Sherlock had expected the body parts or the violin or the decay or the experiments or, of course, his personality to drive John away within two months tops, and was later glad that he hadn’t said as much to anyone. It was impressive, really, because even Mycroft couldn’t spend two months living with him before resorting to violence.
That might have been why, in the middle of the night, Sherlock was lingering outside John’s bedroom, reaching deep to touch the magic, freer, now, and, in peace, greater, at the core of all things. It was child’s play to cast a ward against nightmares, and besides, having Night Mares charging through the flat all night was getting rather…old.
And besides, if John slept more, he’d probably be able to put up with Sherlock more.
It could have been any number of reasons, really, that Sherlock was there, spinning a spell in the air.
Sherlock remained eminently pleased with himself for having been clever enough to throw the ward up so quickly despite years without using magic until he walked into the kitchen, fully intending to resume his experiments on the time it took a blood stain to set in silk, and saw his father leaning against the refrigerator.
“I had a fair amount of trouble finding you until you were helpful enough to cast a spell. Nightmares, really?”
For a moment, Sherlock saw his father as any number of strangers foolish enough to wish others away must have – not like an owl, as his chosen form was, but as some sleeker bird of prey, the sort of falcon that could rend flesh from bone with the same ease as it breathed.
“It wasn’t for me,” he said.
“Oh, are you living with someone, then?”
“I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t tell you,” Sherlock said.
“Hmm,” said his father.
(Dressed in a warcloak, a new one, likely meant he’d had time to have one made for the sake of ceremony, looking good during negotiations, eyepaint heavier than it used to be, bright blue under his eyebrows, under his lower lid – to mask exhaustion, still pulling long hours, he’d never been one to abstain from wards or potions to sleep, why pulling long hours? Not enough data regarding political situations Underground; couldn’t be dire or Mycroft would have said something, at least dropped by; last stages of negotiations? The treaty-making couldn’t be that bad, the King of the Sea’s armies had to be decimated--)
“I’ve been doing my best to try and wake your mother,” he said—
(Oh.)
“But the Labyrinth won’t let her go. My best guess is that until it recognizes that all of…of us are back, it won’t acknowledge that the war is over.”
“You want me to come back.”
“Yes, obviously. But more than that, I need you to convince your brother to come back.”
“He won’t?”
“No. And I would suppose you can guess why.”
“He thinks you want to put him on the throne while the political climate favors a transition to a somewhat younger monarch.”
scenes from a book no one wrote -- 6/?
Sherlock had expected the body parts or the violin or the decay or the experiments or, of course, his personality to drive John away within two months tops, and was later glad that he hadn’t said as much to anyone. It was impressive, really, because even Mycroft couldn’t spend two months living with him before resorting to violence.
That might have been why, in the middle of the night, Sherlock was lingering outside John’s bedroom, reaching deep to touch the magic, freer, now, and, in peace, greater, at the core of all things. It was child’s play to cast a ward against nightmares, and besides, having Night Mares charging through the flat all night was getting rather…old.
And besides, if John slept more, he’d probably be able to put up with Sherlock more.
It could have been any number of reasons, really, that Sherlock was there, spinning a spell in the air.
Sherlock remained eminently pleased with himself for having been clever enough to throw the ward up so quickly despite years without using magic until he walked into the kitchen, fully intending to resume his experiments on the time it took a blood stain to set in silk, and saw his father leaning against the refrigerator.
“I had a fair amount of trouble finding you until you were helpful enough to cast a spell. Nightmares, really?”
For a moment, Sherlock saw his father as any number of strangers foolish enough to wish others away must have – not like an owl, as his chosen form was, but as some sleeker bird of prey, the sort of falcon that could rend flesh from bone with the same ease as it breathed.
“It wasn’t for me,” he said.
“Oh, are you living with someone, then?”
“I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t tell you,” Sherlock said.
“Hmm,” said his father.
(Dressed in a warcloak, a new one, likely meant he’d had time to have one made for the sake of ceremony, looking good during negotiations, eyepaint heavier than it used to be, bright blue under his eyebrows, under his lower lid – to mask exhaustion, still pulling long hours, he’d never been one to abstain from wards or potions to sleep, why pulling long hours? Not enough data regarding political situations Underground; couldn’t be dire or Mycroft would have said something, at least dropped by; last stages of negotiations? The treaty-making couldn’t be that bad, the King of the Sea’s armies had to be decimated--)
“I’ve been doing my best to try and wake your mother,” he said—
(Oh.)
“But the Labyrinth won’t let her go. My best guess is that until it recognizes that all of…of us are back, it won’t acknowledge that the war is over.”
“You want me to come back.”
“Yes, obviously. But more than that, I need you to convince your brother to come back.”
“He won’t?”
“No. And I would suppose you can guess why.”
“He thinks you want to put him on the throne while the political climate favors a transition to a somewhat younger monarch.”