His father nodded and crossed his arms around his chest. Now that the adrenaline from finding him there had faded from Sherlock’s veins, he could sense the thrum of magic deep in his father’s bones, the sense that he’d spent far too long seeped in something far too old and far too vast. “I didn’t lie to him, and I won’t lie to you. I would like him to take the throne now. I would put him there if I could. But I shan’t force him to. The idea of a reluctant leader is nonsense. Heaven knows that the kingdom is a piece of work, and if he doesn’t want it, he shouldn’t govern it.”
Sherlock considered sitting down. His back ached from work, but then again, he was as tall as his father like this, and why waste that sort of psychological advantage? “I guess the next question is obvious,” he said as distastefully as he could.
“Would you at least consider it?”
“Answer this honestly: can you see me ruling over a kingdom largely inhabited by a species identified mainly by its complete lack of any sort of higher level intelligence, a species that invented the sport of chicken throwing? Can you honestly see that?”
“Sherlock, according to the latest census, goblins only just make up half the population. Stay up to date, really.”
God, he sounded like Mycroft. “Yes, but I’d be the Goblin King, Father, can you honestly see me as the Goblin King?”
“Goodness knows you have the requisite flair for the dramatic. You’re letting vanity stand in the way, really?”
“Oh, it’s not vanity, it’s dignity.”
His father did not visibly flinch in rage, but the magic around him did. “Very well then,” he said, with a voice that made the air go colder. “Please do drop by to attend to your mother at your earliest convenience.”
Right, there was that, wasn’t there? A shame John wasn’t there to be all ‘bit not good, Sherlock’ or ‘remember the woman he loves has been asleep for the past, what is it now, six years, Sherlock.’ “I will,” he said.
“Why don’t I leave something for the woman, then?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock said.
His father opened a hand into the air and there, suddenly, was a peach. Sherlock bit back a groan.
“It’s obvious enough. You’ve cast a nightmare ward for someone, and voluntarily, I assume. Oh, and it’s actually clean here. How could you keep a place clean without someone dogging you? Is that what’s keeping you here?”
“Don’t be daft, Father.” God, was everyone going to assume that he and John were together? “You know what? Leave the peach. See what happens. It’ll just rot there, because that’s not it. You’re so enormously wrong that it’s almost funny.” He’d just tell John he’d poisoned it and was testing the effects on the rate of decay, John would never touch it, one up over Father. Brilliant.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Sherlock had never understood the appeal of the dramatic disappearance. One ought at least have the dignity to stalk through a door, let the cloak flare, and then slam the door before vanishing. Much more intimidating.
+
Sherlock fell asleep on the couch sometime around five in the morning.
He woke up when he heard a very loud thunk in the kitchen.
He pondered the possible consequences of staying where he was. He could get in another hour or two of pure sloth easily, but then again, something might have fallen over.
He got up.
John was sprawled across the kitchen floor in his pajamas, half-eaten peach in one hand.
“Shit,” Sherlock said, rather calmly for the circumstances.
He crouched down and took the peach from John’s hand. He sat against the counter rather carefully – wouldn’t do to be sore when he woke – and, sighing, ate it as quickly as possible.
scenes from a book no one wrote -- 7/?
Sherlock considered sitting down. His back ached from work, but then again, he was as tall as his father like this, and why waste that sort of psychological advantage? “I guess the next question is obvious,” he said as distastefully as he could.
“Would you at least consider it?”
“Answer this honestly: can you see me ruling over a kingdom largely inhabited by a species identified mainly by its complete lack of any sort of higher level intelligence, a species that invented the sport of chicken throwing? Can you honestly see that?”
“Sherlock, according to the latest census, goblins only just make up half the population. Stay up to date, really.”
God, he sounded like Mycroft. “Yes, but I’d be the Goblin King, Father, can you honestly see me as the Goblin King?”
“Goodness knows you have the requisite flair for the dramatic. You’re letting vanity stand in the way, really?”
“Oh, it’s not vanity, it’s dignity.”
His father did not visibly flinch in rage, but the magic around him did. “Very well then,” he said, with a voice that made the air go colder. “Please do drop by to attend to your mother at your earliest convenience.”
Right, there was that, wasn’t there? A shame John wasn’t there to be all ‘bit not good, Sherlock’ or ‘remember the woman he loves has been asleep for the past, what is it now, six years, Sherlock.’ “I will,” he said.
“Why don’t I leave something for the woman, then?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock said.
His father opened a hand into the air and there, suddenly, was a peach. Sherlock bit back a groan.
“It’s obvious enough. You’ve cast a nightmare ward for someone, and voluntarily, I assume. Oh, and it’s actually clean here. How could you keep a place clean without someone dogging you? Is that what’s keeping you here?”
“Don’t be daft, Father.” God, was everyone going to assume that he and John were together? “You know what? Leave the peach. See what happens. It’ll just rot there, because that’s not it. You’re so enormously wrong that it’s almost funny.” He’d just tell John he’d poisoned it and was testing the effects on the rate of decay, John would never touch it, one up over Father. Brilliant.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Sherlock had never understood the appeal of the dramatic disappearance. One ought at least have the dignity to stalk through a door, let the cloak flare, and then slam the door before vanishing. Much more intimidating.
+
Sherlock fell asleep on the couch sometime around five in the morning.
He woke up when he heard a very loud thunk in the kitchen.
He pondered the possible consequences of staying where he was. He could get in another hour or two of pure sloth easily, but then again, something might have fallen over.
He got up.
John was sprawled across the kitchen floor in his pajamas, half-eaten peach in one hand.
“Shit,” Sherlock said, rather calmly for the circumstances.
He crouched down and took the peach from John’s hand. He sat against the counter rather carefully – wouldn’t do to be sore when he woke – and, sighing, ate it as quickly as possible.