Here is the promised story for the prompt from W. Y. Traveller - Frozen, which was addressed back in chapter 15. I would have never thought that I'd write a Sherlock Holmes story inspired by the movie "Frozen" just because that was the first thing that came to mind during a Christmas prompt challenge! I freely admit I've written some strange things, and this is among the strangest...

"John."

His brother didn't look at him, continuing to gaze off the balcony of the castle to the sea beyond. The sunset was beautiful, completely incongruous with the scowl on John's face.

"John, please."

The young prince sighed, finally turned to face him. "What is it, Sherlock? You're not here to apologize."

"No, but I am sorry. There are just some things…"

Watson huffed a laugh. "Things I don't know. Right. You've been saying that my whole life, but I am not a child anymore, and you're not that much older than I."

"No. You're not a child. And I swear we will hold a grand party here within the palace for your birthday. You'll receive the crown, but we're not opening the gates."

"I love you," John said sadly. "I love you as sincerely as if you were my full-blooded brother and I couldn't respect you more as my king. But I don't know you anymore, and I haven't in a long time, have I? I forgive you, of course. I understand that when our parent's ship was lost and you were thrust to the throne you no longer had time for me, and I don't resent you for not making any in the years since."

"John? What are you saying?"

"I will understand if you no longer want me here. I can go to the homeland of my mother…"

"No! John, I don't want you to go." The king stepped over to him, seemed as if he'd take his hand in his own gloved one, but then pulled it back and shoved it in his pocket. "I also consider you my full brother, and you know full well that you are dearer to me than Mycroft has ever been. Please, don't leave. I'll throw your party, I'll open up the gates. I assure you that I love you as sincerely now as ever."

John shook his head. "I'm not trying to extort you."

"No. You're right: you deserve this. You deserve to have your ceremony. You deserve to be celebrated. I know that I don't make time for you, but I swear that everything I do is for your good."

"How can I believe that, Sherlock, when I'm holed up in the castle like a prisoner, told nothing and given no real responsibility?"

"I have you…"

"Yes, I manage all the paperwork, thanks very much for that," John replied sarcastically. "Approving plans for taverns I'll never dine in, authorizing canals I'll never cross, moving troops here and there to lands I'll never land on. Don't you think I want more than this?"

Sherlock looked away from him. "You're right," he murmured. "Of course you are. I suppose I've been a selfish man, to think I could keep you in my shadow, that I could tell you to stay here or there or do this or that and that you'd always love me just the same."

"Of course you can," Watson said with a small smile, "you're the king, and such is your right. And of course I will always love you, but if you have any love for me, I beg you to allow me to think and plan and act on my own, to leave these palace walls and be among our people and act as a prince ought."

"Then you shall," said Sherlock stoically. "Listen, John, and do not mishear or disobey: your party will be held on the day of your birth, and you will be given all the honor and ceremony you are due. At noon of the following day, come to me and I will tell you the truth. I will tell you it all, and I will allow you to decide what you would like to do."

"Will you tell me the truth about Mycroft?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes," he finally said. "I'll tell you the truth about Mycroft."

John stared at him for a moment, clearly disbelieving. Then, he smiled. "Alight, then, I'll trust you. Thank you, Sherlock." He reached out as if he would shake his hand or embrace him, but Sherlock scuttled backwards away from him.

"Get some rest, John, you have a long few days ahead of you planning for your party." He turned, walked away with long steps.

"Sherlock!" John called, but his brother didn't look back.

He'd never known so many wonderful people could exist in all the world. John reveled in them all: lords and ladies and dukes and duchesses and common folk alike. It was all too fast: a handshake here, a bow there, all of them swirling around him to offer him their sincerest congratulations.

It was his innate desire to please his brother that kept him moving through it all even though all he wanted to do was stay in each moment for a lifetime, soaking in it all in. He readjusted his uniform and sash a hundred times in the mirror, painfully aware that this was going to be his first impression to the majority of his kingdom and it needed to be a good one.

He wasn't expecting any danger, wasn't looking for anything as the music swelled and began to walk through the center aisle of the throne room to where Sherlock and Mycroft stood waiting for him, a crown sitting on a pedestal between them. Sherlock's crown was on his head and he looked every inch a king. He was beaming, too, which made John beam. He was so happy, so ready to formally be the crown prince, next in line to the throne. That was when it happened.

He saw Sherlock's eyes go wide, heard the 'no!' escape his lips, saw him reach out. Then, he saw something flash past him, and then turned to see there was an assassin behind him at the entrance to the room, a crossbow pointed right at him. Not that he was going to hurt him, however, because the crossbow and his hands and most of his torso were covered in ice.

John whipped back around, staring at his brother. Powers. Sherlock had powers. Suddenly, everything made sense: Sherlock locking himself away from the world, the hesitant way he had about him, the way he never touched him, the way he closed off the castle from the world. Because he had powers, because people born with powers hadn't been seen for hundreds of years, and probably because the law still said that anyone born with powers must be banished from the kingdom. But he was the king, couldn't he rewrite the law? Did he feel unloved, like a monster? All these thoughts were swirling through John's mind as he started at Sherlock along with everyone else in attendance.

No one saw the other assassins, two more crossbow bolts shooting out from opposite sides. One struck him in the leg, the other in the shoulder. He screamed in pain as Holmes screamed, too. Ice shot out of his hands with his rage, hitting the two assassins and freezing them solid. Everyone turned back to looking at him, then, and John noticed from his spot on the ground that Mycroft had moved away from him.

"Guards!" Mycroft commanded, "seize him!" He pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock.

The palace guard was hesitant to turn on their king, and Sherlock took the chance to flee, exploding through the door with another ice blast, moving quickly as he skated more than ran over his own creation. John felt hands on him, then, someone carrying him away from all the confusion. It was multiple someone's, it turned out: Lestrade and Gregson, his captains of the guard who waited at his command. He thought they would take him to the palace doctor, but instead they took him to the palace stables.

"You have to go," Lestrade hissed when they set him down on a bale of straw. "With Mycroft seizing power, your life is forfeit, and so is that of the king."

"Forgive me," Gregson said, "this will hurt."

Watson screamed in pain as Lestrade and Gregson removed the crossbow bolts from his body with practiced hands. He felt the pressure as they wrapped his limbs tightly, assuring him the wounds were not bad.

"Thank you," he panted.

"You have to go," Lestrade insisted. "Take this." He unclipped his sword from his belt and attached it to John's.

"We'll very soon be ordered to kill you," Gregson said, laying his cloak over Watson's shoulders. "Go into the mountains using the Northeast pass. It's dangerous, but not obvious, and we'll search for you along the Northwest pass instead. Don't let us find you; for the sake of the country, we will have to be loyal to the new king."

"Take this," Lestrade said, pressing a small bag of gold into his hand. "It's not enough, but it's all I have."

"And this," Gregson said, giving him a card with a name written on it. "I have a cousin across the mountains in the village of Xeda. Find her, and tell her who you are. She'll shelter you and find some way to get you help. We won't be able to help you from here, but you should at least be able to live."

"Thank you, but I have to go find the king," John said.

The two captains exchanged a worried look. "I don't really know what happened back there," Lestrade said, "but I have a feeling he won't want to be found."

"We always knew there was something going on with him," Gregson agreed. "I suppose we now know what it was. I'm sorry it's come to this, but Mycroft is in charge now and we must be loyal to him. Until he gives the order, though, my allegiance is still to you. Now go!"

Lestrade finished saddling a horse, bringing it out for him and helping him mount. Watson's leg was throbbing, but he gave a confident smile. "I'm alright," he assured them.

"Wait!" came a cry. Mrs. Hudson, who had been his nurse since birth, bustled into the stable. "You need food, and here's blankets. There's a box of matches, too, for when it's safe, and medicine and bandages. I won't have you freeze or starve or anything else out there."

He leaned down, kissed her cheek. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Live," she pleaded. "I'll die a happy woman if only you will live."

"I'll come back to you," he said. "I'll bring the king back."

"Go!" Lestrade said, giving his horse a slap. "And good luck, my liege," he said softly as Watson galloped away.

He and Gregson turned their steps back towards the palace, and smoothly delivered their practiced story: they'd rushed in to protect the wounded prince, taken him to the palace doctor, and left him there in the doctor's hand to attend to the king. Would they now please go behead him? Yes, of course they would. And if he fled? Yes, they'd chase him down after they killed Sherlock. And long live Mycroft the king.

"I think it's time we had a chat, Mycroft."

"Now, Sherlock? With our father's soul above our heads not yet a day?"

"Don't pretend now that you care."

"Very well. I won't. What do you want?"

"I want you to stand down as king. Give the throne to me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I have the powers, and I can kill you if you don't."

"What's this really about? Little brother John? He's a bastard, Sherlock. You know he's not one of us, not even by half. The only reason he was kept around is to save face; everyone knows he's a bastard. If you're worried I'll have him killed, then I suppose that's fair. I will. There's nothing you can do about it, however. You can't kill me. And if you try anything at all, I'll expose you as the monster you are. Even if you're not killed by a mob, you'll be banished forever."

"Don't test me, Mycroft. You're not going to touch a hair on his head, I guarantee it. Take a nice comfortable position as chief advisor, make me king, stay away from John, and all will be well. Decide to fight me, and yes, I may kill you, but more likely I'll simply expose the true cause of our parent's supposed accident."

"Oh, please. No one will believe you."

"Perhaps not, but it will be enough to put you under intense investigation, and you will not be given the crown. Step down, and life will go easy for you. Refuse, and I, right now, have the power to destroy you in more than one way. So?"

"You wouldn't."

"Maybe not. But with John on the line, whom you would gladly have killed and whom I love more sincerely than I love myself, do you really want to take that risk?"

"You'll regret this."

"Good choice. Oh, and brother? Go anywhere near him, and I'll kill you anyway."

John Watson raced along the path, going high into the mountains. He didn't know exactly where Sherlock was headed, but he had an idea, and he hoped he was right.

When they were children, real children, not the grown up children they'd become the day their parents died, there had been one day that was all their own. Just one, but John would never forget it.

It would be good for them, their father said, to have a night camping, to do for themselves and sleep under the stars. Palace guards hadn't been too far away all night, of course, but for that one night they'd been peacefully alone. They'd always planned, after that, during the days when Sherlock still spoke to him, to make a secret home in the mountains, somewhere they could get away from everyone. John hoped that was where he was now. He was right.

"Sherlock!"

"John?"

John didn't care about any repercussions, embraced his brother and held him tightly.

"John," Sherlock said, taking him by the shoulders and holding him out at arm's length before quickly letting go of him, "I'm so sorry I couldn't stop them, and I'm so sorry I can't help you now. You have to go, get as far from here as possible. They're going to try to kill me."

"I don't understand! You were the king! Why not change the law?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The people would never have accepted that. A monster as a king? And yet, I had to protect you." Shortly, he told Watson about Mycroft's threats. "So you have to go. Let them kill me, but live, John."

"No! Come with me back. We can make this right."

But it was too late, then, a crossbow bolt racing through the trees and barely missing them.

"Run, John!" Sherlock commanded. "I don't want to hurt anyone!"

John retreated a couple steps, drew his sword even though he knew it would be all but useless against an opponent with a crossbow.

"You should have listened to him," Gregson said, stepping out from behind a tree. "I don't want to do this."

"Then back off," Sherlock growled.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said, also emerging. "Just let us do this quietly. We can call in a whole battalion if we need to. You may be able to kill many, but you can't kill us all."

"Which of us are you here to murder on my brother's behalf?" Sherlock asked.

"Both of you," Gregson admitted. He looked over at John sadly. "Why couldn't you have done as you were told?"

"Then I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that," Sherlock said. He pulled his gloves off, showed off his glowing blue hands. "Don't make me kill you."

"Many years ago," Lestrade said, "the young prince John was close to death. They had to bring in some of the old magicians to help him. That was your doing."

Sherlock's face was still stoic, but he nodded. "It was an accident. That was how I learned how serious my powers were."

Suddenly, John understood. He didn't remember what had caused him to be so close to death as a child, but he remembered that it was afterwards that Sherlock had begun to change towards him, and now he knew why. Sherlock must have felt like a monster, must have been near paralyzed with fear of hurting him again. Suddenly, most everything made sense.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said.

Several things happened at once, then: Lestrade and Gregson both shot, Watson moved forward with his sword held up, and Sherlock shot ice from his hands back at them. The crossbow bolts flew harmlessly off into the woods, Lestrade and Gregson both cried out, and John felt something cold and piercing strike him. Pain exploded through his chest, and it felt like an icy hand had broken away his ribs and was now gripping his heart.

"John!" Sherlock cried.

John could feel him holding him, hear his rapid apologies, but he felt the ice spreading through his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to respond.

Sherlock raced through the streets on horseback, John held tightly against his chest. The people were, understandably, in an uproar: rumors had been swirling since the failed assassination of the prince. Sherlock stopped for no one: it was only the palace magicians he was after.

Mycroft was waiting for him in the courtyard to stop him along with a battalion of troops, evidently having heard from the watchmen he was coming.

"I won't fight you," Sherlock said without preamble, "if only you will save him."

"Will you die for him?"

"I will. But you must guarantee you will let him live."

"I will."

Mycroft drew his sword. Sherlock left John on the horse, stepped forward.

"Get on your knees," Mycroft sneered. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time."

Sherlock did, feeling his brother press his blade ever so slightly into his throat.

"I'll let him live," Mycroft hissed at him. "Live in the dungeon until he starves!" He began to drive the sword home, but there was suddenly the horse behind them whinnied and bolted forward, knocking Mycroft away. John slid off the horse, brandishing his own sword in one last show of strength. Mycroft lunged at him, Sherlock screamed, John raised his sword, and then, for him, everything went black.

John woke with a start in his own warm bed in the palace.

"It's alright," Sherlock said. His brother was sitting by his beside. "Everything's alright now," he assured him.

"What happened?" John stuttered.

"You were frozen."

"Frozen?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I froze your heart. It was an accident. I was too late to save you, and it was the only thing that saved you. Twice."

"I don't understand,"

"You stopped Mycroft from killing me," Sherlock said, "and in turn he moved to kill you. That, however, was when you froze solid. His blade bounced off; he certainly hadn't been expecting that."

"And so how, now, am I alive?"

"I wasn't sure. You just sort of, well, recovered. But according to the ancient magicians, only an act of true love could cure a frozen heart. Apparently, sacrificing yourself for me counted." He smiled, but John could see it was sad and forced.

John leaned forwards, embraced him tightly, then almost immediately leaned back. "And you?" he demanded.

"Am, somehow, being hailed as the hero and not the villain. There's something about the sight of Mycroft trying to kill me in cold blood and myself weeping over you that made people seem to change their minds about who the villain is between us. That, and the fact that Lestrade and Gregson, who were both wounded by my hand, turned to my side at the last, them and all their troops with them. I am once more the king."

John smiled. "Then I say, long live the king!"

There were many more answers he wanted. Wounds both physical and internal needed time to heal, and many more long conversations they needed to have. For now, though, all John could feel was optimism that things would, soon, be even better than back to normal.