The last time John woke up to a warm body beside him, it was in the dump of an inn that Dragon Bridge kept. He was with a Khajiit woman. The tail was what got him. The way it… swished from side to side as she stared at John, like he was a piece of meat and she was going to play with him. She always made sure to have a purr in her voice when she talked, and that made John all the more eager to get her into bed.
He didn't remember her name, but she had brown fur, almost like chocolate. She was gone when he woke up, and he felt like a fool when he saw a few gold coins on the side table. He wasn't a whore, but she made sure to treat him like one.
John often thought about her after that night. He even considered looking for her, though he realized that endeavor was better left incomplete. He didn't even know why he thought of her now. John had a new warm body next to him. Someone better than that Khajiit woman.
Sherlock wasn't asleep when John woke up. He was curled on his side, tucked underneath John's arm. His hand was on John's chest, fingers running through the hairs across his skin. He lightly scratched. "Morning," he said softly.
"Morning."
He stretched, letting his hand slide down John's chest. Sherlock turned his head and pressed his face in his armpit. "There's a stream, so there should be some fish."
"I'll catch some."
"I'll find some eggs."
"Breakfast fit for a king," John teased, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hummed. John took his arm back and rolled over in bed, carefully turning away from Sherlock. He hummed himself. "I had fun last night."
Sherlock flopped onto his stomach and propped himself up. He studied John and leaned in, resting his chin on John's shoulder. "I should hope so." John glanced over, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock smiled.
They laid there for a few more minutes, listening to each other breathe. Sherlock was the first to crawl out of bed. "I'll find some eggs," he reminded John, as he tried to find his smallclothes. John quickly sat up and lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. He whipped him around, pushing Sherlock against the mattress again.
"Not right now."
Both laughing, Sherlock shoved John aside and climbed on his hips.
It took them two more tries before they managed to leave the cabin. The one to leave the bed next was John, reminding Sherlock about the fish, but Sherlock reminded John how well he could suck cock. John couldn't turn away from that.
Sherlock left the bed after, reminding John about the eggs, but John reminded Sherlock how well he could use his fingers. Sherlock managed to ignore him and pull on his clothes. John was defeated.
"Try to resist me next time," John said, as he looked through the wardrobe. He found a set of leather armor. "I dare you." He looked over, catching Sherlock's lips.
"No," Sherlock replied, grinning as he walked over to the table. He pulled his bow onto his back and slid the quiver into place. "If you're not back in twenty minutes, I'll assume you've fallen in, and will come rescue you." He stood by the door, narrowing his eyes at John.
John shot Sherlock a look right back. "Okay." He fixed the straps on his gauntlets. "If you're not back, I'll assume a gigantic bird found you, plucked your eyes out, and will come rescue you." John reached for his sword and slid it into the scabbard. "Alright?" He moved past Sherlock and stepped out of the cabin. Sherlock shook his head, a small smile on his lips, and shut the door behind them. They carefully walked around the dead bandits.
They parted ways once John made it to the stream. Sherlock dashed through the woods, looking all the more like a giant oaf as he pranced along. John wouldn't say anything to the Breton, though. It was his little show. He laughed and drew out his sword, readying his grip on it as he crouched in front of the stream. The water flowed slowly, but he saw some fish dart this and that way. Only a matter of time before John snagged one.
He tried not to think about his fishing lessons with Harry and his father. It was hard, though. His father was such a huge part of his life, and John wondered if he even knew who he was at all. Was that all just a façade he put up? Was he really so power hungry that he jeopardized his children's safety? Apparently, yes. No caring parents would ever toss their children in league with a Daedric Prince. That just wasn't right. Children couldn't think for themselves. They couldn't make good, rational decisions. John knew of mischievous children, willingly putting themselves in the dark arts and in harm's way, even calling in the aid of the Dark Brotherhood to get rid of a parent, but this… this was different. John and Harry couldn't even remember it. They went the majority of their life with this secret, this secret that was buried underneath their skin and floating in their blood.
All of his memories of his father were now tarnished. John wanted them all removed. Having no father was better than this. He was ashamed of all the nights he lay awake after receiving that letter from the Stormcloaks, hoping and wishing and praying to the Nine Divines that his father was somehow alive, that he would come home one day and whisk Harry and him home.
That was a load of shit now.
John was angry. He was angry at his mother, who grew weaker and weaker and didn't become strong enough to overcome her husband; angry at his father, who manipulated his mother and consumed her inch by inch until she was just an empty, numb shell; and angry at himself, allowing this ridiculous, idealized fantasy of his father to cloud his judgments and his dreams.
None of this was his or his mother's fault, though. It was his father's, and that was who John placed the blame. It might have been a stretch to blame Sirihe the Whitemane, since she was the one who gave his father this curse. Sirihe might have consorted with the Prince himself, but that was even a bigger stretch. Regardless, it was his father who made the decision to drastically alter his family's lives, not Sirihe.
John stabbed his sword into the water, watching the ripples move away from the point of entry. He pulled back the weapon and smiled at the fish he had caught. It was a good sized one. John removed the fish from the sword and looked back in the stream. One more fish. That would suffice.
He wanted to know what Sherlock thought about the whole thing. The Breton had said nothing of substance since they left the cabin. Frankly, he and John didn't do much talking anyway. Maybe when they ate, or when they began to travel, he would pick Sherlock's brain. Sherlock had bad blood, his father said. He had a rancid smell that was dripping off of him. He said he was surprised neither John nor Harry could smell it. Sherlock smelled absolutely fine to him, but what did he mean?
The first thing that came to mind was Sherlock being a mage. Certainly having magic in your blood was a bad thing to some people. There wasn't much intolerance for mages in the province, and many had an excellent environment when they went to study at the College, but the prejudice of some was still there. You couldn't help how people thought. John never took his father as being one of those people, especially considering how he devoted his life to a Daedric Prince, but John wouldn't be surprised if his previous conceptions about someone were wrong. He was tired of the lying and the secrets. Yesterday took a lot out of him.
Another fish was caught only minutes later, and John held them in his arms as he traveled back to the cabin. Sherlock was already back, frying a few eggs over the fire. John walked over to the sink and washed the fish, getting all the grim and snow off. "I was beginning to wonder if you really had fallen in," Sherlock said, turning around and placing the eggs on the two plates he had laid on the table. "I was about to send a search party." He slid over to John, who handed the fish over to him. "Excellent," he murmured, walking back to the fire.
John leaned against the basin, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Sherlock attempt to make the fish somewhat edible. He pursed his lips and looked down at the floor. "Yesterday…"
Sherlock shook his head. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I don't want to force you to relive unpleasant experiences." He looked over his shoulder. "Though if you want to discuss last night and this morning, then I would be happy to indulge." He smiled.
"Shut it," John breathed out, but he couldn't help but smile, too. He cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a look, but he had already turned back around. "Actually, I do want to talk about yesterday. I've been thinking, and… I want to know what you thought about the whole thing. I mean, you were there. Absurdly quiet, but still there." He shrugged. "You must have some thoughts about it."
It took a few minutes for Sherlock to say something. In the meantime, John listened to the fish fry and sizzle. "Your father is a very bad man," he started, turning away and walking back towards the table. He dropped a fish on each plate and moved towards the sink. Sherlock moved around John as he placed the pan into the wash basin. "He had bad intentions from the start, and certainly used your mother. Did he even want children? It's likely all of it was a power play, hoping to get some hold over her, while manipulating you and Harry. Nasty business."
John sighed and dragged himself over to the table. He planted himself into a chair and stretched out his legs. "I knew you were going to say something like that," he said quietly. John picked up a fork and poked at the fish. It smelled good.
Sherlock sat next to John and picked up his own utensil. He twirled it in between his fingers. "There's no arguing that he did do a good job taking care of you two. An odd way of going about it, but it was clear he loved his children. Still, it doesn't matter now. As you said before, your lives are ruined." Sherlock tore a piece of fish off and chewed. He looked at John. "It doesn't matter if he was a good father, then. All your memories of him are warped, destroyed, what have you. Nothing can be done to change them."
"I'm going to find a cure," John said carefully, bits of egg in his mouth. "Or something to prevent me from ever having the opportunity to turn into that damned beast. I don't care what Harry says. There has to be something. Even if it's just a wonky, useless talisman, it'll give me some comfort."
Sherlock pointed his fork at John. "It will be a false sense of comfort."
"A sense of comfort all the same," John replied. "That's better than feeling no comfort at all." He furrowed his brow. "At least to me." He stabbed at his fish.
"Where would we start?"
John glanced at Sherlock. "What, you don't have any idea?"
"Oh, I do. I wanted to know if you thought of anything."
He narrowed his eyes and looked down at his plate. "I have an idea, but I'm reluctant to say, or even go there."
Sherlock stretched out his leg and lightly nudged John's foot. "We have to go to Solstheim."
John sighed and lifted his free hand, rubbing at an eye. "Skaal Village, Solstheim. We might not find Sirihe, Gods know how old that bat was when my father met her, but maybe someone there might know something."
"Oh, I'm sure of it," Sherlock said. "Especially if the Bloodmoon Prophecy is going on right now. Werewolves and werebears and were-everything will be running amok. Children will be terrified." He smiled. "Solstheim is our best bet."
His fish looked back up at him. John glared at it and moved part of his egg over the fish's face. He looked over at Sherlock, watching him for a moment. "How much do you know about the Bloodmoon Prophecy?" he asked. "You don't seem all that… frightened."
"Should I be frightened?" he challenged.
John shrugged. "Everybody's different."
Sherlock studied him for a second before setting his fork on his plate. "When I first met you, I told you I have an enormous amount of knowledge, and in that knowledge contains some snippets about the Bloodmoon Prophecy. We'll go to Windhelm and catch a boat. There, we'll travel to Solstheim. I hope you don't get seasick."
Knowledge. His father had said that like a curse word. "Where did you learn all this stuff?"
"A book," Sherlock answered immediately.
John pounded his fist on the table. "Windhelm it is. I hope you don't get seasick."
The sky was dark and gloomy by the time they left the cabin. John was reluctant to leave. It was a warm and safe place to stay. If there were any bandits that happened to cross, he and Sherlock would be able to deal with them, but they had things to do, and staying wasn't an option.
He stood there and waited for Sherlock to finish searching the place for anything they might have missed. John tilted his head to the side and watched Sherlock as he stuffed some fabric into his pack, a few potions. He caught John's eyes as he stepped outside and shut the door. "What?" He furrowed his brow and walked past him.
John shook his head. "Nothing." He followed Sherlock, keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword. The leather armor he now wore did little to help the cold, but it was lighter than the steel. Still, John missed it, and he was sure Sherlock paid quite a bit of gold for the set. But he had to go transform into a werewolf. Way to go, John. He glanced over at Sherlock. "I didn't know I was going to completely tear through the armor," he said. When Sherlock gave him a funny look, he sighed and shut his eyes. "You know… when I… went wolf."
Sherlock kept his lips pressed together for a moment, obviously trying to hold back a comment, a laugh, but his efforts proved futile. He laughed, throwing his head back and laughing some more. "Oh, John," he managed to say after a few seconds of laughter. He lifted a hand to wipe at an eye. "I don't care about the armor. I could always get you a better set. I just couldn't help but imagine you freezing your tits off in the mountains. It was an act of kindness. Don't worry about it."
Regardless of what Sherlock said, John did worry about it. He knew if Harry had spent all that gold on him, and he, basically, trashed the damn thing, Harry would be utterly pissed off. Might not even talk to him again. That was Harry, though, and this was Sherlock.
John wrapped his arms around himself and tried to get as compact and tiny as possible. The wind was starting to blow, and the cloudy skies weren't doing anything to help the temperature. It would only get colder. John wished he was back in Solitude, where it always managed to be sunny and warm.
They made it out of the woods and found the main road. Nobody was hunting for them this time around—not like they were in the first place—so John was glad they could use the main means of travel. It was safer and a lot quicker than trying to navigate through woods and tunnels. They passed a road sign at an intersection, and John tried to read it as they walked. Sherlock seemed to know where they were going and didn't pay any mind to the sign. They were heading to Winterhold, it seemed.
John pursed his lips and quickened his pace. Sherlock didn't stop for anything. "Winterhold?" John huffed out, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock's. "We're actually going there? What happened to Windhelm?" Sherlock gave him a glance from the corner of his eye. He shrugged. John slowly smiled, then. "Are you taking me to see your parents?" he asked, voice low. He nudged Sherlock. "Are you?"
Sherlock sighed loudly and ignored John's attempts at annoyance, though they seemed to be working. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders. "Yes. I have an… agreement with my mother. I'm to see her every few months so she knows I'm alive. A letter won't do, she says. Needs to be in person. And since we need to pass through Winterhold anyway, why not?" Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. "Please don't do anything embarrassing."
He scoffed. "Embarrassing? Never. I'm just wondering how your family's going to compete with mine." Sherlock managed to smile, then, and John laughed. If Harry was here, he was sure she would have swiped at him, but she wasn't, and John was glad.
"She used to be an adventurer, yeah? Your mother?" Sherlock absently nodded as he kept his eyes ahead at the road. They were approaching a group of Thalmor Justiciars with a prisoner. "Do you want to tell me a bit more about her? I think I've earned that—"
"—John," Sherlock spit out, and he quickly pulled out his bow, placing an arrow in the proper place, and fired, striking a Thalmor in the throat. They clutched their chest and fell to the ground. The other two Justiciars whipped around, and when they saw their fallen brother, they pulled out their own weapons. The prisoner's eyes grew wide, and he looked around frantically.
"Got it," John replied, easily unsheathing his sword and twisting around, meeting one of the Thalmor's swords. They swung at each other, sword striking sword, hit after hit. John stepped back from a close blow to the chest, and the Thalmor stumbled. He took his chance, then, and held his sword in two hands, bringing it up and stabbing it in the Altmer's neck. The elf let out a gurgle and fell face first on the path. He looked around and watched as Sherlock spun around and launched a spray of flames from his fingertips, essentially boiling the Justiciar alive in their armor. They screamed as well and dropped to their knees, hands going up and clutching at their face. John walked over and put the Thalmor out of their misery, with a quick cut to the throat.
The prisoner was all that remained, and he was currently hid behind a rock. John glanced over at Sherlock before slipping his sword in its sheath and walking over to the man. The prisoner fell back and tried to scramble away from John, or he tried to, but there was only so much you could do with your hands bound together. John reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. He squeezed. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "We're the good guys." The prisoner stopped squirming, then, and stared at John for a moment. He then looked over at Sherlock. John drew out his dagger and leaned over, slicing the ropes around the man's wrists. "There you go." He stood up and put his dagger away. "You're free. Go home. Try not to get caught again."
"Oh, thank the Gods! Thank Talos!" He stood up and cupped John's shoulders. "My family will pray for you tonight. Oh, yes, we will!" The man hugged John, then, and looked over at Sherlock. He stretched out a hand and pointed. "And you! Thank you so much!" The man pushed John away and moved towards Sherlock. He grabbed one of his hands and shook it. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He kissed Sherlock's knuckles and turned away, walking down the road and seeming to not have a care in the world, not anymore.
John and Sherlock stood there, staring at the man as he walked further down the road. John looked over at Sherlock, examining him for a second before he placed his hands on his hips. "What was that about?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared blankly at John. He blinked and turned away, continuing on their path. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what." He marched after Sherlock. "Attacking those Thalmor. We didn't have to do that, you know. We could have just… let them by."
"You would let them safely walk past us?"
John paused. "Yes."
Sherlock stared at him.
John shook his head. "That doesn't matter. You attacked first." He started to smile. "Don't tell me you're a big softie for the rebels."
"I'm not telling you that."
"Oh, I knew it!" John clapped his hands. "You just had that look. You can't stand seeing people oppressed, no matter the cause. Honestly, I wished your brother would have seen the light, as well. What the Empire does just isn't right."
"My brother is an opportunist. When something looks good for him, he goes for it, no matter the cost. I don't think he realizes what this war has done to people." Sherlock looked over at John. "He doesn't even listen to Mother or Father. It doesn't matter. He's helping Solitude's Jarl. Mycroft thinks that having that good of a position is an incredible feat." He turned back ahead. "Maybe he'll come around. He usually does when something happens to me."
John huffed out a laugh. "I hope you're not planning on getting yourself captured by the Thalmor, then. Or cause trouble with an Imperial regiment."
Sherlock shook his head. "No. I'll let Ulfric Stormcloak convince Mycroft and the rest of the Empire otherwise. I'm just helping him however I can."
"So by killing Thalmor agents and releasing prisoners?"
"Exactly. A revolution doesn't start off with a bang, John. It starts with little actions that accumulate. The Empire won't fall in day."
"Ulfric tore apart the High King in a day."
"Now that I would have liked to see." Sherlock sighed. "I'm jealous of Mycroft, in that aspect. He got to see the codger die."
John crossed his arms over his chest. "I could hear it," he started. "The Shout. It was… terrifying, but exciting. You should have seen the reaction in Dragon Bridge. Everybody just cheering and jumping around. It's almost like we already won the war." He looked over, watching Sherlock for a couple seconds. "What are you going to do after we finish this?" he asked quietly.
He expected Sherlock to make a snide comment about "going home after the war" but he knew what John meant. He always managed to know what John meant, on some level. "I'm not sure," he answered. "I don't fancy going home and living with Mum and Dad." His nose wrinkled. "If I stay in a five foot radius of Mycroft I might as well light the Blue Palace on fire myself, so." He paused. "I've no idea." Sherlock knitted his brows together and turned his head towards John. "What about you?"
John would go home to Solitude, of course. Live out the rest of his days with Harry, helping run the shop. "I've no idea either," he found himself saying. Sherlock's eyes lingered on him, but John didn't turn to look.
Sherlock's voice rang in John's ear, telling him time and time again that since the name was Winterhold, of course it'll be winter there. But John was, secretly, hoping that Winterhold might prove to be a little warmer than the woods. Nope. That wasn't the case at all.
As they stood on the main road, looking ahead at the city before them, John sighed noisily. He crossed his arms over his chest and swayed from side to side. "Don't get me wrong," John started. "I'm sure this place is nice, but I'm a bit tired of the cold." Sherlock shook his head and walked on, arms at his sides. John hurried along. "You're probably used to it," he mumbled, furrowing his brow.
"I am," Sherlock said simply, looking down at John. "That doesn't mean I'm not still affected by it. I want to be back in that nice, warm cabin as much as you."
John pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. "I never said that."
"You didn't need to," Sherlock said with a smile. "I could read it all in your face, your body language. You were practically begging for a reason to stay in that cabin for a little while longer."
John pursed his lips. "We can't stay in that cabin forever, because that would be impractical." He shot Sherlock a look. "And I have business in Solstheim, as you know."
"Solstheim and the Bloodmoon Prophecy. Should prove to be an exciting adventure." Sherlock slowed down and tipped his head back. He glanced at John for a split second before stretching out his arm and pointing at the large building ahead of them. "That is the College of Winterhold. I trained there, as well as many. It's quite lovely, actually."
The College looked like a huge tower, with several smaller towers tacked on next to it. A large bridge seemed to carry visitors there, and down below looked to be quite a fall. John narrowed his eyes in thought and looked back at Sherlock. "Didn't the College cause The Great Collapse? I heard that while I was growing up."
Sherlock huffed. "That's ridiculous. A massive storm caused the city to fall into the sea, not a College."
"What about all the magic holed up there? It's not a stretch to say that something like that could backfire and cause catastrophic events."
He rolled his eyes. "We didn't come to Winterhold so you could insult my birthplace and—"
"—yes, we came to see your Mummy and Daddy before we travel across the ocean. I remember."
"Good."
They walked until Sherlock led them to a cottage closer to the College. He paused outside the door and looked over his shoulder at John. "Do not mention The Great Collapse to either of my parents, or you'll surely regret it."
"Why? Do they have a lot to say about it?"
Sherlock didn't answer him. He turned back to face front and breathed in, standing there for a split second, before knocking. They didn't have to wait long. The door opened, and a short woman appeared in the doorway. She peered at Sherlock and studied him, stone-faced, until she grinned. John couldn't tell what Sherlock's expression was, but he assumed he had smiled, too, for his mother reached up and pulled him down into a hug.
"I was getting worried about you," she said. "You should send more letters."
"You don't want me to send letters."
"I never said that!" She pulled back from his hug and pointed a finger at him. "Don't go twisting my words, young man." Sherlock stepped aside, perhaps to avoid the next wave of possible chastisement, and revealed John behind him. His mother immediately lowered her hand and gave John a stare that reminded him all too well what Sherlock was capable of. "Who's this?"
John opened his mouth, ready to answer, but Sherlock was one beat faster. "This is my friend, John Watson."
"Friend?"
"Yes," John replied, nodding and taking a step forward. He held out his hand, which Sherlock's mother took. "Good to meet you."
She gave him another surveying look and tipped her head to the side. "Well, John Watson, what do you think of Winterhold?" she asked, giving him a stern look. She hadn't let go of his hand.
John blinked and furrowed his brow. He glanced at Sherlock, who was only giving him a smile. John looked back at the woman and started to shrug, but then decided against it. "Ah, it's very… cold. But it's lovely. If I had more aptitude for the sort of thing your son does, then I wouldn't mind going to the College."
He seemed to have said the right thing, since she laughed and let go of his hand. "Yes, yes, that's all good, and it is very cold, isn't it? Let's go inside and sit by the fire." Sherlock wasted no time at all and swiftly turned on his heel, marching inside. John waited for Sherlock's mother to go inside before he ducked in, too. He shut the door behind him and was instantly thankful of the warmth.
Sherlock pulled his bow off his back and looked around the cottage. "Where's dad?" he asked, setting the weapon on a rack above the fire. He laid his quiver next to the fireplace before falling into a chair.
His mother joined him at the table. "He's off visiting your brother," she began. "Mycroft said you were in Solitude just days ago. Didn't you see him?"
He started to shake his head. "No, I must have missed him. Come along, John. Sit with us. We have some time to spare, yes?"
John, feeling oddly out of place, had stayed by the front door. He flexed his fingers for a second and nodded. "Yeah, we're not… particularly busy." He walked across the room, towards the table, and sat in the chair between Sherlock and his mother. He didn't want it to seem like he was showing any favoritism.
"What have you been up to? Last time you came, you were doing a job for that one Redguard fellow. What was his name?" She tapped her fingers on the table, looking up at the ceiling. "I can't remember. What was it, dear?"
Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he had them on a spot on the floor. "Victor," he said softly.
"Victor! Yes, that was it. What happened to him? You were telling me everything was going so well."
"He died," Sherlock replied, looking over at his mother. "I told you that."
"That was so long ago. How can I remember?"
Sherlock remained quiet after that, and John looked at him. He hadn't mentioned anybody by the name of Victor before. Should he bring it up? Was that proper? Did Sherlock sleep with him, too? John cleared his throat and turned his attention to Sherlock's mother. "Sherlock tells me you were an adventurer when you were younger. He even carries around your map. Those little anecdotes have been very helpful to us, so far."
She chuckled and shifted in her seat. "Sherlock told you that, did he? Well, I can't deny it now. Yes, I was a bit of an adventurer back in my more youthful years. When I met his father, I had to settle down. I miss it from time to time, but I can't exactly go up to Mount Anthor now and slay the dragon up there, can I?" She laughed again.
John didn't even know there was a dragon so close to the city. Maybe since it was left alone, it left other people alone. "What was your weapon of choice? I noticed you had a place above the mantle, where Sherlock put his bow. Was that always there?"
She smiled. "Very observant, aren't you? Or maybe you just noticed how old Sherlock's bow was. I favored the bow, yes, but unlike my son here, I never bothered to learn how to use my magicka. It was unnecessary. I was quick with my bow, and when I got into a sticky situation, I also carried around a mace. I have no idea what happened to it. Lost it in a cave somewhere. I remember looking for it all day once. I was on my hands and knees in ankle-deep water, pushing aside rocks and gunk, but it was no use. It must have drifted off somewhere. If I still had it, I would have passed it down to Mycroft, but my eldest doesn't seem to have the urge to draw any blood."
"Oh, he does," Sherlock said, propping his head up with a fist. His lips twitched. "It's with a quill, though."
John smiled, but Sherlock's mother didn't seem all that amused. "He is doing a very important job at the capital, Sherlock. I know you don't agree with what he's doing, but he has to make a living somehow… Even if it does involve helping the bloody Empire."
Sherlock and John caught eyes, then, and Sherlock seemed to be trying to pass a "don't you dare talk to my mom about the civil war" look, but seeing how Sherlock would react was too good to miss.
"Sherlock doesn't like to talk about the civil war," he started, turning his head to meet the woman's gaze. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he didn't dare turn his head.
"Pish, Sherlock loves to bash the Empire and everything connected to it. Don't let him fool you." She looked over at Sherlock and narrowed her eyes, chastising her son for the second time in their visit. John wondered how much more he could be punished. He wouldn't get to find out.
"Mycroft's bedroom is still vacant, yes?" Sherlock asked as he stood up.
"Well, yes, but isn't it a little too—"
"—John and I have been walking all day, and we have a big trip ahead of us tomorrow. We're going to Windhelm, and then we'll be off to Solstheim."
His mother widened her eyes. "Solstheim? Why would you ever want to go there?"
John quickly thought up a lie. "My father recently died, and he was from Skaal Village. I'm going there to pay my respects, and Sherlock's helping me get there."
That seemed to appease the woman, and she nodded as she lifted a hand to run through her silver hair. "The world is a dangerous place. There's no doubting that. I know the dangers of traveling alone." She looked over at Sherlock and lowered her hand. "Yes, Mike's room is open. Everything's just the same as you left it in yours."
"Excellent."
She stood and walked over to Sherlock, giving him another hug. "All the dust and the grime remains."
"Oh, you shouldn't have."
John stood, too, and moved towards the stairs, glancing up them. He felt a hand on his arm, and at first he thought it was Sherlock, but it was his mother. She frowned at John and rubbed his shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss."
He blinked at her, unable to speak for a moment. Thank you, he thought. Just say it. It was two simple words, but there was something about them. They felt false on his tongue. His father was dead, yes, but that wasn't the whole of it.
"Thank you," he finally said, voice sounding odd to his ear. He roughly swallowed and attempted a smile.
She might have thought the grief was taking over John, and that was why he was reacting strangely. She didn't know any better. "I'll leave you two boys to rest. I know how tired you must be." Sherlock gave John a single look right before he began his trek up the stairs. John obediently followed behind him. Sherlock's mother looked up the stairs, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you going to be here when I wake up?"
"Probably not."
She didn't bother to finish her thought. She waved her hands and turned away, disappearing from view. John reached the second floor landing, spotting Sherlock standing outside of a closed door, which could only have been his room. He glanced down the hall, at the other closed room, and shook his head. "I'm hoping your bed is large enough for the both of us," he muttered, walking over to Sherlock.
Sherlock hummed. "Oh, it is."
When he first entered Sherlock's bedroom, he didn't bother to give it much thought and surveillance. Sherlock did manage to light a candle, so they weren't stumbling around in the dark. After the both of them were breathing heavily, sprawled on their backs, and gazing up at the ceiling, John noticed how nice the little room was. He swallowed and glanced at Sherlock. "You grew up here," he said.
Sherlock nodded. "I grew up here."
They laid there in silence for minutes more, before Sherlock pushed himself up. He sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair. He shut his eyes and sighed. "My mother can be a bit…" he trailed off, instead opting to gesture with his hand, as if that would complete his thought.
"Oh, yeah." John nodded. He turned over in bed, stretching out on his front. He shoved his hands underneath the pillow and stared at Sherlock, examining the fine hairs on his back. John wanted to reach over and touch the curve of his spine. He didn't. "Who's Victor?" he asked, burying his face in the pillow. John didn't move, but he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. The weight on the bed shifted, and John peeked, watching as Sherlock walked towards the wardrobe, opening it with a flourish.
"Typically, John, people pay me for helping them. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a mercenary, but I do kill people for money." Sherlock pulled out a shirt, a pair of thin trousers. "Victor was a wealthy Redguard who happened across me in a tavern, much like you." He grabbed his smallclothes and pulled them on, pausing for a second. "Although, you didn't much happened across me as I happened across you." He shook his head. "Regardless, we met, and he had a problem. He had heard of my talents from several people in the city, and thought I'd be best suited to sort out his problem. I was in Winterhold at the time, staying with my lovely parents." Sherlock pulled on the trousers and worked on the shirt, frowning at the sleeves. He pushed them up to the elbows.
John had lifted his head fully from the pillow and was watching Sherlock. His eyes dipped down to the sliver of chest Sherlock left exposed, enjoying the contrast of his pale skin and his dark hair. "Redguards? They're from Hammerfell, yes?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, moving back over to the bed. He sat down and bent over, tossing John his clothes. "Victor told me he had sailed to Skyrim for business related reasons with a friend and crossed paths with… well, magic, let's say." He turned his head, smiling at John as he watched him get dressed. He looked back at the floor. "He took me out of the tavern and to his ship. His friend, Sally, was there, and she had this great Irish wolfhound. She had her hands clasped around his muzzle, though I had an idea of why, I didn't ask. I waited for Victor to tell me. Besides, it was amusing to hear him say that the dog had been talking to him."
"Talking? That's madness," John said with a laugh. He leaned against the wall, stretching out his legs underneath the blanket.
Sherlock smiled and moved around, sitting fully on the bed and crossing his legs. "Madness," he murmured. He faced John and raised an eyebrow. "Can you really decide what madness is and what's not in this world, John? Look at you." He reached out and rubbed John's legs. "You're a manbeast."
John narrowed his eyes and pressed his foot against Sherlock's shin. He curled his toes. "Go on."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. The talking dog. He said his name was Barbas, and he had been separated from his master. He met good Victor and only wanted to find a way home, but Victor didn't know what to do. He asked Sally, and she didn't know either. They went around the province, trying to find anyone who would be up to the job of escorting Barbas back to his master, but when the possible individuals found out who his master was, they immediately declined the offer, no matter how much Victor offered."
"Who was his master?"
"Clavicus Vile, the Daedric Prince of Power, Trickery, Wishes, and Bargains."
"Daedra, Daedra, Daedra. I've heard enough about Daedra."
Sherlock hummed. "The world is full of them, John." He lowered his hand and took hold of John's foot. "Besides, they're interesting to deal with, and sometimes the rewards they offer aren't so bad."
John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "If this is your way of telling me we shouldn't go to Solstheim, it's too late. I've already decided."
"Oh." Sherlock blinked. "No, it wasn't." He cleared his throat and shook his head. "Anyway, Victor eventually met me, and I agreed to help. I didn't mind. Sally stayed on the ship, so Barbas, Victor, and I traveled to the shrine of Clavicus Vile." Catching John's blank look, he held out a hand. "If you want to speak with a Daedric Prince, you either go to their shrine or obtain an object of theirs."
"My father made blood offerings in the woods." He slipped his fingers through Sherlock's outstretched hand.
Sherlock curled his fingers. "Maybe the woods meant something to him."
"Maybe."
"As we traveled, I got to know Victor better. I wouldn't say we were the best of friends by the end of the trip, but I certainly knew him a lot better, if you know what I mean." He smirked.
He expected that. "So, it wasn't love?" he asked, before he realized what he had said.
Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened. "Love? Of course it wasn't love. It's dangerous to love in this world. Too many things can happen," he said quickly, staring at the blankets.
John passed his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "Okay, sorry. Keep going. What happened when you got to the shrine?"
It took Sherlock a moment, but he did lift his head and met John's eyes again. "I summoned Clavicus Vile, and we spoke with him. He's this very disgusting man. Looks a bit like an imp. Just reminds you of the tricksters parents tell their children at night." He picked at one of John's nails. "We successfully returned Barbas to his master, and though he was a tad annoyed of seeing his dog back, he was thankful." Sherlock laughed. "That dog was very talkative, but I grew to like him."
"Everything went okay?" John furrowed his brow. "How did Victor die then? You made it seem like he died on the job."
Sherlock held up a finger and wagged it at John. "I haven't got to that part yet." He lowered his hand and placed it over their joined ones. "After Barbas, er, transformed into a statue again, you could say, Clavicus Vile told us exactly how Barbas came to Victor. This wasn't Victor's first trip to Skyrim. He had been one time before, and here, he went to the shrine we were at now, and asked for help. He needed money, he told Clavicus Vile. His family was struggling back in Hammerfell, and he would give his life if it meant for his family to get back on their feet."
"I don't like where this is going."
"Clavicus Vile loves helping mere mortals such as us. He also likes to watch us squirm and suffer. He helped dear Victor. He gave him the wealth he needed to go back home and help his family. Victor went back to Hammerfell in good spirits, and once home, his family did manage to get out of their slump. In fact, they became one of the wealthiest families in Hammerfell. No one exactly knows why. They just know it happened. A year or so later, Victor decided to travel back to Skyrim. It had been good to him once, why not again? He brought Sally along, only because, I assume, to show her how she could become as rich as he.
"The problem was, once they landed in the province, Barbas came to him and asked for help to return to his master. Victor had known who Barbas was. He seen the dog at the shrine, and he knew Clavicus Vile wanted him. Nothing good could come from it."
John huffed. "Daedric Princes," he mumbled underneath his breath.
"Victor made up a little story, feigned innocence, and sought help to go to the shrine. He thought if he didn't go alone, then maybe Clavicus Vile would be kinder. Oh, how wrong was he. The Prince of Power slit Victor's throat right then and there, blood spurting all over me, the snow, and the great shrine. As he was withering on the snow, the impish Prince sneered, 'you told me you'd give your life!', and then he disappeared. I was left to gather Victor up and find an appropriate spot to bury him."
"How did you feel? Did you know you were leading Victor to his death?"
Sherlock winced. "I knew of Clavicus Vile and how his nature was, but I never imagined this would have been the outcome. Some other punishment, sure, but not this. It was very dirty. I didn't feel bad. Victor was a passing thing. He wasn't going to take me away to Hammerfell. He knew it was just fun, too. Besides, he had a wife back home anyway."
John studied Sherlock for a moment and gave his hand one last squeeze before he pulled it back to scratch his chest. "Did your mother think there was something more between you two?"
"She thinks every boy I bring home is the one." He rolled his eyes. "I don't see why she thinks I need to settle down. She didn't until she was at least in her thirties." Sherlock tipped his head to the side and watched John. He ran his fingers down his arm, tracing circles into his wrist. "This story isn't one I particularly like to retell. I had done my job, though. I was paid to kill, and kill I did." He looked down. "I returned to the ship to tell Sally what happened. She wanted me off the ship, and she immediately sailed back to Hammerfell, I suspect. I haven't heard from her since."
"Where did you bury him?" John asked carefully.
Sherlock let go of John's hand and crawled around on the bed. He lay next to John, resting his head on his shoulder. "Get down," he whispered, helping John sink underneath the blankets. Sherlock curled up and reached for the blanket, pulling it closer to his chin. "Right outside the shrine," he answered, shutting his eyes. "With the other people Clavicus Vile had tricked. Victor didn't know it was a graveyard when we passed it, but I did. I didn't tell him."
John leaned over and blew out the candle.
Sherlock was true to his word, and they left before his mother had woken up. Windhelm was still hours away, and it was best they set off as soon as possible.
As they got closer to the city, more and more support for the rebels began to show. John felt more comfortable there than he ever did in Solitude.
They went down to the docks, and John asked some of the men about finding a passage to Solstheim. One man agreed to allow them on board, as he was delivering goods for the merchants there.
The space below deck was cramped, but it gave John the excuse to stay close to Sherlock. Not that he really needed an excuse anyway.