If they weren't four feet tall, they would've had to bend over to walk down the stairs. They had been walking for a few minutes now, and the sense of smothering was growing deeper in their lungs. It was a very narrow corridor, and the raindrops that dripped from the ceiling reminded them of the opened air above their heads, blocked away by a few feet of stone. The boys were walking slowly, being careful not to slip on the wet steps, and if John hadn't remembered to get a torch, they wouldn't have been able to see an inch in front of their noses.

"Does it usually take this long?" asked Sherlock, always looking at where he was stepping, once the stairs were inconveniently irregular. "Just to walk down the stairs?"

"They're not that long, we're the ones walking slowly. But don't worry, I think I see something."

And, after a few more slippery steps, they did come across a seven feet tall wooden door. One of their main concerns was that they would might need to unlock a door or a gate, but that door wasn't closed at all - it was only ajar.

"Well, that doesn't make sense." said John, wondering whether he should push it or not. "Why would anyone go through that much trouble to hide a dungeon and not even bother closing a door?"

"Maybe because whatever they're trying to keep inside is locked someway else."

Sherlock took the torch, stepped up and calmly pushed the door, slightly cringing at the creaking sound it made. They both went in, and the torch was only enough to enlighten the empty beginning of a stone hall. John soon realized what Sherlock was talking about, now that he could hear them too: chains. He started walking towards the distant sound, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" he whispered scoldingly.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're about to go check out a convict dangerous enough to be locked away in a secret underground dungeon, in chains."

"Yeah. So? What did you come here for?"

"Well, I was quite curious about the architecture, and whether the castle's dungeons were anything like the ones in my book-"

"The architecture?"

"Bloody awful job with the stairs, by the way. The infiltration-"

"Sherlock! You did not just come all the way down here to criticize the ceiling!" he whisper-shouted, coming loose from Sherlock's grip. "Come on, have an adventure! Unless... you're scared." he teased.

"Fear is irrational." he replied haughtily.

"Good. You're coming, then." John decided, taking Sherlock by the wrist.

So they both started following the clanking sound of chains, as they got louder and louder. The light from the torch was starting to go out, and soon they could only see a couple of feet ahead of them.

"We can't take much longer, the light is fading." Sherlock pointed out, trying not to make it sound like there was another reason he wanted to turn around.

"Relax, we've been walking in a straight line since the beginning. Worst case scenario, we go back in the dark, following one of the walls. Now, if you're scared-"

"Shut up."

"Hey, I'm just saying-"

"No, really. Shut up. Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Exactly."

The clank of chains had completely stopped, and the only sound was of the boys' slightly heavy breathing.

"How do we know where he is now?" John asked, whispering as low as he could.

"We don't."

They stayed in absolute silence for a moment, until the clanking noise came back all at once, louder and closer then either of them was prepared for. If that would've already been enough to make them jump, Sherlock's heart must have beaten out of his chest when a hand pulled him by the ankle, making him fall face first in the ground, and dragged him away from John. He screamed as he tried vainly to hold on to something, leaving the torch behind and getting pulled into the darkness. The hand eventually let go of him, and Sherlock managed to sit up, recoiling as fast as he could until his back hit a wall.

He just sat there huddled for a moment, panting and shaking. John called his name in the distance, but he didn't have the voice to respond. He heard something approaching and cringed at the feeling of someone's breath on his neck, as a hoarse voice whispered long live the king.

After that, he could hear the chains distancing and John approaching, kneeling next to him and raising whatever was left of the torch so he could see Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"N-no, I'm fine." he mumbled, leaning on the wall to pull himself up, but falling back on his knees the moment he did so.

"You don't look fine." John reproved, helping him to his feet and putting the boy's arm around him. So they started to walk back to the stairway, always near a wall, in case of the torch going out, which only happened when they were almost by the door. When they got to the stairs, leaving the door they way they'd found it, John leaned against a wall and sighed.

"This was all my fault, I'm sorry. If I hadn't forced you into going further-"

"It's fine."

"No it's not fine! You could have died back there!"

"Don't exaggerate; I was barely harmed."

"How can you be so calm about this?" he asked, trying to figure out where he should look at if he couldn't see a thing.

"I think it may not have been in vain."

"What do you mean?"

"The... convict. He said something. Long live the king."

"..."

"Don't you know the whole saying? It was first declared on the accession of Charles VII to the throne, in France: Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi."

"Do you just assume that every person you meet speaks French?"

"It means 'The king is dead. Long live the king.'"

"But the king is not dead."

"No, but... I think it might have been a warning. Or a threat." Sherlock suggested gloomily.

"Well, that bloke can't do much from down here. And are you sure we should even be taking him seriously? God knows how long he's been in this place; he could be just a nutter."

"Or he could have meant something and my father is in danger."

"...Oh. Right. But if that were true, why would he even tell you?" John asked, but then he heard footsteps - Sherlock was already climbing up the stairs. "Wait for me!"

When they finally saw daylight again, or at least as much daylight as you can see in a cloudy rainy afternoon, they carefully put the secret passage back where it was and walked out of the trophy room as if nothing had happened.

"Well" John started, "I guess I've seen enough of that place for a lifetime."

"Same time tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, without looking at him.

"Oh god yes."

And then they just went on separate ways, each one heading for their small little corner of the castle. Sherlock's reasons to go back to the dungeon were clear on his mind - he wanted to find out whatever he could about the prisoner and make sure that his words meant nothing. But he didn't quite understand why John had agreed to go there again so promptly. The taste for adventure, perhaps? He did seem like the kind of people who just can't stand boredom - a bit like himself, he supposed.

Apart from the whole possible childhood trauma thing that had just happened, Sherlock was still processing the idea of John. He doesn't remember ever talking to another kid his age; the closest thing that came to his mind was when he first saw some of the children that came from the neighboring kingdom. He was dissecting a dead rat when he heard screams and ran to the window, just to see a bunch of kids randomly running, laughing and yelling. All Sherlock did was wonder what could possibly make them behave like that and then go back to his self-taught biology classes.

But after he had spent some time with John, he didn't think he was much like the boys whose idea of fun basically involved deliberately throwing themselves in a mud puddle and putting frogs on the girls' hair. And he had just got on the short list of people who had voluntarily spent more than an hour on Sherlock's company.

Still on that line of thought, he went back to the library to find a now alone Mycroft, sitting on the armchair next to the window and watching the rain with a blank expression. Sherlock picked a book and waited a while to say something, so he wouldn't seem too hasty.

"So," he started, sounding uninterested. "what did father wanted to talk to you about earlier?"

"Why do you ask?" his brother replied, still staring at the window.

"No reason, just wondering."

"You don't do small talk, Sherlock. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing. I've... got a bad feeling, that's all."

Mycroft gave him a glance, clearly unconvinced.

"Only that he'll be going away for the week; some important business to attend to, as usual. And since we seem to be... chatting now... how's John?"

Sherlock didn't bother to ask how his brother suddenly knew John's name - Mycroft had always had ways to find out about the things that interested him.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh please. You've spent less than three hours with him and i already sense an alteration in your mood. You so evidently care about him."

"What would be wrong if I did?"

"Take it from me, Sherlock." he advised, loosing the smirk he had on his face. "Caring is not an advantage."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

It was raining the first time Mycroft and Greg kissed, and it was raining on the last.

It had been many months since they'd had first met, and Greg was using the army telegram excuse once again. He had got to the castle soaking wet, and was directed by the servants to the prince's whereabouts. Mycroft was, as usual, at the library, but Sherlock was taking his customary violin classes.

"High Constable Lestrade. Do come in;" Mycroft greeted him, doing his best to hide his inappropriate joy and to seem neutral before the most pleasant surprise. "kettle's just boiled."

He made a gesture at one of the armchairs so that Greg would have a sit, and walked towards the center table to pour them both some tea.

"You are very dedicated to your responsibilities." the prince started, handing Greg his cup. "No living soul should have to face the storm outside."

"I wanted to come." he admitted, yet soon realizing how wrong that could have come out. "I-I am aware of the importance of the army's official telegrams."

Mycroft smirked at the knight's hasty correction as he zipped from his cup. And they just went on talking about the weather, discussing the books they'd lent to each other, and occasionally bad-mouthing the king and trying not to giggle like the couple of teenagers they were.

"And the king is travelling again, i presume." Greg mentioned. "Important business?"

Mycroft nodded as he went through one of the book shelves with his eyes, looking for a specific title.

"For the time he spends away and the current condition of the Kingdom, it'd better be." the prince replied, picking up a book and checking the title. "Ah yes, 'King Edward II'."

"Is it good?"

"Terrible. But i can't seem to find my tea plate." he confessed, walking towards his armchair with the book on his hands. But halfway there he tripped on a pile of books Sherlock'd left on the floor and grabbed onto both of Greg's armrests to stop himself from falling on him - something that ended up with Mycroft hovering over Greg, their faces closer than they'd ever been allowed to get. They both stared at each other for a moment, almost holding their breath, until Greg's impulse spoke louder and he craned his neck to kiss Mycroft's lips.

At first, astonished as he was, the prince didn't kiss him back, which made the knight pull back, look down and immediately start apologizing.

"I-I'm sorry; I didn't- I mean, I don't- I will perfectly understand if you ask me to-" he stammered.

"High Constable Lestrade;" Mycroft called so Greg would lift his head, allowing their eyes to meet again. "I'm going to have to ask you to shut up now."

And he leaned in, returning the kiss, taking the weight out of Greg's heart and the tension away from his shoulders. And left forgotten on the floor, with its silver title reflecting the light coming from the fireplace, "King Edward II" got lost in the middle of Sherlock's books, now scattered across the carpet; I guess both brothers were accidental matchmakers.