disguise, it seemed. John thanked Talos for that. There must have been a reason for that Breton to be sitting in that inn on that particular night. If Harry had been taken on a different night, John might not have made the plans that he did, or Sherlock might not have been present in the inn. There were a thousand different possibilities that could have occurred, and John was pleased he had the one he did.
Large walls were ahead of him by several yards, an archway with a gate settled off to the left. John paused in his tracks and carefully took in the sight. Beyond the walls laid two buildings. John couldn't tell much from where he stood, but he reasoned that the large building towards the back was the main base. He breathed in and picked up his pace, heading towards the walls. It was darker than before, so having a quick peek through the gates wouldn't announce his presence.
A small howl came from behind him. John's hand immediately flew to his sword, pulling it out as he turned on the spot. Wolves? A rabid dog? He could deal with both. John was surprised to see that whatever had barked wasn't what he thought at all. Well, not entirely.
It was a wolf, John could tell that, but unlike the wolves that inhabited the mountains, it was neither gray nor white. It was an inky black color, and it was surrounded by a purple mist. The wolf's legs seemed to stop at the beginning of its paws, as the fog was dense near there. It seemed to be floating as it approached John, and it looked up at him with friendly eyes. John slowly lowered his sword, tilting his head to the side. The wolf didn't look as if it was about to launch itself at John. It posed no threat to him. John slipped his sword back into its place and crouched, nose to nose. The wolf stayed still, eyeing John with the same curiosity he held. John reached out a hand and pressed his palm to the creature's muzzle. There was no warmth to the wolf. Only cold. Was it some sort of magic? The wolf didn't resemble anything from this world. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
A tree branch snapped. John jerked up his head, and he got to his feet. Again, he withdrew his sword and brandished it in the air. The wolf turned and stood at John's side, ready to face whatever came from those trees. And it was… Sherlock. He stepped out from the cover of the trees, his bow in his hands. Giving John a look, Sherlock slid the arrow back in his quiver and the bow soon followed. "Ah, I see you've found him."
Before John could reply, the wolf raced towards Sherlock, greeting him like an old friend. John only frowned as he put his sword away. It seemed Sherlock was speaking to the wolf. John walked over to Sherlock, shaking his head. "What's going on?"
Sherlock stood up straight after giving the wolf a good rub. He smiled down at the animal, held out his palm, and when it came into contact with the wolf's nose, it vanished. The only thing that remained was the purple mist, and it was slowly drifting away. John's eyes widened, and he lifted his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock shrugged. "Did you really think I was going to sit in that cave and wait for you to come back?"
John narrowed his eyes. "What was that… thing?"
"Thing?" Sherlock frowned, and John rolled his eyes. He gestured with his hand, wanting Sherlock to get on with it. "My familiar. I call them Redbeard. It was too dangerous and risky to have a candlelight following me around, so Redbeard was the next option. Not that I mind, of course. I like summoning them. I'm never alone." Sherlock tipped his head to the side. With the way the moonlight shone, John noticed a fresh scratch on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock caught John's eye, and he shook his head. "It's fine. Just. Ran into a branch."
John wanted to laugh, but he knew Sherlock would retort that it wasn't his fault; it was the lack of light. He only smiled and walked up to him. John held up his hand and nodded his head. "Come on. Dip down a bit. I'll fix that."
Blue eyes flicked between John's hand and to his face. Sherlock knitted his brow. "Excuse me?"
"I know a few Restoration spells. Let me heal you."
Both surprise and amusement crossed Sherlock's face, eyebrows raised and a small smile on his own lips. "Oh," he said and tipped his head towards John's palm. "I can do it myself," he added softly.
John hovered his hand above the scratch, giving his fingers a small wiggle as the light slowly grew in his palm. "It's not a problem. Besides, I want to show you that I'm not completely useless." The blood evaporated from Sherlock's cheek, and the skin began to stitch back together. John wet his lips and fully covered the abrasion with his hand. Sherlock was cold, but he was warming up against John's fingers.
They met eyes, and Sherlock blinked. "I don't think you're useless." John kept quiet as he healed, lowering his hand when he was finished. Sherlock raised his own hand and touched his cheek, pulling it back to check for any blood.
"That's reassuring," John finally said, resting a hand on his sword. Sherlock looked back at him and stared expectantly, as if he was going to say something, do something. John didn't give him that chance. He cleared his throat and turned away. "Come on. The Embassy is close." He began to walk towards the walls again. Sherlock quickly caught up and walked alongside him.
As they made the remainder of the walk, the only sounds were the crunching of their boots against the snow. The air around them was tense, but John didn't dare try to slice it.
John peered through the gate first, keeping his hands away from the railings. He wasn't sure if there would be any sort of alarm fashioned to go off if they were touched. Sherlock stood behind him, tall enough to look over John's head.
His assumption had been right. The building in the back was the main hall. Many Altmer stood just outside the door, chatting and paying no mind to the two outside their gates. John could only guess the building to their left was a storage space, maybe the barracks for the Justiciars. If anything, their prisoners would be in the large building, somewhere secluded and away. John looked over his shoulder, watching as Sherlock scanned the area, eyes rapidly moving. "Any suggestions?" John asked. "We can probably get in by climbing the wall, or taking down the guards that are posted here during the day." He gestured to the gate. "But once inside? I have no idea what we're up against."
"A high number of Thalmor agents, most likely," Sherlock murmured. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and pointed the other towards the front door. "Our best chance is to disguise ourselves and slip inside. Having that armor on would enable us to walk around as we pleased. Most wouldn't even give us a second look."
John huffed out a breath and hung his head. That did seem like their best shot, and John was not looking forward to the next day. After a few minutes of surveillance, Sherlock and he walked back to their camp. They needed all the rest they could get.
As John settled on the bed of leaves, he glared at the ceiling. "Well, of course you wouldn't get a second look. You already look like one of them!" Sherlock, from his position beside John, only chuckled.