fic for rachelindeed: Glitter In the Air (2/2)

[holmesticemods]

---

John grabs at Sherlock’s elbow. “Sherlock, you can’t!” John’s never read anything about faerie kisses, but it only stands to reason that if faerie cakes and faerie wine and magical faerie music can bind them to this place, then a kiss would have even more power.

Sherlock ignores him. “A kiss?” he purrs, listing towards the blond woman.

She nods enthusiastically. “In payment for your beautiful music.”

Sherlock considers, then nods as if it makes perfect sense. His eyes glow as if there’s sunlight behind them.

“Sherlock, no!” John grasps Sherlock’s forearm in both hands and tugs.

Without looking at John, Sherlock pulls his arm free and steps forward.

The woman blushes prettily, pink staining her round cheeks. She tilts her head back and her eyes flutter closed. Her lips purse as if she’s already anticipating the touch of Sherlock’s lips.

John braces to intercede as Sherlock reaches for her waist, his hand extended, fingers splayed as if he’s about to cradle his violin. But at the last moment, he shifts, pirouetting on the sole of one foot to face John. And the hand he’s holding out closes on John’s waist instead, draws him in.

John laughs, the tension in his biceps easing, fists coming unclenched. Of course! A quick brush of lips, and they’ll have fulfilled the request, and they’ll still be free to go home. What a clever way to escape a faerie trick. But then, he would expect nothing less from the master of unique solutions to problems and mysteries.

Gazing into his eyes, Sherlock hesitates just long enough to give him time to say no. Then he leans in, his fingers gripping John’s waist tighter, his other hand coming up to cup John’s face.
Sherlock’s fingers are hot, and John shudders as he realizes it’s from playing the violin. It’s like being touched, gripped, by music.

Sherlock touches his mouth to John’s. It’s not the quick peck John was expecting. And not with the inexperienced clumsiness John was expecting.

Sherlock’s kiss is warm and soft, nearly chaste, except for the way his lips caress, light as a dragonfly, along the line of John’s mouth. Teasing. Teasing. Taking his breath away. Kindling a flame John didn’t know was smouldering.

He gasps and grabs Sherlock’s arms for balance as the tip of Sherlock’s tongue touches his lips, his tongue. Sherlock tastes of cinnamon and coffee, and he smells masculine, of clean air and rosin and grass. Sherlock hums softly as John stretches up to meet him.

John’s mind reels like he’s drunk on faerie wine. As if faerie glitter is dancing in his veins and faerie music, hot and soaring, is playing over his skin.

His hand comes up, finds warm, smooth skin. His fingers dance, as lightly as faerie toes on tender green grass, across Sherlock’s ribs, down across the sharp jut of hip, and come to rest just inside the loose waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock’s stomach flutters against his knuckles, and Sherlock sighs into his kiss.

It must be Faerie. Of course, it must be Faerie. It must be the magic around them that making him feel like this. That’s searing his nerves and overwhelming his senses. That’s making everything except the touch of Sherlock’s lips, the heated press of his fingertips, fade in the background. As Sherlock breathes his name, John realizes it doesn’t matter what’s causing it. Or why.

He murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock pulls back slightly. His thumb strokes John’s cheekbone, and his breath is soft and sweet across John’s face as he whispers, “What?”

It takes John a moment to sort through the flurry of emotions, of confusing, befuddled thoughts, to figure out what he said. But when he does, he smiles. “I said, ‘I just don’t care.’”

“About what?”

John smiles. “That I’m not gay. And you’re a pain-in-the-arse Faerie changeling. Or going home. I just don’t care about anything but this.”

Sherlock tilts his head and kisses the corner of John’s mouth once more, then lets him go.

John stares into Sherlock’s eyes, only peripherally aware that he’s breathing as hard as if he just ran up the stairs at 221B. He hopes that Sherlock was as reluctant to end he kiss as he was. That Sherlock’s body is singing as his is, arousal pooling hot and thick in his groin.

“We have to go,” Sherlock says.

John nods without speaking.

Sherlock picks up his belt from where he’s dropped it on the ground, and they turn together and head towards the path through the woods.

A chorus of ‘good-bye’ and ‘farewell’ follows them across the glade, and John dares a glance back. The young woman who’d wanted to kiss Sherlock smiles and wiggles her fingers at him before looping her arm through the crook of another woman’s arm. As the flute player starts up a song, they skip and hop together, picking up the tune, feet moving in step as if they’ve practiced.

Sherlock stops at the pile of shoes to retrieve his shoes and socks. As he leans against a nearby tree to pull them on, John looks for Tom. The old man is fast asleep with his back against the tree trunk on which they were sitting, his green bottle cradled in his lap.

The flute music still doesn’t sound as sweet to John as Sherlock’s violin did, but it’s pretty, and it follows them through the trees as they walk silently along the path, fading slowly until all John hears is the sigh of leaves and the call of birds and the crunch of their footsteps in the leaves.

John loses track of time again in the wood. He’s not sure how long they walk, Sherlock striding ahead of him without looking back. It feels like an hour. It feels like only minutes. He sees the knot on the oak tree for what he’s sure is the second time before he sees the glow that indicates the end of the path.

As they emerge into the small clearing, he searches for the portal and his marker. He easily spots his jacket wrapped around the foot of the young oak. And the portal is still there, an out-of-focus oval of leaves and drooping flowers. It seems quiet, somehow, dimmer than before, but it’s there, and he sighs with relief.

Sherlock retrieves his coat from the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree, and John gawps at him. He’s sure the coat wasn’t hanging there when he came through. Surely he would have noticed it?

Sherlock holds out his hand for his scarf, but John clutches it to his chest. “Not until we’re out of here,” he says.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but John only shakes his head. He supposes it’s silly, the superstitious fear that if he gives the scarf back, Sherlock won’t go through the portal with him. It’s even sillier to be worried that a man who just danced with faeries won’t understand what he’s thinking.

Rather than let go of the scarf, he loops it around his neck while he retrieves his coat and pulls it on.

Silently, Sherlock hands John his Belstaff so that he can slip his belt through the loops of his trousers. He has to fasten the button and zip them all the way before he can fasten the silver buckle.

John looks away, a bit disappointed--and definitely not ready to examine the feeling—that he can no longer see Sherlock’s navel and the line of coppery hair beneath. Sherlock watches him as if he knows what John is thinking. But neither of them says anything, and John wonders if Sherlock is so silent and pensive because he’s sorry to be leaving Faerie, or regretful that he kissed John, or embarrassed that he kissed John. Or uncomfortable with how John responded to it.

He’s not sure that it really matters at this point. Everything’s changed. The way he thinks of himself. The way he thinks of Sherlock. Just like Tom said. A sea change. A Faerie change. And he suspects the same is true for Sherlock. But there’s no way to know whether it will last. Whether it will hold true, for either of them, once they step through the portal.

Assuming they can step through, once they’re back in the dreary winter of London, back in their flat, will this shivery, iridescent feeling seep away? Will he regret things said and done in the glimmer of Faerie?

Sherlock leans close, breaking into his thoughts, and the sudden rush of blood in his veins sounds like voices in a Faerie wind. He looks up into Sherlock’s bewitching gaze. John’s seen documentaries, pictures of the most beautiful beaches in the world, with shining white sand and clear bluegreen water that looks like it can’t possibly be real. Like it was painted in oils by an old master. The sea in those pictures can’t hold a candle to the glowing blue, green, and gold of Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock…” John says softly, but he can’t tell, in his heart or from his tone, whether it’s warning or beseeching.

Sherlock draws him in, and John catches his breath. Holds it. Waiting. Waiting. Lips tingling, parting, as he anticipates the touch of Sherlock’s mouth on his again.

But all Sherlock does is take his coat from John’s arm. He whirls it above his head with a flourish and lets it slide down his arms. He shrugs to settle it onto his shoulders. He frowns as he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to groom the wild disarray of his curls. “Shall we?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the portal.

John swallows the mix of disappointment and relief that courses through him. He nods. “You first.” There’s no way he’s taking a chance that Sherlock might change his mind. Might want that land of laughter and song more than he wants London. And John.

But Sherlock shakes his head. “Together?” he suggests, holding out his hand.

John takes it without hesitation. This is familiar territory, though they’re usually clinging to each because they’re running for their lives or their freedom, not to slide through a magical portal. Sherlock’s hand feels like it always does, palm warm and soft, fingertips cool and callused from hours and hours of pressing on violin strings.

When they step forward, the oval of unfocused energy resists. Where it felt like stepping through a wall of smoke before, it’s now like rubber. The oval gives, energy humming along John’s hand and arm where he leans into it, but it doesn’t yield.

John looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide, heart chewing at his ribs like a jackhammer breaking up concrete. And he lets go of Sherlock’s hand. Backs away. He glances over his shoulder. The path is still there, slightly flattened grass waving in the breeze. Shadows beckoning. Maybe they’re trapped! Maybe they can’t go home. Maybe kissing him wasn’t enough. Maybe it was too much of a trick.

He may not remember much of the stuff his mum read to him, but he does remember that faeries love to play tricks, but they don’t like it when the tables are turned. They don’t like to be outwitted.

Sherlock is looking at the portal as if it’s a crime scene puzzle to be solved. “Maybe,” he says slowly, “we came through separately. Maybe we have to go back the same way.”

John nods. “That makes sense.” And then he laughs aloud, not a laugh of chiming bells like Sherlock’s, but a dull one. Rueful at the absurdity of thinking that anything to do with any of this makes sense. “You go first.”

Sherlock nods and steps up to the portal again. But when he touches it, it’s obvious that it’s as unyielding as it was only a moment ago. Sherlock examines the oval, stretching up on tiptoes to reach as high as he can. Testing and prodding at the leaves and vines.

A thought, so ridiculous that John huffs laughter at it, flits through his mind.

“What?” Sherlock asks, turning towards him.

“Sorry. Just…I suddenly wished I had an umbrella so I could tap the bricks, like in Harry Potter. Except, the bricks are on the other side, so I guess that wouldn’t work.”

Sherlock smiles, too, and pats his pockets as if he’s searching for an umbrella. Then says, with a rueful lift of his eyebrow, “I never thought I would say this, but…where’s Mycroft when you need him?”

“Probably on the other side of this wall, actually,” John confesses. “I called him, just before I followed you through.”


“You called Mycroft? Why?”

John pretend glares. “You followed your scarf through a brick wall and disappeared!”

Sherlock has the decency to pretend that he’s embarrassed and regretful, to murmur, “Hmmm…” as though it’s an apology.

John sincerely doubts the apologetic tone is genuine, but he can’t really feel regretful either, at seeing Sherlock dancing in the sunlight with a gaggle of fai—faeries, playing a purple violin, at hearing his laughter. He refuses to allow himself to think about the kiss.

“I’m not sure how you thought Mycroft could help…” Sherlock’s tone is peevish and put-upon.

John shrugs. He’s not sure himself. “I don’t know. I guess I thought he’d launch a rescue mission.”

Sherlock says drily, “Or open a bottle of champagne in celebration.”

John snorts. But thinking of Mycroft leaping through the portal after them, or more likely, sending one of his toadies through, gives him an idea. “Maybe…” he says, “Maybe…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you went through first, and I followed.”

“Very observant, John,” Sherlock says wryly.

John glares at him. “Maybe we have to go back in the same order?”

Sherlock steps back and half bows/half points towards the bricks.

But John hesitates. “You’ll follow me? You won’t…” He jerks his head back towards the path.

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, John. I’ll follow you.”

John isn’t quite convinced, but he takes a deep breath and steps forward. Leaves and flowers swirl as his fingers draw near. His hand disappears into a curtain of smoky green. A wash of cool air eddies around his wrist, threatens to slide up his cuff. He glances back at Sherlock. “See you on the other side.” It’s a question. And a plea.

Sherlock glances back at the path, then back at John, and says, “Yes.”

John almost steps back, almost reaches out for him. Instead he says, “It’s the only way to get your scarf back.” And then he steels himself, takes another deep breath, and steps through.

The sensation is the same as before. Except instead of the grit of brick dust, the scent of crushed flowers swirls around him as he steps slowly, slowly, slowly through a curtain of leaves. He closes his eyes as leaves and vines snag at his clothes and slide across his face. A branch catches in his hair and tugs.

He stumbles as his feet meet something hard and uneven. He brushes at his eyes, dislodging pollen from his lashes, and looks down. Pavement. He’s standing on a sheet of crumpled newspaper, on pavement. The alley coalesces around him in a blinding contrast of bright artificial light and deep, deep shadow of night. The scents and sounds of London slam into his consciousness. Air, close and heavy with rain, fills his lungs.

Mycroft, sans umbrella, is standing in the middle of the alley. He wheels towards John. “Dr Watson!”

Anthea is standing near Mycroft. She looks up from the screen of her cell. Further back, a gaggle of men and women, black-suited Mycroft-clones, clutch computer tablets and phones and cameras. Off to the left of the portal, a trio of a two men and a woman are gathered around a table containing a row of computers and—John has to squint—round, dull grey objects that he assumes are some type of sensors.

Metres away, silhouetted against the streetlamps, a row of uniformed police officers stand in front of a line of yellow police tape, guarding the entrance to the alley. They’re dressed as London coppers, but something about the way they stand, the way they don’t glance back as the volume of voices and beeping, hissing machines rises, tells John they’re much more than just coppers. Army maybe. Or Secret Service. Maybe Mycroft has his own army, like Dumbledore.

John would grin, except he feels as if his face is frozen with fear. He turns to face the brick wall through which he’s just stepped. Sherlock still hasn’t appeared.

Mycroft materializes at his elbow as if he used a portal to cross the distance. “Where is my brother, Dr Watson?”

“Right behind me,” John with certainty, as if he can will it by words alone. He pretends the way his heart is thudding is because of the way he can’t quite get a good, deep breath in the chilly, humid air.

It seems like minutes stretch out and out, time elongating the way it had in the forest, before the brick oval shifts. Morphs and stretches and ripples. And Sherlock steps through.

John laughs aloud with relief. Sherlock is dressed as he was when he went through the portal except that he didn’t buttoned his shirt. As he strides towards John, the tails of his shirt flap in the breeze and pale skin flashes against purple fabric.

Sherlock meets John’s gaze and smiles. The smile changes to a sneer as he glances at his brother. He says drily, “Imagine finding you here, Mycroft.”

John feels, rather than sees, Mycroft stiffen beside him, and he can’t help but grin, too. And breathe a silent sigh of relief. It’s the first real breath he allowed himself since he came through.

If Mycroft finds it odd that his brother has just stepped through a brick wall, or notices that his Sherlock’s clothing is in disarray, or that John is wearing Sherlock’s scarf, he recovers quickly. His tone is even more dry than Sherlock’s as he nods in greeting and says, “Sherlock…” And he motions with his hand.

A squad of men and women, arrayed in black, bristling with weapons and equipment, detach themselves from the shadows of the alley wall. They trot towards the end of the alley.

“Mycroft, no!” Sherlock hisses.

“That’s not necessary,” John says urgently, grabbing Mycroft’s arm to make sure he has his attention. “It’s not a threat.” At least, he amends to himself, not in the way that Mycroft understands.

But they needn’t have bothered. As the troops approach the brick wall, the soft focus quality of the oval clears as if it was fog puffed away by a quick gust of air. Even in the darkness and the contrast caused by the artificial lights, the surface is as sharp and in focus and solid as the rest of the wall.

The man in the lead touches the wall. His hand stays flat and whole. The man next to him touches the wall with the same result. A tiny woman steps up between them and slaps her palm to the bricks. The slap of leather against stone echoes through the alley. They all look back at Mycroft.

John is suddenly aware that he’s been holding his breath again, and he lets it out with a huff. His hands are clenched in Sherlock’s scarf, and he forces himself to let the soft fabric slide through his fingers.

Sherlock looks down at him, and in the dim light, his eyes glow a brilliant bluegreen. He smiles with a nearly feral flash of white teeth and wheels away, his coat flaring with his movement. “Ready to go home, John?” he calls as he strides away.

John has to lengthen his stride to catch up. He ignores, as Sherlock does, Mycroft calling their names in quick succession, his voice annoyed and demanding. “Sherlock! Dr Watson! I have questions. And you must be debriefed. And we need to do tests.”

A couple of ‘Mycroft’s Army’ detaches themselves from a group still standing at the wall. Two of the officers at the end of the alley turn, step closer together as if they’ll block the way.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock calls without glancing back. But he slows as he nears the officers.

John turns back. “Tomorrow, Mycroft. I promise. Right now, we’re tired and hungry.” Right now, he just wants Sherlock as far away from that brick wall as he can get him. Before Sherlock gets curious about why he could go through, but Mycroft’s Army can’t.

After a moment, as if he can read John’s thoughts, see the agitation that’s creeping into his shoulders and back, Mycroft nods. Waves for them to be allowed through. “Tomorrow,” he agrees. It sounds like a threat.


*****


They’re in the kitchen, John and Mycroft. As John makes sandwiches—cucumber and butter, cheese and pickle, and ham and mustard—Mycroft watches with such concentration that it looks as if he’s taking notes for later. Not that John can see Mycroft ever making his own tea sandwiches. Not that John’s all that sure he’s doing it right. It’s not normally something that he does himself. It just feels right—after where they’ve been, what they’ve seen—these light, crust-free sandwiches and tea in delicate china cups.

It's been like that for the three days since they returned. John feels like fussing. Doing something different. Making an effort. Even today, with Mycroft as an uninvited guest.

Half of John’s attention is on spreading paper thin layers of butter, of fine gold mustard, on the thin slices of bread, the other half is on Sherlock.

Sherlock is in the living room, standing at the window with his violin. It’s plain brown with ivory strings. John keeps looking to make sure it’s not purple like the one in—John gulps over even the thought of the words—Faerie. Sherlock’s had no trouble saying it, but now that he’s back in the real world, John’s been stumbling over the word. Even in his thoughts. Despite what he’s seen.

Sometimes, he’s half convinced he dreamed it. That it never happened. Except… It can’t have been a dream. Not with Mycroft as a witness that they’d stepped through a brick wall. Not with Sherlock standing at the window, as he has been all afternoon, limned in soft light that’s turned almost violet as the day wanes, trying to re-create the song he was playing as they swirled and danced amongst the Fae.

John has watched all afternoon as Sherlock’s done the same thing over and over again. Working with a concentration John normally only sees at a crime scene. Violin tucked under his chin, Sherlock plays a few notes, frowns, plays again, then again, until he’s achieved the sound for which he’s searching. Then he juggles his bow and a pencil in his right hand, makes a notation on the sheet of manuscript paper lined for writing music. Then he plays again. So far, he’s filled three pages with musical notes as sprightly and soaring as the music he’s re-creating.

“He’s very focused,” Mycroft observes without inflection.

John glances at him.

Mycroft is leaning lightly, bum against the edge of the worktop, arms crossed, expression casual and bland. Almost suspiciously so. That’s the expression that stole over his face when Sherlock and John ‘debriefed’ him two days ago. And he’s pretty much stayed that way. Flat and noncommittal, even as he insisted on them repeating their stories, on them submitting to blood tests and physical examinations.

John can’t tell whether the nonchalance means Mycroft believed them or that he thinks they’ve spun a gigantic fabrication of lies. He’s almost convinced Mycroft would have been happier if they’d told him some tale of an alien world, or being transported to some remote area of Russia by a transporter beam.

“It’s the music he played in F—” John stumbles over the word again. “Ah, over there,” John tells him. “He’s trying to remember it.”

“Ah-h-h.” Mycroft says, and he watches Sherlock, too, with a narrow-eyed, intense gaze.

“You don’t believe us, do you?” John says it casually, trying for the same bland tone that Mycroft pulls off with ease.

Mycroft doesn’t even blink. “Why do you say that?”

John shakes his head, grimaces but with humour. “I believe that’s known in diplomatic circles as a ‘non-answer answer’. And I say it because you’re being so quiet and casual about everything.”

Before Mycroft can respond, if he was even going to, Sherlock stops playing. He turns, violin still tucked under his chin, bow held suspended above the strings. “You’re ignoring an even more obvious explanation, John. That he already knew about the portal.” He glares at Mycroft. “That he’s unperturbed because he knows we’re not lying.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows start to climb up his forehead, but he recovers quickly. Smiles that smarmy smile that manages to double as an indictment. “What an imagination you have,” he says.

“Non-response response,” John mutters and goes back to his sandwiches.

After a moment, Sherlock turns back to the window and music flows into the kitchen.

Mycroft watches him a while longer before turning back to John. “That sounded more like the Sherlock I know,” he says.

For the first time, John can hear the undercurrent of concern bleed through Mycroft’s banality. “I—” John pretends more interest in the sandwiches than he feels as he takes a deep breath and confesses, “It almost didn’t seem right. To make him come back to…this.” And he hopes Mycroft understands what he means by ‘this’. Back to a world in which Sherlock will never really fit. Back to a world in which he either blazes with energy or is gutted by boredom. A world in which John has never heard Sherlock laugh the way he did there, with a sound like the play of sun-sparkled water over stones. “He was so happy there. So…content.”

“As he is when he’s high,” Mycroft says, his tone sharp and a bit sarcastic. “But if you found him about to stick a needle into a vein you’d stop him, wouldn’t you?”

Startled, John looks up at Mycroft. “Yes, of course, but—”

“It’s no different,” Mycroft says softly.

And John nods. He’s not sure he agrees. Mycroft didn’t see Sherlock there. Can’t understand how happy Sherlock was, the music he made. But…it’s something to think about…Faerie as addiction.

“You know, none of my people have been able to duplicate what the two of you did,” Mycroft says it almost conversationally, as if it’s of little consequence. “The portal appears to be closed.”

John’s sure Mycroft’s had people working in the alley around the clock, tapping, testing, probing. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to go back and find the wall has huge chunks knocked out of it, holes outlined in ragged brick, exposing the interior of the building beyond.

John doesn’t bother to tell Mycroft that he suspects that duplicating what he and Sherlock did would require a strange, singing wind. And a particular man and maybe even a particular scarf. Which is hanging on the mirror in John’s bedroom. Sherlock hasn’t asked for his scarf back, and John hasn’t offered it.

But he’s not about to tell Mycroft about his suspicions. Nor is he going to mention them to Sherlock. So far, if Sherlock’s thought about going back, either to Faerie or the alley, he hasn’t mentioned it. He’s been quite content to pluck and stroke and saw away at his violin for hours on end. To spend his evenings sitting, book unread in his lap, staring into the fire, with John opposite him, doing the same.

They’ve talked very little. Not at all about Faerie except in passing a couple of times. And that’s fine. John’s in no rush to hash it over. Sherlock seems to feel the same way. He seems, if not carefree, then at least content. And John wants to keep it that way. He’s not sure how they managed to escape Faerie the first time, and he’s not eager to try to do it again.

“You know…” Sandwiches made, John puts the kettle on to boil. Puts three cups and three saucers on a tray. “I’ve been researching a bit. And if even half of what I’ve read is true, it’s lucky we were able to come back at all.”

Mycroft reaches behind his back on the counter and retrieves the china teapot. He places it solemnly in the middle of John’s tray, as if he recognizes the importance of John’s ritual of tea, then he nods for John to continue.

John glances at Sherlock, but he doesn’t appear to be paying them any attention. “If I’d taken even a bit of cake, a sip of the wine, if Sherlock had…”

His attention drifts as he thinks of what he’s learned. He’s downplayed it to Mycroft. He’s done a lot of reading about the mythology of human interaction with the Fae. And quite a lot of contemplating it all. He has no idea how they managed to avoid the pitfalls of Faerie. It sure as hell wasn’t skill or knowledge, so it must have been luck.

“Yes?” Mycroft prompts.

John twitches himself back to the present. “The…people…there. They offered me cake. And wine. And it all smelled so good. I can’t even describe it.” He hesitates, searching for words. They’ve explained to Mycroft, twice over, what happened, what they saw. But not how it looked. How it felt. “It was— The cake smelled like warm honey and caramel and cream, combined. And the wine smelled…sweet and fresh. Like an icy spring, but better. Like it was made from champagne and berries so ripe they were bursting. And it was all so beautiful. So magical. The air sparkled, like it was filled with glitter.”

“Very poetic, Dr Watson,” Mycroft interjects drily.

John shrugs to acknowledge that maybe he’s drifted off into romantic language, but there’s really no other way to describe it. And even then, words aren’t rich enough. “According to everything I’ve read, If I had taken even a bite, or a sip… If Sherlock had… According to the legends, we would have been trapped. We would have been bewitched. For a minute there, just before we left, I thought Sherlock was bewitched. By the music.”

John shivers. He walks a couple of steps towards the arch between the kitchen and living room.

Sherlock is still wearing his bathrobe, cotton pyjama pants tied loosely around his slender hips, and an old t-shirt, washed so often it’s soft and faded and a bit too short for his long torso. When he swings his elbow up to position the bow on the strings, the shirt rides up and the pants slip down, exposing a long, thin line of pale belly between hem and waistband. And then he swings back towards the window, and the slash of skin is visible only as a long pale streak reflected in the glass.

John’s fingers twitch, curl and uncurl. He remembers the softness of Sherlock’s belly under his fingers. The silky warmth. The sweetness of Sherlock’s kiss... he wills Sherlock to turn back towards him, acknowledge him. Smile at him. Even a fraction of that woodland smile would warm the room for hours.

Sherlock plays another trill of notes on the violin, then sighs and shakes his head. He drops the bow down by his thigh and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. Twists his neck to one side as if he’s trying to make it crack. Then he repositions the bow to try again.

John turns back to Mycroft. “I have no idea why I didn’t eat anything. Or drink anything. The food looked amazing. The wine smelled so good. But I wasn’t even tempted. I have no idea why Sherlock wasn’t taken in by the music.”

Sherlock plays a long trill on the violin, and John can feel the Fae in it. The notes trickle down his spine, conjuring the scent of green and the feel of silver dancing on his skin. For just a moment, the air seems brighter. Shimmery.

“You’ve almost got it,” he says softly as he walks towards Sherlock. “But wasn’t it more like—” He hesitates. His voice is inadequate to even try to make a sound that comes even near the music Sherlock can create. And so he simply says, ‘La la la, la la, la la la la,” trying to show, more than the sound, the rhythm and emphasis he remembers. That he’s remembered every night, in fevered dreams. Sherlock dancing, pale skin agleam in the glitter of golden sunlight, a sound like colours come to life vibrating from the strings of a purple violin. Sherlock’s lips touching his, warm and sweeter than any Faerie wine.

Sherlock lowers the bow and looks back over his shoulder. “Yes. That’s it!” But instead of returning to the violin—or the paper that looks like a spider dipped in ink has crawled across it, scrawling notes with each of its eight legs before crossing them out and starting again—Sherlock stares at him. His eyes are the brilliant bluegreen shot through with gilded crystal of a faerie pool. A rosy blush colours his cheeks. He smiles.

It’s as if the moon itself has peeked over the trees, mellow light banishing the shadows. As if someone’s thrown a handful of glitter into the air. It takes John’s breath away.

Behind him, the kettle whistles as it boils. There’s the clink of the teapot lid, the rushing sound of liquid against china that tells him Mycroft is pouring the water into the teapot.

But John can’t be bothered, not by tea nor by the fact that Mycroft is in the flat with them. He drifts to Sherlock, as drawn as he was by smell of Fae wine.

Sherlock, violin still tucked beneath his chin, leans towards him.

Moving slowly, the way Sherlock moved before he kissed him, giving Sherlock time to move away if he chooses to, John leans in. He runs the tip of his finger along the strip of bare skin above Sherlock’s waistband.

Sherlock shivers at the contact, puffs his flat belly out as if inviting further caresses. The violin drops to his side and hangs, forgotten, in his long fingers.

John runs his finger along the line of fabric, tempted to dip his finger in behind it, to lay his whole hand, open wide and flat, against the warmth of Sherlock’s belly. To slide his fingers lower. But he doesn’t. He may be ignoring the fact that Mycroft is standing only a few metres away, but he hasn’t forgotten it.

Instead he says, voice playful but low enough that only Sherlock can hear, “Still not wearing any pants?”

Sherlock laughs, low and intimate. “When one has been to Faerie, John, clothing seem quite irrelevant.”

Heat climbs up the back of John’s neck. His heart beats, not with a tripping excited beat, but slowly. With a ponderous thudding that he can feel against the back of his ribs, in the vee of his groin.

Behind them, Mycroft clears his throat. “Perhaps,” he says, “faerie food and wine holds no temptation when one is already enchanted.”

John glances back over his shoulder.

Mycroft is standing near the door. He turns and takes his coat and umbrella off the hook. With an inscrutable smile that could as easily be sarcasm as approbation, he gives a jaunty salute with his umbrella, then leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Shocked, John stares at the closed door as if a portal has just opened there. And maybe one has. Not a portal into Faerie, but a portal into his own mind. He’d already understood that Old Tom was right. Touching Faerie changed him. And he’d also realized that it wasn’t going to dissipate. The magic of Faerie, the magic of Sherlock’s kiss, won’t ever leave him. Even if Sherlock never mentions it again. Even if Sherlock forgets, John never will. But until this moment, he hadn’t realized that meeting Sherlock, touching Sherlock, had changed him way before he ever went through a brick wall into another world.

Sherlock frowns. “What did Mycroft mean by that?”

John blushes deeper. “I think he was referring to something I said, about how I wasn’t tempted by the food and drink in Faerie. And how you weren’t tempted by the music.”

He waits for Sherlock to make the connection, wheels upon wheels turning in that amazing mind. He waits for Sherlock to realize that Mycroft has just said that they resisted Faerie because they were already enchanted. With each other. He waits for Sherlock to step back.

But Sherlock only smiles. And runs the knuckles of his bow hand along the inside John’s arm. Then he reaches past John to take up his pencil and make a notation on his paper. “Really, John?” he says with only a touch of his usual disdain. “You hadn’t figured that out already?”

John’s breath catches. A shiver dances down his spine. And he laughs for sheer joy at how relaxed and carefree Sherlock sounds.

Then he goes back into the kitchen for the tea. Just as he suspected, Mycroft has added the water to the teapot, and there’s fragrant steam escaping the spout. Mycroft has also set aside the third cup and saucer that John had put on the tray for him.

John carries the tray back into the living room and puts it on the coffee table. “Tea?”

Sherlock glances up from his paper at the tea tray. He raises his eyebrows at the plate of tiny sandwiches and the delicate china cups, but he doesn’t answer. He just goes back to his notations. He plays another run of notes on the violin and leans over to write them down.

“Sherlock, you’ve been at that all afternoon. What’s it going to take to tempt you away from that and get some food in you?”

Sherlock looks up from his violin and smiles. The brilliant, heart-shattering smile that John had been sure was Faerie magic.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says, “I could be persuaded…for a kiss.”


###

Comments

[swissmarg]

Gorgeous and magical. The desciptions of Faerie, the place and the people, were so vivid and charming. I love the idea of them being immune to the temptations there because they were already under each other's enchantment.

[lyricaxxx.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your lovely comment!

I'm still trying to find my way in Sherlock fanfic, and this story is outside the norm in what I usually write in any fandom that I was on tenterhooks when it was posted. It was such a relief to see your comment. Thank you!

[saki101.livejournal.com]

Oh, I feel I've been to Faerie! And the two of them weren't harmed by it, they brought the best part back with them. What a fabulous ending. And I love Mycroft's reactions all through. Thank you for this!

[lyricaxxx.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much!!! I'm still trying to find my footing in writing in the Sherlock world, and this story is very much not the norm in what I would write in any fandom, so your comment has made me feel very nice.

[rachelindeed.livejournal.com]

Dear mystery author,

I loved this so much, from beginning to end. I was really charmed by your author's note where you told us how the inspiration for this story came to you, and I feel like the fic has arrived for me in a similarly serendipitous way. I happen to have stayed home sick today, and this beautiful gift seems to have dropped into my lap on a faerie wind, arriving out of the blue at just the time I most needed to feel better.

The lush, joyful descriptions you have written throughout the story were so delightful. I loved the initial dramatic yet playful scene where Sherlock chases after his scarf with a reckless sense of adventure. You got John's reaction pitch-perfect, with his instincts warring between urgent, equally reckless protectiveness and the more cautious, competent side of him that knows he shouldn't just plunge into the unknown without arranging back-up. (The fact that the back-up turned out to be Mycroft and the Ghostbuster/X-Files branch of the Secret Services was so perfect!)

Once we arrived in Faerie, I was simultaneously enchanted and worried, which is just as it should be. Throughout the gorgeous descriptions -- I especially loved the way that scents and colors seemed to mix in John's senses, and of course the amazing beauty of the music -- I was nervous, because I kept expecting either John or Sherlock to begin to lose control, and for the whole idyllic scene to turn sinister. I liked that you dropped little unsettling hints in that direction to keep me on tenter-hooks, like the...not-people, and the occasional dancer who looked ragged and worn thin as if they were unable to pull free.

But even before the story revealed it, I actually noticed the way that whenever one of the temptations of Faerie seemed close to ensnaring John, he was always distracted by Sherlock, and his fascination with him was so powerful that everything else simply faded away. I thought that was an absolutely brilliant central theme, and the way that John and Sherlock were able to bask in the magic without losing themselves was so satisfying. Instead of making them forget themselves, the experience was actually pivotal to their self-discovery, and that kiss, which might never have happened in the course of ordinary life, was the most magical thing of all. I loved how Sherlock seized on the faerie trick as a clever excuse for giving himself and John the chance to follow their hearts.

I really enjoyed the way you handled the attraction growing between them, which I found tremendously alluring. That description of Sherlock trembling at the brush of a knuckle against his stomach is exactly the kind of molten detail that makes anything more explicit unnecessary. Really lovely, sexy writing.

And can I just say that the closing scene was quite perfect. I liked the image of John taking time to carefully prepare a meal, as if he had rediscovered the value of appreciating the sight and taste of food and drink, those daily comforts. And of course Sherlock would try to recapture the song. When Mycroft made his observation about the two of them it was such a victorious moment, and I loved that Sherlock had known all along. That last line brought the whole thing together perfectly!

This was such a treat! As you can tell, I really loved it and I needed it today! :) Thank you so much <3 <3

[lyricaxxx.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for such a long, lovely comment! I'm so glad (and so relieved) that you enjoyed the story. I was really worried about it, after the idea was so long in coming, and it wasn't exactly the type of story I would usually write.

I'm so, so sorry for the typos and mistakes that made it through my clumsy self-betaing. As I said, I was so late getting the idea for this story that I barely made the deadline. There just wasn't time for a beta reader nor time for me to let the story lay for a while so that I would have (hopefully) caught some of them myself. I hope they didn't detract too much.

I'm glad I could make you feel better on a bad day. Your lovely, lovely comment made me feel the same way and will stay with me for a good long while! Thank you so much again.

[rachelindeed.livejournal.com]

Dear lyricaxxx, thanks for your kind note and I just wanted to say how surprised and delighted I was to see that you were my Mystery Author! I remembered your (smoking hot) story from a previous holmestice, especially since snarryfool (whom I follow) made a post at the time talking about how much she loved it and urging lots of people to go read and comment so that such a great new author would be encouraged to write more in the fandom! And now here I am lucky enough to receive a gift from you <3 Please don't be hard on yourself or the story for having to rush a bit for the deadline, it reads beautifully and whatever typo caught your eye can easily be fixed over on AO3 if you'd like to move it there eventually (I hope you will, so I can bookmark it). Personally, I constantly fiddle with those little leftover edits for my stories once they're written, that's the natural way of things! :)

I don't know what special alchemy in the matching process led to you, with your specialty in scorchingly sexy romance, being matched with me of the non-explicit request sheet, but thank you so much for stepping off the beaten track in order to write me something this magical and lovely. It's very special, and I'm so glad that your inspiration carried you in this direction. You're awesome, and I hope you will write more in the Sherlock fandom so that we can all enjoy your work!

Thanks again, and here's hoping a faerie wind comes your way, with good luck and best wishes :)

[ancientreader]

Oh, this story's a marvel. Just a marvel. Your evocation of the passage into Faerie, of how near John and Sherlock come to staying, of that kiss! And how their visit to the beautiful and alluring place changes them -- how Sherlock seems to bring back a new easiness, how John is open to Sherlock in a way he wasn't, before. And Mycroft's insight into why they weren't enchanted, oh, my goodness, that was exquisite. That sound you hear, wherever you are, Mystery Author, is me applauding for all I'm worth.

[lyricaxxx.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your sweet and lovely comment!

I hope you don't think this sounds weird, but...I'm always tickled to see your name, because I wrote my first Sherlock story for you, in this same challenge last year, and your response was so very wonderful. All a virgin could hope for. *wink* So your comment means even more, coming from you. *gushing, stalkerish behavior off*

Thank you again. I've just been blushing (and preening just a little) while I pretend I can hear applause. (Actually, I'm kinda scaring the dogs. *lol*)

[ancientreader]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH you wrote "Parthenophilia"! I love that story! And now you're hooked on the fandom heh heh heh *evil mustachio-twirling*!