Chapter 6: Arson In Continuity
As a crime of intentionally and maliciously setting fire to
property with the intent to cause damage or enjoy said fact,
arson has been around for centuries and it involves someone
deliberately burning someone else's property, or even their
own to gain some other good in return.
A magic mirror is not exactly a fix-it for everything in life, specially since it has a limited range of uses; such is the reason why powerful magicians and fairies never bother with them when there are several other ways to channel their magic. They do not need to 'steal' it from any kind of source, they already have it inside of their bodies; it's a part of them. Any sort of person with a drop of magic in their blood was able to use a mirror, yet for people with lesser magic abilities it was one of the few objects they were able to control with varying degrees of success. For someone like Sherlock, gifted with such a high rate of enchantment in his blood —displayed by the bright, extreme, and not at all usual violet-colored hair— a mirror would pale in comparison with all the conjuring he could make on his own. However, Irene was barely gifted, and the only power she really possessed was the ability of using mildly-enchanted items, so it was logical for Sherlock when she seemed distressed at misplacing said artefact in the middle of a chemistry test.
"Shit!" She murmured, frantically searching through her purse for the discordant item. Losing her desire to be discreet in the silence of the classroom as the time went on and the height of her desperation rose. Sherlock chose to look at the scene two seats down from his; seeing as he had finished his test nearly ten minutes after they had been handed out.
"Looking for something, Miss Adler?" The teacher said, showing in his hand the very mirror The Woman was so furiously trying to locate. The rest of the class gasping in alarm. The boy rolled his eyes at such reaction. "Thank you, Anderson." The man, Mr. Hope, said placing a hand on said student's shoulder in obvious approval. Philip smiled smugly at them, clearly elated he had found a way to gain the upper hand over them, Sherlock matched Irene's glare. "It's gratifying to see some students still respect the code of honour." The professor stated.
Every other kid in the class looked on in disapproval, as if depicting their long lasting prophetic sentiment towards them.'You were cheering for us just yesterday, you bigoted idiots.' Sherlock thought bitterly, entirely fed up with the community of self-righteous royals. "I will be delivering my recommendation for your expulsion." He commented, attempting really hard to maintain an impartial expression, yet Sherlock could see past it. He was clearly satisfied with the situation. He never liked them from the start and this was playing out exactly to his wishes to see them gone, wishes he wasn't supposed to have as a teacher.
Irene looked locked in place, stuck between loathing directed at Anderson and outrage at their teacher. Her perfect manicure digging into her palms and her breathing ragged visibly. "Mr, Hope," She started. "I wasn't going to-" She argued, ready to make her case, yet the man didn't even let her finish.
"You were right, I never should've underestimated the kid of a villain." He said, placing his hands over his hips, while Anderson was still smirking on the background. "It was only a matter of time." The teacher muttered under his breath, not wanting the other students to hear it, but Sherlock had, and he didn't like it one bit. He could admit of being an absolute disgrace in several aspects, —he even preferred it that way— but this he wouldn't tolerate.
"No." Sherlock said from his seat, unfolding his legs from where they were resting on the desk and standing up. The expression on Mr. Hope was one of surprise and a hint of rage. 'Not very accustomed to being questioned, then.' Sherlock thought. Idiots in this school too stupid to do it, probably thought that is what smart looked like.
"Excuse me?" The man asked, his gaze turning an alarming form of threatening, yet Sherlock was not impressed, he had had Moriarty as his mentor and guardian for cycles, and no petty ordinary human will ever compare to how much of a snake Jim could be when enraged.
"I said: no." Sherlock started. "The exam is almost over and she clearly didn't have it with her, so she can't have been cheating, now could she?" The boy stated, his tone dripping condescendence; he crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow in defiance. Irene looked on bewildered, her friend had always been ruthless, but lately he did things like this with a new passion that she had never seen before. "Is this the height of intellect the school is used to when its teachers are concerned?" Sherlock asked, his vicious smile cutting through the air quickly.
"You can't talk to me like that, Holmes!" Hope said, raising his voice and balling his hands into fists. The colour on his face was quickly becoming flushed. "I should have you expelled too." He declared, to which Anderson let out a triumphant laugh, but Sherlock was not going to let them have what they wanted. He would remain in the kingdom and their lives as much as he wanted; be it for however long it took to get the wand, or even longer, just to spite them. He, as always, had multiple tricks up his sleeve that these morons would never even begin to see coming.
"Then you would have to explain to Prince John why you were so quick to draw this conclusion and placed blame on her for something she wasn't even doing just because of where we're from." He stated, standing completely and confidently still in the face of his threat. Ignoring everyone staring at the altercation with equal amounts of interest and apprehension, their tests forgotten on their desks. "I don't think that will look good for you." Sherlock said while cocking his head and bending the upper part of his body forward in a predatory motion. The boy could read on him that approval from his superiors —plus the possible compromise of his job an inquiry such as that could entail— would prove to be an effective attack strategy. "Do you?" He asked, his smirk extending over his face, as he stopped to stare at Philip too. He had them. No matter how much they may hate him, they would not risk a hearing with the next in line for the throne. In this situation they were as helpless as anyone in the Island had been for so many cycles, ever since The War stripped their right to actually choose for themselves away from them. Sherlock considered this an odd sense of justice.
The teacher held his ground for a few more seconds, but it was no use, the violet-haired boy had backed him into a metaphorical corner from which he wouldn't get out without any sort of consequence. "Fine," He sighed after what Sherlock could deduce was a quite difficult pondering, setting his shoulders down and evading eye contact. "If she can pass this test I'll return your property and let the matter drop." He ran his hand through his short, greasy hair and waved a hand at Irene in dismissal.
Irene turned to him with a grateful and pleased smile, sitting down smugly and set on reaping the benefits of what her companion had just done. Sherlock, for his part, let go of his dangerous posture, and adopted instead an inoffensive and relaxed stance. "Most smart, Mr. Hope." He commented, smiling innocently at both, the man and his idiot student, before taking his leave of the classroom and letting the bang of the door closing behind him echo through the hallway.
"I passed, so he had to give the mirror back." She said, walking through the gardens smugly and laughing at the memory of all their classmates' shocked faces. She hadn't had so much fun in a long time. Lestrade, who walked next to her, chuckled too, delighted at the situation. "That's brilliant." He commented.
"Turns out I'm not just attractive." The Woman commented, flipping her hair back and casually clutched the cup of blended coffee in celebration. "I actually like it," She admitted, watching as Greg struggled with his big bag of Tourney garments. "Brainy is the new sexy." She said as they were approaching their usual table at the picnic location.
When they arrived, Sherlock was already there. Looking anxious and completely on edge, ready to bite anyone's head off if provoked. "I can't believe you stopped for coffee!" He exclaimed in outrage, even before actually sighting the cup on her hand. He wondered why the two teens always had to be so very pedestrian when there was a crisis to be adverted. "You were supposed to be here half an hour ago!" He sulked, slouching down on the bench while the two arrivals sat across him, in a way that was only missing a storming, thundering cloud above his figure.
"Okay, who pissed on your cornflakes?" Greg uttered, seeming not at all fazed by the potentially disastrous news he could be about to give them; when he turned to Irene for support he found her sipping at her drink with the same indifference he was trying to prevent.
"Yes," The girl commented. "I thought you would be ecstatic after yesterday." She said, as Lestrade nodded his head in agreement, they really could be complete idiots when Sherlock needed them to be smart. The boy sighed and glared, crossing his arms in stubbornness. "You hadn't had such a good dressing down in a long while." She offered.
"John just asked me out on…" He started, but had some trouble getting the next words out, sounding so outlandish and ridiculous inside his head, let alone how they would seem out in the open. "…a date." He finally managed to choke out, a deep grimace on his face. Clamping his mouth closed after the information was out; as if he refused to speak ever again after that ordeal.
Lestrade bursted out laughing, almost falling off his seat in amusement. Sherlock's cutting glare could have killed him, except he still needed him for this plan. "Oh piss off, Lestrade!" He snarled, to which the other just laughed harder, gripping his sides and wiping away tears from his eyes. Wasn't it humiliation enough that he was going to do this?
"So you're going on a date with dishy Prince Watson?" Irene asked, eagerly engaging her body forward in interest. Raking her evaluating sight over his features. Sherlock struggled to just keep the frown on his face instead of the nauseous expression thinking about said date gave him. Not because for any disgust against John, but because the situation was escalating to a degree that he hadn't anticipated, and where the boy was becoming less and less able to ignore. Things were going to unravel, up to the point where ending in complete devastation would be the only option one way or the other. The fact that he didn't have the first clue of how to behave on a date was of no assistance whatsoever. Dates just didn't happened back in The Isle.
"Yes," He said. Pursing his lips at the notion. "It's not like I can keep saying no until the coronation." He justified, yet his crossed arms and closed off posture did nothing to hide how out of his element he was feeling. Thankfully, neither Lestrade nor Irene commented on the fact; he felt he wouldn't have been able to handle their questions on the reason why he suddenly felt so hesitant about the plan he, himself, had devised.
"Oh, you fool." The Woman said, standing up from her seat and clearly already thinking on strategies to suit him for the event. At the smirk on her face, Sherlock asked himself if it had truly been such a great idea to ask someone so invested in matters of romantic and sexual entanglement such as her to help him with this. Well, there was no backing down now, and he supposed he needed all the help he could get, however overbearing it could be. Customs on the island were already different enough as it was, not to mention that 'matters of the heart' never went past casual lust or business. "Don't worry, we can handle this." She assured him, already dragging him away to his room to chose his outfit. "We'll need your best shirt and tightest trousers." She stated.
"Oy!" Sherlock exclaimed, squirming inside his clothes, placing a hand over his hips. "What have you done with these?" He asked Irene, who was busy buttoning up his aubergine shirt. "I can barely sit." He commented, as she directed him to his bed so she could arrange the violet curls atop of his head.
"It's called 'fitting'." She responded, smiling as the other let out a yelp and glared at her for her rough combing.
"Yes, I know that," He answered acerbically, batting away her hands to stubbornly style the ringlets on his own. "But I need to seem attractive, not scare him away." Sherlock explained, a big knot forming inside his stomach, and if his shirt weren't already too tight to breathe he figured he would have difficulty doing that too. "Not that I actually could." He sighed, he was under no delusions why John had suddenly thought a date with him was a good idea. Whether he looked attractive or not had no real impact on how this will play out. Love spells were told to be quite strong, yet Sherlock felt confused at why securing his seat at the coronation didn't feel as satisfying as he had anticipated at first.
"Shut up! Your arse looks great on these." The Woman said, dragging him out from his absorption. "It must run in the family." She commented, referring to his mother, who was famed for having strange, mesmerising beauty. Irene and her mother put a lot of value on such things, but Sherlock… Sherlock just wanted to be left alone.
"I don't have a family." He muttered, because it was true, and his time out of the island was making him even more aware of the fact. His schemes and deeds were everything for him, because without them, there was nothing else for him into which he could fall.
"Well, now you do." The girl in front of him surprised him, leaving him blinking in confusion. She smiled and shrugged. "We're going to need all the family we can get if we don't pull this off." She explained, referring to the hell that was awaiting for them at home if they failed. "My mother's not a barrel of laughs when she doesn't get her way." The violet-haired boy chuckled, understanding the emotion completely. "Just ask the girl she poisoned with an apple." Joked The Woman, which was very true, yet Sherlock doubted her mother would go that far with Irene, but that didn't seem to soften the scared shadow passing over her features.
"You're afraid of her." The boy stated, the tells all over her figure. His silver gaze collecting clues from her as they did for any other person along the day. What he found there was not exactly just 'fear' but he refrained from voicing it.
"Sometimes." She said, smiling bitterly at him, applying a bit of product so his curls stayed exactly where she wanted them. They had always been as difficult to control as the head to where they were attached, yet the girl made a defiant attempt. "Aren't you afraid of Moriarty?" She queried right back, yet the haunted expression on his face was more telling than any answer he could phrase, yet he still had to reply.
"It's different with him," He said, rolling his sleeves up to rest over his elbows. Trying so hard not to look his friend in the eye as he explained. "He has never given me any delusions of affection," He started, "But I still hate to disappoint him, he gets so angry and it makes me feel so…" The boy paused, looking for the right words to describe what it felt like to have the one person that had taught him everything he knew looking at him as if he were…"Ordinary."
Irene opened her big olive green eyes at him, stopping fussing with his hair and half-smiling in sympathy. "Well, moving on." She said shaking her head, as if ridding herself from the negative subjects. "Come look at my master piece." She stood up and motioned him for the mirror, then proceeded to cross her arms and cocked a hip in smugness.
"Oh," He muttered when he looked at his reflection on the mirror. He was far from shabby in his daily life, but what Irene had managed to do drew him to a stop. The choice of clothing was quite similar than his usual attire —sans the coat— but she somehow managed to make it look like he made an effort to look attractive.
"Yes, oh!" She agreed, touching up her lips now that they were looking at a mirror. "I'm starting to feel like we didn't need the love spell at all." She commented casually, yet the tone in which she said it was loaded with meaning. Sherlock disagreed with half of that statement, but found he was becoming quite aware of the brutal veracity of it.
"I-" He started, but was unable to finish since there was a series of knocking on the door of their room. He looked at Irene in panic, and she motioned to the entrance with her head. She was right, it wasn't like he could keep John waiting out there forever. He sighed and threw open the door.
Big, bright blue eyes came to rest on his. Crinkling at the corners from the smile on his face. Such motion was followed by an actual appraisal of his figure which made the prince come to a stop. Slightly opening his mouth in surprise as if he were floored by his appearance. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably, trying to channel that confidence he always had, but finding it hard when John was just standing there, at his door, with his pristine dark blue shirt and smart trousers, his hair stylishly messy, and looking at him as if he had been handmade. He painted a false grin on his face and waited for John to figure out how rude it was to stare so long at someone. Once he did, he laughed and extended a helmet to Sherlock, saying 'I hope you like bikes.'. He waited for him to follow in his path out of the room. The violet-haired boy took the steps after him, but not before taking a deep calming breath.
'Into battle.' He thought.
They drove for a while, passing by rows of trees until they were very far into the Enchanted Forest. Sherlock was not exactly fond of invasion of his personal space, yet he found the thrill of riding a motorcycle completely made up for any awkwardness he might have felt at being draped around John's back.
As soon as they arrived to their destination —which to Sherlock looked exactly like any other of the hundreds of trees they had encountered the last half-hour— they walked into the thick of the forest. Crossing a wooden, yet sturdy-looking bridge over a stream, as the colour of green on the leaves grew more intense the closer to the middle they got.
"Tell me something about yourself you've never told anyone." John had asked, while he followed him on the long passing. Smiling brightly and looking at him with interest in his eyes.
Sherlock pondered if he could reveal anything that would not let the prince know exactly how rotten he was. Finding nothing he wished to share, he opted instead for saying, "Now, where would be the mystery in that?" He turned around to smirk playfully at him, hoping the blonde would drop the issue.
"Oh, come on!" The other complained, laughing and chasing after Sherlock as he picked up the pace. "You know what? I'll start," He decided, keeping his stance open and trusting. "My middle name is Hamish." He admitted. Sherlock let out a chuckle, and stopped to stare at him.
"Hamish?" He questioned, a mischievous expression crossing his face. "How princely." The violet-haired boy snorted and found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in the evening. They turned to watch the landscape side by side, resting their elbows on the railing.
"Oy!" John replied, faking an outraged reaction; making the both of them laugh harder. When the mirth died down, Sherlock figured it was only fair to give John Hamish Watson something too. It's not like it would make any difference if he were to also reveal an insignificant detail.
With a sigh he muttered. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He said to the vast space of the forest. John frowned in confusion; not quite understanding what he was being given —he could be really slow sometimes— so, the rebel decided to elaborate. "My name. That's the whole of it."
"Wow," He retorted, raising both his eyebrows at the younger boy. "Big posh name." John commented, and Sherlock shrugged fixing his silver gaze into the other's.
"Just my mum doing what she did best." He commented. "Being really, really evil." The joke was not even that funny, yet John let out a roaring laugh as if he were something special. The violet-haired found not even that was able to draw the smile off his face completely, if anything the ridiculousness of the situation just managed to heighten his mood.
"Christ," John exclaimed in a very royal way. "That's almost worse." It was the violet-haired boy's time to feign offence.
"It's better than Hamish!" He responded quickly, scrunching up his nose. They continued on in the same manner for several minutes, until John declared he had to wrap a blindfold over his eyes to avoid him ruining the surprise he had prepared. Sherlock rolled his eyes but accepted after a few not very gentle attempts at convincing him.
They walked around in circles for a bit, Sherlock knew it was the prince's way to make him unable to figure out their location before they were there. "John, you know I can deduce where we're going." He reminded his date. He could practically hear the frown of determination that would be painting John's expression.
"No, you can't." The blonde said, guiding him down some logs. "You've never been here before." He explained, letting his voice take on a hint of smugness at having seemingly beat the rebel on the matter. Sherlock, of course, didn't agree.
"Stop giving me clues!" He insisted. Crossing his arms petulantly, refusing to move one inch further if John didn't take the offending object off. He could hear the prince laughing amusedly behind him and also feel him almost manhandling him to the location he desired. He let himself be led to avoid falling on his face, of course, it had nothing to do with giving in to John's wishes.
After a few more minutes of blind-walking, the prince finally stopped and reached his hands to the back of Sherlock's head to tug off the cloth covering his eyes. "Okay, go on." He said.
Sherlock blinked his eyes open, letting the light in inside his head again. What he saw in front of him was a sight to behold. A clearing in the forest, next to a big lake with crystalline water and surrounding wildlife; an ancient construction of columns in ruins with ivy growing around their width; and at the centre, a picnic basket over a blue blanket waiting for them. The curly-haired boy restrained the urge to bolt, to just get away as far as his feet would take him, his need to avoid the destruction he could feel happening inside him was overwhelming; but once he turned around to see the expectant face of the boy who had planned all this and made sure to come earlier to set it up, well, he found himself rooted to the spot.
Together they made their way over and sat down, point at which John had already started talking about some ridiculous thing that Sherlock only paid half a mind to. He chose instead just to watch as the blue-eyed waved his arms in explanation and laughed at his own story. Sherlock would deny until the last seconds of his life that the sight brought an ironic smile to his lips.
They got to talking about their various interests, and slowly the pastries and fruit John had brought for them got consumed. The blonde looked at him with sparkling eyes that caused a tinge of pain to go through the other's chest. Sherlock was completely aware that he had basically scammed John into this, not only the conversation but the date, the whole relationship, everything. He failed to understand why this particular bad —quite mild, actually—deed made him so anxious, and even somewhat guilty. Ashamed, for the first time in all his life. However, John didn't seem to notice his hesitancy, and continued to watch him eat the dessert and lick his fingers with silent regard.
"Is this your first time?" He asked Sherlock, and the other boy choked on his jelly doughnut, coming very close to death by circled bread. Alarmingly opening his eyes as his coughs subsided. John watched him with confusion at first, but couldn't help but laugh in embarrassment once he understood exactly how that sounded.
"No, no, no. Not that." Came the quick amendment, while Sherlock was still trying to recover from the halt to which his mind had come at what had been asked from him. "I meant: is this your first time eating a doughnut?" He explained in a very soft and apologetic manner, yet the grin on his face betrayed how amused he really was at his reaction.
At the clarification, Sherlock finally started breathing again. He had no qualms with sexuality, but he never thought he had to prepare for John asking personal questions like that on top of everything else that was already wrong with this date. He thought then about the actual inquiry he had been presented.
"Is it bad?" He asked, deducing there must be quite a lot of mess on his face from the sugary heaven for the prince to notice he hadn't quite mastered the art of eating confectionary yet. The Island lacked of anything sweet or tasty; just half-stale bread and tasteless, insipid vegetables.
John laughed as the violet-haired tried to lick clean the skin surrounding his mouth. "You just got a-" The blonde said as he reached his hand towards the other's face, only for the other to flinch back and avoid any sort of contact. John retreated his arm, yet he didn't seem confused or angry, just accepting, and Sherlock thought it would have been less frustrating if he had yelled at him. "Do this." John demonstrated, licking and smacking his lips, then smiling.
Sherlock sighed, but the other's natural reaction left him feeling like a moron for thinking it a big deal. He decided to smirk back at him, saying "You can't take me anywhere, I guess." And waiting for the other to match his laughing.
"Well," John started, placing his own dessert back into the basket. "You've talked so much about that murder —don't think I'll ever be able to erase those images from my brain." He quipped, shaking his head but still chuckling fondly at him. "But tell me more about you," He emphasised, leaning back to rest casually on the blanket. "Who are you."
'Well, I'm a lying bastard that cheated you into loving him just so he could steal a wand and destroy the world and everything you genuinely care about.' Sherlock thought, but figured it would be too much to say, even if John was almost forced into devotion for him. So he settled for: "I'm partial to reading."
"Me too!" The other exclaimed excitedly, "We have so much in common already." He said, causing a big smile to break into the boy's expression. The blonde popping a grape into his mouth and grinning innocently at the other.
"Trust me." Sherlock ignored the irony of his statement in favour of enjoying the comfortable atmosphere between them. "We do not." He confessed, yet his eyes weren't portraying mischief or irritability, they were bright, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. John squinted his gaze in regard, but chose to stay silent, as if he were pondering something else. "And soon you will be king," Sherlock added.
"A crown doesn't make you a king." The blue-eyed was quick to disagree. Running a hand through his hair to mess up some strands. Giving him an air of nonchalance that Sherlock just found pleasing. After living between snobby royals for weeks long, the break was much appreciated.
"It sort of does." He countered, moving his head in a cocky expression. John pursed his lips, yet looked at him as if he were a challenge to be faced.
"Okay, smartarse." He admitted, and threw a few grapes at Sherlock in demonstration of his real feelings at the moment. His face turned serious then, as if to speak some ancient gospel that the violet-haired boy had ignored for his entire life, and said: "But I mean, your mother was the mistress of evil."
"Correct." Sherlock answered. Watching him in expectation to continue, not really knowing where he was going with that, and there was nothing in the world Sherlock hated more than not knowing —not even stupid Anderson.
"And I've got the poster parents for goodness." John continued, his arms lifting him up into a sitting position to convey his message more clearly. The other boy failed to comprehend the strange correlation.
"Also correct." Sherlock answered, nodding his head in agreement. Goading him to just get to the point already!
"But we're not them." The prince explained, conveying much deeper meaning than the obvious, common phrase that was usual.
"You're on fire today, John." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the blonde, waving his arms in expectation. The prince scowled and glared at him in a manner decidedly similar to how the rebel did it, yet it lacked the fire behind the crystal blue irises.
"What I mean is we get to choose who we're going to be." The prince concluded, watching him with an intense stare. As if this matter had been weighing on him for far too long. Sherlock was taken aback by the blonde's lack of confidence in his own ability to rule. He had thought that the hesitancy was just normal, pedestrian nerves; but he had never anticipated the prince being actually worried that he was going to fail at the task. The thought seemed so unfathomable to the curly-haired man. Except, of course, by the fact that the biggest reason that John's reign was inevitably going to crash and burn was sitting in front of him, laughing with him and eating his food.
"I suppose." Sherlock said, for lack of anything else to respond. What could he say at such a statement? He had concrete proof against John's ideal. He was sure that John would rule with justice and kindness exactly like his parents, and he was going to ruin everything just like his mother used to do, just before the royals decapitated her for her sins with a dragon sword in front of her two young sons.
"Let's go for a swim." John proposed, swiftly dragging Sherlock away from his thoughts, and back into the present. Once the rebel realised what was happening John was already unbuttoning his own shirt.
"What? Right now?" He muttered dumbly, his eyes open wide. "I think I'm just going to stay here." He said, leaning back as if to demonstrate how much better the land was.
"No, no, no." John said, trying to haul him up by his arms, but Sherlock just stubbornly refused to go. "Come on!" He exclaimed, laughing but still very much insisting that Sherlock did as he wanted, and if that wasn't role-reversal Sherlock failed to recognise what was.
"Maybe I'll try a strawberry," The younger boy said, making a show of grabbing a piece of said fruit and brining it to his mouth. "I've literally never tried a strawberry." He commented, making a false noise of delectable taste. However, once the sweet red juice of the fruit actually touched his tongue, the sounds became real. He had never tried something so sweet but deliciously tangy before.
John, realising the boy's new found love, smiled. Staying for a few seconds to watch the other pop another strawberry into his mouth. He figured it would be better to leave Sherlock and his food alone. The rebel watched him, still munching contentedly on the fruit. The blonde paused when he had stripped down to his shorts, the aquatic activities clearly planned beforehand. "Don't eat all of them." John turned around to run towards a hill from which a waterfall of clear water came down, and stood right at the edge of it, making sure his date was watching so he could impress him.
"Are those little crowns on your shorts?" Sherlock asked from the blanket. Making reference to the crowned pattern of the other's blue suit.
The prince looked down to said item, but just shrugged and smiled. "Maybe." He said, with a hint of sheepishness but not a drop of embarrassment. Sherlock, laughing amusedly, was not sure how was it possible for a person like John Watson to exist. The blonde took a moment to watch him, then he turned to the lake down below and made a loud and fierce roaring sound, like a beast; a prelude followed by a fearless drop from what Sherlock estimated was around seven meters.
Once on the lake, John kept on swimming, but Sherlock was left standing there, dumbstruck in his confusion. He could feel his insides shaking in frustration, the thoughts in his head whirling about out of control. He didn't know what was happening. He had been so sure, so certain of who he was; but this was something else entirely. Never, not even once in his whole life something had made him feel as if maybe he was not just what everyone was expecting from the son of Violet Holmes. Could that be wrong?
How was he to go on if he started questioning everything he ever stood for? He didn't need this stupid, non-sensical doubt at the moment. They were already so close to achieving everything. He had rarely ever been offered a chance such as this, where everything he had ever worked for was within his reach. Yet now, he felt as if he would have to trade in something he had found for himself in the process, something he didn't even know he had been missing. He had lived his days within a strict line, decidedly never straying from it, yet now there was an unprecedented factor that he never saw coming.
What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't really just back out of their plan; he didn't even know if he wanted to back out. Doing evil had been everything for him since he could remember, and it wasn't as if suddenly he wished to change his ways and become every bit as dull as every other person, of course not. He just wanted a way to know how to kill this strange pit inside his stomach that threatened to eat him alive. He tugged at his curls in anger, raging at the stupid notion.
He couldn't stop. No matter how much he wanted to, the effects had been set in motion and he was powerless to stop them. Falling deeper and deeper into an unknown, scary territory of which he failed to determine whether he actually wanted to get out in the first place. Every plan of attack he could be thinking would be useless, no one could help him, nobody would be able to tell him why he suddenly felt as if every decision he had taken had been lived by a different person. Someone that he had never been. The blood pumping quickly through his veins felt like liquid fire under his skin, he wondered how could he be such an idiot as to allow this to happen?
Perhaps coming to Auradon was a big mistake. The Island was familiar, and no matter how much he loathed routine and ordinariness, the boy felt anything was better now than the alternative. Sherlock: cocky, smart-arse, Sherlock. Who was never wrong, who was ruthless and coldly logical to a fault, who was now frozen next to a sparkling lake wondering if maybe, just this once, he should give in.
The rebel let out a sound of irritation. He couldn't let this distract him from his objective. Still, he wondered if it would really be that bad. He was an arsehole, a villain. That is just the way he was, but was it possible for a criminal to want something such as this that badly? Well, it clearly was because he was feeling it, like the moron he had become. He had walked himself into a corner and let himself be defeated by someone as unassuming as John fucking Watson.
Sure, the prince loved him now. Now, that he had no choice but to do so. But would it linger on? Once the farce was gone, and the magic had died? Sherlock thought not. He had no right nor high hopes of it and it would be foolish to discard himself, and his ambitions, for something so impossible; He was done with behaving as a stumbling idiot over this.
He threaded his fingers through his violet curls in frustration once more, the ones his mother had given him, the proof that he was built for that future. However, the call of destiny, usually so loud and strong, had been left silent, and he, floating around in space with no line or guidance as to what he was supposed to do. Of what he wanted to do.
But there would be no way of knowing. The feeling inside his chest so unfathomable it would kill him if unwatched. He was fighting a battle within himself that he refused to believe was already lost, yet he knew which side had to win. It always had, and he suspected it always would. That was just who he was, and there was no use of dwelling on 'if only's.
Turning around, hoping for a distraction from his inner turmoil, he looked for John. His silver gaze raked the space of the lake, but he couldn't see the prince anywhere, not in nor out of the water. "John?" He called, quickly moving about and trying to spot him, but nothing was coming up. A strange fear gripped him, making him desperate to spot a blonde head over the surface. "John!" He tried again, only to receive no answer. He hesitated for just a moment, but then found himself jumping off the edge and falling into the lake with a big splash.
Once in the water, Sherlock realised what a huge mistake he had made since there were certain skills than he had never mastered, namely swimming. He kicked his legs and swung his arms but found that was not enough to keep him afloat for much longer, he was swiftly beginning to sink and he barely had time to watch John sight him from across the lake and make his way towards him. Strong arms came to grip him under his arms and hauled him towards the surface. The sudden rush of air making his lungs burn with boring —but necessary— oxygen as the violet-haired boy coughed all the way to land.
"Ugh, you idiot!" The rebel exclaimed, still trying to keep the water off his respiratory system and glaring at John when he realised it had probably been intended as a jest. He punched the prince's arm for good measure.
"What?" The other asked with a mixture of concern and confusion, "You can't swim?" He looked at him as if trying to make sure he would be fine. Of course he will be alright, he just had to avoid water as he had done pretty much all his life. How could someone ever be at ease around ridiculous heights or suspiciously still waters? The boy failed to know.
"Obviously." He spat petulantly. Rolling his eyes and doing his best to squish the water out from his hair, leaving a mess of drops on the rock below him. Shivering from the freezing breeze hitting his damp skin.
"You live on a island!" John insisted, clearly anguished and trying to asses how much he had messed up with that crazy idea. Helping Sherlock safely off the rock and into the soft blanket.
"Yes," The other muttered in condescendence. "With a barrier around it, remember?" Came the obvious snarl, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He knew it wasn't entirely fair to blame all this on John, but he had been on edge for days now, and even if he wouldn't admit it, he had been afraid that the prince had drowned.
"And you still tried to save me," John commented, awe painting his handsome face. Ignoring his own coldness, and quickly placing his shirt over the shoulders of the curly-haired boy. Running his hands over the cloth in an effort to transmit a bit of warmth into his shivering form.
"Yes, and do you thank me? No." He retorted, crossing his arms in a deep sulk and frowning in annoyance. "All I get is fucking wet!" Sherlock turned his gaze to look at the other boy, and found that a small fond smile was on the prince's face.
"Thank you," John said, regarding him in a very strange manner that Sherlock failed to deduce. As if he were seeing him clearly for the first time. Something was different, yet the rebel didn't know exactly what had changed. He hated how his brain had essentially gone for a vacation, and left him with all this uncertainty. "You're my hero." He said, and leaned down to press a short and chaste kiss on Sherlock's cheek. The violet-haired boy didn't lean into it, but he also didn't flinch away; Sherlock was choosing to ignore that too.
"Heroes don't exist." He stated, finding comfort in something he found familiar. "And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." The face the other made at this statement could have been framed, gaping like a fish as he shook his head incredulous.
"What?" He asked, "You don't think people can be heroes?" John was left dumbstruck.
"No," Sherlock responded, having already had too many meetings with both, villains and supposed heroes to be able to tell that there was not much of a difference when it came to motivations. "Heroism implies sincere sacrifice, and any sacrifice always ends up being selfish at some level."
"That doesn't make it any less true," The passion behind the blonde's gaze was mesmerising to watch. Frowning and clearly refusing to let himself believe for one second someone in this world could think heroism was impossible. "Not everyone is what they seem, the intentions behind their actions count," He continued, playing with the string on his shorts, now seemingly at ease with his exposed body in the chilly wind. "Like the good for other people, the outrage at someone being mistreated," He paused to look him in the eyes, conveying every word like a prayer. Hoping Sherlock would believe him. "Love." He finished, his expression adoring and understanding, which Sherlock didn't understand, the spell appeared to have increased over the date, the exact opposite to what the boy had anticipated. "It doesn't matter whether you can see it or not." John added, reaching over and taking a strand of wet purple hair into his fingers. Staring fascinated at the bright colour. "And right now I look into your eyes and I do see it. I can see that you're not evil." He said with a conviction Sherlock hoped he could mirror. Help him lift off the weight. Yet, the only thing it did was remind the rebel of how condemned he was. There was no way to win, he knew that now; no matter his choice, he will end up losing.
"Sherlock, I know this is quick but I already told you what I feel," He continued, his expressive blue gaze softening at finding his own even after the sulk, and the argument, and Sherlock just being his weird and troublesome self. "Do you feel the same way for me?"
The truth was trapped inside the rebel's throat, and he felt grateful. He refused to say it, because to put anything real into words would be to forsake everything else he had built. "Let's go back to the school, I hate being wet." He said instead. Quickly standing up and completely missing the disappointed look on the prince's eyes.
The sun was already down when John arrived at the council chamber. He had neglected his duties to go on the date and now he was decided to pour through the day's paper work and catch up.
He walked in the semi-darkness of the room, the only light streaming in from the tall windows of the east wing of the castle. The grand table at the centre keeping him from making his visit short-lived. When he arrived to the end of the room he flicked the light on to be able to recognise which papers he had to bring back into his room for a late night read, only to jump back once he saw a previously unnoticed figure hunched over some files.
"Mike!" John exclaimed. "What are you still doing here?" He asked his friend, even though his activities were quite obvious. He knew Mike often over-worked himself into a state in matters of the kingdom, but it was a weekend, and John had made it his personal mission to not let the other burden himself with tasks that someone else had to supervise.
The other lifted his head from the folder and looked at his sovereign. "Your Majesty." He greeted. "The date was a success then," He said, a subtle grin crossing his usual stoic face. John rolled his eyes at the title, he had ordered Mike not to call him that since they met, yet the other never seemed to listen.
"Yes, it was wonderful," He answered, completely aware of the wistful grin on his own face, and completely not giving a fuck about it. He was happy, and he would be damned if he hid that from someone he had always considered his brother. A much closer relationship than what he had with Harry, even if at the end of the day, she will always be his sister.
"Good," Mike muttered, turning his head back to bury his nose into the files again; but in no way ignoring or dismissing the prince. He could multitask like no one John had ever met before.
The blonde sighed and dropped himself down on the chair next to the advisor. "You have to meet him, Mike." He said with a hopeful and elated voice, yet there was a hint of uncertainty there too. He would deal what that later. "You'll like him, he's wonderful." John commented, to which the other just arched an eyebrow. Mike was a very private man, and everybody knew that making friends with him was something rare but valuable, so it was seen as a great feat to proclaim he would take a liking to anyone.
"I believe that, Your Majesty." The older man said, as he rummaged the desk for the pen he was using earlier. John stared at him in incredulity, he was the first to not dismiss a kid from the Island the first chance he got. "You are a good judge of character." The other stated after experiencing the silence while the blue-eyed recovered his thought process. "You wouldn't be that taken with someone who wasn't worth your time." He stated, and Mike will never know how that comment helped ease John's mind so well. Any apprehension he could have was gone before it came, his friend was right, and he had to trust his instincts on this.
"Is everything ready for family day?" John asked, for lack of anything else to say this late at night. Reaching for some papers in the big pile next to Mike's desk and skimming through them in contemplation.
"The preparations are well taken care of," He answered efficiently. "You don't have to worry." Mike said, running a hand through his thick hair and adjusting his shirt sleeves around his forearms.
"Christ, you do everything around here." John exclaimed, pressing his hands to his tired eyes. "Maybe you should be the King and I could find another profession, I heard botanists are well respected." He joked, drawing a smile from his friend's face.
Mike shook his head, "That is not how it works." He said, with an expression which conveyed that John must be very aware of that by now. "And I don't think your parents would be thrilled." He commented.
The prince was certain that was true, yet sometimes he wished he could do it, just leave this behind and become someone common, ordinary. Yet when he thought about all the change he could make when in reign, well, the tasks didn't seem so daunting. He was making a difference, for the kingdom, the kids from the Isle; for himself. And he wouldn't let anyone take that away from him.
After a few hours of catching up with the week's obligations, Mike and John retired to their designated chambers, but just after parting, the advisor turned to the prince and said one last time. "John," The blonde turned around to look at his friend. "I look forward to meeting him." He said, a calm and thoughtful expression on his face.
"Thank you." The prince responded, as he turned around and exited the chambers.
The sky on The Isle of the Lost was awake, rain pouring down from the sky in a violent and relentless manner that made every villain and miscreant take refuge in their houses. Moriarty wandered the halls of his castle. Completely silent now that young Sherlock was in Auradon doing his best —which was clearly not much— to retrieve the wand. Well, maybe slow and steady would be better than rushing into it, yet he was impatient to get his hands on it and finally seize the power that he always deserved.
He went to his wardrobe, the one he had gone to great lengths to keep Sherlock from seeing. He wasn't ready yet, and perhaps he never would be. He opened the doors and scanned the contents inside. There was quite a lot of items belonging to Violet Holmes; enchanted artefacts which no longer served any purpose with a dome preventing magic from entering the island, and also a few tokens she had collected when she was younger, right before she started caving in to her weakness and spawning children from different partners as if she had been just another commoner whore.
James had been still quite young when he met her, and he had admired her from the start, she had been the epitome of evil impersonated; however, immortal decades made her soft and his interests surpassed hers quite quickly. The only thing about her that remained superior from him had been her natural affinity with the dark magics, while Moriarty didn't even posses any magical ability whatsoever. But that had been managed in the end.
James thought back on when they were able to torment to their hearts content as he pushed aside some old clothing and searched for the particular item he desired. Now it had been thirteen cycles since the royals had usurped that which was his by decree of destiny.
He had placed his best opportunity on Sherlock now, and the scrawny teen better not fail him. He pondered, smiling when his hand made contact with a cold and hard thing at the back of the wardrobe. He would find it oh-so-inconvenient were he in need of disposing of him, although that too could be arranged. He may not have to do anything at all. The royals would not be very quick to forgive any threat to their precious kingdom were Sherlock to fail with a bit of decapitation. "It isn't as if that hasn't happen before." He thought, as he watched his reflexion glinting on the surface of the dragon sword between his hands.
