A/N I wish to express my gratitude to Old Ping Hai for editing and for her suggestions to improve my writing. All remaining errors are my own.
I still do not own the rights to Sherlock.
Chapter 2
"John, answer me!" shouted Sherlock, whirling around in the early dusk.
"Never mind about that foolish, little man! We must return to the house," cried Mycroft. "What if someone was hurt. What if…Oh, dear God. I can't see the house. Where's the…"
"It's right where you left it. It's fine, except the electricity seems to be broken," said John, who appeared as if out of nowhere. Indeed, the house could be seen, if only just, as a darker hulk standing against the dark and weeping sky. A bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the house before rain and fog concealed it once more.
The consulting detective drew the shorter man to his chest, while murmuring his name over and over, but his momentary relief fizzled as John stood stiff and motionless. The leprechaun didn't exactly resist Sherlock's embrace, but neither did he melt into the younger man's arms the way he usually did. In fact, John didn't even try to reciprocate the hug, which was very unlike the normally affectionate sprite.
"Well, it's about time you showed up, John Watson," began Mycroft sourly.
"Time?" muttered John, blinking as rain pelted his face.
Sherlock snatched the battered old Tilley hat off of his head to shield John's face from the storm. In another flash of lightning, the detective observed a long, bleeding slash that cut across John's face from temple to chin. Fortunately it missed John's beautiful eyes, eyes which stared at the sky and not at Sherlock.
"John, you're injured. You're bleeding. What happened?"
"For God's sake, Sherlock, it's obvious! He was struck by debris, just as we were." Mycroft gathered his dampened dignity and his outrage and lashed out at his brother's boyfriend. "As for you, Mr. Watson, you're a fool. You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten Sherlock killed!"
John blinked and slowly turned toward Sherlock, seeming to look past the consulting detective. Sherlock hated this. He was used to being the center of John's world. Why wasn't he the focus of John's attention now?
"No," said John so quietly that it was difficult to make out his words over the wind and rain. "Sherlock was never in danger. I made sure that he was lucky enough to escape unharmed."
"Gibberish!" snapped Mycroft. "You're mad." The elder Holmes turned towards his brother, "He's mad. It's a miracle we weren't all killed.
"It was luck, not a miracle," said John absently, narrowing his eyes at the clouds.
"How badly are you hurt?" demanded Sherlock, who didn't like John's strange, distant voice. "Did you hit your head?"
In the deepening dusk, the detective could see John slowly shaking his head no.
"Well, I'm battered within an inch of my life," complained Mycroft. "And Sherlock is probably hurt too; he fell."
"You pushed me!" protested Sherlock.
"The storm pushed you," claimed the waterlogged British government official. "I'm fairly certain that your head struck the ground. You probably have a concussion."
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, even though no one could appreciate his eye-roll in the dark.
Then on top of everything else, John began to glow, which meant he was doing some sort of leprechaun magic.
Sherlock grabbed the shorter man's arm and whispered into his ear, "John, stop it; you're glowing." However, John ignored Sherlock, his attention still fixed on the retreating storm. Sherlock's concern mounted, because this was entirely out of character for the leprechaun who doted on Sherlock and usually followed his advice.
Sherlock could only hope that John wasn't suffering from some supernatural injury or a curse or a spell or something.
He also hoped that his brother, the British government, didn't notice John's golden aura. Mycroft would be first in line to abduct and then 'study' a magical leprechaun like John. Then the poncy bureaucrat would probably want to weaponize Sherlock's boyfriend.
Still, normal humans couldn't see the faint light that emanated from John whenever he performed magic, so perhaps Mycroft wouldn't notice John's golden aura.
This hope was short lived, because Mycroft, as usual, noticed everything. His eyes widened, and then narrowed into slits as he stared incredulously at the lambent leprechaun.
"Shite," muttered Sherlock. So much for keeping John's otherworldliness from his nosy older brother.
"I can tell that Sherlock is fine...as are you…aside from some bruising," intoned John in a sepulchral voice that Sherlock didn't even recognize. "I could…heal those for you."
"You mean treat...You could treat our bruises using Mummy's first aid kit," said Sherlock, in a vain attempt to deflect Mycroft.
"He said 'heal', Sherlock; I'm not deaf. And he's glowing," said Mycroft.
And so it was Mycroft and not Sherlock who finally captured John's full attention.
The leprechaun stared at Mycroft as if only now recognizing him. The blond blinked rapidly, his eyes glittering as the sky lit up again.
Then finally he turned to look at Sherlock with focused eyes.
"Sherlock," said John.
"John," sighed the detective, enfolding his leprechaun in his arms again. This time, John leaned into Sherlock; this time John brought his arms around his lover's waist. John was John again, pliant and affectionate…and bleeding and shivering and…
"We have to get you back to the house," Sherlock said to his leprechaun.
"No. You are not bringing that back into our house," said Mycroft.
"What?" exclaimed Sherlock, instantly furious on John's behalf.
"Sherlock! It…he…is glowing!" snapped Mycroft. His hands opened and shut aimlessly, no doubt missing the reassurance of his umbrella.
"You do not…" began the detective, only to be interrupted by John.
"Wait. I'm what?" said the blond, looking down at his compact hands, which, in addition to glowing, were cut and bleeding. Sherlock grabbed one of John's hands to examine it more closely, "I don't see any glow," muttered John sounding grumpy now.
Sherlock would take grumpy over that eerie monotone that John had been using. He drew John close to shelter him from the cold rain and from Mycroft.
Meanwhile, the two brothers now glared suspiciously at one another. Mycroft spoke first. "Sherlock, can you see that he's glowing?" queried the older sibling.
"Can you?" Sherlock snapped back.
"You can see it," deduced Mycroft.
"And so can you. Fine. We'll discuss it later. John is injured and needs…"
"Bah! A few cuts from the storm," said Mycroft. "What I want to know is..."
"Oh no," said John, "The cuts are from Fionn. He whipped me when he rode off. They all did—more or less. They always go a bit mad when their invitation is rejected—violent tempers, the lot of them. One of them got my shoulder pretty good, too. It's always my shoulder…" John's grumbling trailed off, as he twisted his neck in an attempt to look at the back of his left shoulder.
"Fionn? Do you expect me to believe that you met Fionn mac Cumahill and somehowmanaged to escape andlive to tell about it?" demanded Mycroft disbelievingly.
"Who's Finn?" demanded Sherlock who disliked not knowing anything—especially when Mycroft so clearly did know it, whatever it was. Not to mention, Sherlock had a feeling that this Finn should be placed on the list of Beings Who Wanted John (the original title had been Beings Who Had Shagged John or Who Wanted to Shag John, but that file name was a bit unwieldy).
John frowned, clenching his injured hands; a tiny bit of light leaked out from his fists. "Yes, I did meet Fionn. I've met him many times, and obviously I lived to tell about it." The 'so there' was in subtext.
"You left the party to meet with someone named Finn?" demanded Sherlock jealously.
"I had to," said John simply.
"Had to?" from Mycroft.
"Really? And just who is this FINN!" inquired Sherlock, who felt he was remaining surprisingly calm, all things considered.
"Fionn mac Cumhaill, the leader of the Wild Hunt," said John to his lover. "He summoned me."
"Summoned you? How?" asked Mycroft.
"Summoned you? Why?" shouted Sherlock, assuming that if he talked louder then John would ignore Mycroft and finish answering Sherlock's questions first.
"He called me to the hunt with the horn like always," said John answering Mycroft first which was hateful to Sherlock.
"I didn't hear a horn," said Mycroft, nodding at Sherlock as if they were on the same team, which was preposterous. Sherlock repositioned himself to hover over his leprechaun, so that there would be no doubt that he was on John's team.
"Well, did you hear any horns?" Mycroft asked his brother.
"Of course he didn't. Only one who is summoned can hear the horn of Fionn mac Cumhaill, aside from a seer," interjected John, answering for his boyfriend.
"Why did he call you?" demanded both the Holmes brothers.
"Oh, the usual reasons," said John, scowling down into the mud.
"To join him on his murderous rampages?" sneered the British government.
"Oh God, he covets your body, doesn't he?" exclaimed the younger Holmes.
"Yes and yes," said John wearily. "He's wanted me to join the Hunt for a long time now, ever since I healed one of his riders, Hippolyta...not the queen of legend, obviously, but her granddaughter. Ever since, the Fianna have invited me to join the hunt. You know, to not only be a huntsman but to also be a sort of medical officer." John gave the sky a suspicious sideways glance, then said confidentially "To be quite honest, I've never been all that fond of horses. That's why I originally joined the infantry instead of the cavalry."
"Clearly, you are feeling better," snapped Sherlock, "because as usual, you can't stick to the topic."
"What?" asked John, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I thought we were talking about the Fianna?"
"And..."
John scratched his head and blinked, "annnnd, I'm all wet and cold?"
"AND, this Finn wants to have his way with you!" shouted Sherlock.
"Oh. That. Well, Fionn is a lusty man and wants to have his way with practically everyone. It's common knowledge."
"I knew it," said Sherlock scowling furiously.
"Well, I never agreed to bed him. Not once. I prefer not to be a one night diversion. And tonight, as usual, I politely declined both the offer of joining the hunt and the offer of knowing Fionn mac Cumhaill, if you know what I mean," said John, with raised eyebrows. John was much more like himself now, but Sherlock was too worried about this Finn fellow to appreciate that John had recovered from whatever caused his mental confusion.
Then John said, "But Fionn's unsavory habits aren't important right now."
"Oh really?" asked Sherlock, immediately suspicious. When he had first appeared John was bemused, one might say bewitched. Then John defends this supernatural but lusty nightrider?
"Shouldn't we return to the house?" asked John.
"No!" said the Holmes brothers. Mycroft smirked to have Sherlock on his side again. Sherlock ignored his brother to berate his possibly unfaithful leprechaun.
"Some supernatural person named Finn, who lusts after my boyfriend, signals with a horn, and my boyfriend responds instantly, running off into a storm without a word to me and disappears into the woods alone with this magical hunter, then...then, when my so-called boyfriend finally creeps out of the woods he's dazed, cut and bleeding—and you say that's not important?"
"Wait," said John, glaring up from under deeply, disapproving brows. "What are you implying?"
"I think you know," said Sherlock, adding as final proof, "I saw the fairy light."
"In the name of Hecate, that wasn't Faerie light, that was the spectral light of the incorporeal Fianna," said John, "Anyway, Fionn is not one of the Fae."
"He lusts after you!"
"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! Fionn lusts after everyone. I can handle Fionn mac Cumhaill and his enchantments," asserted John.
"You were enchanted? How do you know what you did when you were enchanted?" Sherlock growled.
"It was a summonsing enchantment," replied John sharply, "which one cannot refuse. But the call to arms and invitation to warm is bed is a matter of choice. Although admittedly he cheats by using his glamour to look irresistible…"
"This is fascinating, but not to the point," interrupted Mycroft.
"Shut up, Mycroft," snapped the angry detective. "So you didn't resist his summons?"
"Not his summons, no. But I would have gone anyway to see what he wanted…"
"He wanted you."
"Yes, but…"
"And you came when he called."
"It's Fionn mac Cumhaill. You have to come when he calls!" shouted John, jutting his chin out. "But…" he paused, poking Sherlock with his finger for emphasis, "but he never forces anyone to join the hunt or his bed. Never!"
"You returned to me dazed…"
"I wasn't dazed..."
"You were! You don't get that dazed even after a good shagging."
"I don't wish to hear any more of this," said Mycroft primly. He was ignored.
"Well, perhaps I was a little dazed," said John. "And if I was, dazed that is, it's because I was concentrating on resisting his lusty advances and because I had to spread luck to you and your family. Plus, he keeps blowing that bloody horn of his, and it's distracting." John looked off toward an impressive display of cloud-to-cloud lightning and got that far-away look in his eyes again.
"John, stay with me," demanded Sherlock.
The leprechaun blinked and then smiled at his lover. "Of course I'm staying with you. Always."
Relief flooded the detective, his John, his loving, smiling Leprechaun had returned at last.
"Let's go back to the house, John," said Sherlock.
"Not so fast!" said Mycroft. "We are not bringing a fairy of unknown provenance to roost in our family's abode."
John gasped, and Sherlock winced, being well acquainted with John's antipathy towards fairies.
"Wrong!" protested John sharply. "I am not a sodding blue-blooded fairy; I am a leprechaun."
"Do you take me for a fool?" Mycroft almost snarled. "If you were a leprechaun you'd be guarding fairy treasure."
"Which I did for two hundred years, until Sherlock freed me from the curse," said John crossing his arms with a huff.
"Sherlock? How could Sherlock remove a curse?" demanded the elder Holmes.
"He did it by making me fall in love with him and growing a new heart," replied the leprechaun.
"You expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes was so lovable that you..."
"Can we not talk about this?" complained Sherlock.
"Yes, he is that lovable," asserted John stoutly. "He's very lovable, and I love him, and that for you and your insults towards the finest man that I have ever met." John snapped his fingers under Mycroft's nose before turning his back on the British government.
Suddenly an unearthly howl rent the stormy night.
"What was that?"
John bit his lip. "Well...it might be a friend...then again it might not be a friend. I can't say that I recognize her voice."
"Voice? That sounded like a dog howling," said Sherlock.
"More like a wolf," said John. "We better get back to the house."
"There are no wolves in Britain, John," said Sherlock following his brother who was suddenly hurrying toward their parents' home.
"No, but there are werewolves," said John. "I crossed paths with several in London. In fact, there's at least two working at the Met."
"And you didn't think to mention it to me?" cried Sherlock, stepping in front of the shorter man and stopping him cold.
"I thought you probably already knew—after all, you have the Faerie-sight, as does your brother, by the way," said John. "Nevertheless, the next time I see one, I'll point him out to you—or her."
"Good."
"But I won't actually point at him—or her."
"No?" said the detective, as John dragged him toward the darkened house.
"Of course not. That would be rude, and it never pays to be rude to a werewolf."
"Sherlock!" hissed Mycroft, who had come to a stop by a large yew. "There's something going on! Up by the front door. People...you don't think it's Cousin Prudence and her obnoxious brood? I cannot abide any of them. Mummy said that she'd invited Prudence. Can you make out who..."
"I can't see in the dark, Mycroft!"
"Well, neither can I!" snapped Mycroft in a harsh whisper. "But I can tell that the tallest person is wearing a cape, just like Prudence always wears."
"We can't just hide out here behind the hedge," protested Sherlock.
"It isn't your Cousin Prudence," said John, leaning tiredly against Sherlock. "You know, you could both see much better if you actually used your Faery-sight properly."
"What is he going on about," said Mycroft.
"I can see him glow when he's using magic. And apparently so can you," explained Sherlock. "John thinks it's 'fairy-sight'."
"It is Faery-sight," insisted John.
"Which means...?" prompted Mycroft.
"Oh my God, that's really not important right now," said John.
"Well, I think it is," said Mycroft.
"No, it's not," said John, his mouth twisting for emphasis. "What's important is that Fionn was carrying a message for me."
"And that message was," prompted Sherlock.
"Death," said John biting his lip and raising his brows. "Fionn said Death was coming to tea."
A/N Thank you for reading this story. I would be doubly grateful if you would send a review my way. I would love to read your comments, suggestions or criticisms (constructive, of course).
Just a reminder, this story is a sequel of my fix Leprechaun. (Okay, it's a shameless plug, so sue me. But first consider reading Leprechaun.) ;D
:D