A/N My wonderful Beta, Old Ping Hai, proof read this chapter. I am very grateful for her encouragement, suggestions and editing prowess. Any remaining errors are my own.
Disclaimer Sherlock and most of the other characters belong to ACD, the BBC or Mofftiss.
Translations from Gaelic to English
céile means consort, Céile na Fionn means Consort of Fionn.
A chroí means my heart
Fionn mac Cumhaill is roughly pronounced Finn McCool, just in case you wanted to know.
(This mini-Gaelic lesson is based on Internet translators—my apologies for any errors.)
Chapter 9
"No! No!" yelled John and Avaril simultaneously.
"Achh, it's just a little scratch," complained Boudicca. The warrior wore a short tunic and molded armor that looked like a costume out of Hollywood.
"I think I understand," said Sherlock calmly. "The blade was poisoned. That's why it doesn't hurt; in fact, I can feel my arm going numb..."
"No. It's not fatal. He's not dying," snarled John, beginning to glow. He laid a hand on Sherlock and gasped.
Death growled and jerked John away from the pale detective.
"You cannot heal him from this ill," said Mortimer. "You have not the strength. If you attempt healing, you will only serve to die and still the poison will take the human."
"Fine! I'll go with him. I'm happy to go," snapped the leprechaun, who was trying to pull out of the Grim Reaper's grip.
"No, John!" gasped Sherlock. He felt no pain. He only felt tired as a chill seeped throughout his body. He frowned at his frantic lover. "Don't be stupid, John; I'd never let you die for me!"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Just…" John paused, biting his lip until it bled. "Okay, okay. I don't have the strength ...I need strength. I need…anyone have any ambergris? Bloodstones? No. No, of course not. No one ever carries anything useful in their pockets."
"John?" muttered Sherlock. He was so cold and a tiny bit afraid. Mostly he was sad that he'd never see John again. He desperately wanted John's arms around him now. He called for John again, but the leprechaun was pacing about, muttering to himself.
"Okay. I need a sacrifice. I need blood," demanded John, any qualms about sacrifices forgotten.
"You can have some of mine," said Ruby, instantly slashing her arm with a long claw. "I won't standby and watch near-kin lose a mate."
Death raised a clawed finger to his mouth considering, then shook his head saying, "No, the poison is too strong. The blood will not suffice."
"The hell you say," muttered John, who was collecting the blood dripping from Ruby's wrist with his bare hands. "Why should I ever believe a word from you..."
The leprechaun's quiet tirade ended when he began to wash his hands in Ruby's blood. A few droplets fell to the grass, as the sprite seemingly absorbed the rest of the sacrifice.
"I've called for backup," said Mycroft. "A team will be here with full medical support in ten minutes."
"The man will be dead in five," said Mortimer.
Glowing brightly, John grabbed his detective's arm again, and closed his eyes.
Sherlock felt a tendril of warmth. He sensed John's love and his frantic need to heal. He smelled flowers and damp grass and ashes, but he tasted ashes and death.
John, cleansed of blood, began to slump over like soft wax, but Fionn supported the blond easily.
"All right, tha's enough, laddie," said Fionn sounding oddly gentle. "Ye don't have the power to heal this one. There's no shame in admitting defeat."
"No…what…I…Wait, wait, wait! What's the poison? I don't recognize this poison!" snarled John, who would have stumbled if Fionn hadn't held him upright.
Sherlock shuddered as his lover's healing warmth faded under the poison's onslaught. "John, I…I need you…please…just…hold me now."
John looked over at him, his own face bloodless and grey. "No. a chroí, first I have to heal you," said the leprechaun, drawing a knife out of nowhere.
John advanced towards Avaril looking like a shorter, fleece-wearing version of Death. Once more, the sprite stumbled, but the Hunter caught his elbow.
"You!" the desperate leprechaun hissed at Avaril. "What poison did you use?"
"I...no. It wasn't for Sherlock! I love Sherlock," sobbed Avaril. "We were meant to be...be..."
"Gah!" growled the Hunter, slapping the sobbing woman while still supporting the trembling Leprechaun. "Stop your blubbering! Name the poison!" Fionn grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up.
"I...I...he said...he said if all else failed, to use the knife," whispered Avaril.
"And…" prompted Fionn.
"The knife is poisonous," said Avaril "It's been washed in the blood of the hydra."
"The human will die," said Mortimer, reaching for Sherlock. "I will collect his soul gently."
"No! Stop!" yelled Mycroft, "Take me. Take me instead!"
"It is too late. He is almost dead now," said Death, not unkindly.
Part of Sherlock was astounded. Only now, at the end, did he see the real Mycroft. His brother really did love him. But it was too late. Too late for words, too late for reconciliation. Glacial cold spread through the veins of the younger Holmes, slowing everything down. It slowed down his breathing, his heart and his mind. He wanted...he wanted warmth, light and his beautiful leprechaun.
"John," croaked Sherlock, finally falling backwards, into the tender embrace of Death.
"I'll take her life," yelled John, his eyes blazing wildly, brighter than stars. Avaril screamed and curled in on herself. "I will take her in sacrifice. A life for a life."
"No, John," whispered Sherlock who felt so very, very tired. He was grateful that he wasn't in pain and could gaze upon his beloved leprechaun's face until the end. "I...I do not...will not accept...I will not allow you...to do that. It would destroy you."
"I'm not asking you for permission," growled John, looking feral and bloodthirsty.
"Healer..."
"...unless the sacrifice..."
"...is freely given..."
"...and freely accepted..."
"...the power gained..."
"...will take your soul and yet you will still fail." the twins intoned this last in unison.
"No! No. No, don't let him hurt me," sobbed Avaril. "The nasty, horrible little beast."
"Come and kiss me good bye, John..." whispered Sherlock weakly. Breathing was taking too much effort, but John...
"No. I won't," sobbed John. "No good byes. Not for us."
The leprechaun turned and turned in a circle, searching in the eyes of the onlookers for an answer, for some escape from this doom.
"John!" choked Sherlock, trying to draw his lover to him.
The leprechaun ignored his plea, slowly turning in his clumsy, stumbling dance, pressing his small hand against his mouth. "There's a way. I just need strength…strength…power…Has to be…" John continued to spin. His mouth twisted as if he were in agony.
Sherlock relaxed into Mortimer's arms. Relishing his final moments of relative clarity before he fell into darkness. His mind had always been his true treasure, at least until he met John.
It was ironic, thought Sherlock; he was surrounded men and women of legend, fairy tale creatures and so-called monsters. And yet, the only real monster was a human, his damned cousin, Avaril.
John faced him at last. His adorable face had crumbled into furrows as he narrowed his eyes. It was the leprechaun's thinking face. Sherlock admired his darling lover even as the edges of the world grew dim and John turned away from him. Sherlock's world was fading each slow beat of his heart.
"Jo...John," Sherlock called out.
"Fionn mac Cumhaill!" yelled John suddenly. The leprechaun threw himself on his knees before the giant. "I accept your offer."
"What?" asked Fionn.
"What?" whispered Sherlock. The shock rousing him from his deadly stupor. Still, he barely noticed that Mycroft was holding his hand and fighting back tears.
"You offered...you said you'd take me. I will be your man—your huntsman and consort."
"Oh, aye! O'course, Johnny," said the Hunter, with a glint in his eye. "Ah'll take ye. We'll have the ceremony right and proper, after t'night's hunt," said the giant, leaning down to take John's outstretched hand.
"John! No..." whispered Sherlock, struggling in the Grim Reaper's arms.
"John Watson, what are you doing?" demanded Death angrily.
"Now. Fionn. Now. Right now! Say you take me as your consort now!" ordered John, sounding like an officer of his Majesty's Infantry and shoving aside the Grim Reaper with his mortal burden.
"Jawhnnn," Sherlock called weakly.
"Well, o'course Ah want ye. Haven't Ah been askin' fer ye t'join my hunt..."
"This is not necessary," interrupted Death, holding the dying detective aloft. "The sacrifice has been made."
"Huntsman and consort," insisted John.
"Filthy, fickle leprechaun," hissed Mycroft, trying to drag his brother out of Death's strong arms.
"So, eager then," preened Fionn. "You know, Ah'd be willin' to bed you without all the ceremony needed for concubinage."
"Jawhnnn, no...nooo," whispered Sherlock voicelessly.
"Accept me now, Fionn mac Cumhaill. Take me as your liegeman and consort."
"All right laddie," said Fionn with a broad grin. "I accept you as my vassal, my huntsman and my one hundred and seventy-fifth consort."
"No!" cried Sherlock and Death in unison.
"Now bind me!" demanded John.
"What? Here in front of everyone?" asked the incredulous Hunter. "What aboot the ceremony?"
"Damn the ceremony! Just do it! Now!" snarled John.
"Well, if you insist laddie," said Fionn, reaching for his belt with his free hand. "Tho' it don' seem quite proper, what with…"
"No, not that way!" screeched John. "You can take me later!"
"Welllll, that's wot Ah suggested in the first place, y'daft, leetle sprite," said Fionn.
John pressed his lips together, then leaned forward, steadying himself with one hand on the giant's hip and raised his knife.
"Hey now! Tha's my knife," said Fionn.
"No, John! Don't do it," squawked Death, as John drew the blade across the meat of his hand, hissing at the pain.
"Blood to blood, body to body, I will bind myself to thee!" growled John from between clenched teeth, as his wine-dark blood dripped from his offered hand.
Sherlock gasped, his whispered 'no's' going unheard.
Fionn mac Cumhaill narrowed his eyes, appraising the leprechaun kneeling in front of him before nodding grimly. The hunter accepted the bloody blade, slashing his own hand in silence, "Your blood to my blood, your body to my body, your blood is my blood, your body is my body, you are bound to me."
Their bloody hands joined, and coruscating light burst forth at their touch, blinding Sherlock for a few moments. He blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes of tears.
The world blearily returned to view, and it was certainly no longer dark. John was incandescent as he slowly rose to a stand. His golden hair stood on end, like flames. His blue eyes blazed. John's light illuminated the glade as if day had returned.
John dropped the Hunter's huge hand and turned towards Sherlock.
"Johnny, ye belong to me now," warned Fionn.
"Surely I am due a gift as your one hundred and seventy-fifth céile," said John, whose gaze fixed on Sherlock's eyes.
John Watson was beautiful, thought Sherlock, and he was finally, finally coming back to Sherlock.
The leprechaun touched Mycroft with just a finger, and Sherlock's brother flew aside. The lambent sprite stopped in front of Death, whose jaw hung loose like a broken skeleton.
"Sherlock Holmes does not belong to you. The sacrifice is mine," said John.
Mouth moving in wordless denials, Mortimer released the detective into the short blond's arms. The leprechaun carefully knelt, cradling Sherlock's limp, grey form to his chest.
John bent his head and kissed the dying detective full on the lips. The first thing Sherlock felt was heat. The sprite's lips were like fire, heating his blood. Next, John's golden aura surrounded the dying man and warmth suffused him as inexorable as the incoming tide.
Sherlock's world was reborn; it was full of light, warmth and John's unwavering adoration. Sherlock was nearly blinded once more by the light radiating from John's shining face; he shivered even as heat pouring into his body from the fiery lips and hands of his supernatural healer.
Sherlock's body burned, his blood burned, his lips burned. It was fine; it was all fine, because at last, he was in John's arms. And Sherlock could taste John on his tongue. He could smell dew on the rose, the damp earth and grass growing wild under a summer sun. He could taste honey and springtime and the very essence of John, as fierce, wild magic, tempered by his magical lover, flowed into him, burning away the hydra's poison.
He felt the leprechaun's love and returned it four-fold with a bruising kiss, his tongue chasing John's tongue. He moaned with the return of his strength. He groaned in pain and joy as his vitality turned to fierce desire.
Slowly the light dimmed. One moment, he held John and John held him. Then the leprechaun was gone. Sherlock Holmes dropped to the cold wet ground, bereft and cold in the dark.
The detective blinked. At first, he was barely able to see anything in the startling dark, but his eyes quickly began to adapt. To his surprise, it was easy to breathe or sit up on his own. He felt fully restored. All was well—except, where was John? He rose gracefully, looking for his precious leprechaun.
"It's a miracle," murmured Mycroft, hugging his brother close—much to Sherlock's astonished dismay.
"It wasn't a miracle. It was the Wild Magic. Which I borrowed fairly, in exchange for myself," said John, looking askance at the Hunter.
"Aye, I s'pose the trade was fair," agreed the Hunter warily.
"The sacrifice...is...sufficient," intoned Death weakly.
"Bloody damn right it is," muttered John darkly. He stalked toward he Grim Reaper, but the Hunter placed a restraining hand on John's all-too-convenient elbow.
"Easy now, lad. Let's not be makin' the world even more unbalanced," warned Fionn.
"You'll be pleased to know that's no longer an issue; the balance has been restored," said the Grim Reaper. "And all's well..."
"The balance that you disrupted," the leprechaun accused Death. "You shouldn't have meddled."
"I only wanted to save you..."
"Save me? DO I LOOK SAVED?" shouted John.
"Yes?" replied Mortimer uncertainly.
"No!" cried the leprechaun, driving his finger into the Reaper's broad chest.
"You are saved. And you are coomin' w'me," said Fionn sternly.
"In a minute," snapped John, before adding a surly, "My lord."
"Ah don' recall leprechauns bein' quite this testy," murmured Fionn mac Cumhaill.
"Did you think I would be grateful " John demanded the Angel of Death, "It would have been kinder to let me die. Now I have to…" The short blond noted the glowering giant at his side. "Right. Well, never mind! Just…just, are you sure the bloody balance is restored, because if anyone else has to almost die, well, I'm still full to bursting with the Wild Magic. Anyone need healing? Luck? Fertility? Anyone? Hm?"
Ruby hesitatingly held out her hand. The healer's dark scowl softened momentarily as he effortlessly healed the deep cut on her hand. Werewolf and leprechaun nodded formally.
"Anyone else?" demanded John. "I'm full to bursting here…"
Sherlock did not like the barely suppressed hysteria in his partner's voice and moved to comfort him.
"John," began the detective, reaching toward his lover.
"Keep yer distance, mortal," rumbled Fionn. "Do not presume to touch the céile na Fionn."
"But, but..." stuttered Sherlock, who never stuttered. "But he needs me. We…"
"No, Johnny-boy belongs to me," rumbled Fionn. "Say good bye, Johnny, m'lad."
"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes," said John without meeting Sherlock's eyes.
"No! You said, 'No good byes,' exclaimed the detective.
"Enough! Coom along, céile," said Fionn, shaking John's elbow.
Sherlock wanted to protest, but he felt numb again. But this wasn't from any poison. It sounded as if John were leaving him, and the very idea short-circuited his hard drive. All he got out was a stupid sounding, "What?"
John turned on the Hunter like a vicious pug. "Wait! That…that…that man paid… a bride price for me," said John with a voice as hard as his dark eyes. "It would be unlucky if I didn't repay the bride price."
That stopped the mighty Hunter in his tracks.
"Ach, weel…Ah suppose tha's true—a deal is a deal," grumbled the Hunter, sounding like an echo of the incessant thunder. "O'course Ah don' want bad luck queering the Hunt, so take care o' the business, Johnny, but be quick aboot it. There's a storm brewing over the Hornisgrinde, and Ah don' intend t'miss it."
John turned back to the consulting detective with a soft, affectionate smile, although the Hunter kept them apart by keeping a hold of John's elbow, "Know this, Sherlock Homes, I bless the day that I first laid eyes on you, and...and..." John's voice began to break. Sherlock imagined that he felt his own heart breaking at the same time. "And…and it was worth all this, hm… all this, just to have been able to spend time with you. I…I shall…treasure the memories…until the end."
"Get to the repayment part, leprechaun. Tha' storm willna last all night," said Fionn impatiently.
"Right…So…it seems that I cannot in fact…Hm. Hm…It seems…I cannot accept your gifts after all. But, lacking money, I cannot repay in kind…Mm." John cleared his throat and ignored the tears gathering his eyes. "So…I have re-gifted you with amazing good luck, vitality and health. I hope my gifts keep you right, because this world is in need of your genius and brilliance."
Sherlock blinked. John was leaving. He tried to step forward but someone held him back. He didn't dare to open his mouth, for fear a sob would escape, and Sherlock never cried.
"Now, are ye doon?"
"One last…good bye," said John. His gentle smile turned deadly as he cast his eyes upon Avaril, pointing a shaking finger at her, "As for you, Avaril Holmes, I have marked you. You shall be luckless, until the Reaper gathers you to the ninth circle of hell. You and whoever sold you that poison. May this curse extend to you all. I curse you—with ill-luck and infertility…and piles…and bad breath too."
"John…I mean…" said Mortimer, eyeing the menacing Fionn diffidently. "I mean, Céile na Fionn, I wish you to know that I did not plan any of this..."
"What are you still doing here?" demanded John. "There're no souls for you to gather. And even if I am dead to this world, thanks to you…"
"Me?" squeaked Mortimer.
"Yes, you. Anyway, you will never gather my soul as long as I belong to Fionn mac Cumhaill," said John, turning his back on Death. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and added, "I hope I'm lucky enough never to see you at tea—or anywhere else—ever again."
Death gasped as if sucker-punched.
Sherlock wondered if John's pronouncements were some form of magic or a type of foretelling. Judging from Mortimer's reaction, he supposed they might be.
But that hardly mattered, Sherlock thought, trying to shake himself out of his mental stasis. John was leaving. Finn escorted the leprechaun towards a line of mounted horses, which had magically appeared out of the shadows.
'Wake up, idiot!' he shouted to himself. 'John. Is. Leaving!'
"Wait! John! Where are you going?" demanded Sherlock, trying to free himself from Richard's inhumanly strong grip. "You can't go. Where is John going? When will I see him again? Let go of my arm, God damn it!"
"John belongs to the Hunter," snapped Richard, "He no longer belongs to you. He doesn't even belong to this world anymore; that's why his sacrifice was acceptable!"
"What? That's stupid. He's not dead. John! Wait...wait for me! I'll come with you."
To Sherlock's surprise and horror, John didn't look back. He didn't even break step as he marched alongside his new lord and master.
"Stop it, Sherlock," hissed Mycroft, "You can't go, nor are you wanted."
Fionn released his new consort's arm and mounted a huge black steed.
Without warning, a tall, dark-haired huntsman scooped John up.
"For the love of God, put me down, you great bloody oaf!" protested John, even as he was lifted onto Fionn's mighty black horse.
The tall huntsman shook his head, sharing a laugh with Fionn and the other Fianna at the leprechaun's expense. Meanwhile, John scrambled into place behind the great Hunter, wrapping his arms partway around Fionn's wide waist.
"John?" called Sherlock, "John, you promised...you're mine."
"Hisst," spat the twins together.
"Don't say thing's like that..." whispered Jacinth
"...about the Céile na Fionn."
"The Hunter is..."
"...fiercely possessive..."
"...of his fresh meat… … …"
Adrien slapped a pale hand over his sibling's mouth.
"...of his recent acquisitions," Adrien finished.
Jacinth smiled approvingly at her undead sibling, apparently proud of his chosen euphemism.
"No!" Sherlock's voice choked out. "No. He's my soul mate. I thought that was supposed to mean something to you people?"
The air was charged with tension, smelling of ozone, crackling with energy. The horses stamped restlessly.
"We have to stop them! John is mine…I…I paid a bride price," said Sherlock in desperation.
"Were you not listening? John repaid the bride price with his gifts of health and luck," said Richard. "And soul mates are not guaranteed a happy ending. John made his choice; he gave up everything, so that you could live. Now, stand up straight and in silence to honor his sacrifice."
The vampire stood at attention although he kept an iron grip on Sherlock's upper arm. All the vampires and even the nude werewolf stupidly stood at attention, like mindless puppets, letting Fionn steal the love of Sherlock's life.
It was so stupid!
"This is stupid!" shouted Sherlock, heedless of the hissed warnings. "This is the twenty-first century. We can't just let them steal John away like…like Viking raiders!"
"Fianna, ho!" bellowed Fionn mac Cumhaill, sounding rough, stupid and ignorant, and HE WAS TAKING JOHN WITH HIM!
"No, John! No! Dammit, John, look at me! Look at me!" roared Sherlock. "Don't you care?"
Nothing.
This was it. John was leaving. Sherlock struggled harder.
The clouds overhead churned; and thunder rolled. It sounded as if unseen horses already galloped overhead, even as the Hunt waited in silence—aside from the stamp of a hoof, the clink of metal on metal and someone's sigh.
Fionn raised a horn to his lips and blew. Sherlock heard nothing. However the horn must have sounded in the ears of the Fianna and their mounts, because the horses sprang forward, rising like a flock of very large, four-legged birds. Fionn's riders flew into the sky, riding over the trees, rising up, up, up. In an instant, lasting no longer than a flash of lightning, they were gone. Swallowed up by the wrack and ruin of the storm clouds.
John never looked back, not even once.
The storm vanished with the Hunt. The thunder and lightning were only memories. The wind and rain both stopped, though a fog was rising. The glade was very dark without the magic to illuminate it.
John was gone.
Avaril remained huddled on the ground, sobbing quietly. Maybe she didn't realize that no one was watching. Maybe she didn't realize that no one cared.
No one would even care if she made a run for freedom. The consulting detective rather hoped that she would run. Tracking her down would give him something to do, and he could kill her accidentally on purpose when he tried to recapture her. She deserved death for trying to kill John and for driving John away...into the sky...forcing him into some unholy union with a giant oaf of a huntsman.
Sherlock shook his head, trying to wrap his head around John's disappearance. How could Sherlock get him back? Could he get him back? How could he not get him back?
Richard released the consulting detective's arm, muttering about how Mycroft owed him favors. Sherlock presumed he was referring to sexual favors and could care less.
John was gone.
Mycroft issued orders into his mobile, probably trying to recall the rescue mission. As if that mattered.
John was gone.
"He. Is. GONE!" Sherlock shouted into the empty night sky. "He's gone and he didn't...he didn't even look back! Not once!"
"Mind where you step, Sherlock Holmes," said Richard, pointing to the trampled grass littered with fresh horse droppings.
"Oh what does it matter if I step in shite!" yelled Sherlock. "My life is shite!"
"I wasn't referring to the shite, as you so colorfully put it," said Richard fastidiously. "I'm referring to the flower that he left for you, which you would see if you bothered to cultivate your Faerie sight."
The vampire pulled a torch from Mycroft's pocket, shining it past mounds of steaming horse shite and over to a single blood-red rose, lying half-hidden in the weeds.
"Oh..."
"...very nice," admired Jacinth.
"I didn't realize..."
"...that John was such a romantic…"
"…or that he could command such power," said Adrien wonderingly.
"I don't believe that he ever could have…"
"…grown a rose from his heart's blood before tonight."
The twins paused and then nodded to one another, saying together, "That will be due the Wild Magic."
Sherlock glared at the flower. It looked perfect, bedewed with raindrops and luminous in the light of the torch.
The young human growled under his breath, "To hell with the damned flower."
It wasn't John. John was gone.
Sherlock turned to storm back to the house. He hadn't gone twenty feet, when he pivoted again, running back to gather the single blossom that was all that remained of John.
He picked up the rose, immediately pricking his thumb on a thorn. Leave it to the scatterbrained leprechaun to plan a rescue that left Sherlock's heart broken, then conjure a thorn-ridden flower, dropping his gift in a field full of dung, before riding off into a storm with a troop of supernatural barbarians.
"Now, I'll probably get tetanus," muttered Sherlock, hoping that the rose really would kill him. It would be more merciful than facing a life without his John.
The werewolf, still in human form, began to sidle off toward the trees. No one, aside from Sherlock noticed, and Sherlock certainly didn't care.
"I've canceled the emergency team," said Mycroft officiously, "but have summoned the police to collect Cousin Avaril. I suggest we act as though she's mad, which she undoubtedly is. Nevertheless, we'll have to explain to Mummy..."
"Shut up, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "You're babbling."
Mycroft uttered a classic British harrumph. "Well, I suggest we get back to the house..."
"Keep your suggestions to yourself. I'm busy. I'm…collecting evidence," said Sherlock. He wrapped the poisoned knife in his handkerchief and pocketed it.
"You should leave that for the police, Sherlock," said the elder Holmes brother.
"Really?" Sherlock asked, furious at his brother's interruptions and idiotic suggestions. Anyway, who cared about Avaril or the police?
John was gone.
Besides, Sherlock didn't want the local constabulary mucking about and destroying clues that might lead to John's rescue, even if such a rescue seemed highly improbable.
He glared at his supercilious sibling. "Assuming that Avaril told us the truth about the poison, do you suppose that any forensics lab in Britain will be able to identify hydra blood in their toxicology analysis? And do you seriously believe that the local constabulary will believe that a troop of mythical riders flew off with my...with John? And how do you plan to explain a werewolf, a trio of vampires, and the Grim Reaper?"
"Naturally, I hadn't planned to tell them about the poison or Fionn mac Cumhaill and his rogue leprechaun," said Mycroft, tapping his index finger on his lips.
"Well, that leaves the police without a crime to solve, doesn't it?" sneered Sherlock.
"Yes," agreed Mycroft, "perhaps…you're right. In fact, there is no reason to involve the police at all."
The government official sighed. He hated it when Sherlock outthought him. Nevertheless, he quickly returned to his phone, blocking any police visitations with lies about inebriated guests getting lost in the woods but now they were found and everything was all right, thank you so much, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.
'Mycroft always has to talk everyone to death. And everything is not all right,' thought Sherlock. 'It will never be all right again. John is gone.'
He searched for more evidence. He found smears of blood, boot prints and horse droppings—but were they likely to help find John? Probably not; but the manure might give Sherlock a clue about where the supernatural horses had been pastured, which might help to pinpoint the location of Fionn's lair. The blood samples probably wouldn't help, unless Ruby or Fionn had priors, which was unlikely, though not impossible.
Collecting the admittedly questionable evidence would be tricky. The consulting detective would require plastic bags to collect not only the blood-smeared foliage but also the rank manure.
He pulled at his own hair in frustration. Why had he agreed to the Death Tea? Why hadn't he fled with his leprechaun at the first hint of danger? Why hadn't he seen the threat posed by his murderous cousin? Why couldn't he think properly? What should he do now?
Nothing.
There was nothing that he could do. John was gone, and he'd have to wait until daylight before studying the crime scene in the detail required to be of any practical use.
"...honestly, some forewarning would have been much appreciated," Mycroft was saying to Richard, who looked rather like schoolboy who'd been sent to the headmaster's office after an unfortunate prank. "And why on earth was Avaril trying to kill John?"
"Oh Mycroft," Sherlock grated out. "and you've always fancied yourself to be the observant one? It's perfectly clear now. Avaril was invited to Mummy's tea with an invitation which specifically referred to 'my boyfriend, John'." Sherlock's voice dripped with bitterness. "But our dear cousin has spent years nursing a tendre for me. Avaril came to tea with the explicit goal of removing her rival, my John."
"I suspect that she has inherited the fairy-ish tendencies which, unbeknownst to me, ran rampant through our twisted family. Even if she isn't part-fairy, she is clearly cognizant of supernatural affairs. In any case, she made contact with either a witch or wizard…"
"Or one of the Fae," added Richard.
"Yes, thank you. I never would have thought of that," said Sherlock sarcastically. "Whoever she found, that person supplied her with an almost foolproof poison. She tried to use the poison in John's tea, but was foiled by Richard, who knew of her machinations..."
"Not exactly," interrupted Richard. "Mortimer asked me as a favor to watch over John. I had no idea what or who threatened John and only did it because I owed the Reaper a favor—that and I had wanted to meet unofficially with you, Mycroft. However, I did smell that the coffee Avaril offered to John was off—as was the tea she tried to give him later—which is why I stopped him from drinking it. I did not of course realize that the taint was from hydra blood, which I'd never seen or smelled before."
"Ah, I suppose that's why the imbalance was not so severe at first?" said Mycroft.
"Correct. My actions were performed in ignorance…"
"Proving that ignorance is a virtue," murmured Sherlock.
"…and so they were less disruptive to Fate. But then it all went out of whack when Death intervened directly," said Richard, looking pointedly at the very somber Reaper.
"Which I would not have done, if you had been watching John as per our agreement!" snapped Death.
"I could not permit the death of an innocent man..."
"Innocent? Do you mean Mycroft Holmes? He is far from innocent," scoffed Mortimer. "But it's not as though you care about innocence anyway. We all know you simply lusted after that mortal..."
"Like you lusted after the leprechaun!" snarled Richard.
Ever the diplomat, Mycroft intervened, "The source of tonight's tragedy is Avaril. She is the sole cause…"
"Oh, I'm not convinced of that and neither are you," said Sherlock, "I admit that she's guilty as sin, but the true guilt lies with instigators: whoever uttered the curse against John and whoever supplied Avaril with the poison—I wouldn't be surprised to find that they are one in the same…person…being…whatever."
"Shall we ask our dear cousin?" asked Mycroft, with a deceptively silken voice. "Avaril, what can you tell us about the curse; do you know who cursed John?"
"No, but I would have done it myself, if I'd known how. I hate that evil little troll…"
"Keep your insignificant opinions to yourself and just answer the questions," said Mycroft. "Where did you get hydra's blood?"
"From…a friend of a friend," Avaril reluctantly responded.
"A witch, wizard or one of the Fae?" asked Richard.
"It started with Trudy, she was, the leader of our coven," muttered Avaril. "And she had divined my problem."
"Which was?"
"That stupid John Watson! He stole Sherlock!" screamed Avaril.
"Do tell us more about Trudy," suggested Mycroft.
"She liked to knit and had a secret garden and…"
"Don't pretend to be more stupid than you really are?" snarled Sherlock. "Did she give you the poison?"
"No, Sherlock. And don't be mad at me," said Avaril pouting. "Trudy Gladstone knew this man. She said he had powerful friends who hated John Watson as much as I did. Trudy arranged the meeting, and that's when he gave me the poison."
"He was definitely a man?" asked Mycroft.
"Well…he was male. I think he was human," said Avaril. "But it was a very short meeting, in the middle of the night, and he was fully robed. He could have been anyone or anything."
"And where can we find Ms. Gladstone?"
"She's dead. She died in an accident a few days ago," said Avaril. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. "At least I thought it was an accident. Don't look at me like that! I didn't kill Trudy. I'd never hurt Trudy! I'd never hurt anyone, except that bloody little troll, who wasn't fit to…"
"And how did you pay for the poison?" asked Mycroft. "Such items do not come cheap."
"I didn't have to pay anything. Like I said, someone else wanted John dead. I only had to agree to kill John Watson, and the poison was mine. Everyone hates John Watson. He's evil. He's an incubus stealing my…"
"Shut her up, before I break her neck," said Sherlock.
Avaril sensed that he was serious and covered her mouth with her hand.
"I will send agents to investigate Ms. Gladstone's associates and her home," said Mycroft pompously
"Waste of time," said Sherlock. "The perpetrator was careful to tie off the loose ends. He or she will not have left any clues. The only hope we have is that this 'friend of a friend' might come after Avaril now. At least our dear cousin might make adequate bait before she dies."
"We can still talk to Ms. Gladstone's friends and family," huffed Mycroft.
"Her only family is the coven," asserted Avaril. "And they'll never tell you anything." She then worried that she might have aggravated Sherlock and covered her mouth again.
"I can break them," said Mycroft.
"You don't want to get on the bad side of witches, Mycroft," said Richard sotto voce. "They're a tricky, dangerous lot."
"But we must try to find the source of that poison," insisted Mycroft. "Clearly, Ms. Gladstone was just a pawn of some powerful person or entity. The hydra's blood came from an archmage or a matriarch of the covens or one of the Fae, as you suggested, Richard."
"One of the Mighty among the Fae, at that," agreed the vampire. "Mycroft, you will have to tread carefully around anyone who was powerful enough to posses hydra's blood."
"Hm," hummed Mycroft.
"I say, where's Mortimer?" asked Richard suddenly.
"He slunk off with the toady twins," said Sherlock, looking up at distant lightning. "Pity he didn't take Cousin Avaril."
"And the wolf?"
"She scarpered before the others. Are the two of you so besotted with one another that you are unable to make simple observations?" demanded Sherlock.
"Never mind," said the British government official, ignoring his younger and ruder sibling. "I shall still have that coven questioned, under subpoena if necessary. And if I find that the coven is operating without a proper license, heads will roll. The crucial matter at hand is ensuring that we locate and lock down that poison. I suspect a poison that powerful might even work on Sanguinarians," added Mycroft with a sly glance at the tall vampire.
"I fear that you are correct," said Richard, shaking his head reluctantly. "This threat transcends typical interspecies boundaries and it must be handled delicately, so as not to rouse the covens…Mycroft, I propose an alliance. I will deal with your cousin, while making discreet inquiries about Gladstone and her mysterious friend."
"In exchange for?"
"I merely make the offer in order to protect both of our peoples. Although…I do wonder if I could ask a favor?"
"Ah," smirked the elder Holmes brother. "A favor?"
"I would like a seat on the board of directors for the Red Cross," smirked Richard. "I promise that the loss of blood to non-humans will be negligible and untraceable. Naturally, I will make certain to expand blood donation; humans will benefit in the long run too. Not to mention, with a safe source of blood secured, I will be able to ensure that even more vampires register with your government."
"Ah, now I see the real reason you attended our little tea party," said Mycroft with an answering smirk.
Sherlock almost found the energy to vomit in the face of his brother's blatant flirtation.
"Only one of the reasons, Mycroft," said Richard, who scooped up Avaril, accidentally smacking her head against a tree trunk and knocking her almost senseless. Well, it might not have been an accident.
"This night has proven to be very fortuitous; I'm sure that we can strike a bargain beneficial to both of our species." Mycroft turned towards his sibling, "Come, brother, there is nothing else we can do here, and we really must return to the house so we can explain everything to Mummy."
Sherlock was too tired and depressed to argue any more with his supercilious sibling. He decided that he might as well go home for a few hours, and return to the glade in the morning. It would be easier to gather evidence in the daylight.
Due to his enhanced senses, Avaril's rancid scent overwhelmed his nose, making him feel sick to his stomach. Then too, he was forced listen to the stupid schemes and that horrid flirting between his brother and the vampire, which made him even more nauseous. The consulting detective was forced to slow his pace, dragging behind the others, until he could barely hear Mycroft's simpering voice.
For some reason, it was harder to eliminate Avaril's odor, even though he trailed far behind the group that was guarding her. Disgusted, Sherlock resorted to sniffing the rose to block his cousin's foul stench.
The flower smelled like early summer, rich with the promise of health and fertility, with hints of tea and honey and mint...and John.
The stupid flower smelled like John. Sherlock did not do tears, so he did not cry. Since there were no witnesses, he did kiss the rose that smelled like John, getting raindrops on his lips. He sighed, resolutely not crying. He licked his lips and froze when he tasted salt. It appeared that the rose was covered not with raindrops but with tears.
They were obviously not his tears, because Sherlock Holmes didn't cry. Which could only mean that they were John's tears. John had cried even as he created the rose for Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped walking, and at last the tears came. The World's Only Consulting Detective was alone once more. He wept for John and for what might have been, mingling his tears with the tears of his lost leprechaun.
A/N And that's the end, but of course there's a sequel in the works, which is titled My Heart. I hope to begin posting the sequel this month.
Thank you for reading this story. Please leave me comments or suggestions in a review; I would love to hear from you. :D