They left in the morning, after eating a few pieces of fruit Sherlock plucked out of his bag. The atmosphere was tense, or it was to John. He had sat silently, staring into the still kindling fire. His apple had begun to brown. "You don't have anything you can do?" he asked, squeezing his apple. Sherlock had given him a look, so John sighed and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Mold my face into a more… elfish shape?"

Sherlock made a show of wiping his hands on his front and scooted closer to John. He flourished his hands, twisting his wrists, and then cupped John's face in his hands. John stared into those captivating eyes, and he could have sworn he felt Sherlock's fingers burn, until…

"That's ridiculous, John," Sherlock had said, briskly turning away and flicking his fingers at the fire. It went out. "You have to be grateful of what the Gods gave you."

Now, they made their way up the mountain to the Thalmor Embassy. Harry would be there, and worst case scenario, John's mind would be at ease if they found a body. At least on that front. He tried not to think of that.

Bushes and trees had become their friends during this adventure, and John was becoming more and more accustom to Sherlock's less than perfect manners. He pressed himself fully against John's backside, instead of moving in front and getting a better view. John blew out a steady stream of air as Sherlock nodded towards one of the guards. When he nodded, he pressed even closer. John almost lost his footing.

"We should take that one out first. He's alone."

"Will you not stand on my bloody back?''

Sherlock took a step away from John, casting him a dark look. He looked back towards the guard, who was busying himself with shining a part of his gauntlet.

"Must not get many visitors," John mused underneath his breath. Sherlock managed a smile, a glance towards John, and reached behind him. He pulled out his bow and readied it in his grasp, arrow in place. John's own fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, though he knew Sherlock had this under control. Another second of silence passed, though it felt like much longer, before Sherlock let the arrow fly. It found its home at the back of the elf's neck.

He fell face first into the snow.

Sherlock slowly lowered his bow and ran out through the bushes, down low. John quickly followed behind him, taking refuge against the Embassy's wall. He peered around the corner while Sherlock busied himself with the armor. There were two other guards near the front gate, chatting. A third was near the lake, looking on with their hands on their hips. Very observant crowd.

"Damn," cursed Sherlock. John tore his eyes away from his search and looked on the taller man. He only knew Sherlock for a few days, and he had grown used to the makeshift fur he wore around himself, so it was a strange sight to see him wearing actual armor. Gold armor at that. The shine clashed against his pale skin. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, the helmet he now donned giving his face more of a regal appearance. "I look like a tit."

John laughed dryly. "It'll do. Let's hope I look as marvelous as you." He could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes from next to him.

"I'll stash him behind those trees. Hopefully, no one will bother to look, and our things will be safe." Sherlock crouched down and grabbed the Altmer's shoulders. He hoisted him up and flicked his eyes into the direction of the other guards. "The two at the gate seem about to leave. Get the one near the lake. Could drown him, if you wish." John was about to comment, but when he turned his head, Sherlock was already feet away, dragging the dead elf to his resting place. John turned back to the elf by the lake—his target.

Sherlock had ended the guard's life so quickly and with no hesitation, that the task of killing someone himself seemed a bit daunting. John had never killed a person before. Spiders, Draugr, and all manners of beast were different. They didn't possess the same glow in their eyes. Still, with that thought clouding his mind, John approached the elf standing by the lake. The two guards by the gate had left, and the other was all alone now. All his.

He slipped the dagger out from his waistband, tightening his hold on the grip. John had never killed a person before, but there was a first time for everything. He reached out as swiftly as he could, covering the elf's mouth with a hand as he sliced his dagger across their neck. The elf let out a muffled cry, and their knees buckled. John managed to help them down into the water, feeling his fingers grow sticky with blood.

The water ran red by the time the elf quit moving.

John stood over them, chest heaving. If killing someone was that easy, he wasn't surprised the Dark Brotherhood was gaining popularity. He sniffed and crouched, only just realizing the water was ice cold. He didn't shiver.

He slipped his dagger back in its proper place and turned the body over. A woman. That gave John pause, and at first he didn't know why. She was a Thalmor, the enemy, but John felt… guilty. He yanked the helmet off her head, and a bundle of blonde hair came tumbling out. It made her look almost heavenly. She could have been someone's daughter, wife, sister. John cupped her face in a hand, dragging his thumb across her pale cheek. A streak of blood followed his trail. How would their family react when they find out what had become of her? Certainly, when someone became a Thalmor guard, they don't readily expect their family member to be killed. They were there to uphold the White-Gold Concordat. They weren't soldiers, they were—

"John."

Ripping his gaze away from the dead elf's face, John looked up to see Sherlock staring down at him. His eyes were narrowed, his expression hard. John felt embarrassed. He looked back down at the woman and pressed his lips together. "Sorry," he said, removing his hand and letting her head fall into the water, the blonde hair fanning out like a halo. John slipped the helmet over his head and stood up. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who still held the same stony expression. John shook his head and grabbed her ankles. "It'll just take a second," he murmured, as he began to drag the guard out of the water and to her resting place behind the trees.

Sherlock left him alone as he exchanged armor, but that didn't stop his embarrassment from leaving. It was idiotic. He knew murder and mayhem was going to take place in this endeavor. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. Killing the woman was so easy. John didn't bother to think about it until after he saw her face, after he realized he could be cradling Harry like that before the night was out.

No. That wasn't going to happen.

John stood up straight after fixing his boots. The breastplate had smears of blood on it. He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow.

He had never been in a place so regal, so imposing, so… obviously elfish that it was difficult to keep his head down. Sherlock had warned him, though, before they stepped through the gates.

"Keep that handsome little Nord face of yours down. You'll blow our cover by just a simple glance."

The armor couldn't get them past everything.

Their footsteps echoed down the silent corridors, only matched by the other Thalmor's passing them. None of them looked threatening. They looked like simple Altmer, doing their job. John kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, though, and he could feel how tense Sherlock was beside him. The Breton could always lash out and strike down a number of guards with a snap of his fingers, but Sherlock was composed.

John led them down a hallway and turned, spotting the door to the lower levels. Harry was down there. He could feel it. A guard stood off to the side, not at all worried about the state of things and if there were intruders in the Embassy. John's skin prickled. He began to march down the hall, until Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him back. John stumbled and whipped around, nostrils flaring as he looked up at Sherlock. "What?" he hissed, as he tried to control his breathing. Harry was just a few feet away. She was just within reach.

"We're not going down there," Sherlock said. He pulled on John's arm once again and let it go. He pointed over his shoulder. "We're going to Elenwen's office, the First Emissary. If your sister is hidden here, there's bound to be a record of it somewhere."

Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality. What was he thinking? He knew bursting in there would only lead to trouble, and he wasn't prepared to pull Sherlock into a losing battle. But his blood was boiling. He wanted to fight. No, that wasn't wise. John slowly nodded and looked down at the floor. "Yes, you're right. We should go to her office." John glanced at Sherlock before moving past him, heading to the place Sherlock had pointed towards. Sherlock said nothing. He only followed.

It didn't take long to find Elenwen's office. There were more guards around the door and whispers about the civil war. The Stormcloaks had taken over another Imperial camp. It seemed like the rebels had more support than the Empire first thought. John tried not to make his excitement show too much, but he knew Sherlock noticed.

To draw the guards away from the door, Sherlock tossed a ball of fire towards a well-tended to plant. John watched it go up in flames with a small frown on his face. When he gave Sherlock a dark look, the mage only shrugged. The elves near the office drawer flocked over to the burning plant, each shouting over the other.

"Gods, how did that happen?"

"Who bloody cares how it happened! Fetch some water!"

John and Sherlock slipped towards the door, and John crouched to the keyhole. He looked through and noticed the room was empty. He jiggled the doorknob. Locked. Sherlock sighed rather loudly, and he shoved John aside. "Move," he simply said, as he crouched like John had and stuck a pick into the keyhole. John nervously watched the flailing guards, wondering if Sherlock could manage to unlock the door in time. Getting caught breaking into the First Emissary's office would be a difficult thing to explain, especially when the two perpetrators weren't elves.

The door clicked open, and John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pushed him into the room. Sherlock cursed as he fell on his hands and knees, John having to climb on top of him in order to securely shut the door behind them. The close moment didn't last long—Sherlock managed to roll underneath John, leaving him to fall on the hard floor.

"Damn," he spit out.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Sherlock shot back, standing up and looking around. John rolled his eyes and pushed himself into a standing position. He watched as Sherlock moved towards the desk in the center of the room, busying himself with checking each drawer. John pursed his lips and decided to search the bookshelves against the wall. Sherlock would have more luck with the desk, but every nook and cranny should be exploited.

When he finished with the bookshelf and found nothing, John spun around and moved towards the safe on the other side of the room. He tried to open it. That was locked, too. John looked over at Sherlock and held out a hand. "Hand me a pick?" Sherlock, looking particularly frustrated, merely gave John a single look. He mumbled something underneath his breath and dug into his pack, handing over a pick. John went back to the safe and worked on unlocking it, tongue in between his lips. He might not be as fast as Sherlock when it came to picking locks, but Harry and he were kids once, and all kids had a mischievous phase, when they were always up to no good.

He couldn't help but smile when the safe clicked in front of him. John laid the lockpick on top of the box and pulled open the door. Inside were a few pieces of parchment and a book. He felt his heart stop even before he picked up the items.

John carefully examined each paper, looking for anything strange to pop out. These were reports written by Elenwen, as well as some of her guards. Records of who was currently being interrogated, who had provided the most information, who they still needed to find. John looked down the list of people. Harry wasn't there.

"Ah, a whole stash of amulets! No wonder there's always an amulet at an arrest."

"Sherlock, Harry isn't here."

A drawer snapped shut. Sherlock walked behind John and dropped to his knees, reading over his shoulder. John kept quiet and let Sherlock finish reading. If Harry wasn't here, and she wasn't being targeted, then where was she?

He shook his head and passed the papers over to Sherlock, who accepted them without complaint. John didn't want to look at them anymore. He felt sick.

John ran his thumb down the binding of the book. It seemed fragile, like it had been opened and used many times. He wet his lips and cocked his head, opening the book to the first page. It wasn't a book of fiction, where the writing had been treated with care and the pages decorated with colorful illustrations. The writing in the book matched the writing on the pages. Elenwen's. And the story told on the first page and the pages after it seemed to be about the war—the number of soldiers sent forward and where they had come from, on both sides of the war. It listed where each known camp was and if they were still safe. It even had a complete list of the soldiers who had enlisted and their current status.

His hands had a mind of their own. John flipped through page after page after page, searching, searching, searching. Harry's name might not have been on any of the documents he looked for, but that didn't mean another family member's name wouldn't be. Sherlock had remained quiet at his side. John could feel his eyes on him. If he wanted to voice how ridiculous John was being, he didn't.

There was his father's regiment. His name was halfway down the page, and John ran his index finger along the entry, tracing along the cursive and feeling every indention. It was surreal. He turned a few more pages, passing paragraphs that detailed the Stormcloak's campaign. Then he reached Sun's Dawn. The month the regiment went missing. That was what he and Harry received in a letter, however the report told a different story.

The events described take place on the 12th of Sun's Dawn. The majority of the regiment had been killed, but a few eyewitnesses survived to tell their version of what happened. The rebels captured a camp in Winterhold, where they would be ambushing another Imperial operation in the morning. Everything seemed to be going according to plan, but late that evening, chaos broke loose. It was said there was either an argument that later escalated into a fight amongst the soldiers, or an Imperial soldier had found their way into the camp and attacked the resting rebels, but one of the rebels, James Watson of Dragon Bridge, reportedly turned into a large wolf and turned on his fellow men.

"It was terrible. There were screams coming from everywhere. We had all killed men before. That's what war was about, but none of us were prepared for… that. Murder, rape, and looting are the usual. Nobody told us we were going to have to deal with fucking werewolves."

"Watson was fine for one second, and then the next, he shouted and threw his head back. He howled at the bloody moon, and black fur came out of his ears! I'm not ashamed to admit I'm a deserter. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Emmett's throat was torn out like it was like paper. Blood gushed everywhere, and against the snow, it was black. I couldn't see where I was going, but I grabbed my sword and tried to help take down the beast. It was gone before we knew it."

"There were bodies everywhere. I lost count after forty."

No information on James Watson's whereabouts. He is presumed deceased. The families of the fallen have been sent letters indicating they were missing in action, and their service was appreciated.

May Talos guide them.

John didn't know how he was still steadily holding the book. His heart was racing. He didn't understand. How could his father keep something like this from them? Did his mother know? Was everything his father had told them been a lie? John bowed his head and shut his eyes. He breathed in carefully and snapped the book shut. He had looked up to his father ever since he was a boy. He wanted to be just like him, in every way. How could his father keep something like this hidden? Why didn't he notice?

He was suddenly very aware of his surroundings. His skin felt hot, prickly, like he was being boiled inside his armor. And Sherlock. Sherlock was right behind him, and he knew Sherlock had read everything he had. Sherlock knew his father was dead, but he didn't know this. Maybe he assumed John had. Maybe Sherlock had known somehow, the clever arse. Why didn't he tell him? This wasn't the time to start biting off heads.

The book went back in the safe, and John turned and took the papers from Sherlock. He didn't look at him. In the safe they went. John pushed the door closed and shut his eyes.

It felt like years had passed between them before Sherlock broke the silence. "John," he started, voice low, almost like he didn't want to say anything, but he knew it was necessary. "If… If Harry isn't here, we have to start looking somewhere else."

Sherlock didn't mention his father or anything about what he just read. He talked about Harry, the task at hand. He could pick up on how tense John was. Anyone a mile away could pick up on it. John slowly nodded and stood up. He carefully turned and met Sherlock's gaze. The Breton was giving John a gentle look, nothing too startling and scanning like he would usually give him. He understood what John was going through. He didn't want to bring up the issue until it was absolutely needed. John was much the same. He didn't want to talk about anything that wasn't important at the moment. It might be important down the line, but not right now.

But this was his father. And Harry wasn't here. They had nothing to go on, but they had this.

"I'm not suggesting we give up on Harry," John said slowly, weighing each word. "But I have absolutely no idea where she might be. We mostly kept to ourselves, so she can't be at a friend's. The shop was ransacked. She didn't go willingly. It might have been a robber or, or, something. It wasn't a Thalmor, so I apologize for everything I ever said about bloody elves since we got here"—Sherlock smiled—"but this is my father. And this is important… or at least I think it is."

Sherlock was quiet, and at first John was afraid of what he might say. He was fond of pointing out how ridiculous John was being, but the look on his face gave him a strange feeling of hope. Finally, Sherlock nodded and leaned over, twisting the lock on the safe. "Okay," he said. "Winterhold camp, was it?" He slipped the lockpick back into his pack. "I'm from there, so I am a bit familiar with the area. I feel I am compelled to tell you, however, your father might be dead."

"I know that. I still need to. Searching the area isn't a crime."

He received another smile from Sherlock. He nodded and walked past John, crouching by the door and peering through the keyhole. "I know that. Winterhold is a bit of a walk from here. You don't mind sticking with me a bit longer, do you?"

John approached Sherlock once he opened the door, and they stepped out. The coast was clear, and the plant had been saved from certain doom. The pair walked down the hall, and John felt as if his armor was heavier, as if the knowledge he had just learned was physically weighing him down. "I don't mind," he said finally, as they stepped outside. "We haven't found Harry yet. You're stuck with me until then. You don't mind, do you?"

Sherlock laughed, keeping his eyes ahead at the front gates. "Me neither, John Watson. I think that would be impossible."

Winterhold was definitely more than "a bit of a walk". They would be walking halfway across the bloody province. The farthest he ever been from home was, well, Dragon Bridge, and that was only a few hours. Perhaps they won't walk the whole way. There were carriages they could take, horses to be gotten, but Sherlock seemed the type to not mind the walk. The search for Harry was a dead end. There were no more leads. John was reluctant to go back to Solitude, to the shop. If Harry hadn't been taken by the Thalmor, then who did? And would they be waiting for John to return?

They managed to leave the walls of the Embassy without any trouble. John was the first to reach the hiding place of their tree and quickly began to work off the armor. It felt refreshing, like shedding an extra skin. The crisp air nipped at his skin, but he didn't mind. The glances he received from Sherlock warmed him enough to where standing in his smallclothes struggling with his boots wasn't a problem.

"Is Winterhold as cold as this place?" John asked as they made their way down the mountain. He knew the answer, but seeing the look on Sherlock's face was worth it.

Sherlock sighed noisily. "The name's Winterhold, John. It doesn't take a genius." His cheeks were pink. John didn't think it was because of the cold. He kept quiet.

They decided they were going to walk as long as they could before nightfall. Minimal stops, eating along the way. John didn't know where they would be spending the night, but Sherlock had out his map, looking at each section closely. There was a candlelight floating over his shoulder illuminating the paper. John had an inkling they wouldn't be stopping at any inns, though. Sherlock, however, surprised him.

"Ever been to Rorikstead?" John furrowed his brow and looked over at Sherlock. "Of course you haven't," Sherlock answered for him. "The woods outside your town were your boundary." He folded up the map and slipped it back into his pack.

John didn't think that warranted a comment. "Are we going to Rorikstead?" he asked carefully.

"Frostfruit Inn," Sherlock corrected. He shrugged. "We've had a long day. I say we deserve a nice bed and a fire."

"Thank the Gods." Sherlock shot him a dark look. John cleared his throat and looked ahead. "Not that your caves aren't… good."

Sherlock shook his head and let out a laugh. "John," he started. "You're a terrible liar." He lifted his hand and caught the candlelight. The only thing guiding their way was the moon.

It was still minutes before they arrived at Rorikstead, but as John saw the town and the houses with their lights on, and heard the absent barking of a dog, the clucking of a chicken, John realized he didn't mind. Staying in a town, any town, was preferable than a damp camp, and the walk there paled in comparison.

As they passed the various homes to get to the inn, John could hear children yelling, playing with their siblings. He felt nostalgic. Sherlock managed to drag himself out of the rose-colored world.

"Here we are," he said, voice soft. Sherlock held open the door for John before stepping inside himself. The inn was a burst of warmth, one John gladly welcomed. He breathed in and looked around. It was busy, but nothing that would turn him away. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezed. "I'll get us a room. Find us a table."

John went one way, Sherlock went another. The table John chose was more off to the side, but they would still be surrounded by patrons. He sat where his back would be to the doorway, as he knew Sherlock preferred to be facing the exit. As he waited, John looked through his pack. He acted like he was preoccupied with the contents.

Sherlock returned and placed a mug in front of John. "Only room available had one bed." He sat down and pulled his own mug closer. "The floor's good enough for me."

"No, no. I can have the floor. I'm dragging you all over the place."

"I insist." Sherlock stared at John, gaze steady. He nodded towards John's mug. "Now drink. Paid some good gold for that beer."

John looked down at the presented mug, at the brown liquid that seemed to beckon him. He glanced towards Sherlock. "Trying to get me drunk?" he asked, picking up the tankard and taking a drink. He had never tasted beer like this. Sherlock must not have been lying. "Any old beer would satisfy me," he added before Sherlock could answer.

He hummed and took another sip from his own mug. "Only the best for my traveling companion." John didn't bother to reply to Sherlock's increasingly smug face. He drank instead.

Traveling companion or not, if a bloke like Sherlock had offered to buy him a drink, John would definitely not say no. That realization made John's head a touch more cloudy, or it could have been the drink. It was most likely the drink.

The inn had a bard, as most inns do, and their job was to entertain the kind visitors, either with telling jokes, doing tricks, or singing songs. Most of the songs played now were the one supporting the rebels or the one supporting the Imperial. John didn't like to admit it, but the Imperial's song was a tad bit catchier than the Stormcloak's.

"Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings! On the day of your death, we will drink and we'll sing!"

Whiterun was neutral, so John had no idea why this song was being played. Then again, someone might have requested it. Though, it wouldn't be long before Whiterun would have to pick a side, whether it was willingly or by force.

"Imperial scum," John spit out, waving his mug. He laughed when some spilled over the edge. Sherlock shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. John pointed his mug at Sherlock, attempting to mind the remainder of his drink. "What say you, Sherlock? I see you shaking your head. Tell me your thoughts about this war."

Sherlock snorted and set his mug down. "I'd rather not."

John sighed noisily and turned his head, looking over at the bard and his lute. He didn't blame Sherlock for not wanting to concern himself with the war, the wise did stay out of it, but John couldn't help but wonder. Sherlock hailed from Winterhold, which is closer to Windhelm than Solitude. If anything, Sherlock would favor the rebels and Ulfric's cause, but his brother was in Solitude. That didn't mean anything, though.

The bard adjusted his grip on his lute and began to strum a different tune. "Here's a favorite of mine, and a fine and bloody one, at that." He cleared his throat and gave a big smile. "Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead…"

An eruption of laughter and pounding emerged from the patrons. John laughed along with them and looked over at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and flashed a smile at John.

Sherlock's apparent disgust with the jovial atmosphere of the inn was completely gone by the time they were behind closed doors. To be fair, he had also consumed much more drink. John pushed Sherlock through the doorway and into their room. The Breton swayed as he stood, spinning around and pointing at John. "And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made." He stopped, then, and gestured towards John, who blankly stared. Sherlock waved his hands. "As he told of bold battles and gold he had made…"

Oh! John sighed and shook his head, but he couldn't help but smile. "But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red when he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said—"

"—'oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead. Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!'" Sherlock barked out a laugh and took an arrow out of his quiver. He brandished it like a sword, the point aimed at John.

John raised an eyebrow and slipped his sword out of its sheath. He returned the brandishing. "And so then came clashing and slashing of steel, as the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal." Sherlock took a step forward and slashed the arrow through the air. John leapt back, hitting the side table and making Sherlock laugh.

"And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more—" Sherlock moved to step forward, but John was quicker. He jolted forward, sword outstretched. This time it was Sherlock who leapt back and landed on the bed. Feathers flew out of the pillow. Sherlock made a show out of waving the arrow, more so like it was a wand rather than a great sword. "—when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"

John glanced up at Sherlock and swung his sword, slicing off the tip of Sherlock's arrow. They both watched as it fell to the floor. Cling. John roughly swallowed and looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were narrowed. His arm was still out, pointless arrow staring at John in the face.

He saw as Sherlock's pupils dilated, and John knew his did, too.

John quickly lowered his gaze and slipped his sword back into its place. He turned on his heel, his cheeks burning. This was very bad. He cleared his throat and studied the floor. "I'll have the floor," he said, as he dropped to his knees and dragged the extra blankets from underneath the bed. He made an effort to make the floor as comfortable as possible.

When he fell asleep, John felt Sherlock's eyes on him, from where he still stood on the bed.

Neither of them spoke as they woke up the following morning. John had a pounding in his head and a bad taste in his mouth. He didn't even want to imagine how Sherlock was feeling. Probably worse than him. Still, they had to soldier through. Not for Harry now, but for the prospect of John finding his father. Then came Harry.

They stayed in their room as they ate some of the fruit Sherlock kept in his bag. Tasteless at the moment, but it was better than nothing. They needed all their strength. More walking today.

It was sunny when they walked outside, and if John believed in the weather foretelling good fortune, today was the best day to go traveling. Sherlock pulled out his map again and silently studied it as they made their way out of Rorikstead. John didn't bother to interrupt him. He looked deep in thought. Perhaps he was staring at the map, but his mind was miles away.

Was he thinking about last night, like John was? Was he considering the different outcomes, like John was? Was he hoping for a do over, like John was? Was he imagining the taste of his lips, like—no. He couldn't be having these thoughts. More important things were at hand. Maybe later, when the circumstances were different.

Would Sherlock even want to deal with him after this was done? Or would he rather have his hands cleaned of John and his family? The thought frightened John, and he found himself looking at Sherlock in a different light. The Breton folded to another section of the map and pursed his lips. John turned back ahead. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock wasn't that type of man.

"What does your map say?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced over at him, as if he was surprised to hear him speak. He blinked and looked back at the map. "Have to pass a few more mountains, but it's nothing we can't handle. Morthal comes first, and then Dawnstar, but the camp is closer to Dawnstar than Winterhold." Sherlock turned the paper over before he closed it. "If anything, a day, maybe two, before we get there."

John slowly nodded and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Do you think it'll be snowy?"

"Most definitely." John looked over at Sherlock, who caught his eye. They both instinctively smiled.

Just as they planned before, they made as little stops as they could and only rested when it got too dark to see their fingers in front of their faces. Sherlock didn't even bother to keep pushing them with his candlelight. John would have protested anyway.

They also didn't stay in any more inns. John was thankful. Besides, the caves were occupied with spiders and Draugr, and it was always good to get some practice in.

Morthal came and went, and Dawnstar soon took its place. They arrived in Dawnstar in the early afternoon of their second day of traveling. It was snowy and bitter cold, but the mountains that concealed the Thalmor Embassy were worse. They didn't linger long in the city, as they already received suspicious looks along the road.

Making their way out of the city, John felt his spirits grow higher. He knew the probability of finding something that pointed to his father was low, but maybe he could get some closure if he saw the place where he was last seen. He could make his peace, and be done with the ridiculous fantasy of finding him alive in Dragon Bridge in their old house. He wasn't a boy anymore, and he needed to lose the boyish dreams.

"This was the old camp," Sherlock murmured, walking past John and towards the collapsed tents and scattered supplies. He walked along the scene, kicking rocks away and looking around at the surrounding woods. "I'll go on ahead," he said, and then he was off, leaving John alone.

He stood in the center of the ruins and let out a slow sigh. This was where it happened. The chaos and the wild tale. James Watson transformed into a werewolf and tore his adopted family limb-from-limb. John took a few steps further and crouched down near the larger tent. The regiment's lieutenant slept here. There was a map, filled with holes, where pushpins had punctured the paper, marking the areas they had scouted and the ones that still needed to be. Across the center of the paper was a blood smear. John ran his thumb across the weathered map and stood up. He turned his attention to an overturned chest, where the contents were spilling out. John crouched next to it and picked up object after object. Books, jewelry, amulets, broken armor, and used weapons, rusted with blood.

John shook his head and dropped a sword against a battered shield.

Nothing. This was a grave, and did nothing for him. He couldn't place his father in the scene, and he sure as hell couldn't place him in a wolf's skin.

"You better lower that thing, or I swear to Talos, you're not going to have arms to point it with!"

John shot his head up, eyes wide. It was a woman's voice. It came from deeper into the woods, where Sherlock had gone. "Shit," he breathed out and scrambled to his feet. John darted into the trees, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if necessary.

He met Sherlock first, who had seemed to step out from behind a tree. He had out his bow, and there was a purple mist slowly disappearing at his feet. Redbeard must have been with him, John thought. "What the hell is going—?" he started, but when he turned his head and saw who Sherlock was pointing out, he froze.

It was Harry.

John recognized her instantly. Her hair was still neatly pulled back, and while her cheeks looked a bit more sunken in, it was definitely her. She didn't look like she had been hurt any, but she did look rattled by the arrow pointed right at her head. John lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's arm. "Drop it," he told him.

"What, why?" Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced at John.

"Because that's my bloody sister," he spit out, and he ran out from the cover of the trees and towards Harry. Harry, who jumped and held out a dagger, immediately lowered it at the sight of him. John crashed into her and wrapped his arms around her thin frame. "Gods, Harry, I didn't think I was going to see you again," he whispered, turning his face and burying it in her neck.

Harry laughed and hugged him even tighter. "Shut up," she said, voice sounding a bit choked up. "You knew I was fine. I'm always fine." She pulled back and looked at him, smile wide. "I knew you'd come looking for me, you tit."

"What else was I supposed to do? Leave you in these woods to rot?" He managed a laugh, but Harry just shook her head.

"I'm not going to stay and rot here," she said briskly. Harry bent over, then, and picked up the basket that had dropped by her feet. Flowers and various plants were inside. "In fact, we were about to send you a—"

"—do you have any idea what I thought happened to you?" John interrupted. "I thought the Thalmor got you! Threw you in a cell and tortured you!" He stretched out a hand and cupped Harry's cheek. "Do you know how guilty I felt?" He ran his thumb across her skin.

She turned away. "I told you. I wasn't going to get caught."

"Who's we?" Sherlock took a step forward, then, bow safely on his back. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he moved to stand next to Harry and John. "You said 'we'." He glanced behind her, further into the woods. "Who are you with?"

Harry flustered for a moment, and she turned to look at John. "Oh, Johnny, it's a miracle. I could hardly believe it. In fact, I didn't believe it when he turned up at the shop. I thought it was a thief, but I was just being silly."

John's heart raced. "Who are you with?" he repeated, reaching out a hand and holding onto her arm.

She grinned and tightened her hold on the basket. "It's dad, John! He's alive! Can you believe it?"