A/N: This is a crossover-fic between Sherlock (BBC version) and Anne Bishop's The Black Jewels series. For character information, see chapter one of this story. I will make another post(chapter on ff(.)net) where I will explain the way the Black Jewels universe works in order for you to understand this better, but for until then, check out the Black Jewels Wiki
Breathe – Sherlock/Black Jewels
John Watson stood in front of the blackwood desk in the High Lord's study in the SaDiablo Hall in Hell. A half-breed of the Dhemlan and Glacian race, he looked to be at the end of his prime, around 1600 years.
The reason for him being there was not because he was demon-dead, as one usually was when seeking audience with the High Lord of Hell.
No, John Watson was very much alive, thank you very much, and he was there because he was looking for his friend, Sherlock Holmes.
***
Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes had taken his own life in order to escape the clutches of Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll.
She'd set her best man on the task to "collect" Sherlock, a ruthless, psychotic man named Jim Moriarty. Jim was a Red-Jeweled Warlord and assassin, though he didn't do the actual killing; he was the man behind the scenes.
Jim had been given orders to kill John, their landlady Mrs. Hudson – a Purple Dusk Hearthwitch - and Greg Lestrade, an Opal Warlord who at that point worked as a guard in a landen village in Chaillot had Sherlock not agreed to come with him to Dorothea.
Jim had some very powerful Jewels behind him, some were his, others a gift from Dorothea, all of them his to control. His favorite among them was Sebastian Moran, a Green-Jeweled Warlord who was undoubtedly faithful to Lord Moriarty. Moriarty's Red put him just below Dorothea herself, because her Red was just a little deeper than Moriarty's.
But even if Sherlock had taken his own life, wouldn't that mean he'd be demon-dead? Or had he, if he'd made the transition, gone to the High Lord and asked him to become just a whisper in the Darkness, so John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would still be safe?
Sherlock hadn't burned through his Sapphire, John was sure of that; even though Sherlock wore a darker Jewel, John was sure he'd been able to feel it; he knew enough about Sherlock to be able to feel it after all. At least he thought he did. Which meant he should have made the transition, right? But he hadn't moved from the ground after he'd fallen off the building. He would have told John if he hadn't died right then and there, wouldn't he?
For the long-lived races, even for the half-breeds as Sherlock and himself, three years were nothing compared to their full lifespans. But for John, it was agonizing.
They'd shared a flat for two years, and John had learned quite a lot about the detective's odd habits and righteousness, though he knew next to nothing about his past. Sherlock on the other hand knew everything about John; it was his gift after all.
John was a half-breed; Glacian father and Dhemlan mother. He grew up with his sister Harriet in Dena Nehele after their parents passed and served as a guard in the court of Lady Lia, the granddaughter of The Gray Lady.
Dena Nehele was the last territory that was completely opposing the High Priestess, and it was a peaceful place where people were given a new chance.
But Dorothea would not give up on the territory and went to war. She wanted to rule the whole realm, even though she wasn't a Queen. Dena Nehele lost, and almost everyone who fought and opposed died.
John was lucky; he survived, but barely so, because had he not twisted at the last moment, the craft-enchanted piece of rock would have embedded itself in his heart, instead of his left shoulder.
Knowing all was lost; he retreated, managed to catch the Tiger Eye wind and rode as far away from the battlefield as he could before dropping from it. From there, he went to a cabin he knew lay not far from where he'd dropped off; a place where he could rest and gather his strength before using craft to extract the small rock from his shoulder.
When he woke the next morning, he'd felt disoriented; at first not knowing where he was or why his shoulder hurt. Then it all came back to him in a rush; his Queen was dead. An emptiness he'd never known before had settled in him. In fact, he felt so empty he didn't even notice the pain in his shoulder before he tried to get out of the cot.
Wincing, he slowly got up and prepared some food and water as well as a bottle of wine for afterwards.
After he'd cleaned up after himself, he sat down again and called in a case in which he kept his healing equipment and what he needed in order to make a healing web.
After he'd made the web, he began concentrating on passing the stone through his shoulder.
Luckily, it wasn't big, and as soon as he'd done it, he activated the Healing web and succumbed to a healing sleep.
After he'd rested enough and figured he would be able to leave without having to fight his way out, John had found a Priestess who was willing to open a gate to Kaeleer. He planned to go to Glacia and hopefully settle down there, with his own kin.
He stayed there, for a little while, but didn't feel at home. So he left for Amdarh, the capital of Dhemlan Kaeleer, which is where he met Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.
A weird thing had happened to John after the war; he hadn't felt any pain in his shoulder, instead, the pain had transferred to his right leg, providing him with a limp and making him use a cane wherever he went.
Sherlock had called it a psychosomatic limp.
John had stopped using his cane after their first day together.
The pain was gone for two blissful years.
But then Sherlock died and the pain in his leg returned; his limp returned, but he chose to go without his cane. After all, he didn't really need it.
Three years of pain in exchange for two wonderful years with Sherlock, and John thought it fitting.
It was too good to last after all.
***
John had by now begun regretting seeking audience, and he hadn't even met the High Lord. Too nervous and fidgety to be able to sit down, he had paced the room which was shaped like a reverse L.
He began to contemplate leaving and giving his apologies to the Red-Jeweled butler, whom he knew was in the hall for the inconvenience when he felt a dark power approaching, followed by the sound of a door opening.
He turned around and found himself looking at the High Lord of Hell; Prince Saetan Daemon SaDiablo; the man many thought to be a myth. But John knew better; he both felt and saw exactly how real he was.
John bowed in the way his father had taught him, the way Protocol said was the correct way when dealing with a Warlord Prince of a darker rank.
He saw he looked weak, the way he was leaning heavily on his cane, just as John himself had done five years prior. But he knew not to mistake him, not to mistake the power the man wielded; the Black Jewel that hung in a chain around his neck and the ring with a Red Jewel on his finger proved what kind of power this man housed.
And when John saw his long, black-tinted nails, he felt a chill go down his spine. Hell's fire, not only was he a Black Jeweled Warlord Prince; he was also a Black Widow.
And then John recognized something about him; he had once seen someone who looked like him, only younger.
Was this man the father of Daemon Sadi; the unnaturally beautiful man known as The Sadist?
John chose not to speak of it; it was not his business and it was not the reason for him being here.
"Welcome Lord Watson," the High Lord began in that voice which sounded so like Daemon's that John's mind went blank for an instant. "Please, take a seat," he continued, gesturing towards a pair of chairs in front of his desk, before seating himself in the chair behind the blackwood desk.
"I wonder, why have you asked for an audience? No one that is still living are willing to come to me unless there is something absolutely important, and then they are normally demon-dead. So why is it you are here before me?"
"Before I state my business, High Lord, I must thank you for accepting my request." The High Lord inclined his head.
"I am here to ask for a friend of mine who's been gone for three years."
And so John launched into the tale of their adventures together, telling him of how they had opposed Dorothea; of Sherlock's unique gift and how they'd used it to help the kind people of Terreille, those who had lost their loved ones and managed to give them a sort of peace by finding out and letting them know that their kin and friends had not done anything they had to be ashamed of.
They knew there was no stopping the High Priestess when she ordered and execution, but they tried their best to help as many as possible to escape her clutches.
But Sherlock and John solved every case they could, even though they lived in another realm, with the help from Sherlock's wide web of connections.
Almost every case consisted of someone "disappearing" and it was clear it was because they displeased either Dorothea herself or one of her bitch-Queens in one way or another.
The High Priestess would claim it was justified, as would her bitch-Queens, even though it was clear to almost everyone else that it was not.
Then again, these were the kind of people who enslaved, murdered, tortured, used, broke and shaved people for no other reason that they were bored and thought it entertaining.
After all, as far as they were concerned, the more men controlled by the Ring of Obedience, the better
John refrained from mentioning both Lucivar Yaslana –a half-breed – and the Sadist, as everyone knew they shared their paternal bloodline, but no one apart from Dorothea and a part of her coven knew who their father was.
So instead, he asked the High Lord of Hell if Sherlock had been there, or if he knew anything about him.
Did he know if he was alive, or demon-dead or dead?
John added that he was not sure if Sherlock would want John to see him if he had made the transition; after all, a part of his skull had been smashed when he'd hit the pavement after falling off the building.
But John needed to know, he had to know in order to be able to move on, with or without Sherlock. He needed the closure, and he hoped the High Lord would be able to help.
When John was done talking, he found the High Lord look straight at him and he found himself squirming under that intense, calculating gaze.
Then he moved his head to look towards the door, and seemed to be sending a message on a thread darker than one John could perceive.
John assumed he had contacted his butler in order to show John out, so he did not turn around. No one spoke, but he heard the soft footsteps on the carpet bring whoever it was closer and closer to him, until they stopped, right behind his chair.
Just as he was about to open his mind to speak, he was in his periphery a long figure clad in a blue scarf and a long, gray coat.
His throat thickened, and at first he dared not look upon that figure he knew so well, in fear of it all being an illusion.
Then the figured turned towards him, so he turned his head and gazed upon Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, just as perfect as they day they had first met; no cuts, no bruises, nothing indicated he had hit that pavement those three, agonizing years ago.
"Hello John," spoke that voice he had longed to hear again for so long.
John felt like everything was happening in slow motion. He stood up, and before he knew what had happened, his fist connected to Sherlock's jaw, and he felt himself collapse onto the floor, a blubbering, hysterical, crying mess.
Then a pair of long, pale limbs wrapped themselves around him and John felt safe; like he could finally breathe.
John Watson had finally returned home.