Hello all!

I said it in other thread, but I`ll say it again here. At the suggestion of Schmiezi I posted the final story for this exchange; the one I wrote. 

(I only just got it back from my beta, which is why I`m only posting it now)

Sorry it took me so long nakahara, I hope you enjoy it 

I`ll be putting it on AO3 soon.

 

Chapter 14

A Meeting Of Hearts II





It seemed the more time that passed, the awkward feeling of the tension surrounding them lessened. There was still the heavy presence of all that happened looming, but overall it definitely felt more comfortable than before.

It was a nice feeling, being that content with someone – let alone a practical stranger in many respects.

John sighed and breathed in deeply; the contrast of the cool, snow air, and warmth flooding his body a welcome tonic to the emotions whirring around his heart and mind.

It was when, again, Sherlock finished a cigarette and reached for another one (Christ, how is that man not shaking? Must have something to do with his Enchanter physiology, they’re not immune to the effects of nicotine, but are more resilient in general) that John said something.

“Do you seriously intend on smoking the entire pack?” John eyed the offending pack disdainfully.

“Yes.” Sherlock lit it up with the lighter and inhaled with a grateful sigh. “I have five years of smoking to catch up on, after all.”

John scowled and crossed his arms. “Where did you even get those? Mycroft said you stole them.” Even if he hadn’t told John, he knew there was no way anyone here would willingly give him cigarettes, or any unhealthy vice for that matter.

Sherlock nodded, looking far too pleased with himself. “From the pockets of a few distracted, unsuspecting Nurses and one security guard.”

John blinked. “Plural?”

Sherlock lifted three more packs of cigarettes from a pocket out of John’s immediate view.

Christ. John groaned.

When he replaced them, John was resting his head in his hands. He’s determined I’ll give him that.

How he managed to steal those, not once but several times, without getting caught (except obviously by Mycroft) John could not figure out.

He was impressed despite himself.

“How did you even manage that?” John lifted his head and looked at Sherl

Chapter 12

“It seemed too much like a miracle”





John felt like he’d been drawn, quartered, tied to a roller-coaster and run over by screaming children.

Not only was he a witness to the most private of Sherlock’s memories, he felt and saw them from his point of view.

And John knew he only saw a few of them.

John ached, tears were running down his face – he didn’t know if they were his or Sherlock’s. John felt shattered, sad, devastated by the experience but Sherlock…the loss, Sherlock’s greatest pain…John knew it had to be horrible, but seeing it, feeling it first hand – John was torn between wanting to forget and holding Sherlock tight.

John had lost people he loved, but not like that, nothing, nothing quite like that.

Admon was everything to Sherlock.

The knowledge added a new level of reality to Sherlock’s reaction up on the cliff, when John kissed him.

Had he remembered Admon then? Coldly reminded of what he never had?

Oh Sherlock…

John knew he was still in Sherlock’s head, which meant Sherlock had to be close by and he needed to see if he was alright…alright? How could he be alright after what just happened? John had no idea what he was going to say to him, but all that had been rushed on John was hard enough for him to feel, he couldn’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for Sherlock.

Would he still wish he’d never remembered? Or would he be grateful for having those memories back in his conscious mind, as painful as they were?

John had no time to think on what all this may or may not implicate in regards to his bond with Sherlock, or even what Sherlock would be like now that he had all of himself in relative one piece again.

John hadn’t moved since he fell and rolled onto his back in the fog-cleared, candlelit darkness, still he felt like he’d been tossed around in a washing machine for a good few hours.

So it was with slow, but steady, progress that John sat up, groaned and pus

Chapter 10

Admon





That time, they both landed with unexpectedly steady feet.

Darkness surrounded them, this wasn’t a surprise. What was though was the thick, heavy fog, rising to their waists that seemed to glow entirely on its own.

At least, that’s how it seemed to John.

When the fog thinned out ahead of them, he noticed the light was actually coming from a single, aqua coloured candle; small, but it shone with light not even a room full of candles could produce, and yet it was still soft, and warm. It made the darkness around him feel not quite so oppressive.

The candle wasn’t the only thing in the circle of cleared fog.

A red dog with long, deep auburn fur glistened in the light of the candle at its side; casting a shadow long and far to the very tips of Sherlock and John’s feet.

There was no noise, and the dog was staring very intently at Sherlock. In a way that seemed very…human.

John had the sense that the dog was waiting for something.

John looked to Sherlock standing very close at his side.

The man was breathing heavily; his eyes clenched shut against the soft glare of the candle…and the dog.

Of which John had no doubt Sherlock saw.

“…Sherlock?” John whispered with slight hesitance and lightly touched Sherlock on the shoulder. The fog seemed to pulsate when John spoke.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open at John’s words and his touch; staring with red-rimmed, almost angry eyes at the shadow rippling at their feet.

“Sota rua, Irish Red Setter, a canine breed bred primarily for use as hunting dogs with first potential instances of the breed showing as early as 1570. A unique predisposition of the breed made them exceedingly common companions to soldiers, for a time, in war to support those wounded by physically harmful offensive Magick by either slowing down the progression of potentially fatal wounds by remaining close to those affected, or having a strong emotional bond to a person akin to a familiar bond that

Chapter 8

Baker Street And Beyond





John walked the short distance towards the final door and grasped the handle. Swiftly, he opened it – in the process noting it was notably heavier than the others, and then…

Whack! A ball of hard, cold snow hit John full in the face; it began to melt near instantly in contrast to the warmth of his skin.

“Fucking-” John sputtered, quickly wiping the freezing wetness away from his eyes and mouth. “What the hell was that?”

John blinked away the water around his eyes clouding his vision.

He barely registered the thud of the door closing shut behind him.

A street in the height of winter surrounded John. Though he was certain he hadn’t seen this specific area before, there was no doubt in his mind that this was in London.

It was night; undisturbed snow covered the sidewalk, road and stairs leading up to the homes on either side. There were no visible stars, or moon, the only light came from the dozen or so streetlights positioned evenly apart along the street.

This is different.

John turned his head, there was no sign of the door he came through, behind him all he could see was the rest of the street; dimly lit.

In truth, the only abnormal thing was for being a street at London, even at night, it was exceptionally quiet and void of any life.

Given that this wasn’t London, and merely another facet of Sherlock’s mind, perhaps it wasn’t so odd.

Sherlock’s mind…John had an inkling about where he was. Sherlock mentioned he’d recently – before what happened to him – rented a flat.

John looked up, intent on finding a street sign…ah. There it was, right on the corner.



BAKER
STREET W1 .
CITY OF WESTMINSTER


So this was the outside of Baker St, which meant 221b had to be nearby.

When John took a step forward he’d expected, naturally, that it would be onto snow, but when it did all he felt was water. Given that all John had been wearing o

Chapter 6

Purgatory





John expected to open the door into a hallway, or stairwell. Clearly he’d forgotten very few things follow paths of traditional logic here.

He should’ve expected to end up somewhere as sudden as a gigantic warehouse…although zoo might have been more accurate.

When he followed Sherlock beyond the flat door he was immediately thrown – involuntarily – down what felt very much like a slide, instinct caused John to reach out and try to stop his momentum, which inevitably failed. Barely a few seconds later he exited onto a hard surface in another undignified heap, at least his clothes remained on his body this time.

John groaned as pushed himself off the ground (maybe I should start keeping a tally here), hands scraping the cracked, and porous cement floor; through which John felt trickles of water, as a result when he stood his hands and knees came away wet.

“What the bloody hell was that…” John muttered to himself, a slide? Really? He hoped he hadn’t unintentionally taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up into some obscure corner of Sherlock’s head, far from his goal and wherever Sherlock – the Sherlock he’d been talking with, went.

John supposed he could forgive the man his impatience in this scenario.

That was when John noticed he could hear what sounded like multiple voices speaking in the distance, it reminded him of a much milder version of the cacophony he’d heard before, but this time John not only heard people, the sounds of numerous animals assailed his ears.

Strange.

John’s brow furrowed. That was when he finally inspected his surroundings.

He gasped.

John was standing in the middle of a massive room; the kind of size with no visible end in sight, and ceilings that dwarfed John’s own height hundreds of time over. There was no sign of the…slide, or shoot maybe, that brought him here.

The room appeared industrial, housing dark wooden shelves upon shelves of

Chapter 4

The Plan





John thought that he’d reached insanity’s terminus before, which proved just how far gone he really was.

He could believe a lot, with a world full of Magick and ultimately endless possibilities in the form and shape it can take, pretty much anything was possible.

That didn’t mean John wasn’t having trouble digesting what Mycroft, Dr. Hooper and D.I. Lestrade (whose first name is Greg he’d learned upon proper introduction) just told and summarily requested of him.

Oh ok, I’ll just go waltzing into some blokes head – whom I am apparently bonded to via Coniuncti Sumus – do away with whatever is mentally blocking him from waking, once I actually find it, no big deal that doing so will make this man remember his greatest pain and that I have no bloody clue what I’m doing, more likely I’ll feck up the poor man even further…Absolutely no big deal, at all.

Perfect.

The truth was, for a few important reasons, John genuinely had no choice but to comply with what he’d been told and requested of. However, John knew that even if he did have a choice, there would be no way he could turn away from helping this Sherlock Holmes, or anyone in that condition for that matter. If John were the only one who could do something, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to ignore that, no matter how dangerous.

And this was dangerous.

When Mycroft called Molly and Lestrade back into the room (apparently they were waiting right outside), after introductions were made (The D.I seemed a pleasant enough man to John, certainly nothing threatening about him – despite his power), Mycroft proceeded to fill the rest of the gaps in John’s knowledge of the situation.

What it all boiled down to was this: Sherlock could not live in his current state forever, mind fractured in who knew how many ways. It was a miracle he had survived as long as he had already, they were dealing with many worrying unknow

Chapter 2



‘Sherlock Holmes’





John barely slept that night.

And it wasn’t because of the bizarre dog incident – maybe he really was going mad and hallucinating. In any event it was barely a blip on his radar at the time.

John could barely even sleep before medication, nightmares of being shot keeping him awake, but without it…he’d almost forgotten that particular difficulty.

At that point a decent, undisturbed night of sleep was a far, distant realm of possibility.

John had only managed to sleep four, restless, hours, at which point the feeling of a bullet tearing through his shoulder woke him abruptly and ended up staring at the unfamiliar ceiling for the rest of the night. His undershirt and pants were soaked with sweat, his body tense, and heart hammering in his chest. He consciously tried to force his breathing to slow; ashamed of the tears he felt building in his eyes. John wouldn’t let them fall. He wished he’d never gotten shot, he wished he really had managed to kill himself; John wished he never felt that way in the first place. And most of all, he wished that his life made sense again, like it did in the army, the challenge, sense of duty and purpose made him feel so alive. John had the passing thought of how fucked up that was.

What kind of person feels more comfortable being in danger than being safe? John snorted aloud, the sound echoing in the empty, quiet room. Me, I guess.

The night passed into morning, and John didn’t go back to sleep, just laid there in the foreign bed trying not to think. This was made all the more difficult by the restraint on his wrist, the leather a constant reminder of the full extent of his brokenness.

Because that was the truth, John felt broken. He hasn’t felt himself for a long time. Adrift. And then he was supposed to regain control of his Magick when he couldn’t even control the sheer amount of his self-pity? Not bloody likely.

John could hear the distant sounds of the BMC wakin

Schmiezi has given me permission to post my own story. It is a bit long, and I'll be posting in on AO3 soon but for consistency sake I'm posting it here first. 

(I apologize for how horribly overdue I am, my beta had problems and I wasn't able to get the story back until recently :/)

For nakahara 


You asked for 

"I would like to read a story in which Sherlock is blamed by John for some wrongdoing and later proven innocent, but meanwhile he was already hurts (professionally, physically or in some other way) by John's accusations. John is ashamed and makes it up to him.

Preferably Johnlock, deal breaker being Warstan and Mary being cleverer than Sherlock and Mycroft

And your key prompt was: Rota Fortunae'


Given the short amount of time and the fact that the story I wrote for someone else's prompt was already completed (which was primarily 'Magic or stagelock, but not in an HP verse'), I wasn't able to integrate a lot of the specifics of your prompt as much as I would've liked to, sorry .

HOWEVER, for the most part it fits, it is Johnlock, there is angst between our two boys and really, who is cleverer than the Holmes brothers? xP Aka, no one.

I hope you enjoy! ^_^


Everglow

(warning; multiple references to a past suicide attempt, but not graphic)


Oh Fortune,

Variable as the moon,

Always dost thou wax and wane.

Detestable life,

First dost thou mistreat us,

And then whimsically,

Thou heedest our desires.

As the sun melts the ice,

So dost thou dissolve

Both poverty and power.

















Prologue





[i]Magick is real.

A reality considered both a blessing, and a curse.

People – humans and humanoid cousins, ie; Warlocks, Mages and Enchanters, alike - have pondered the existence of a world without it. Would life be easier? Or made more difficult due to the lack of it? Ultimately

First off, in terms of fic posting and author reveal, whatever is easiest for you Schmiezi is fine with me.

Second, I am so sorry I have yet to comment on any of the fics , real life has been a pain in the arse in many ways, and for the past little while I've been helping look after my 4 month old nephew.
I have FINALLY gotten some not busy free time, and I'll spend Christmas eve reading the stories that have been posted so far! Very excited to finally get to read them!