A/N This story would not be possible without my brilliant beta, Old Ping Hai. Thank you Ping! Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.
This is a fairly long chapter with lots of talking, reaching alarming conclusions.
Also, I apologize for last week's cliffhanger, but I had to split up the chapter to make it more manageable. So, on with the show…
Chapter 6
Thunder exploded overhead, drowning out the shrieks and cries of the horrified onlookers.
A flash of light blinded Sherlock, then something rushed past him, shoving him aside. He briefly posited that the rude tempest had rushed into Mummy's sitting room following a lightning strike.
Instantly, he shook the foolish fancy out of his head and stumbled forward even as his eyes re-adjusted to the gloom. He could barely see his relatives huddled fearfully near the wall or crouched behind furniture. No one dared to approach the fireplace.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, because the fire was out. Not only had the fire gone out, Mycroft was gone. He stepped closer, feeling astonishment and confusion. The fireplace was cold; the charred log didn't even give off a whiff of smoke. And where was Mycroft?
The consulting detective turned slowly, looking, looking, and… There! He found Mycroft—in Richard's arms.
The vampire carefully lowered Mycroft to the floor, as if offering a sacrifice to Mummy. Except the sacrifice wasn't dead. In fact, while Mycroft was very pale and his suit irreparably scorched in spots, the man seemed uninjured. Mycroft kept trying to sit up, but each time, Mummy pushed him right back down again.
"Do let me up," complained Mycroft with only a slight catch in his voice.
Mummy and the vampire both ran their hands over his head and neck, arms and back searching for burns—apparently in vain. Lightning illuminated the trio followed quickly by a cannonade of thunder.
Sherlock shuffled forward and fell to his knees next to Mummy, marveling silently at his brother's escape.
"Oh, Mycroft!" cried Mummy. "Oh. Oh...oh my God! Oh, oh…"
Father appeared, fear making him look even older than his seventy-six years. Father gripped Mummy's shoulder, giving and receiving reassurance.
"Mummy, don't fuss so. I'm fine," Mycroft insisted, batting her hands away, but looking just confused as everyone else.
"I don't understand," muttered Mummy. "Your clothes are burned straight through to the skin here…and here. But your skin is…fine. No burns," She picked at the charred holes over his back and under his elbow. "I saw the fire reaching…How is he not burned?" she demanded of Sherlock, before turning back to her older son. "Myke, are you quite sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm…I'm fine, Mummy. It did hurt for a moment…but then it was fine," said Mycroft sitting up with the vampire's help. "I was…pulled from the fire, before it could cause me injury." The secret leader of Britain looked bemusedly at the cold fireplace and then at Richard, who hovered nearby. Mycroft shook his head, then spoke, regaining his usual polished voice, "But I see that another of my suits has been damaged beyond repair!"
Without asking permission, Sherlock pulled back the blackened sleeves of his brother's jacket and shirt. As Mummy had reported, the skin underneath was perfectly healthy, not even pink.
Mycroft rubbed a hand over his neck, dislodging bits of burned cloth. Sherlock leaned over, pushing Richard aside to examine the badly scorched collar lying atop his sibling's healthy pale skin. Even Mycroft's hair was untouched.
"It doesn't make sense," muttered Sherlock. "He should be burned. His hair was on fire! I saw it. And yet he's fine…"
"And thank God for that," said Father with a choked voice. "We should be grateful."
Sherlock rocked back on his heels, relieved and yet puzzled. He tugged at his hair, finding it hard to think while rain pummeled the house and thunder shook his very bones.
He left Mycroft's side to examine the fireplace, which was barely warm. Surely the stones should have retained the heat from the fire. It made no sense, and it smacked of magic. Sherlock studied the vampire out of the corner of his eyes, wondering just what vampires were capable of.
"Yes, of course," muttered Mummy, whose brilliant mind was searching for answers, just like her youngest son. "And I'm grateful, very grateful. But how did Myke escape being the fire without being burned?"
"Well, it's a miracle," said Father, who was the heart and soul of his family and actually believed in miracles.
Father helped Mycroft into a chair, with Richard's very assiduous aid, while Sherlock and Mummy pondered the mystery.
Mummy nodded to herself and turned to look at the vampire, "Richard, you saved my son. I don't know how to thank you, but you will always be welcome in our home."
"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes…"
"Mummy," corrected the matriarch.
"Yes, well, thank you, Mummy, but it wasn't me. I didn't..." stuttered the vampire, who seemed to have lost his abrasive arrogance. "I, I wasn't fast enough. The fire did have him, and yet it didn't burn him…and then the fire died. It was all over before I reached his side."
"That makes no sense," said Sherlock, loud enough to be heard over the gale. "Why would the fire just go out like that?"
"Obviously, Mycroft was just very, very lucky," said Richard, who still hovered protectively over Sherlock's brother.
"I don't believe in luck," said Sherlock, ignoring Richard's tsk and incredulous stare.
But Sherlock did believe in magic. Apparently the magic that saved Mycroft did not come from the vampire. Indeed, the vampire attributed the rescue to luck.
Oh! Oh! STUPID! John refused to call his talent magic; he insisted on calling it luck.
Where exactly was John? Why hadn't he come over to assist Mycroft?
Unless of course the sprite knew that Mycroft was safe, having saved Sherlock's brother himself. Which meant that the idiot leprechaun had drained himself even more!
The detective's head swiveled back and forth looking for his lover; he pushed annoying curls off his forehead.
"Dammit, John! Where the devil have you got to now!" said Sherlock with no little exasperation and mounting concern.
Leonora shook Sherlock's arm. The teen trembled with excitement, having never witnessed such drama in her fifteen years of existence.
"What is it?" snapped Sherlock, over the thunder, which rumbled like an oncoming freight train. "Can't you see the grown-ups are busy?"
The young girl flushed red and backed away, as the storm shook the house.
"Mind your manners, Sherlock," instructed Mummy, "none of this would have happened if you hadn't been roughhousing with..."
"Hush Mummy," interrupted Father sternly. The entire family gasped, thinking that the earth had just stuttered in its orbit.
Sherlock thought that this might possibly be the start of the apocalypse, because Father never, ever interrupted Mummy.
Ignoring his shocked, speechless family; Father cleared his throat, and gently took Leonora's hand saying, "Now, my dear, what was it you were trying to tell us?"
"It's just…that, that really tall, scary man, who looks like Dracula..."
"You mean Mortimer?" sneered Richard, as lightning illuminated his gaunt face, "Mortimer is no vampire."
"Wellll," gasped Cousin Leonora, "well, Mortimer knockedSherlock's boyfriend out and carried him into the kitchen, which wasn't very sporting because poor John…I mean Mr. Watson…looked like he was about to collapse anyway. But then one of the Aunties hit Mort…"
"Mortimer did what?" growled Sherlock.
"Never mind…about Mortimer," John panted. "I…handled…Mortimer. It's good…I, I'm fine…'sall fine."
The blond leaned against the doorframe, rubbing bloody knuckles over his borrowed fleece. He was clearly not fine. Even in the poor light, the leprechaun's skin was chalk white and his lips were blue. John looked as if he could be knocked over by a feather.
So it was no surprise when he fell back into Mortimer's waiting arms. The only surprise was that John tried to fight the ghoul at all. Nevertheless, Mortimer easily stopped the sprite's flailing fist, while whispering into the leprechaun's ear.
"Nooo," said John, his voice harsh, "I said…no. I'm not…going…"
"We have to go, John. We have to leave now," said Mortimer whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.
The storm punctuated this announcement with thunder.
"No…let go…y' damned bloody reaper," said John, twisting from side to side attempting to loosen Mortimer's steely grip.
Sherlock blinked. He was stupefied by shock; still the puzzle pieces finally fell into place. Mortimer was, of course, Death.
"You there! I told once before, let go of that young man!" demanded Cousin Prudence, using her heavy pocketbook as a bludgeon.
Aunt Beatrice provided reinforcement as she wielded a soup ladle.
"You don't understand," protested Mortimer, fending off the blows with one hand. "I'm trying to save young John."
"I don't…want you to save me," gasped John, trying to slip out of Mortimer's one-armed hug.
The sight of the two fierce matriarchs standing toe to toe against the Grim Reaper rebooted Sherlock's hard drive. He lurched forward and ripped his leprechaun out of Death's embrace.
"He's mine," snarled Sherlock, supporting and then lifting the swooning leprechaun into his arms.
Luckily, John was compact and trim, so Sherlock effortlessly carried his prize over to a sofa.
Prudence and Beatrice covered his retreat, while Death hissed under his breath.
Sherlock hoped that the reaper was merely muttering obscure profanities and not some magic spell, as the detective rubbed John's icy hands. Sherlock's concern mounted as John remained dazed and almost lifeless.
Blocked from his prey by the matriarchs, who'd been bolstered by a tea-pot wielding Mummy, Mortimer shook his fist and exclaimed, "You fools! I'm trying to save him."
"Liar! I know who you are," said Sherlock. "You are Death, and you want to kill John."
Gasps of shock mingled with the wind and thunder. The guests had been slowly lured out of hiding by the charge of the matriarchs. Some of them might have been shamed by the women's courage, not to mention the courage of young Leonora who orbited the conflict, cheering on the matriarchs. But most of the relatives just wanted a better view of the confrontation.
"Wrong, mortal! I just saved his life!" said Mortimer with fiercely burning eyes.
The Grim Reaper's eyes had turned into red-hot embers; his terrible visage convinced more than a few of the relatives to retreat back into the dubious security of the shadows.
"The little fool nearly drained himself utterly, trying to save your brother. John would have died had I not intervened. He could still die from his profligate use of magic…"
"It's not…magic," protested John weakly.
"That's right," said Sherlock, smoothing the fringe of hair over John's clammy brow. "It's luck."
"Idiots! John will die tonight unless…"
"Mortimer, your intervention..."
"…to which you have just confessed…"
"...was and is forbidden..."
"…and it must stop now," said Jacinth, her proclamation seemed all the more significant as it was followed by lightning and thunder.
"Nor was this the first time you prevented John Watson's demise tonight." added Adrien.
Sherlock couldn't help but notice that in all the excitement, Adrien had uttered a complete sentence by himself.
"Yes. I don't deny saving him. But it isn't forbidden, not if John is my mate..." said the Angel of Death.
"I'm not your mate!" said John in a grating whisper.
"You disrupted the balance…" said Jacinth, grasping one of Death's long arms, while her brother grabbed the Reaper's other arm.
"…beginning when your accomplices…'
"…prevented the leprechaun's death earlier tonight."
Several relatives began whispering and gesticulating wildly.
"What! When?" demanded the consulting detective.
"The imbalance is the reason..." said Adrien.
"...for these so-called accidents," said his sister.
"The Mother is attempting..."
"...to restore balance with..."
"...an acceptable sacrifice."
"…and now that you've been caught red-handed…"
"…you must submit to us…"
"…until you are brought before the Mother…'
"…to make an accounting," Adrien finished.
John had been scrambling to sit up. He finally managed it with Sherlock's support.
"I knew it!" said John. "I felt the imbalance too…Wait…Wait, um. You mean…I have to die?"
"Alternatively, I believe that someone else can die in your place," queried Sherlock.
"No, Sherlock. No one is sacrificing themselves for me," hissed John. "So, you two are saying that I have to die…to right the balance?"
"Yes, because…"
"…a curse has found you…"
"…and demands your death…"
"…but so far it has been thwarted…" the twins glared significantly at the Grim Reaper.
"…and now the magic is out of control, blindly seeking to satisfy the demand for death."
"And it will keep trying to kill innocent people until I die?" asked John.
"Yes," answered the twins, nodding enthusiastically.
"No. I won't let you die," shouted Sherlock, pressing his lover back against the sofa and sheltering him with his body.
"There is more than one way to leave this mortal world…" said Adrien.
"John Watson has a choice."
"He could retain life while becoming Death's mate…"
"…which would surely remove him from the mortal world…"
"...or he could follow Death as the spirit of a corpse..."
"...or, if you demure from choosing,"
"...another might satisfy the curse by dying in your place," concluded Jacinth.
"No! I'll go. Of course I'll go with Mortimer," said John as firmly as possible for someone who was too weak to sit himself up.
Death smiled, licking his thin, pale lips.
"No, there has to be another way," insisted Sherlock, "somethingthat someone could do." He wiggled his fingers to indicate that someone should use magic.
"He agreed to go with me," said Mortimer.
"Shut up!" snarled Sherlock, driving back the Grim Reaper with his fury.
"I will not," shouted Death from a safe distance.
"Silence, Mortimer..."
"...you've caused enough trouble tonight,"
"...now we shall wait..."
"...until John Watson chooses..."
"...or fate chooses for him."
John shook his head but kept his silence.
"We've been instructed to keep watch over Mortimer…" said the male acolyte turned guard.
"…until the decision is made," said Jacinth.
"You were spying on me, you traitorous twins," spat Mortimer as the blonds led him aside.
The blond vampires and the dark angel of Death continued a whispered argument in French.
"We have a reprieve, John," said the detective quietly.
"But it won't change anything," whispered John wearily. "I can't let someone else sacrifice themselves for me."
"Could you use magic…if you were not so weak?" asked Sherlock softly.
"Use what?" asked John in a barely audible whisper.
"Magic!" hissed Sherlock.
"Magic? If you want magic, maybe you should consult with that fool, Phillip," Aunt Penelope opined, as she tossed salted nuts into her mouth.
"Ix-nay on the agic-may," whispered Sherlock's father rather loudly. "It might upset the balance further. What we really need to do is to strengthen your fairy…"
"Father?" said Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "When did you become an expert on fairies?"
"Now hold on just a minute," said John, speaking with a bit more force than earlier. "I am not a bloody fairy!"
"Oh good God," complained Aunt Penelope, "In my day we didn't go around parading our dirty laundry in front of all and sundry. Keep your fairy business in the bedroom!"
"In the bedroom? What's she on about Sherlock?" asked John, who looked very confused.
Sherlock shook his head and looked for his father, who had scarpered. Sherlock had questions. He wanted to track his parent down, but he didn't dare leave John's side for a moment.
"Never mind, old chap," Sherlock's cousin from Epping was saying. "The whole family knows that Sherlock is gay. It only stands to reason that you're gay too."
"Gay, yes. Of course I'm gay. But I'm not a Faerie," corrected John fiercely.
"Well, technically fairy isn't a very nice term. Though its not as bad as poofter," said the politically correct cousin from Epping.
"The tea party is over!" announced Sherlock with a clap of his hands. "Everyone go home."
He'd reasoned that if no one remained around to be sacrificed, then John would be more willing to fight this curse.
"Like hell I will, it's raining cats and dogs," said a man who Sherlock did not even view as a real relative, except that he'd married Eugenia.
"Fine. Whatever. John and I are certainly leaving…"
"Sherlock, sit down and don't be rude to our guests," she ordered. "No one is leaving right now. The storm is dangerous. Someone could get hurt, perhaps fatally."
Sherlock had no problem interpreting Mummy's eyebrow signals. Of course, Mummy was right. The storm would be a perfect way for the curse to kill John.
For now, John and Sherlock were trapped at this Death Tea. The consulting detective subsided back into the couch, circling a protective arm around his leprechaun.
"I think," said Mummy, distracting the rapt audience from her son and his lover, "that we should celebrate Mycroft's miraculous rescue from the jaws of death."
Death looked self-conscious.
"I'd like to thank Richard for bravely pulling my son from the fire..."
"The fire was already out, luckily," muttered Sherlock, hugging his brave but drained leprechaun close.
"...from the fire," reiterated Mummy firmly. "And to celebrate, Father will open up some of that special wine that Mycroft keeps sending us."
"It's the good stuff," Sherlock muttered into John's ear. "Very expensive. My brother will be furious."
"Where is Mycroft?" asked John.
"Probably changing his clothes, again," said Sherlock. "Mm. I bet Richard's helping Mycroft change his clothes," murmured John.
"Oh God!" cried Sherlock, rubbing his fist across his eyes, "That horrible mental image is destroying my hard drive!"
John smiled weakly, before laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Most of the guests followed Mummy into the kitchen for the promised wine.
Only a few relations remained in the sitting room. Aunt Penelope sat near the dead fire, placidly eating nuts. Cousin Avaril leaned against the wall across from Sherlock, glaring at him, presumably for stealing John. Meanwhile, Death sat in some sort of supernatural legal custody, biting his claw-like nails as the twins kept watch.
"What's wrong with your deadly friend, or should I say boyfriend?" asked Sherlock.
"He's not deadly. He's Death. He never interferes with the process of death. He neither kills nor spares a life...well, until now. He's supposed to just gather the souls," said John softly. "And he's not my boyfriend. You are."
"I saw how he looked at you, John."
"Sherlock, I told you before that he fancied me, and I also told you that I didn't fancy him back," said John, "It looks like Mortimer is going to be in big trouble for interrupting my death. He might get reassigned, or even demoted."
"Then who will collect souls?"
"One of the other Angels of Death," said John.
"There's more than one?" asked Sherlock.
"Of course there's more than one," said John with a little giggle. "How could they possibly get by with only one Reaper? Just think of all the people who die everyday?"
"I see," said Sherlock sourly. The two lovers sat in silence for several moments.
"We will fight this curse of death, John," demanded Sherlock.
"Yes, whatever you say, Sherlock," said John tiredly and without conviction.
Sherlock's mind whirled, trying to think of a way to save John. A sacrifice of one of the more expendable relations sounded quite reasonable to the consulting detective—but John would never agree to it. And Mummy would undoubtedly protest too.
Perhaps they could outrun the bloody curse, if they moved very fast? But not when John was swooning like a Victorian maiden. But what if John was re-vitalized?
"John!" said Sherlock, making his leprechaun jump in surprise. "What can we do to get you stronger? What about a blood sacrifice?"
"No! No blood sacrifice."
"Just a little blood, like when Harry…"
"No. I just don't feel right about blood sacrifices," said John. "But maybe some porter and something to eat would help?"
"I don't think my family has any porter," said Sherlock. "But I can get you some tea and a sandwich."
"I'll get John some tea," said Avaril brightly, she artfully swung her hair behind her and pranced off to the kitchen.
"Time grows short, John," intoned Death from his exile in the far corner. "If you do not come with me voluntarily, then you will surely come to me as a corpse."
They were interrupted by a whooping sound.
"Oh!"
"The old lady is choking..." announced Jacinth. She and her twin stood aside, cooling watching as Aunt Penelope choked.
John leapt up to help, wobbled and immediately fell back onto the sofa.
'Sherlock," yelled John. "You have to help her!"
"Me? How?"
"Sherlock! Do the Heimlich Maneuver!" demanded John.
"How do you even know about..." began Sherlock.
"I saw it on the You-Tube! Do it!" shouted John.
"Or not..." whispered Jacinth.
"...and with her passing..." hissed Adrien.
"...the balance might be restored." finished his sister.
"Don't listen to them, Sherlock. They just want to practice gathering a soul," growled John. "Do the Heimlich Maneuver. If you don't at least try..." John didn't have to finish whatever he had to say.
On his own, Sherlock had already wrapped his long arms around the plump woman. He squeezed several times. A large Brazil nut shot out of her mouth. He clumsily helped her over to a chair as she gasped and sobbed for air.
The relatives had re-gathered and now applauded. Mummy had also reappeared. She glared disapprovingly at her guests and with Beatrice's aid, led the poor Penelope out of the sitting room.
Sherlock received pats on the back and hearty congratulations for saving Penelope, most of which were insincere and none of which were appreciated.
The twins cast disapproving looks at the consulting detective, who had already begun to second-guess himself. What if he had just missed his chance to substitute someone else for the sacrifice? The detective rubbed his lip with his index finger and ruminated on what had just happened.
"Is John Mortimer's boyfriend now?" asked Cousin Leonora nudging her cousin firmly.
Mortimer had slithered over to the sofa and was leaning over the leprechaun like a bird of prey. John was so weak that he didn't even try to fight back. The twins stood by impassively. Apparently the combination of seduction and kidnapping was allowed; the twins only complained when lives were spared.
Sherlock glanced down at his young cousin and ally then neatly extracted a glass of wine from Leonora's hand.
"Hey, that's mine," she cried.
"And you are under age. Go find some ginger ale or whatever nice young ladies imbibe," hissed Sherlock, before striding over to the couch. None too gently, he ripped his boyfriend free from Death's cold, hard grip as Death's red eyes tracked their retreat.
Sherlock gently deposited his sprite on the chair recently vacated by Aunt Prudence, then he crouched in front of the exhausted blond, asking, "First of all, you are not going with Mortimer."
"But…"
"Do stop bleating buts at me. You don't want to go with him, and I certainly don't want you leave. Clearly, you will not rest until we find a way to prevent these random deaths. I still think that we should send everyone off, storm or no storm. In the meantime, what if we made everyone sit down and not move, speak, eat or say anything?"
"How is not talking going to keep everyone safe?" asked John.
"I, for one, want to kill most of them every time they speak," whispered the crouching brunet. "Surely keeping silent will prolong their lives."
The leprechaun raised one of his expressive eyebrows but did not dispute the point.
"I still think you and I should leave, sooner rather than…"
"I cannot outrun my fate, especially if it is a curse," said John shaking his head. "It must be a pretty powerful curse. I wonder who set it?"
"Do you think it was Mary?"
"No, she prefers the personal touch…"
Sherlock was interrupted by cries of dismay, followed by calmer tutting. The detective stood to meet Phillip who ran out from the kitchen.
"Your father was nearly killed..." began Cousin Phillip, only to be interrupted by an irate twin.
"…when he accidentally added rat poison..." said Adrien, frowning with disapproval.
"... to his tea." said Jacinth.
"You should have let..." continued Adrien.
"...the old baggage..."
"...expire," said the twins, laying the blame at the detective's feet.
John took the detective's bony hand. "No, Sherlock, you did the right thing, and I'm proud of you for saving her life," John smiled radiantly at the detective then frowned at the twins. "You can't even be sure that her death would have stopped the accidents or satisfied the curse."
The two French vampires looked at each other, evidently unable to refute John's assertion. They turned in unison to stare at Mortimer, who crossed his arms and divulged nothing.
"And Sherlock, you were quite right. This needs to end now." John waved Death over saying, "I'm ready to go with you."
Death grinned like the skull on a Jolly Roger.
"What!" squeaked Sherlock (who would always deny having squeaked). "John, you're leaving me? You can't go with him! You said you'd die without me!"
"I will, of course, " said John, wearing a sad martyr's smile.
The Grim Reaper swept forward, looking...well, grim. "What do you mean he'll die?" demanded Death.
"Oh my God! Phillip just tripped and nearly stabbed himself with a cheese knife!" cried a voice from the kitchen.
"John gave me his heart, and he says that he'll die if we part."
"John, is this true?" demanded death.
"Yes, but I didn't mean…"
"Were you going to take your heart back and give it to me? You'd have to, otherwise you'd die, and it's no fun lying with a corpse," Death stood up looking offended. "I may be an Angel of Death, but I'm not a necrophiliac. Well, surprise, John! I'm the Angel of Death, and I won't let you die—heart or no heart."
"This is ridiculous," snapped Sherlock. "There has to be another way."
Thunder crashed, shaking the house. The kitchen door burst open, silencing the relatives, who panicked, fearing that they would be the next sacrifice to fate.
Heavy footfalls presaged the arrival of a huge, brawny man with long, shiny auburn hair held back from his face with leather thong.
"There is another way," boomed the giant. "My way!"
The man wore breeches and armor straight out of the dark ages. His shirt however was black silk, and it strained over his muscular shoulders every time he moved.
"Oh God," muttered John, dropping his head into his hands.
"Right, who is this then?" said Mummy.
"Ah'm Fionn mac Cumhaill," thundered the giant in unison with the unstable sky, "and ah've come fur Johnny..."
"Not bloody likely," said Mummy, whose patience had worn thin. "You're not taking anyone. Nobody is taking anyone anywhere! I don't know what the hell is going on here, but I will find out. Avaril, go find Mycroft...knock on the door to his room, in case he's..."
"In flagrante delicto?" suggested Avaril snidely, as she cradled a cup of tea in her hands.
"Mm, yes," agreed Mummy, "Something like that."
"Oh, I'll be happy to fetch Cousin Mycroft for you," volunteered Leonora, who was eager to catch someone in flagrante delicto.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of the Death Tea, but no one seemed to realize that sending a teen to interrupt lovemaking might be a bad idea, aside from Sherlock, and he wasn't in the mood to care about such niceties. Instead, he stood protectively next to his leprechaun, glaring at this new threat.
"Thank you, dear. I do feel that we will require Mycroft's advice," said Mummy with a nod to Leonora. "In the meantime, Mr. Mac Cool, please have a seat, so we can discuss this like civilized people."
"Yes, ma'am," said the huge blond, "And noo, ma'am. There's not much time for sittin' doon. The lad is cursed and doomed, an' thas all there is to it. Ah'm here to gie him a chance to cheat Death."
Fionn grinned fiercely at the Grim Reaper. "Ah'm here to repeat m' earlier offer to John, which mayhap was too rough and abrupt, what w' the pulling of his hair an' the whips an' all. Ah am here now, to ask him to be m' consort, properly and wi' all due respect to his finer feelin's."
"My finer feelings?" demanded John, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Who told you to say that?"
"Hippolyta," said Fionn. "I'd a brought flowers too..."
"I don't want bloody flowers," spat John, sending a sideways glare towards Mortimer, who made a bouquet of roses disappear into his voluminous cape.
"And the answer is still, no," said John in as loud a voice as he could muster.
The leprechaun grimly reached out for the tea offered by Avaril, but Fionn grabbed John's hand first, sending the tea flying.
The teacup fell to the floor and rolled under a side table. Avaril stormed back to the kitchen in defeat, while John tried to yank his hand free from the giant's massive hand.
"Now, now, laddie," said Finn tightening his grip on the leprechaun's hand. "Ah've coom to ask nicely fur yr hand this time. Ah've been patient, but time's uup."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop with Fionn's subtle threat.
"So you're the infamous Fionn mac Cumhaill," said Richard, gliding out of nowhere.
The suave vampire's cape flared dramatically behind him but didn't hide the love bites on his neck. At least young Leonora hadn't found Richard and Mycroft in some horrible tryst, thought Sherlock. The sight of those hickies would have scarred his mind, except he was already in shock at the idea of another suitor chasing after his John.
"So…you're in love with John Watson too?" asked the diplomatic bloodsucker.
"Love?" gasped Fionn. "Bahhh! Who said anythin' 'bout love? Aye, he's a comely lad, and o'course I want him…t' join the hunt...among other things."
"You…you said consort! Consort! Consort!" Sherlock repeated stupidly.
His normal eloquence had been temporarily short-circuited by repeated threats to his leprechaun.
"Well, yeah," said Fionn, scratching at his groin. "Ah am offerin' t' make him m' consort, 'cause ah wouldn't mind beddin' the young, wee laddie a fair few times. I mean who wouldn't? Eh? Eh?"
Chuckling lasciviously, the giant released the sprite's small hand and winked knowingly at everyone including Sherlock. Fionn even gave Sherlock a playful nudge, before leering at the unhappy leprechaun.
Sherlock didn't launch himself at Mr. Cool only because John had managed to stand and wrap his hands around Sherlock's waist.
"Ach, don't fash yoursel'." Said Fionn. "Tis a fair plan. If he joins wi' the Fianna, then the curse'll lose its teeth, so no one need die—not from the curse a' any rate. Then too, the hunt gets a competent healer, sparin' me from the bother of healin' ever'time someone gets mauled or gored or stabbed or…'
"I think we get the gist," said Richard, acting as mediator, which pleased Mummy.
"Here John," interrupted Sherlock's father. "Here's bit of tea mixed with ginseng and mandrake root. I also took one of Mummy's pearls and ground it up..."
"That's insane! Mandragora is poisonous," said Sherlock, trying to take the cup from his leprechaun.
"That's insane," squealed the cousin from Epping. "Pearls are expensive."
The cousin was an accountant.
"Sherlock, stop it," commanded John. "It sounds like an excellent restorative, Mr. Holmes. Thank you."
"Father," corrected Father. "I did ask you to call me Father."
"But it's poisonous!" yelled Sherlock
"Not to a fairrr…I mean not to a leprechaun," said Father.
"He's right, Sherlock." said John, sipping the adulterated tea appreciatively. "It isn't poisonous for a leprechaun. Still, I'm very grateful for addition of the pearl."
"Think nothing of it my boy," said Father warmly. "Nacre is a poor substitute for blood stones or ambergris but 'needs must', as they say."
"Mm," agreed John, whose lips were already pinking up. "Say…have you ever tried a pinch of dragon scale as a restorative?"
"Oh, no, no," said Father with a self-deprecating smile that was identical to the one John often wore. "No, I've never gotten my hands on a dragon scale, but I did have a griffin claw once and that turned the tide when Sherlock had such a bad case of pneumonia…"
Sherlock was gratified that his father seemed to appreciate John, but how was it that Father could converse with John about supernatural healing? And why was Father so comfortable with notion of fairies and leprechauns in the first place?
And why hadn't anyone commented on the disappearance of John's facial cut or the presence of vampires and the Grim Reaper at the tea party? Answer: because they were already aware of the supernatural world, just like Mycroft.
Sherlock had already surmised that his and Mycroft's fairy sight had been inherited. Of course, it only made sense that many of his blood relatives would also have this trait. Naturally, he had assumed that it came from their extraordinary mother. But now…
John swallowed the restorative concoction and nodded as father reviewed the relative benefits of griffin's claws verses nacre and dragon scales.
"Oh my God," said Sherlock out loud. "The fairy sight comes from the Father's side of the family not Mummy's."
"Yes, that's right," said Father who actually blushed a tiny bit. "It's funny, your brother also assumed the Faerie blood came from Mummy."
"Wait, you're Faeries?" boomed the Hunter, looking first at Father and then at Sherlock. "Must be half-breeds."
"Yes, we have Faerie blood from several generations back," said Father, who didn't look at all insulted by the term half-breed. "I'm afraid that no one in the family recalls precisely when a Holmes joined with one of the Fae. The Faerie blood passes into each generation with different gifts, skipping some entirely."
"And no one saw fit to mention any of this to me?" demanded Sherlock.
"Well, no, son. Mycroft thought it was best to say nothing," said Father. "We all assumed the Faerie traits had skipped over you; since you hadn't shown any of the usual signs…until now apparently."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock spat out the name like a curse.
Sulking, the consulting detective dropped back into John's chair, dragging his leprechaun with him, so that there would be no doubt as to his claim on the beguiling blond.
Father blathered on about who in the family had inherited Faerie traits and who hadn't; and added more about some Great Uncle Winslow, who didn't develop them until his fifties.
John seemed much stronger after his restorative draught, but now he was ravenous, eating everything within reach including fruitcake.
Fruitcake?
"Who went downstairs for the fruitcake?" bellowed Sherlock. "The cellar is supposed to be off-limits!"
"I went down for the fruitcake, young man," said Beatrice. "I love fruitcake."
"But no one is to disturb the crime scene!" blurted Sherlock, foregoing any attempt at subterfuge. After all they were taking about Faeries in front of the whole family as if everyone knew, aside from Sherlock of course.
"Fiddlesticks. We're dealing with a curse, not a common murderer," said Beatrice. "Besides, I thought your…your…friend here, might like some cake to build up his strength," she added, handing John another heavy piece of cake.
John nodded appreciatively, unable to speak because his teeth were stuck together, presumably from his first slice of fruitcake.
Sherlock leaned back in a funk. Even Beatrice seemed to have some understanding of Faeries and magic, and she was from the Vernet—not Holmes—side of the family.
Beatrice knew about the Other World, and Sherlock had never been told anything! If he hadn't met the leprechaun, he might never have been told.
Sherlock envied John his lack of annoying family members, temporarily forgetting John's daughter, Harry, and her mother, the Wicked Witch of the West. John didn't have family who kept important secrets from him, thought Sherlock. John didn't have a nosy, manipulative brother who made decisions about him behind his back.
The consulting detective was wrested from his sulk when the over-large suitor leaned forward, clapping a ham-sized hand on John's knee.
"Ach, now that potion's brought a bit o'color to your cheeks," boomed Fionn. "Verra nice, y'look too, Johnny m'lad. You'll make a fine addition to m'stable. Ah've never had leprechaun to bed before. Ah'm sure it'll be a magical experience. An' think o' the luck. Think o' the fertility. Think o' the bairns. "
The huge man dropped suddenly to his knees, rocking the house more than the storms had. Adrien deftly caught a porcelain figure, which had been jarred loose by Fionn.
"John Hamish Watson," intoned Fionn. "Ah have it on good authority that you are leaving this mortal coil one way or t'other tonight, oonless one o' the sacrifices fulfills the curse, whicht it probly won't, given tha' the curse is on you and yur the only leprechaun in the vicinity." From under his bushy eyebrows, Fionn sent a sharp, knowing look towards the twins.
"Well, a random sacrifice…" said Jacinth.
"…might stop the curse," said Adrien.
"It's possible!" protested the twins in unison.
"Or not!" boomed Fionn. "Mos' likely, people will just keep dyin' to restore the balance until the curse finds its target. Unless it's a girt big sacrifice."
Adrien made to protest, but Fionn silenced him with a wave of his hand.
"So, John Watson! You can die. Or you can live in the dark netherworld forever, sharing the cold comforts of the Grim Reaper's crypt. Or you can come with me, where you'll join the hunt, ridin' in the free air and riddin' the worlds o' monsters and stoppin' the spread o' evil and facin' danger right 'n left, which ev'ryone knows appeals to your fancy, an' where y'can practice your healin' magics, savin' people, which ev'ryone knows y' also fancy."
"No, don' interroopt laddie," said Fionn, easily shushing John by covering his mouth with his large hand. "Now, I oonderstand you fancy this boy here, an' he's a fine looking lad, fur a half-breed, an' smart too, I hear. So its too bad that you have t' part ways, but I'm sure, giv'n time, your puir little heart will heal. Hearts alwus do heal, laddie. They alwus do. An' tho it's not a love match between us, you'll have lots o' work to kep you busy, specially once the bairns arrive."
"Well, that proposal would certainly appeal to the finer feelings of any prospective bride. I can't imagine how our John could possibly refuse your suit," said Richard drily.
"Consort, not bride," corrected Fionn quickly.
John had turned into a statue, so it was up to Sherlock to speak.
"But, but..." sputtered Sherlock, unable to find a better word aside from, "No, no, no, no!"
"If Jean accepts Fionn's suit," said Jacinth.
"…which he will, if he's smart…" added the short, male, who locked his own blue eyes on John's. Sherlock interpreted this to mean, 'do it, or else'.
"…then, Jean will be..."
"...officially named as..."
"...your consort?" asked Jacinth.
"With all the rights..." continued Adrien.
"...and privileges which accrue to that station?" finished the blond with the acuity of a well-trained barrister.
"Aye, he'll be my one hundred and se'enty fifth consort, wi' all rights and privileges due to him and his issue..." agreed Fionn.
"For God's sake, John," snapped Death, "you cannot consider this offer seriously! I love you. I offer you my hand..." Mortimer held out his large, nearly skeletal hand in entreaty, "...in marriage. Marriage, not concubinage in his stable of consorts. I offer you my name and status and home. All Fionn offers you is danger and an occasional roll in the hay."
"You lyin', sad sack, gloomy, arse-faced prat," thundered Fionn. "Ah almost ne'er take my consorts in the hay. Ah'll take Johnny to m' bed o' course."
"More the fool you, for you shall never truly have him either," snarled Death. "He's given his heart away and will die with out it."
"Yur the fool," said Fionn. "Ah'm not seekin' his heart. He can stow it where he will. And he canna' die when he's with me, because Ah am Wild Magic."
The huge man's scowl softened only marginally as he turned back to the leprechaun. "We'll be going now lad."
Fionn fairly glowed with command, masculinity and desire as if the Wild Magic leaked from his very pores. The detective abruptly realized that this was precisely what he was seeing. This Finn person was using glamour to bewitch John.
Sure enough, the leprechaun leaned forward as if hopelessly attracted to the supernatural hunter, then stopped himself with a tight little smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"No, no, no!" shouted Sherlock, finding his voice at last. "John, don't go…"
"I'm not going with him, Sherlock," said John. "I'll not be his man's concubine. I'd rather die…"
"No, you are not dying either," snapped Sherlock. "You will stay with me, and we'll will come up with a plan."
"Mr. Holmes," said Adrien.
"…we fear..." added Jacinth.
"...that you do not..."
"...fully comprehend..."
"...Jean's predicament," scolded the short blond vampire.
"It is clear that..."
"...Jean was meant to die..."
"…earlier tonight…"
"...but Death broke his covenant..."
"...stopping Jean's death twice."
"And that's supposed to be a bad thing?" sputtered the indignant consulting detective.
"Sherlock, wait; they're trying to help," said John. "If I understand this right, because Fate was thwarted, there is a death that is owed. That's the cause of the imbalance."
"Precisely!" crowed Jacinth proudly, as if John were her star pupil.
"But the imbalance started just after we returned to the house—before Mortimer began to interfere," protested John.
"That is exactly right, Jean," agreed Adrien.
"…the imbalance began when you did not agree to ride with the Fianna..." said Jacinth.
"…everyone aways follows Fionn's commands."
"It's always interested us…"
"…how you resist the call of the Wild Magic." Adrien smiled toothily, fangs and all.
"But that is a question for later," suggested his sister.
"…because the imbalance has steadily worsened, and the curse demands that a life be forfeited," said the blond, who actually looked like a dangerous bloodsucker for the first time that evening.
"Sacrifices will be taken to right the balance, though the curse may still demand its due from you, Jean, one way or another," said Jacinth.
"It will be less painful if you decide now," advised Adrien.
"Do you realize, that you both just spoke in complete sentences?" snarked the angry detective. "Maybe that's astonishing enough to restore your stupid balance."
""Your rudeness..."
"...will not alleviate..."
"...the problem..."
"...that we all face," hissed the twins who both blushed in dismay.
"No, stop it, everyone. I'm trying to understand this. I have been cursed, I have to die or fulfill the curse by surrendering my earthly life to Death or Fionn and the Wild Hunt. And as long as I try to avoid my fate, others might die," said John.
"Excellent!"
"Jean has hit..."
"...the nail on the head!" approved Adrien.
"That's not fair!" shouted Sherlock. "There must be a way to stop this idiocy!"
"I choose death," said John calmly.
Death smirked like a specter from a horror film, as Fionn smashed a hole in the floor with his anvil-like fist. The witnesses murmured in mixed relief and consternation.
"John, no! You can't marry him…" began Sherlock.
"I must insist that you give me John's heart," Mortimer said to Sherlock.
"You've all misunderstood everything," said John wearing a fierce little smile and a dark glare. "I gave my heart to Sherlock, and that's where it stays forever. I didn't choose to marry Death. I chose to die. I won't let someone else die in my stead, and I won't marry anyone—or become someone's concubine," he added with a scowl to Fionn. "You may kill me now at your convenience."
Maybe John was still a bit tipsy from nearly draining himself utterly, or perhaps he was affected by Father's strong restorative. Of course, John was a leprechaun, and sometimes he just enjoyed a good dramatic gesture. In any case, he dragged down the collar of his turtleneck, baring his neck for some executioner's blade.
The excited and overwrought relations protested in dismay. Their loud cries were were interspersed with a few quietly anonymous suggestions to quickly accept John's noble sacrifice so as to save themselves.
Sherlock, of course, never gave into melodramatic impulses, still he tugged John's shirt collar up and then covered his lover's neck with his own blue scarf, which had been hanging by the fire to dry. True, the scarf would not stop a hypothetical executioner's blade, but it made Sherlock's stance crystal clear.
John pulled at the scarf, trying to remove it. He finally relented after his detective cupped his hand in both of his and said, "Don't, John. Please, don't."
John could never resist Sherlock when he said please.
The two ill-fated lovers gazed into one another's eyes. John's dark blue gaze drowned in Sherlock's icy blue depths, and Sherlock lost himself in contemplation of his leprechaun.
Mummy uncharacteristically burst into tears, undone by the repeated threats to her family, especially to her sons and the leprechaun who had taught her youngest son how to love.
Father tutted and wrung his hands, looking for Mycroft to put in an appearance and suggest a way to salvage the night.
Just then a very dramatic, blood-curdling scream ripped through the room. The scream was repeated, stunning even Fionn mac Cumhaill and the Grim Reaper into silence.
A/N Thank you for reading my story. I would very much appreciate hearing your comments or suggestions for improving this story, which can be accomplished conveniently by using the review button below.
Ritual Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock (BBC or otherwise), nor do I own the rights to any of the characters from the television show or the books.
(:D)