Beware the Frozen Heart

Split the ice apart...
Beware the frozen heart.

Notes: A million apologies for taking so long. I got a promotion at work and it ended up taking over my life a bit. In the end, I'm not even sure I'm satisfied with it all, but I needed to finish it and I feel pretty accomplished. And now I can work on my next project without feeling guilty!

Thank you for sticking with me. Much love, and hopefully you'll be interested in my next story, when I take on a longer Potterlock AU. Oh goodness. Wish me luck!

Harriet watched her brother as he stood just outside of his small bedroom. Admittedly, she wasn't thrilled when John had returned home with the same nobleman in tow as before. However, she quickly saw that the man was ill and helped her brother assist him into his bed. She warmed bricks near the fire to place them near the man's freezing body in bed; she heated water and brought a warm wet cloth to place on his forehead.

She had listened to her brother tell the tale—about how this man was the prince, how they'd gone to stop the winter but an accident involving magic had left him in this state.

She moved to stand beside her brother. He didn't move, instead continuing to watch the man who was sleeping in their home.

"I have to say, he's much quieter this way," Harry said. "I rather like it." However, there was no reaction from her brother at the words. She sighed. "John, come on. Any other time that would either make you laugh or shout at me." She frowned. "It's concerning me."

"He's concerning me," John replied, not taking his eyes off of the ailing prince.

Again Harry sighed. "You barely know him," she reminded him. "It's been hardly a week."

"But it doesn't feel that way," John argued, glancing at his sister exasperatedly, as though she was being the unreasonable one for not understanding. "It's different. He's different."

"Which is an attribute that many view as negative in regards to him," Harry pointed out.

"I know," John conceded. "But I've never exactly been normal either."

"At least you're passable."

It was John's turn to sigh. "But I don't want to go back to that life, Harry," he said, his tone resting somewhere between sadness and bitterness. "He's shown me how things can be. He's brilliant. He sees things that others cannot." He smiled vaguely. "This adventure we went on was marvelous. Bandits and chases on horseback, sword fights and magic. It was all so thrilling and for the first time since father died, I felt like I was actually alive." He paused, frowning again. "It pains me that he got hurt. All I want right now is to help him."

Harriet was silent for a moment. She had known for quite some time that her younger brother was unhappy. He'd given up so much, all of his dreams, just to return to her when their father had died. Once she had firmly believed that he would be a brilliant physician, possibly good enough to even go on to work in the palace itself, under the king. Perhaps she wasn't the prince's biggest supporter, but if he was doing this for her brother, then she had to accept that he wasn't as bad as she'd initially thought.

"Then help him," she said quietly.

John shook his head. "It isn't that simple," he sighed. "This old sorcerer we visited, he said it can't be undone so easily. There's no herb or tincture, not even a magical potion that can help him." He gave her a somber smile. "His heart can only be thawed by love."

Harriet grimaced in turn. "That is certainly a difficult task for such a man," she said. "And I don't mean offense," she added hurriedly.

"I know," John replied. "He believes it's untrue, just the ramblings of an old man who's not quite there."

"And what do you think?" she asked.

John was silent for a while. "I don't know," he admitted. "Reason says that he—" He gestured to the prince. "—is right. But so much of this time with him has defied reason, despite what he might think. Maybe there's more truth to the man's words than we believe…"

He trailed off, and Harriet accepted that there was little else to say to her brother. She itched to say what else was on her mind, but she held her tongue. Still, she had a feeling that perhaps he would be able to save the man after all, he just couldn't see it yet.

It was easy to acquire a horse once they reached the town at the foot of the mountain. Though Mycroft had no gold, Lestrade did. The young man had offered the horse to the king at no cost, but the king refused to accept the unnecessarily generous offer. After that they were able to swiftly make their way to Anderson's.

The man was sitting outside his home, despite the snow, and he greeted the two visitors with a smile. "I expected you," he told them as they dismounted. He pushed himself up from his chair, then walked inside, leaving the other men to follow.

Lestrade took the lead. "We're here—"

"Because of the prince," Anderson interrupted, nodding at both men as he shuffled around the room, tending to something brewing in a huge cast-iron pot over a fire, then moving to look at different jars on a shelf near by. "Yes, he and his companion paid me a visit."

They waited for him to continue, but after a moment he did not, instead adding an ingredient from a vial into the pot. "Yes," Mycroft pressed on. "I need to know what you told him."

Anderson shifted his full attention onto the men now. He smiled at them. "You both have changed so much since we last met."

"I can't really say the same," Mycroft responded sharply and impatiently. He hoped to cut the pleasantries short. Anderson ignored him.

"Gregory, you of course have changed in marvelous ways!" Anderson said happily. "You moved through the ranks graciously, becoming the king's trusted captain of the guard. No doubt that is in part due to events that happened that night…" Lestrade didn't respond, unsure of what to say. Anderson quickly turned to Mycroft. "You, your majesty, I have to say have changed greatly as well. Not necessarily in the best ways, but your intentions were good, of course," he added quickly as Mycroft frowned. "I believe my warning to you was not to hide your gifts, but to learn to control them."

"I did what was needed," Mycroft said curtly.

Anderson shrugged. "So you believe," he allowed.

Seeing that Mycroft was growing frustrated with the man, Lestrade stepped in again. "Good sir, it is very important that we know what you told the prince."

"Yes, yes!" Anderson said suddenly, almost as though he'd forgotten. "The prince, yes. I told him what needed to be done to save him."

Lestrade clenched his jaw a little. "Which was?" he pressed on.

"As you remember, it is quite simple to change one's mind," the man replied. "But to thaw a heart frozen such as your brother's, an act of true love is required."

Mycroft and Lestrade were silent for several long moments before the king spoke up. "This is ridiculous," he murmured.

"Your brother responded similarly," Anderson sighed. "Something you two have in common, to brush aside emotions so easily." He shook his head. "However, you'll notice that it is just that—emotions, feelings, sentiment—" he put emphasis on the last word, meeting Mycroft's eyes pointedly "—that is the cause for much of this. Your fear of hurting your brother led to your choice to lock yourself away for years. Your desire to keep him from death influenced you to make your deal with Moriarty. Your love—"

"That's quite enough," Mycroft snapped.

Anderson held up his hands in show of surrender. "My apologies, sire."

"I just want a straight answer," the king growled. "A solution."

"Love is the only answer," Anderson repeated. "I have given you the solution. It is up to you and your brother to decide whether or not you wish to accept it."

Before they left in the morning, John ensured that Sherlock was as warm as he could be for the remaining bit of the journey. He wrapped him in a heavy wool cloak. It was coarse and unembellished; not something that he would otherwise see as fit for a man of royalty, but it was a desperate time and measure. Over night Sherlock's hair had lost even more of its color, his skin turning more icy. John knew he was running out of time, and he was quickly feeling more and more helpless.

They rode in silence once again. It made John's heart ache. He would give anything for the conversation that had been so easy, if tense at times, just a few days ago. Somewhere he knew he must be romanticizing the whole ordeal, turning it into an ideal journey that hadn't quite occurred. Even his shoulder was a testament to that. But if anything, he almost felt that such an injury bore more proof that it was the very thing he'd been looking for. He was a sad man, traveling the woods with no purpose. He was essentially lost, yet Sherlock had found him. The man who saved him was the very prince that many didn't wish to be near. But now Sherlock was his prince, and he would follow him wherever he may lead. There was no danger he wouldn't face, if it was in the name of Sherlock.

Yes, his life had changed and he did not have any intention of going back. That was what, perhaps, made it so difficult, in the end.

They arrived at the castle gates, and suddenly everything was happening so quickly. John found himself explaining everything that happened to two women; one was older and matronly, the other a younger lady who revealed herself to be a healer. The latter, Molly, asked details of Sherlock's condition, stating that she needed to know as much as possible in order to be able to properly administer care. The former, meanwhile, who Molly stated was the prince's nursemaid, was tending to the man, trying to make him comfortable in his room, taking similar measures as he and his sister had the night before. She placed warm bricks in the bed in the hopes of raising his body temperature, and ordered other workers to get as many blankets from around the palace as possible.

And then suddenly, John found himself being dismissed. He blinked at the guard who told him he may leave, feeling as though he hadn't heard the man quite right. Then it occurred to him—this was the prince's life. He had no place in it, after all.

He nodded slowly and began to move out of the room, no longer trusting himself to speak.

"Wait."

The voice was weak but unmistakable as the prince's. John's heart leapt and he turned to the man.

"This man was promised gold upon my return to the citadel. Molly, please see that is taken care of," he said, addressing the healer, who nodded.

And just like that, John felt even worse. He turned from the prince, unable to even meet his eyes. Instead, he followed Molly out of the bedroom with his eyes locked on the floor.

It only took a few moments for Molly to take John into a room and then present him with a box of gold coins. He opened up the small chest, revealing enough gold to easily put any problems he and his sister ever had into the past. Still, he felt no elation as he stared at the pieces of meaningless metal.

He forced himself to speak, however; he knew he ought to be polite. "Thank you," he said softly.

The young woman smiled at him. "Thank you for returning the prince to us," she said.

"I'm afraid that in the end I didn't make the difference I'd hoped," he responded. "I don't know what can be done to help him."

However, Molly only continued to smile, albeit a little sadly. "Perhaps, but we've seen him in terrible states before," she admitted. "Personally, I believe that you made more of a difference than you think. I'm not sure I've ever heard him use the word 'please'."

John, however, didn't smile at this. He only nodded once, feeling a twisting sensation in his gut. Perhaps he just hadn't made the difference he thought he had.

"I'm sorry," Molly said after a moment. "I don't even know your name."

"John," he responded, not looking up. "John Watson."

"Well, thank you again, John Watson," she said. "We owe you more than some gold for returning him to us."

He nodded again, offering her a strained smile before he left. He still felt as though he could have done far more.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Bork."

The man jerked his head up, heart hammering as he looked at the face of none other than James Moriarty, obstructed by the bars that he was behind. "Sire!" he said, scrambling up to press his own face against the bars. "I—"

"Word was sent to me about what happened," he said smoothly. "You both failed to kill the prince, and he is now safe at home in his bed, while Herling is dead and you are set to rot in here."

"It was the man with him, the one that we told you about," Bork told the man quickly.

"Yes, and I will deal with him," Moriarty agreed. "He won't be a problem much longer. Still, something remains that I must handle on my own."

"Sire?"

"You," Moriarty said simply. Bork's eyes widened, and he suddenly realized how silent the cells were. He glanced past the man, seeing two guards collapsed on the floor. In the dimly lit dungeons he couldn't determine whether or not they were dead, but he still knew that didn't bode well. He swallowed tightly as he met Moriarty's eyes again. "Well, surely you didn't think that I could let you live," he said, mouth twisting into a horrible smile. And with that, Bork felt the sharp pain in his stomach, looking down to see the baselard that Moriarty had just thrust into him. He watched as Moriarty twisted the blade, and he let out a gurgling gasp. Moriarty yanked the dagger back out, wiping it on Bork's shirt before pushing him backward. The man lost his balance and collapsed on the floor, eyes glossing over as the blood flowed from the wound.

John reached his home not long after the sun had set. Luckily, the house was quiet; Harry must already have gone to bed. He eased himself into a chair, setting the box of gold on top of the table. He glared at it for a moment before pushing it away with a huff.

He rested his head in his hand. How could he forget everything that had happened? How could he forget Sherlock? He wasn't sure, but he knew that it was necessary. Now he was meant to return to his old life, just as Sherlock was to return to his. Sherlock—the prince, he reminded himself. He felt so foolish. What had he honestly expected might come of everything?

He must have drifted off to sleep; it felt like only moments later he was awoken by early sunlight filtering through their windows and his sister's voice.

"John?"

He straightened up, feeling stiff after sleeping at the table. He blinked up at Harriet.

"I didn't expect you to be back so soon," she admitted hesitantly.

He shrugged half-heartedly. "I completed my part, and was paid as such."

At his words, she took it as an indication that she could open the small wooden chest he left on the table. She gasped as she did. "Good gods, John!" she exclaimed, marveling at the amount of gold. "This… this could change everything for us."

She looked up at her brother. He was gazing out the window listlessly. She couldn't help but feel frustrated with him, but she closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Why are you here, John?" she asked him quietly. She took the seat across from him, and he turned his head to her, frowning. "I know you don't wish to be," she added.

"I'm here because you're my sister, Harriet," he said simply.

She shook her head. "I know that I may not always act it, but I can take care of myself, brother," she said. "I know that I hardly make things easy for you."

"That doesn't change the fact that we're kin," he argued.

She was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. She closed her eyes. "He's right, you know," she said, looking back to her brother. "The things that he said about me. Perhaps it was out of line and perhaps he was abrasive, but he wasn't wrong. So I took to heart what he said. I haven't been drinking. I've been working. I've been working on a lot of things, not just the smithing." She smiled gently. "You are free to move on from me, brother. I could see that he gave you life that was not previously there." She paused. "I find it preferable that I don't lose you in that way. If it means you leave our town, then so be it."

"He has no need for me," John bit out.

"That's a lie," she argued. "From what you've said and what I've seen, now is the precise moment that he needs you." He looked at her questioningly. "You can't even see it, can you?" She chuckled a bit sadly. "You love him, brother mine. And don't protest about romantic feelings or not—though I'm certain those are there as well, it is not arguable that you love him. You were willing to give him everything before you knew he was royalty, and that is not something that many—myself included—can say even knowing that he is the prince. He is smart and courageous, albeit tactless. He is admired, mostly, by his people, but perhaps not loved. You, however, I am certain, love the prince very much."

John was silent at her words, unable to process most of them. He blinked at her in return, feeling shocked at her sudden revelation.

"You could be the one to save him, John," she said quietly. "Maybe he doesn't understand love, but without a doubt you always have. Give him the act of love that can save him."

Sherlock awoke to his room being eerily still. The quiet he had grown used to, as Molly and Mistress Hudson and anyone else who entered his room had all taken to using hushed tones and silent glances to communicate, as though Sherlock were on his death bed. He reasoned that it were possible he might be, the way that the chill had only continued to permeate deeper through his body. It felt as though his bones were now made of ice, cold and aching, and nothing could stop his constant shivering, his body's desperate attempt to raise its temperature.

However, the stillness he had not quite expected. Caretakers had been constantly in and our of his room, offering suggestions and plans at getting him better and keeping him warm. Suddenly this was not the case, and he had a few guesses as to what the cause might have been.

Without a second thought, Sherlock threw off the blankets that had made a cocoon around him. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, and a warm brick was beside him, so he knew that he'd been tended to recently. Yet the sudden stillness was still very wrong.

He gathered up the rough woolen cloak that was beside his bed, the same one that John had enveloped him in before they had left the previous day. Now the early morning light was beginning to filter its way through his window. He knew that soon the room would be warming up again with the sun's light, and that would make it a bit more comfortable, even if the amount really was infinitesimal. For now, though, he had to use anything that he could, so he took the cloak and wrapped it tightly around his body and then left his room.

Outside his door, two guards were in a crumpled heap on the floor. Sherlock noticed the rise and fall of their breathing; they weren't dead, he noted, but definitely incapacitated. And as the corridor held the same unsettling stillness, he could only assume that anyone else he encountered within the castle would be in the same state.

He made his way to the drawing room slowly, the coldness in his joints making them nearly impossible to move. The stiffness in his extremities made him wonder if frostbite had begun to set in, as he expected it might. But he ignored the sensation and pushed on, making his way through the unmoving castle.

He was unsurprised by the man sitting in the drawing room, angled away from him so that he was facing the window as the sun inched higher. The prince inhaled through his nose and forced his spine straight, walking as nobly as he could, even despite the rough woolen cloak around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw himself in the mirror; he still managed to look noble despite the absolute loss of color in his hair, and the way that his skin had begun to take on a bluish hue. Even the commoner's coat didn't diminish his regal appearance. So he moved forward, paying no attention to the pain and coldness that he felt, only intent on keeping his appearance in front of the man.

He took a seat beside the man, who immediately turned to him.

"I must say, sire, that I had heard of the toll the journey took on you, but it is still a very intriguing sight," James Moriarty stated. "Very interesting indeed." Sherlock didn't respond, and Moriarty waved to the tea he had prepared. "I didn't poison it, if that's what you are worried of. But I do hope that you'd think just a little more highly of me than that."

"Of course," Sherlock responded drily as he picked up the tea cup. It was hot, and it felt soothing on his hands though he reasoned it would otherwise burn. He ignored the idea and sipped at the liquid, reveling in the warmth that spread down his throat, even if the sensation disappeared again quickly.

"I have to admit that I am rather disappointed," Moriarty said after a few moments. "I rather hoped by now that the winter would be over." He looked at Sherlock. "I did not honestly believe you would fail your mission."

"You gave me a nearly impossible task that I was intended to fail," Sherlock retorted. "Your real surprise is that I still remain alive. Herling and Bork were the ones who failed you."

"Ah, yes," Moriarty sighed. "Though your companion took care of one, and I took care of the other. So really, they are inconsequential now."

Sherlock didn't respond, merely taking a drink of his tea instead. He was honestly not at all surprised at Moriarty's admission.

"Still," the criminal said, "I hardly thought you would return without succeeding."

Sherlock scoffed at this. "My ten days are not up," he snapped.

Moriarty chuckled. "So you still believe that you can pull through?" he asked. "And I don't merely mean that your brother will suddenly show up and set things right, so that our deal might be settled, but you believe that in the end, you will manage to survive?" Sherlock didn't say anything, unwilling to entertain the madman any longer. "I was told of your condition, your highness," he continued on, despite Sherlock's silence. "Yes, I know that you have been inflicted with a—ah—frozen heart, my lord." Again he laughed softly at the idea.

"I have no need to worry, as I've been reliably informed I don't have one," Sherlock responded coolly.

"We both know that isn't true," Moriarty said with a smile. "But your denial of that fact, well… in the end, that's probably what will kill you, I have to say." He sipped his own tea. "And really, this is all working out much better than I planned. You see, I thought that I would have to kill you myself. When my men failed me, I thought that I would have to get my hands dirty, which I really hate to do when it is not necessary. But this is working out so much better. Now you will die, and it will be by the hand of your brother. And then I will be able to step in and kill him—by doing so, avenging the poor prince and slaughtering the monster who turned on his people and inflicted this winter. I'll bring back summer, and the people will reward me by making me their king." He laughed again to himself. "Really, this could not have gone any better."

"You are wrong," Sherlock said.

"Oh, am I?" Moriarty asked, sounding delighted at the prince's words.

"My brother might be an idiot, but I promise you that he will not fall for your tricks again," he assured the man. "My death will not be the factor that decides your victory; instead, my brother will come to his senses. He will dispose of you and set things right."

Moriarty's laughter rang through the room, cold and loud. "You sound like a child," he told the prince. "And an ignorant one at that. No," he sighed, shaking his head as he got to his feet. "I am right, and you will see soon. I wager that the king is even on his way now, to try and see his poor ailing brother before he dies. And really, that will only make things even easier for me. All I have to do is wait."

From the time that they had left Anderson's, Mycroft had been silent. Though Lestrade knew that the man was just as stubborn as his brother—if not more so—he was able to convince him more easily to take breaks and rest. The captain of the guard attributed this mainly to the fact that the king was refusing to talk; if he was willing to argue, Lestrade reasoned that he definitely would have. Instead, however, the man refused to utter a single word, and thus was amendable to suggestions.

He seemed incensed by the man and his words. Even Lestrade had admittedly been rather annoyed, though he hadn't been at the receiving end of the man's critical advice. Still, he recognized that, although he definitely seemed to be off his rocker, the man had made several points. Perhaps they'd been presented in the wrong manner; perhaps they were merely not what Mycroft wanted to hear. But still, Lestrade couldn't disagree with Anderson.

Mycroft and Sherlock brushed aside emotions so easily; it had become second nature for them to pretend that instead they didn't feel at all. But the captain knew that was preposterous. He knew that they felt very deeply, they just hid it.

Lestrade could remember every time that he acted as a messenger or a spy for Mycroft, watching out for the man's younger brother. It was always out of concern, out of fear, out of love. The king could deny it if he wished, but Lestrade knew that he cared for the younger man. Of course he did. Ever since the accident from when they were young, Mycroft had pretended that his insides reflected his abilities—that he was just as cold internally as the magic he could produce. The king thought it easier that way. But really, had it been? Hadn't it only caused more hurt?

Because Sherlock definitely wouldn't admit it, but he had been hurt. He had been so young when his brother seemed to change without warning. And instead, he had been left on the outside, not knowing anything that was happening. His brother told him not to care. And he had tried. He always gave off the air that he had succeeded. But Lestrade knew that wasn't the case, still.

Lestrade had always seen the way the prince could act with others; he saw the affection he gave to his nursemaid and he saw the kindness he often offered Molly. Even he had been surprised when he'd first come across the prince and John Watson, though.

It was as though with that man, everything in the prince had changed. Or, maybe Lestrade reasoned, it didn't at all. And maybe that was the marvelous part. John Watson was a simple man—clever and skilled, but he wasn't nobility and he wasn't wealthy or otherwise 'important'. Yet he was the man who cared about Sherlock. He met the man and thought he was brilliant, with no sense of irony or disapproval. He only admired Sherlock for the things that he saw and could determine from his observations.

And Sherlock had hidden the fact that he was the prince. He had no desire for the other man to know that he was royalty. He had met someone who showed him respect and admiration for nothing related to his title—and in the past, that had often been the only reason many offered the prince similar dignity or appreciation. Instead, he seemed horrified when Lestrade had unknowingly revealed the fact.

But Sherlock had insisted that it change nothing between them. Lestrade marveled at the way that Sherlock demanded the man call him by his name, and the way that the two interacted, so comfortable, even as they bickered. Part of him wondered if, in reality, they were both mad. And maybe, to a point, it was true. But no matter what way he looked at it, he simply knew that these two were a duo that were meant to play a part for each other, no matter what the extent might be.

What he really hoped was that perhaps the two men were not daft enough to recognize that fact. Because yes, Lestrade truly believed now that John Watson could save Sherlock. He didn't have a doubt about the possibility. He only hoped that they could see it too, and perhaps Sherlock was in a better state than when he'd last seen him.

But if Anderson's warning was anything to go by, it might have only been wishful thinking on Lestrade's part…

"Your thinking is very nearly audible."

Lestrade was slightly startled by the king's sudden words, and he looked over to him for a moment before training his eyes back ahead. "I was merely considering Anderson's words," he said honestly.

Mycroft grunted his annoyance at even just the man's name. "He's completely delusional," the king grumbled.

Lestrade bit his cheek for a moment, trying not to tell the man off for being so foolish. But after fighting the urge for a few minutes, he wondered why he shouldn't. Already he'd given the king a dose of reality, even when it was not asked for and probably not wanted. It had gotten them this far. Perhaps he needed to do it again.

"I don't believe so," he said. "At least, not completely." Mycroft scowled at this, but he didn't let that deter him. "I mean, suppose that he is right, that the prince might only be cured through an 'act of true love', but he brushed aside the suggestion so easily. That in itself could be what hurts the prince the most."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, as he pulled his horse to a stop. Lestrade pulled his horses's reins as well, forcing the steed to pause in its movements. "And how do you reason that?" Mycroft asked at last.

"A man who does not readily believe in love will not accept it, even if it is present," Lestrade said with a shrug.

"It's a ridiculous concept," Mycroft argued.

"So much of this is ridiculous!" Lestrade snapped, and the king was taken aback. "Your fear of hurting him—you let it rule over so much of you that, in the end, it did hurt him. Fatally even. You spent so much time and effort in an attempt to save him and protect him by keeping him in the dark, that in the end, that's what truly harmed him. Now, he is suffering because of your choices and you're still refusing to believe it!"

"Don't speak to me that way!"

"I will speak how I like!"

"I am the king—"

"Then perhaps you ought to act like it!" Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath. "Sire," he added, almost as an afterthought. He gave his horse a tap, and he began moving again. Within a few moments, Mycroft was beside him again.

"I have made many… mistakes," the king admitted quietly after several long moments. "I am looking to set them right, now." He swallowed. "I have been for some time. But admittedly, I do not seem to be going about it correctly."

"Attempting to give up the crown was never the right thing to do," Lestrade told him evenly. "But I think that you even just admitted that."

Mycroft grimaced. "It seemed—"

"It seemed like the answer, sire, I know," Lestrade sighed. "But even your brother thought it was foolish, did he not?"

"I was a fool for listening to anything from Moriarty," Mycroft admitted.

"You were afraid."

"…Yes."

Lestrade allowed himself a small smile at the king, thankful that at least he seemed to be reasonable once again.

"I'm still uncertain of what I can even do once we are back in the citadel," Mycroft said after a few more moments. They were nearing the walls now, and Lestrade could understand his apprehension.

"You fix it," he said simply.

Mycroft nodded. "I just hope I can manage it."

John Watson was a man without a plan.

Once his sister had made him see sense, he was instantly on his horse and riding as swiftly as possible back to the city. He had grabbed no supplies, only taking his cloak and his sword in case he found trouble, as he seemed to when Sherlock was involved.

He had no idea what would happen when he reached the citadel walls. He did not know if the castle staff would recognize him, or if they'd merely think he was insane when he reached them and demanded to see the prince. And even then, would that be enough? Would returning to Sherlock be all that he needed to prove to him what he meant, or would he have to go further? And even then, what would break the spell? A kiss? The words themselves? Perhaps he would need to take down Moriarty himself?

His mind ran wild with possibilities, and he had never felt so uncertain in his life. He wasn't even sure that he really was capable of saving the prince. But his sister was right, wasn't she? The ache and emptiness he had felt at leaving him, being unable to help him—surely that spoke volumes about just what it was that he felt. If only he knew the right answer, the perfect thing to do that would surely save the prince and break the spell.

But he didn't know, and he swallowed tightly as he raced back to the castle. He would have to think of something when the time came. All he knew was that time was quickly slipping away from them, and he had to return to Sherlock before it was too late.

Lestrade didn't say anything when the winds picked up and it began to snow again, just as they reached the castle gates. He could practically feel the anxiety and anger still radiating from the king, his determination to fix things set on his face. If he had even noticed that the bad weather had begun again, he didn't say anything to the captain.

They dismounted their horses, and Lestrade took the reins from the king. "I want you to find my brother," he ordered the captain. "Ensure that he is safe."

Lestrade nodded as the king turned to the castle steps. "Wait!" he called suddenly, frowning. "Where will you be going, sire?"

Mycroft turned to him for only a moment before running up the steps and pushing his way into the castle. Lestrade swore, yanking on the reins and leading the horses to the stables. He hurriedly tied them to posts before running after the king. When he reached the inside of the castle, however, he noticed how perfectly still it was. Immediately he felt uneasy. He only prayed that they weren't too late.

He ran from room to room, seeking out the prince. He checked his chambers and his study, the library, and anywhere he thought that Sherlock might be. He noticed the various fallen bodies of his men, taking time to examine each of them and relief sweeping through him when he noticed that they were still alive. Still, he felt the unease. He knew that Moriarty must have done this—and, though he hoped he was wrong, that Moriarty must still be in the castle. If that was the case, then it was likely they were too late anyway, and the criminal had done away with the prince altogether.

Lestrade burst through the doors of the drawing room. He instantly let out a sigh of relief when he noticed the prince, huddled in a coarse wool cloak, beside a roaring fire. However, his heart sank as he took in the man's appearance—from his white hair to his sickly skin. The prince turned to him, and he swore again.

"Where's John?" he demanded from the prince.

The younger man only looked confused at this. "J-John?" he asked curiously.

"Yes," Lestrade snapped as he crossed the room. "John Watson, who swore he'd see to you."

"He d-did as you asked and returned me to the c-castle," Sherlock told him, his teeth chattering slightly, shivers wracking his entire body.

"God dammit all!" Lestrade grumbled. "He's gone?" Sherlock nodded. "I need to find him," the captain mumbled, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Why?" he demanded petulantly.

The older man rolled his eyes, no patience for the prince's determination to constantly be difficult. "You might need more than an act of love right now," he murmured. "You might need a bloody miracle."

"W-where's my brother?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his comment.

"Looking for Moriarty, I'm fairly certain," Lestrade sighed. "Stay here, sire," he ordered. "I promised to make sure you're safe, but—" He broke off mid-sentence. He knew that if he explained that he somehow needed to find John Watson and convince him to give Sherlock an act of true love, the prince would think he was mad. He had a hard time believing that he wasn't, himself, as he tried to desperately come up with a plan. Maybe if he was lucky the man wouldn't be to far, maybe there would still be time.

He turned, leaving the room from the way he came. He swiftly made his way out the doors of the castle. When he reached the bottom of the steps, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest in relief; even through the snow, he could see that riding through the gates was none other than John Watson.

He ran to the man, grabbing his horse's reins as he swiftly dismounted. He didn't waste time going to the stables, instead pulling the horse over to the fence where he could tie him off.

"I need to get to Sherlock—" John panted, his cheeks red from the cold and wind. "I—"

"You don't need to explain," Lestrade swiftly cut across, thankful that it seemed as though John had come to his own similar revelation. "Come on, I left him in the drawing room."

The man followed without hesitation. The castle was still dead silent—the only sound that could be heard was the echoing of their footsteps as they ran through the corridors. John didn't comment on the lack of staff or guards, and the captain was grateful he didn't have to waste time with explanation of at least what his suspicions were. Thankfully it seemed as though John's current intent was solely on getting to Sherlock.

Lestrade shouldered the door to the library open, but where Sherlock had been sitting was now only the cloak.

"Dammit!" Lestrade swore, picking up the cloak and then throwing it back onto the floor. "That bloody—that fool, he—" He let out an aggravated breath, turning back to a concerned-looking John in the doorway. He marched over to him, shoulders squared. "Moriarty's here. The king went after him, and now—now I think—"

John didn't hesitate. "We'll split up," he told the captain. "If you find them, then—"

"I'll find you," he assured the man. John nodded, and took off down the corridor. Lestrade went the opposite way, pushing open doors and looking for the two brothers. He only hoped that there was still some small amount of time.

Mycroft instantly knew where he would find Moriarty—the same place where Sherlock had found him that first night. He walked calmly and with purpose. He was still not certain of a plan, but different ideas crossed his mind. He wasn't sure that any of them would really work, but he knew that in the end, he still had to confront the criminal. That was the only way he could come even close to fixing anything.

He pushed through the doors and saw James Moriarty sitting in his throne, waiting. He smiled at the king as he entered.

"Your majesty, I anticipated your return," he said, standing up and giving the king a sweeping bow. "I was almost afraid that your brother would disappoint me."

"We are both finished with your games, Moriarty," he bit out coldly.

"Almost," the man allowed. "But not just yet."

"I will not be making any more bargains with you," he snapped. "I will not be made a fool of."

"Ah, I don't wish to belittle you or your crown any more, your majesty," Moriarty told him. "I assure you of that."

"My apologies if you find that I simply do not believe you."

"You don't need to," Moriarty allowed, holding his hands up in a mock surrender. "But I am telling the truth. I am not looking for any more deals or games. Honestly, it would not even matter." He grinned wickedly. "You see, your majesty, I have already won." Mycroft frowned at this. "Yes, you simply don't yet know it. But I have."

"And what makes you so certain?" Mycroft asked cautiously as he walked toward the man. He suddenly wished that he had more of a weapon than the sword at his side, which was really far more ceremonial than meant to actually inflict harm. Perhaps if he could concentrate, he could manage to channel his magic as a weapon. But would he really be able to, when he hadn't found a way to control it before, only hide it?

Moriarty's grin widened. "Why, your majesty," he said sweetly, "your brother is dead."

With those words, it felt as though Mycroft's own heart had stopped. But the man was malicious. Surely he couldn't trust him. "You're lying," he said, but he sounded more certain of the fact than he actually was.

Moriarty laughed at this. "I wish I was," he said. "Only this morning I shared tea with him, and he was taking some of his last breaths then. His hair was pure white. His skin tinged with blue. He tried to act so strong, but he was shaking uncontrollably." He sighed. "It was quite sad really, how he was freezing from the inside. I wish that I could have taken the credit, but that all belongs to you. His own brother." He grinned. "The king, a murderer."

"No," Mycroft said firmly. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword. He refused to believe what he was saying.

"But it's true," he said. "And really, you killed him long before. Once so close, but you told him how unwise it is to care, to love. And well, that was the one thing that could have saved him, was it not? But you convinced him love only hurts, that it is hardly even real. So how did you expect him to be saved?"

"Stop," the king demanded, though it came out hoarsely. He felt his chest tightening with guilt.

"I will stop," Moriarty told him furiously, "when you are dead like your brother, and I have the throne."

"It is not yours to take."

"But it is!" Moriarty said, his tone suddenly back to manic delight. "You see, I am going to kill you. Then, the throne will be rightfully mine, as I rid the kingdom of a murderous monster. I will be the hero."

"Others know the truth," Mycroft told him. "Lestrade, the other guards—Mistress Hudson and the healer—they know what you are."

"If necessary, they can be taken care of as well," Moriarty told him evenly. "Anyone who fights can be easily disposed of. But it can be easier than that. You can surrender. You can save them by sacrificing yourself." He pulled his sword from its sheath. "Die willingly, and I think I can be convinced to spare them."

Mycroft only considered it for a moment—a very brief second. He quickly decided against it, knowing that Moriarty was not a man of his word. Already, he had proven again and again that he could not be trusted, even when he was seemingly getting his way. No, that would not be an option that was plausible. Instead, Mycroft tightened his grip on his own sword, ready to unsheathe it as well.

The doors just then banged open.

"Don't!"

Mycroft whipped around at the sound of the voice—weak, but unmistakably his brother's. He felt the relief wash over him as he looked at the young man, still alive, albeit just barely. He noticed as his brother began to move forward swiftly, eyes widened, glancing just past Mycroft. The king turned back to Moriarty, just in time to see him with his sword, ready to strike. His mind stopped for a moment, and though he quickly drew his sword in response, attempting to simultaneously side-step out of the way of the attack, he still knew it was too late. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he moved, pushing his arm up in front of his face to shield himself.

However, the blow didn't come.

Instead, there was a clang and a shout of pain and a crash.

Mycroft's eyes flew open as he saw his brother standing in front of him, arm out as though to shield the king; just beyond him was Moriarty in a crumpled heap where the floor and wall met, unconscious, his sword fallen from his hand. Mycroft swept around to look at Sherlock, who now seemed to be made out of solid ice. He hesitantly reached out to touch the young man's cheek, but quickly snatched his hand back.

The doors were once again forced open loudly, and though Mycroft didn't look over to them, he knew who it was. Lestrade slowly stepped through the opening, swallowing tightly. Only seconds later, another man rushed in—the king faintly recognized him as John. He pushed past the captain, and Mycroft could see the look of horror and disbelief on his face as he took in Sherlock's state.

"It's too late," John murmured. "I'm too late." He shook his head, clenching his eyes shut. Lestrade walked to him, placing a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

Mycroft couldn't bear it anymore and squeezed his eyes shut as well. All he could think of was the hundreds of things that he could have done differently, all of the things that could have kept them from getting to this point—

When suddenly, in the silence of the room, he heard a tiny exhale, just a small release of breath. His heart hammered as he desperately thought that no, it simply couldn't be—

He looked back to Sherlock to see the color come flooding back to him, starting with he color in his cheeks and then flowing to every inch of his body, even back to every strand of hair. The prince took a couple of stammering, shuddering breaths before his eyes fluttered open, instantly meeting his brother's.

The two men stared at each other for what felt like an eternity without saying a word; and, Mycroft reasoned, perhaps they did not need to. If everything that had been said was true, and if what had just transpired was anything to go by, that was all proof enough for him.

Suddenly John was laughing, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock in delight. The prince looked mildly taken aback, looking briefly to Mycroft, who merely shrugged. After a moment's thought, however, Sherlock returned the embrace, though it was a little awkward at first. The king couldn't resist the slight smile that graced his lips.

There was a low grunt from the end of the room, and Mycroft turned to see Moriarty beginning to stir. A beat later, however, Lestrade was restraining the criminal. The king didn't hesitate to help him, sending him to the dungeon once more—though this time, he had different intentions for what fate would later await him.

It was not long before the castle staff began to awake. John tended to them the best that he could, and once Molly and Mistress Hudson were seen to, they did their best to assist, too. Instantly Sherlock began spouting theories about sleeping draughts that might have been slipped into the water supply, something that Moriarty might have used to incapacitate everyone at once.

The effect was not instantaneous—however, when the men ventured outside, it was still very obvious that the weather had changed. Though the snow was still on the ground, it was swiftly melting, and the air felt infinitely warmer.

"It is merely a start," Mycroft had admitted. And though he had been directly addressing the weather, Lestrade felt as though he was promising much more than that.

John stayed back a little bit from the three men, as though unsure of what he should do. He had fully intended to be the one to save the prince, but in the end, it hadn't been necessary. Now, he wasn't even certain of where he stood, or whether the prince wanted him to remain. Lestrade could see the man's uncertainty, and he nudged the prince, then nodded in the man's direction. It was then that Sherlock approached the man.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked John, and the man looked at him questioningly.

"I'm sorry?" he questioned.

"I play the violin when I think, and often times I do not speak for hours on end," he explained. "Would that bother you?"

"Why—"

"And you'll need a position here in the citadel," Sherlock mused. "I assume that you'd be willing to train with our court physician. He is growing rather old, and the position could easily be yours in a year's time at most."

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "what are you talking about?"

"Well, I assume by your daring attempt at rescue that you wish to court me," the prince said, and John's cheeks heated at the comment. "Should that be the case, you ought to know some of my worst habits, and really you can't still be living with your sister. The distance would not really be preferable."

John opened and closed his mouth several times, as though to object, before snapping his jaw shut and clearing his throat. "Yes, very well," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Assuming that… assuming that is all right with you, then?"

"I believe I can be amendable," Sherlock smiled. "And I'm inclined to believe that my brother would be much more open to the idea of my exploring the kingdom should I have a… companion."

"You mean someone to look after you?" John quipped.

Sherlock looked mock-offended. "And why would I need to be looked after?"

"Because you are a right idiot," John told him.

Sherlock frowned for a moment before he saw that the other man was grinning. In turn, he allowed himself a small smile. "As long as you do not mind the trouble, Master Watson," he responded. "We could explore the corners of the kingdom. Imagine what we could meet—the creatures, the bandits, the criminals… It could be dangerous."

"It could be," John said seriously.

"I expect you have rather had your fill of danger this past week," Sherlock commented.

The man nodded. "Indeed I have."

Sherlock smiled at this expectantly. "Then you'll join me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the man.

John laughed, heart fluttering at the thought of the promise of more adventure, completely content with what he was getting himself into. "Gods, yes."