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Title: Solstice Summons
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Canon AU
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Màiri Ó Móráin
Word Count: 4,518
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them as source material.
Spoilers: Nope
Warnings: Men who love men, Men who sleep with men, Werewolves who love Phoukas, Inter-species relationships, Supernatural elements, Half-arsed Scottish Gaelic translations, Belief suspenders required, Fluff, Snow, Off-the cuff ficcery.
Original Prompt: I volunteered to write a fic for the WAdvent Calendar over at Watson's Woes and, since I chose the 21st, my 'prompt' was Winter Solstice.
Summary: Watson's gone off to tend to unexpected 'family matters' and, even though it may be next to impossible, Holmes decides to track him down; however, unexpected 'help' mysteriously appears.
Author's Notes: I was really happy that an idea for this WAdvent fic came to me right away, as well as that I was able to dictate most of it using the new Dragon program my friend got me as an early Crispmoose present! Many thanks to the lovely and fabulous Tysolna for the quick and supportive beta job she did while on holiday! If anything wonky remains, it’s all on me.
Special Note: There is a fic that precedes this one, and while you don’t have to read it for this one to make sense, it might help make it better. (Or you just might like to, I dunno.) “The Furred And The Fae”
Waking Alone ~ Holmes
Holmes woke in the fragile blue light of dawn, aware of a half-asleep conversation with Watson that he could hardly recall now. The fact that he was alone in his bed, the space where Watson had been overnight now cold, told him it had been close to an hour since that space had been vacated; however, from that alone he could not know where his close friend had gone.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, my dear.”
The memory of Watson’s voice speaking into Holmes’ hair, along with the touch of lips at one ear-tip and corner of jaw, came to Holmes without much effort. He’d been awake enough for that much. It was what had come before, when he’d been mostly asleep, that was vexing him; surely it had been intentional on Watson’s part, knowing the Great Detective’s attention and comprehension would be at its lowest ebb when he was barely conscious after a run of busy days on a case—a case which had been concluded the day before and celebrated well into the night, and on into the wee hours as well.
Reluctantly throwing aside the covers, Holmes snatched his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and donned it on his way out to the sitting room, the air frigid and frost edging the windows. No fire had been recently lit in the grate, no evidence of breakfast or even a hasty cup of tea, and Holmes already knew what he would find when he went up to Watson’s room—a distinct lack of John Watson.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise to find the envelope propped up against Watson’s shaving mirror, but Holmes felt a hard knot of apprehension in his gut as he took up the envelope and broke the blank wax seal.
Scowling at the crisply folded paper, Holmes resisted the temptation to crumple it in frustration. “Damn you, John,” he rasped under his breath, voice early morning hoarse, scanning the words closely for any scrap of a clue. As usual, Watson’s writing was the antithesis of the usual ‘physician’s scrawl’, the words formed in nearly perfect calligraphy, reflecting the fact that the one writing them took especial care with a language that was not native to him.
Staring off into space, Holmes lightly tapped the edge of the paper against his chin, reasonably certain there was no secret message in the words despite his hopes, and it had been long enough since Watson had left that Holmes would have no real hope of following him. It was snowing and he knew very well Watson was his equal at avoiding pursuit, if not better due to his more than human senses and abilities—he might look like an ordinary human most of the time, but the man Holmes knew as John Watson was in truth a phouka, one of the Fae folk and a shapeshifter—any mere mortal attempting to track him under normal circumstances had little hope. Though he was tempted to brood a bit on the unusual circumstances of their meeting over twenty years past, Holmes having only found Watson because he’d been severely wounded and the detective highly skilled at seeing the tiniest of clues, it served no purpose now. Watson was hale and hearty, and knew London as well as Holmes. It was unlikely Watson’s ‘family business’ was even in London, since they had first met in Wales; for that matter, just because Watson had been in Wales at the time didn’t mean that’s where he came from originally. The realm of Faerie, as Holmes had come to learn in dribs and drabs over the years, had hidden pockets and doorways all over the world.
Sighing in frustration, Holmes then inhaled deeply and, just for a moment, he caught John’s scent wafting up along with the smell of the ink and the distinct aroma of that particular stationary. He went perfectly still, eyes widening, and then held the paper directly to his nose, nostrils flaring.
Blood quickening in his veins, Holmes slipped the note into his dressing gown pocket before immediately beginning a very careful assessment of exactly what Watson had taken with him—he knew the contents of the man’s wardrobe nearly as well as his own—and then swept out to the sitting room to take a more meticulous look for any possible clues.
Watson might be able to elude any ordinary human, but Sherlock Holmes was an exceptional human, as well as an occasional shapeshifter himself. Perhaps there was hope, after all.
Not much later, after determining to his frustration that Watson had taken precious little with him, Holmes decided to give it his best try anyway, before too much more time passed. As he threw on his overcoat and dug in the pockets for his gloves, his fingers encountered the crinkle of paper.
He carefully withdrew an elaborately folded hexagon of palest blue paper with a seal of what looked like gold dust-infused wax. Breaking the seal after examining the entirety of the thing minutely, Holmes watched in fascination as the paper slowly unfolded in his hand, the many intricate folds forming a snowflake sort of pattern via the creases in it. Words had been written upon it in ink the same gold as the wax of the seal. Beyond the actual meaning of the words, the writing was beautifully done, every letter formed precisely and gracefully, reminding him of Watson’s telltale style.
At the bottom was an elaborate mark, something like a rune or possibly a pictogram of some kind, though nothing Holmes had ever seen before. Whatever it signified, the directions were more than welcome, though Holmes knew better than to assume the missive came from an actual ‘friend’—given that it had somehow been slipped into his overcoat pocket without Holmes noticing or, if it had been done during the night, with enough stealth that neither Holmes nor Watson had been awakened.
When he left with no more baggage than a parcel of dried meat and fruit in one pocket, Holmes also carried Watson’s revolver in the other. It might be foolish to try and follow a phouka in the dead of winter, even with directions, but Sherlock Holmes was no fool.
~~~
The Call Of Old Obligations ~ Watson
Watson pushed through the last of the evergreen branches surrounding the snow-dusted clearing, the grassy mound at its centre noticeably free of snow. The ring of unseasonably hardy toadstools at the base of the mound was perhaps a little excessive, but no one had ever accused the Fae of being unimaginative when an impression was to be made. If he had entertained any doubts that he’d reached his destination, the sight before him would have dispersed them.
Lifting his head to sniff the icy air, Watson’s ears flicked forward and back to catch all the little sounds that ordinary human ears would have missed. But then Watson did not have human ears just then, nor human anything, as he wore the shape of a large, deep reddish-brown stag, with a proud set of dark antlers fading to off-white at the tips. Though he had a nearly black pelt in his canine shape, the coat he now wore was almost the same shade as his hair when he went on two legs, middling brown with a healthy dose of red that showed more in sunlight than shade. Once he’d got clear of the edge of the town where he’d exited the train, Watson had taken on this shape in favour of the greater length of its stride and its affinity for the forest he would be travelling into.
Remaining in his current shape, ready to bolt if he had been called to a trap, Watson cautiously set one foot within the almost too-perfect circle of the clearing. Upon the instant his hoof touched down, a wavering shimmer caught his eye, forming vertically in the air between two trees at the opposite side of the earthen mound. A human shape walked into the clearing, appearing through the shimmering line as if parting an ephemeral curtain, and though Watson tensed to move, he settled upon seeing who it was.
A petite woman stood fully before him a moment later, her hair the palest gold fall of fine silk over her shoulders and nearly to the ground, her eyes the colour of a deep crack in glacial ice, green and blue that shifted depending on the light. Skin barely darker than the snow, her face was high of cheekbone and pointed of chin, and her slender fingers tipped with perfect ovals tinted with something that shimmered like the Northern Lights, or the rift in the air she’d just come through.
“Iain,” she said softly, voice a gentle fall of musical notes. Her words were in an ancient tongue which had been the precursor to Gaelic, one rarely spoken in the mortal world. “You answered my call.”
“That I did, Màiri,” he answered in kind, unable to do her the discourtesy of being formal once she’d used his given name; no doubt it was meant to remind him of their familiar past. However… “Though,” he added in English, “I answer to John these days.” In a swirl of magic and tiny sparks of light, he shifted from stag to human, pulling clothing from the air about him as naturally as breathing. “Which I think you well know.” His clothing was similar to hers, the sort worn for a casual meeting of equals in Faerie; a richly decorated open coat of woven raw silk in the green and brown dappled white of a winter forest, with a paler green tunic and trousers beneath, tucked into embossed boots of supple leather the colour of pine wood.
She gave a little lift of her chin, not lowering herself to an actual toss of the head, but it served the same purpose with more dignity. “Knowing a thing does not necessarily make me like it.”
“Not liking a thing doesn’t mean it will go away,” Watson pointed out, though more gently than he wanted to do. “Why have you called me here, Màiri?”
“You know why, Iain,” Màiri said, as if he was being dim.
Letting a short huff of displeasure escape him, Watson let that feeling show on his face, tilting his head slightly. “Your message told of ‘urgent family matters’ and by your manner here, I believe this has nothing to do with my family.” When she didn’t deny it, Watson continued in an overly patient tone, “I have told you time and again that I shall not change my mind. No matter how many times you press me, Màiri.”
“And I have told you just as many times that you are being foolish,” Màiri retorted. “You have had your little holiday, Iain, it is past time you gave up this little fascination of yours with the mortals and returned to where you belong. It is not only I who have missed you.”
Watson tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what game she was playing. “To whom do you refer?”
“Surely you have not forgotten that you were once highly–favoured at Court.” She made a graceful gesture with one hand, her expression taking on a hint of cool concern. “The longer you remain away, the more likely that favour will fade.”
“You know very well I care little for such things.” He continued to eye her suspiciously, wondering why she went to such lengths to bring him there, when—as far as he knew—they had said all they needed to say to one another long, long ago. “I told you I retired from Court because I wished it, Màiri. I have not changed my mind, nor am I likely to anytime soon.”
Though he had been listening to the noises in the background as a matter of course, his frustrated confusion was distracting him enough that, although he heard the various sounds of woodland creatures going about their business, he did not evaluate each noise as closely as he otherwise might have done. In either his stag or his dog form, he would hardly have to pay attention to know what each creature’s sound meant, let alone which creature had made it. Somewhere nearby, a larger animal was moving through the snow, but since he heard a four-legged gait rather than two, he felt it safe enough to ignore unless the beast came too close.
“I could attend in your stead if we were handfasted, as I have suggested before. This self-imposed exile is highly unwise,” she said bitterly. “It is not only I who suffers in your absence; your family name, your reputation, all that you might have made of your position at Court. What will be left you when you finally remember where you belong?”
Keeping to a relatively even tone, despite his rising ire, Watson took one step closer to Màiri and spoke perhaps more loudly than he had meant to, but more quietly than he wanted. “My family have been serving the Lady and her line since long before you were born. My line have been healers and soldiers to the Lady and those who came before her, since long before your kin ever came to favour at Court, which has only been since these local mortals were battling the Romans. Yes, I retired from the High Court—with the Lady’s blessing—because I took the blow meant for her consort in a skirmish with the Unseelie Court.” The half-ignored sound of what was likely a large fox or a wolf, maybe even a deer, came closer to the clearing, but Watson wanted to have his say before having to shoo away the likely curious animal. Màiri was looking torn between affront and anger in the meantime, and he would probably not have much more of her silence, anyway. “Even so, since then I have been emissary, messenger, and spy at Her pleasure while my wounds healed. Now, as I take my reward in retirement to the mortal world for a time—the span of which to be of my choosing, no one else’s—you have no claim greater, nor do your kin, as I have formally broken with you and them. There will be no handfasting, no joining of our Houses, and no obligation remains between us. Other than my few remaining distant kin, there is none who have the right or good reason to call me back to Faerie save the Lady. What did you hope to accomplish, Màiri?”
“Only this,” she replied in a tone that rang with triumph for all that it was quietly spoken, gesturing gracefully to her left at the perimeter of the clearing. Between two moss-touched tree trunks stood a lean black wolf, inordinately intelligent grey eyes trained upon Watson.
Watson murmured a curse and sighed deeply, looking down and away for a moment, pushing aside the strong irritation that flared up in him before it became something harsher. He refused to give Màiri the satisfaction of his anger.
“Come, come, Mr. Holmes,” Màiri said briskly. “You’d best remove whatever charm our Iain gave you and show us your proper self.”
Distracted from his surprise and the new flavor of annoyance that Holmes’ presence brought, Watson frowned in confusion at Màiri’s words. Before he could summon any words, however, the wolf that was Holmes’ only other shape backed away into the shadows of the trees and out of sight. Shuffling noises, as well as unpleasant meaty sounds reminiscent of bones and flesh being torn apart, sounded briefly, followed by a low whine that blended into a gasping grunt.
Moments later, Holmes spoke from his place of concealment, voice slightly strained and uneven. “I trust you’ll pardon me a moment, ma’am, while I bow to the necessities of the cold and propriety.” There came a few rustling sounds then, and Holmes spoke further as he obviously dressed himself, the trembling in his words most certainly due to the cold. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain what you mean by ‘charm’, however.”
Watson looked from the direction of Holmes’s voice to Màiri, “Yes, what charm?”
Lips pulling into an impatient moue, Màiri looked at Watson while directing her words towards the still-hidden Holmes, “Whatever bauble or trinket Iain gave you that allows you the seeming of a wolf, Mr. Holmes. It is a bit late to play coy now. I have heard tell that the two of you were seen running about four-footed and furred together. You have seen that Iain actually requires no charm to change shape, as he is no mortal.”
Stepping into the open again, now dressed in sturdy boots, thick trousers, and a pea coat topped with a handmade scarf with which Watson was familiar—seeing how Mrs. Hudson had knitted him one just like it—Holmes echoed Watson’s words, “Again, madam, what charm?” He glanced between her and Watson as he quickly tugged dark gloves over his long, pale fingers.
Lifting her chin imperiously, Màiri’s manner and tone chilled noticeably. “I hardly think levity is appropriate at this time, given that—” breaking off abruptly, her eyes widening, she made a small flickering gesture with her fingers. A faint silvery glow encompassed Holmes’ form for a moment.
Even as Holmes gave a jauntily challenging tilt of his dark head, Watson made a small noise that might have been a snigger were he a less cautious man. Watson covered the sound by clearing his throat and saying, “No, he is not precisely human, and that form was his own.”
Màiri appeared a perfect mix of bewilderment and disgust. “Not one moon shifter in a thousand can change outside the full moon’s span!”
Grinning wryly, Watson caught Holmes’ gaze, saying more to him than to Màiri, “I have always found Sherlock Holmes to be exceptional, actually.”
With the smallest of smiles barely curving his lips, Holmes inclined his head graciously at the compliment.
Studying Watson and then Holmes before returning her attention to Watson again, Màiri said, “You have, apparently, already revealed your true nature to him. Furthermore, you have continued to linger in the mortal realm for him.” She flung her hand out in Holmes’ direction, no magic attending the gesture that time, her tone shifting more blatantly to disgust. “A shifter?”
“Albeit an exceptional one,” Holmes pointed out dryly, lifting one gloved finger.
This time Watson couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him and he received an icy glare from Màiri in response.
“This is no laughing matter, Iain.” Watson gave her a brows-up, questioning expression, though he didn’t speak before Màiri continued. “It is a wonder this is not being gossiped about all throughout the Court. Mortals, of course, have been tolerated on rare occasions in the past, but I cannot be expected to have anything to do with someone who consorts with shifters, Iain.”
“As I have been trying to tell you, Màiri,” Watson said firmly, humour fading, “your expectations have nothing to do with me, nor will they ever again.”
Straightening to her fullest height, chin up again and gaze spearing Watson sharply, Màiri replied, “There is no going back from this, Iain. When we part ways here, it is for good and always.”
Taking a deep breath, Watson nodded once, gravely, and stepped back to the very edge of the clearing. “For good and always, Màiri. So be it. Fare you well.”
Turning to raise both her hands, the shimmer at her fingertips growing until it surrounded her, Màiri made an abrupt downward slash through the air. The same sparkling glimmer formed before her, through which she strode without a backward glance, disappearing much as she had originally appeared. The odd glow lingered in the air for the span of a few heartbeats before fading away completely.
“Well, now,” Holmes murmured, gaze still on the spot where the doorway to Faerie had been. “She was interesting.”
Watson gave a snort at the snide humour, but then sobered and swept a hand at Holmes, saying almost accusingly, “Speaking of interesting: just what are you doing here, Holmes?”
“I was invited, as a matter of fact,” Holmes replied.
Opening his mouth to demand what Holmes meant by ‘invited’, Watson then closed it an instant later, having put together the clues on his own. He sighed in long-suffering annoyance, shaking his head and saying in a rather growling sort of undertone, “Màiri, of course.”
“Indeed,” confirmed Holmes, turning away to retrieve a travel-worn rucksack, from which he produced the intriguingly folded letter with its golden wax seal. This time it did not unfold itself so invitingly.
Watson muttered a curse in his mother tongue, unfolding the paper deftly and swiftly scanning the words written upon it. He recognised Màiri’s hand, the whorls and curls and sweeping curves very nearly art, but the message detracting from the beauty of its crafting. “Oh, Màiri…” Watson breathed out, feeling a bit foolish for being hurt, even though his heart had not belonged to Màiri for a very long time. It was one thing to trick him into meeting her, but her attempt to reveal his Fae origins to his mortal lover—or so she had thought she would be doing—was particularly cruel.
“She did not realise that I already knew who and what you are,” Holmes said aloud what they both now knew. Watson merely nodded. Holmes put one gloved hand to his shoulder. “I am still sorry for your pain, Watson, even though her plan failed.”
“I loved her once,” Watson said in a voice barely above a whisper, rubbing one thumb along the surface of the paper. “Or thought I did.” He lifted his gaze to Holmes’ and his lips twisted in a crooked little smile that tilted his neat moustache, as well. “It’s only now that I know what love truly is that I can see what I felt for her was a poor, pale shadow of it.”
“John,” Holmes nearly whispered, his expression softening as his gaze warmed. His grip on Watson’s shoulder tightened, thumb rubbing against the fabric of Watson’s richly embroidered coat in an unconscious caress.
“I never mentioned her before,” Watson acknowledged. “Not because I didn’t want you to know, but because she was part of my past. No longer relevant.”
Holmes nodded. “But she could not accept that,” he said knowingly.
Watson echoed his nod. “Nor that I could love a mortal.”
“Let alone a lowly shifter,” Holmes added, though with sly humour in his tone. Even so, his gaze was still warm, the lines of his face subtly showing the affection he felt for Watson.
Watson’s off-centre smile returned. “The high-born in Faerie aren’t that different from their counterparts here in the mortal realm. Noses so far in the air that they can see little of what’s right in front of them.”
Chuckling, Holmes slid his hand down Watson’s arm, his fingers cold through the leather of his glove, but he did not say anything further.
Watson tucked Màiri’s letter in Holmes’ coat pocket before taking his other hand, too. He hardly felt the cold, at least there in that half-magical place, his Fae garb far warmer than its elegant form might imply. Letting his own feelings show in his face, gazing up into Holmes’ eyes, Watson said warmly, “Shall we go home?”
Holmes’s lips pulled into a grin, looking Watson up and down briefly before he replied, “Only if you promise to wear this ensemble again sometime. It flatters you greatly.”
“It’s hardly appropriate for the streets of London, Holmes,” Watson chided, though with little bite, aware he was probably blushing just the smallest bit at the heat in Holmes’ sharp gaze.
“True,” Holmes agreed, his tone gone sultry. “However, I intended for it to be a very private viewing, my dear.”
“In that case,” Watson replied with a goodly amount of warmth in his own voice, “let us be on our way at once. After all, I did promise to be home by the Solstice.”
He stepped back, summoning his dog form in a glittering swirl of magic, thick coat nearly black and ears upright in expectation as he looked up at Holmes. His eyes were the same colour as when he wore his human form, and his stag form, as well; the warm honeyed brown of fine brandy. Watson kept those eyes trained on Holmes as the man quickly removed his warm clothing and folded it neatly into his rucksack, shivering in the cold as goosebumps covered his fair skin.
“I envy you your swift changes, Watson,” he murmured, teeth chattering, and slid the loose straps of the rucksack over his shoulders before crouching down. The next moment he grimaced and took several quiet panting breaths before his skin began to ripple and darken with a sudden growth of hair, his face and limbs shifting shape with somewhat appalling sounds of bone and ligament moving and popping out and back into place. It took a bit longer than Watson’s magical transformations, but in the end a lean black wolf stood before Watson’s own canine form.
Snorting in amusement at the odd addition of the rucksack, Watson nuzzled Holmes’ furred cheek and made a soft, growling sound of affection. It was clever, really, and he would tell the man so when they were in their human forms one more. In the meantime…
Two four-footed travelers moved swiftly through the snowy woods to the edge of the nearest town, the journey easily a quarter what it would have been had they trudged all the way on human feet. Not long afterward, two men in warm clothing and cheerful expressions on their cold-kissed ruddy faces boarded the train for London.
And they were home in time for the Winter Solstice, as promised.
~~~
.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Canon AU
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Màiri Ó Móráin
Word Count: 4,518
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them as source material.
Spoilers: Nope
Warnings: Men who love men, Men who sleep with men, Werewolves who love Phoukas, Inter-species relationships, Supernatural elements, Half-arsed Scottish Gaelic translations, Belief suspenders required, Fluff, Snow, Off-the cuff ficcery.
Original Prompt: I volunteered to write a fic for the WAdvent Calendar over at Watson's Woes and, since I chose the 21st, my 'prompt' was Winter Solstice.
Summary: Watson's gone off to tend to unexpected 'family matters' and, even though it may be next to impossible, Holmes decides to track him down; however, unexpected 'help' mysteriously appears.
Author's Notes: I was really happy that an idea for this WAdvent fic came to me right away, as well as that I was able to dictate most of it using the new Dragon program my friend got me as an early Crispmoose present! Many thanks to the lovely and fabulous Tysolna for the quick and supportive beta job she did while on holiday! If anything wonky remains, it’s all on me.
Special Note: There is a fic that precedes this one, and while you don’t have to read it for this one to make sense, it might help make it better. (Or you just might like to, I dunno.) “The Furred And The Fae”
Waking Alone ~ Holmes
Holmes woke in the fragile blue light of dawn, aware of a half-asleep conversation with Watson that he could hardly recall now. The fact that he was alone in his bed, the space where Watson had been overnight now cold, told him it had been close to an hour since that space had been vacated; however, from that alone he could not know where his close friend had gone.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, my dear.”
The memory of Watson’s voice speaking into Holmes’ hair, along with the touch of lips at one ear-tip and corner of jaw, came to Holmes without much effort. He’d been awake enough for that much. It was what had come before, when he’d been mostly asleep, that was vexing him; surely it had been intentional on Watson’s part, knowing the Great Detective’s attention and comprehension would be at its lowest ebb when he was barely conscious after a run of busy days on a case—a case which had been concluded the day before and celebrated well into the night, and on into the wee hours as well.
Reluctantly throwing aside the covers, Holmes snatched his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and donned it on his way out to the sitting room, the air frigid and frost edging the windows. No fire had been recently lit in the grate, no evidence of breakfast or even a hasty cup of tea, and Holmes already knew what he would find when he went up to Watson’s room—a distinct lack of John Watson.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise to find the envelope propped up against Watson’s shaving mirror, but Holmes felt a hard knot of apprehension in his gut as he took up the envelope and broke the blank wax seal.
‘Sherlock,
I know you will be angry with me for parting this way, but I knew we would only have a row over why you could not accompany me and why I could not offer to take you along. I have been called away for a family matter and, if all goes well, I shall be back by the solstice. Before you curse me too roundly, I remind you that my family do not condone my friendship with your kind, either version, and you very likely would be put in harm’s way should I allow you to accompany me. Please believe that I would far rather stay than go, and if this had been avoidable I would have done so without question. Take care while I am away, my dear man, and I shall endeavour to do the same.
Yours, as ever,
John’
Scowling at the crisply folded paper, Holmes resisted the temptation to crumple it in frustration. “Damn you, John,” he rasped under his breath, voice early morning hoarse, scanning the words closely for any scrap of a clue. As usual, Watson’s writing was the antithesis of the usual ‘physician’s scrawl’, the words formed in nearly perfect calligraphy, reflecting the fact that the one writing them took especial care with a language that was not native to him.
Staring off into space, Holmes lightly tapped the edge of the paper against his chin, reasonably certain there was no secret message in the words despite his hopes, and it had been long enough since Watson had left that Holmes would have no real hope of following him. It was snowing and he knew very well Watson was his equal at avoiding pursuit, if not better due to his more than human senses and abilities—he might look like an ordinary human most of the time, but the man Holmes knew as John Watson was in truth a phouka, one of the Fae folk and a shapeshifter—any mere mortal attempting to track him under normal circumstances had little hope. Though he was tempted to brood a bit on the unusual circumstances of their meeting over twenty years past, Holmes having only found Watson because he’d been severely wounded and the detective highly skilled at seeing the tiniest of clues, it served no purpose now. Watson was hale and hearty, and knew London as well as Holmes. It was unlikely Watson’s ‘family business’ was even in London, since they had first met in Wales; for that matter, just because Watson had been in Wales at the time didn’t mean that’s where he came from originally. The realm of Faerie, as Holmes had come to learn in dribs and drabs over the years, had hidden pockets and doorways all over the world.
Sighing in frustration, Holmes then inhaled deeply and, just for a moment, he caught John’s scent wafting up along with the smell of the ink and the distinct aroma of that particular stationary. He went perfectly still, eyes widening, and then held the paper directly to his nose, nostrils flaring.
Blood quickening in his veins, Holmes slipped the note into his dressing gown pocket before immediately beginning a very careful assessment of exactly what Watson had taken with him—he knew the contents of the man’s wardrobe nearly as well as his own—and then swept out to the sitting room to take a more meticulous look for any possible clues.
Watson might be able to elude any ordinary human, but Sherlock Holmes was an exceptional human, as well as an occasional shapeshifter himself. Perhaps there was hope, after all.
Not much later, after determining to his frustration that Watson had taken precious little with him, Holmes decided to give it his best try anyway, before too much more time passed. As he threw on his overcoat and dug in the pockets for his gloves, his fingers encountered the crinkle of paper.
He carefully withdrew an elaborately folded hexagon of palest blue paper with a seal of what looked like gold dust-infused wax. Breaking the seal after examining the entirety of the thing minutely, Holmes watched in fascination as the paper slowly unfolded in his hand, the many intricate folds forming a snowflake sort of pattern via the creases in it. Words had been written upon it in ink the same gold as the wax of the seal. Beyond the actual meaning of the words, the writing was beautifully done, every letter formed precisely and gracefully, reminding him of Watson’s telltale style.
Mr. Holmes,
By now you will be wondering where your friend has gone. It is high time you learned the truth. Leave at once, follow the directions below, and be cautious upon approaching when you arrive. You will be glad of the knowledge you will gain.
Until we meet,
An old friend of your friend.
At the bottom was an elaborate mark, something like a rune or possibly a pictogram of some kind, though nothing Holmes had ever seen before. Whatever it signified, the directions were more than welcome, though Holmes knew better than to assume the missive came from an actual ‘friend’—given that it had somehow been slipped into his overcoat pocket without Holmes noticing or, if it had been done during the night, with enough stealth that neither Holmes nor Watson had been awakened.
When he left with no more baggage than a parcel of dried meat and fruit in one pocket, Holmes also carried Watson’s revolver in the other. It might be foolish to try and follow a phouka in the dead of winter, even with directions, but Sherlock Holmes was no fool.
~~~
The Call Of Old Obligations ~ Watson
Watson pushed through the last of the evergreen branches surrounding the snow-dusted clearing, the grassy mound at its centre noticeably free of snow. The ring of unseasonably hardy toadstools at the base of the mound was perhaps a little excessive, but no one had ever accused the Fae of being unimaginative when an impression was to be made. If he had entertained any doubts that he’d reached his destination, the sight before him would have dispersed them.
Lifting his head to sniff the icy air, Watson’s ears flicked forward and back to catch all the little sounds that ordinary human ears would have missed. But then Watson did not have human ears just then, nor human anything, as he wore the shape of a large, deep reddish-brown stag, with a proud set of dark antlers fading to off-white at the tips. Though he had a nearly black pelt in his canine shape, the coat he now wore was almost the same shade as his hair when he went on two legs, middling brown with a healthy dose of red that showed more in sunlight than shade. Once he’d got clear of the edge of the town where he’d exited the train, Watson had taken on this shape in favour of the greater length of its stride and its affinity for the forest he would be travelling into.
Remaining in his current shape, ready to bolt if he had been called to a trap, Watson cautiously set one foot within the almost too-perfect circle of the clearing. Upon the instant his hoof touched down, a wavering shimmer caught his eye, forming vertically in the air between two trees at the opposite side of the earthen mound. A human shape walked into the clearing, appearing through the shimmering line as if parting an ephemeral curtain, and though Watson tensed to move, he settled upon seeing who it was.
A petite woman stood fully before him a moment later, her hair the palest gold fall of fine silk over her shoulders and nearly to the ground, her eyes the colour of a deep crack in glacial ice, green and blue that shifted depending on the light. Skin barely darker than the snow, her face was high of cheekbone and pointed of chin, and her slender fingers tipped with perfect ovals tinted with something that shimmered like the Northern Lights, or the rift in the air she’d just come through.
“Iain,” she said softly, voice a gentle fall of musical notes. Her words were in an ancient tongue which had been the precursor to Gaelic, one rarely spoken in the mortal world. “You answered my call.”
“That I did, Màiri,” he answered in kind, unable to do her the discourtesy of being formal once she’d used his given name; no doubt it was meant to remind him of their familiar past. However… “Though,” he added in English, “I answer to John these days.” In a swirl of magic and tiny sparks of light, he shifted from stag to human, pulling clothing from the air about him as naturally as breathing. “Which I think you well know.” His clothing was similar to hers, the sort worn for a casual meeting of equals in Faerie; a richly decorated open coat of woven raw silk in the green and brown dappled white of a winter forest, with a paler green tunic and trousers beneath, tucked into embossed boots of supple leather the colour of pine wood.
She gave a little lift of her chin, not lowering herself to an actual toss of the head, but it served the same purpose with more dignity. “Knowing a thing does not necessarily make me like it.”
“Not liking a thing doesn’t mean it will go away,” Watson pointed out, though more gently than he wanted to do. “Why have you called me here, Màiri?”
“You know why, Iain,” Màiri said, as if he was being dim.
Letting a short huff of displeasure escape him, Watson let that feeling show on his face, tilting his head slightly. “Your message told of ‘urgent family matters’ and by your manner here, I believe this has nothing to do with my family.” When she didn’t deny it, Watson continued in an overly patient tone, “I have told you time and again that I shall not change my mind. No matter how many times you press me, Màiri.”
“And I have told you just as many times that you are being foolish,” Màiri retorted. “You have had your little holiday, Iain, it is past time you gave up this little fascination of yours with the mortals and returned to where you belong. It is not only I who have missed you.”
Watson tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what game she was playing. “To whom do you refer?”
“Surely you have not forgotten that you were once highly–favoured at Court.” She made a graceful gesture with one hand, her expression taking on a hint of cool concern. “The longer you remain away, the more likely that favour will fade.”
“You know very well I care little for such things.” He continued to eye her suspiciously, wondering why she went to such lengths to bring him there, when—as far as he knew—they had said all they needed to say to one another long, long ago. “I told you I retired from Court because I wished it, Màiri. I have not changed my mind, nor am I likely to anytime soon.”
Though he had been listening to the noises in the background as a matter of course, his frustrated confusion was distracting him enough that, although he heard the various sounds of woodland creatures going about their business, he did not evaluate each noise as closely as he otherwise might have done. In either his stag or his dog form, he would hardly have to pay attention to know what each creature’s sound meant, let alone which creature had made it. Somewhere nearby, a larger animal was moving through the snow, but since he heard a four-legged gait rather than two, he felt it safe enough to ignore unless the beast came too close.
“I could attend in your stead if we were handfasted, as I have suggested before. This self-imposed exile is highly unwise,” she said bitterly. “It is not only I who suffers in your absence; your family name, your reputation, all that you might have made of your position at Court. What will be left you when you finally remember where you belong?”
Keeping to a relatively even tone, despite his rising ire, Watson took one step closer to Màiri and spoke perhaps more loudly than he had meant to, but more quietly than he wanted. “My family have been serving the Lady and her line since long before you were born. My line have been healers and soldiers to the Lady and those who came before her, since long before your kin ever came to favour at Court, which has only been since these local mortals were battling the Romans. Yes, I retired from the High Court—with the Lady’s blessing—because I took the blow meant for her consort in a skirmish with the Unseelie Court.” The half-ignored sound of what was likely a large fox or a wolf, maybe even a deer, came closer to the clearing, but Watson wanted to have his say before having to shoo away the likely curious animal. Màiri was looking torn between affront and anger in the meantime, and he would probably not have much more of her silence, anyway. “Even so, since then I have been emissary, messenger, and spy at Her pleasure while my wounds healed. Now, as I take my reward in retirement to the mortal world for a time—the span of which to be of my choosing, no one else’s—you have no claim greater, nor do your kin, as I have formally broken with you and them. There will be no handfasting, no joining of our Houses, and no obligation remains between us. Other than my few remaining distant kin, there is none who have the right or good reason to call me back to Faerie save the Lady. What did you hope to accomplish, Màiri?”
“Only this,” she replied in a tone that rang with triumph for all that it was quietly spoken, gesturing gracefully to her left at the perimeter of the clearing. Between two moss-touched tree trunks stood a lean black wolf, inordinately intelligent grey eyes trained upon Watson.
Watson murmured a curse and sighed deeply, looking down and away for a moment, pushing aside the strong irritation that flared up in him before it became something harsher. He refused to give Màiri the satisfaction of his anger.
“Come, come, Mr. Holmes,” Màiri said briskly. “You’d best remove whatever charm our Iain gave you and show us your proper self.”
Distracted from his surprise and the new flavor of annoyance that Holmes’ presence brought, Watson frowned in confusion at Màiri’s words. Before he could summon any words, however, the wolf that was Holmes’ only other shape backed away into the shadows of the trees and out of sight. Shuffling noises, as well as unpleasant meaty sounds reminiscent of bones and flesh being torn apart, sounded briefly, followed by a low whine that blended into a gasping grunt.
Moments later, Holmes spoke from his place of concealment, voice slightly strained and uneven. “I trust you’ll pardon me a moment, ma’am, while I bow to the necessities of the cold and propriety.” There came a few rustling sounds then, and Holmes spoke further as he obviously dressed himself, the trembling in his words most certainly due to the cold. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain what you mean by ‘charm’, however.”
Watson looked from the direction of Holmes’s voice to Màiri, “Yes, what charm?”
Lips pulling into an impatient moue, Màiri looked at Watson while directing her words towards the still-hidden Holmes, “Whatever bauble or trinket Iain gave you that allows you the seeming of a wolf, Mr. Holmes. It is a bit late to play coy now. I have heard tell that the two of you were seen running about four-footed and furred together. You have seen that Iain actually requires no charm to change shape, as he is no mortal.”
Stepping into the open again, now dressed in sturdy boots, thick trousers, and a pea coat topped with a handmade scarf with which Watson was familiar—seeing how Mrs. Hudson had knitted him one just like it—Holmes echoed Watson’s words, “Again, madam, what charm?” He glanced between her and Watson as he quickly tugged dark gloves over his long, pale fingers.
Lifting her chin imperiously, Màiri’s manner and tone chilled noticeably. “I hardly think levity is appropriate at this time, given that—” breaking off abruptly, her eyes widening, she made a small flickering gesture with her fingers. A faint silvery glow encompassed Holmes’ form for a moment.
Even as Holmes gave a jauntily challenging tilt of his dark head, Watson made a small noise that might have been a snigger were he a less cautious man. Watson covered the sound by clearing his throat and saying, “No, he is not precisely human, and that form was his own.”
Màiri appeared a perfect mix of bewilderment and disgust. “Not one moon shifter in a thousand can change outside the full moon’s span!”
Grinning wryly, Watson caught Holmes’ gaze, saying more to him than to Màiri, “I have always found Sherlock Holmes to be exceptional, actually.”
With the smallest of smiles barely curving his lips, Holmes inclined his head graciously at the compliment.
Studying Watson and then Holmes before returning her attention to Watson again, Màiri said, “You have, apparently, already revealed your true nature to him. Furthermore, you have continued to linger in the mortal realm for him.” She flung her hand out in Holmes’ direction, no magic attending the gesture that time, her tone shifting more blatantly to disgust. “A shifter?”
“Albeit an exceptional one,” Holmes pointed out dryly, lifting one gloved finger.
This time Watson couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him and he received an icy glare from Màiri in response.
“This is no laughing matter, Iain.” Watson gave her a brows-up, questioning expression, though he didn’t speak before Màiri continued. “It is a wonder this is not being gossiped about all throughout the Court. Mortals, of course, have been tolerated on rare occasions in the past, but I cannot be expected to have anything to do with someone who consorts with shifters, Iain.”
“As I have been trying to tell you, Màiri,” Watson said firmly, humour fading, “your expectations have nothing to do with me, nor will they ever again.”
Straightening to her fullest height, chin up again and gaze spearing Watson sharply, Màiri replied, “There is no going back from this, Iain. When we part ways here, it is for good and always.”
Taking a deep breath, Watson nodded once, gravely, and stepped back to the very edge of the clearing. “For good and always, Màiri. So be it. Fare you well.”
Turning to raise both her hands, the shimmer at her fingertips growing until it surrounded her, Màiri made an abrupt downward slash through the air. The same sparkling glimmer formed before her, through which she strode without a backward glance, disappearing much as she had originally appeared. The odd glow lingered in the air for the span of a few heartbeats before fading away completely.
“Well, now,” Holmes murmured, gaze still on the spot where the doorway to Faerie had been. “She was interesting.”
Watson gave a snort at the snide humour, but then sobered and swept a hand at Holmes, saying almost accusingly, “Speaking of interesting: just what are you doing here, Holmes?”
“I was invited, as a matter of fact,” Holmes replied.
Opening his mouth to demand what Holmes meant by ‘invited’, Watson then closed it an instant later, having put together the clues on his own. He sighed in long-suffering annoyance, shaking his head and saying in a rather growling sort of undertone, “Màiri, of course.”
“Indeed,” confirmed Holmes, turning away to retrieve a travel-worn rucksack, from which he produced the intriguingly folded letter with its golden wax seal. This time it did not unfold itself so invitingly.
Watson muttered a curse in his mother tongue, unfolding the paper deftly and swiftly scanning the words written upon it. He recognised Màiri’s hand, the whorls and curls and sweeping curves very nearly art, but the message detracting from the beauty of its crafting. “Oh, Màiri…” Watson breathed out, feeling a bit foolish for being hurt, even though his heart had not belonged to Màiri for a very long time. It was one thing to trick him into meeting her, but her attempt to reveal his Fae origins to his mortal lover—or so she had thought she would be doing—was particularly cruel.
“She did not realise that I already knew who and what you are,” Holmes said aloud what they both now knew. Watson merely nodded. Holmes put one gloved hand to his shoulder. “I am still sorry for your pain, Watson, even though her plan failed.”
“I loved her once,” Watson said in a voice barely above a whisper, rubbing one thumb along the surface of the paper. “Or thought I did.” He lifted his gaze to Holmes’ and his lips twisted in a crooked little smile that tilted his neat moustache, as well. “It’s only now that I know what love truly is that I can see what I felt for her was a poor, pale shadow of it.”
“John,” Holmes nearly whispered, his expression softening as his gaze warmed. His grip on Watson’s shoulder tightened, thumb rubbing against the fabric of Watson’s richly embroidered coat in an unconscious caress.
“I never mentioned her before,” Watson acknowledged. “Not because I didn’t want you to know, but because she was part of my past. No longer relevant.”
Holmes nodded. “But she could not accept that,” he said knowingly.
Watson echoed his nod. “Nor that I could love a mortal.”
“Let alone a lowly shifter,” Holmes added, though with sly humour in his tone. Even so, his gaze was still warm, the lines of his face subtly showing the affection he felt for Watson.
Watson’s off-centre smile returned. “The high-born in Faerie aren’t that different from their counterparts here in the mortal realm. Noses so far in the air that they can see little of what’s right in front of them.”
Chuckling, Holmes slid his hand down Watson’s arm, his fingers cold through the leather of his glove, but he did not say anything further.
Watson tucked Màiri’s letter in Holmes’ coat pocket before taking his other hand, too. He hardly felt the cold, at least there in that half-magical place, his Fae garb far warmer than its elegant form might imply. Letting his own feelings show in his face, gazing up into Holmes’ eyes, Watson said warmly, “Shall we go home?”
Holmes’s lips pulled into a grin, looking Watson up and down briefly before he replied, “Only if you promise to wear this ensemble again sometime. It flatters you greatly.”
“It’s hardly appropriate for the streets of London, Holmes,” Watson chided, though with little bite, aware he was probably blushing just the smallest bit at the heat in Holmes’ sharp gaze.
“True,” Holmes agreed, his tone gone sultry. “However, I intended for it to be a very private viewing, my dear.”
“In that case,” Watson replied with a goodly amount of warmth in his own voice, “let us be on our way at once. After all, I did promise to be home by the Solstice.”
He stepped back, summoning his dog form in a glittering swirl of magic, thick coat nearly black and ears upright in expectation as he looked up at Holmes. His eyes were the same colour as when he wore his human form, and his stag form, as well; the warm honeyed brown of fine brandy. Watson kept those eyes trained on Holmes as the man quickly removed his warm clothing and folded it neatly into his rucksack, shivering in the cold as goosebumps covered his fair skin.
“I envy you your swift changes, Watson,” he murmured, teeth chattering, and slid the loose straps of the rucksack over his shoulders before crouching down. The next moment he grimaced and took several quiet panting breaths before his skin began to ripple and darken with a sudden growth of hair, his face and limbs shifting shape with somewhat appalling sounds of bone and ligament moving and popping out and back into place. It took a bit longer than Watson’s magical transformations, but in the end a lean black wolf stood before Watson’s own canine form.
Snorting in amusement at the odd addition of the rucksack, Watson nuzzled Holmes’ furred cheek and made a soft, growling sound of affection. It was clever, really, and he would tell the man so when they were in their human forms one more. In the meantime…
Two four-footed travelers moved swiftly through the snowy woods to the edge of the nearest town, the journey easily a quarter what it would have been had they trudged all the way on human feet. Not long afterward, two men in warm clothing and cheerful expressions on their cold-kissed ruddy faces boarded the train for London.
And they were home in time for the Winter Solstice, as promised.
~~~
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Tags:
- au,
- ch: john watson,
- ch: màiri o móráin,
- ch: sherlock holmes,
- creativity,
- fae,
- fanfic,
- fic type: one-shot,
- inter-species relationships,
- magic,
- prompt fic,
- rating: pg-13,
- series: the furred and the fae,
- setting: canon,
- shapeshifting,
- sherlock holmes,
- supernatural elements,
- wadvent 2017,
- watson's woes,
- weres,
- written word
no subject
Date: 2017-12-29 02:45 pm (UTC)From:https://www.chewy.com/onetigris-cotton-canvas-medium-large/dp/159299?utm_source=google-product&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=hg&utm_content=OneTigris&utm_term=&gclid=CjwKCAiA7JfSBRBrEiwA1DWSG55txU7fazszLWJuGH30TmoUTqgZVClhWEcLM-LF5oFzwc-wJ-3oBhoCctwQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds
no subject
Date: 2017-12-29 09:08 pm (UTC)From:However, you can - in a pinch - get a rucksack (backpack) on a big dog, though the dog has to cooperate.
Even so! Thanks for the commenty goodness and the smile.
EDIT: oopsie! Fixed!