"You smug little Dalek, move out of my way." John scowled at Sherlock. "And stop grinning like that. It's creepy."

With a shrug, Sherlock shifted so that John could get to the kitchen cupboard and then Sherlock turned back to his microscope. After a moment, his gaze snuck up from the bacteria he was studying to the much more interesting specimen before him.

John stared into the cupboard and sighed. "Were you up all night?" he asked detachedly.

"What's a 'Dalek'?" Sherlock replied instead, avoiding that particular question as usual.

John turned and blinked at the detective, successfully distracted. "You are British, aren't you?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Trust me, it is extremely relevant." He cocked his head, wondering how to explain. "It's a…" he started, "You know, a thing from the show. They're like little pepper pots with eye stalks and…" He trailed off, seeing Sherlock's expression. It was a look that said exactly do you seriously think that I, mastermind detective, have time to watch silly shows on the telly?

John sighed. "You know what? Never mind." He continued staring up into the cupboard, a sort of despairing look in his eyes. Why couldn't Sherlock do the shopping just once in his life? Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sherlock watching him instead of the creature under his microscope. He rolled his eyes and waited for Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock did, eventually. "…Didn't know warlocks catch colds," he murmured in his low baritone.

"Didn't know you gave a crap." John muttered back, irritated by nothing in particular. His comeback lost venom when he dissolved into several sneezes. After he finally came up for air, he turned away from the cupboard dully. Wishing that it was full of food wasn't doing him any good. The cupboard was empty. Of course it was ruddy empty. It beyond, no, beneath Sherlock to go shopping.

"Reincarnation may have done wonders for your intellect, Sherlock, but it's done nothing for your manners."

An eyebrow raised, Sherlock peeked up from his experiment once more. "What did I do now?"

"Exactly. See? You don't even know." John shook his head, yawned and padded past Sherlock again. There were many things Sherlock Holmes could do, but deciding to pick up food on his way home was not one of them.

John rubbed his eyes, pinching between them. He really didn't want to go to work today. "It's Saturday, right?" he asked. He didn't work on Saturdays.

"I have temporal-dysplasia," came Sherlock's reply. "How should I know?"

John cast him a dull-eyed glare. "First of all, if that was a thing, that's not how it would work. Second, it's not a thing, so it doesn't matter."

"How would you know?"

"Maybe because I'm a doctor?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock took out his phone and glanced at it. "Yes, Saturday."

Shaking his head, John turned away. "Well then, I'll not bother calling in sick." He yawned again and moved to the living room. He didn't try to look in the fridge for food. There was probably something disgusting in there anyway. Body parts in the fridge were great appetite killers. Maybe Mycroft could try that. It might help him keep on his diet. John smirked at the thought. Mycroft wasn't even overweight, but it was quite hilarious to watch Sherlock jab him about the one issue the iceman seemed at least a bit sensitive about.

John rubbed his eye blearily. His skin itched. He was only barely holding his guise on and he was too tired to do more. After a third yawn on John's part, Sherlock finally sighed.

"Just drop it if it's draining you, John."

John fell backwards into his chair and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"If I wasn't fine with you doing so, would I have suggested it?"

"I guess not." John scratched his head and glanced at door. He really did need to do the shopping, but the guise made this cold much worse than it would be if he wasn't using magic. Giving in, John relaxed into his armchair and at the same time allowed the magic holding his appearance together to drop. After a moment, Merlin breathed in and out, the rattle in his chest quieter than it was before. He could cure himself of all sorts of deadly illnesses, but some reason, curing a cold was extremely complex, more so than most sicknesses. If he took the time, he could probably cure himself of the cold with magic, but the effort to do so would make him sick and that rather defeated the purpose of the magic anyway. It was irritating but could be dealt with.

He stood slowly and stretched, ignoring Sherlock's blatant stare. The detective was always disconcerted by Merlin's face at first. Perhaps it was the memories that his appearance drug up, Merlin guessed. Anyhow, Merlin was used to it and proceeded to his room to find clothes that fit him better. John was thicker and shorter than the warlock, but Merlin had a drawer filled with clothes his size that he could use in situations like this. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie and proceeded to the door. "Right," he said with a sniff, "Do I look normal enough?"

Sherlock had moved to the couch and was busy making notes about his bacteria on a pad of paper. He glanced up and shrugged. "Your ears could use a bit of adjusting, but-"

"You know what I mean." Merlin opened the door, rubbed his stuffy nose, and started down the stairs, assuming that Sherlock's reply meant that yes, he didn't look like he felt like crap (which he did).

"Keep your phone on," Sherlock called after him.

"I'm not rushing home because you need something stupid."

"Mycroft asked about you last time I saw him and it wouldn't surprise me if he tried to pick you up."

Merlin raised an eyebrow and stopped his descent. "You mean me?" he called back. "He was asking about me, me?"

"You, you." Sherlock replied with slight humor.

His attention grabbed, Merlin plodded back up the stairs and poked his head back into the flat. "He doesn't-?" He left the sentence dangling.

"-Suspect?" Sherlock finished. "I doubt it. He's seen you a few times in my presence." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Putting down the notepad, he laid back on the couch and sprawled out like a cat. When Merlin first met Sherlock, he would have found that odd, but now he didn't even blink. "And he's an overprotective prat," he finished with a yawn.

Slowly, Merlin nodded. "Alright. I'll keep the phone on. If I text you anything at all, assume it means you should trace the call and come after me."

"I'd already planned too. It's better to get this over with anyhow."

Deciding that getting tea was worth the risk, Merlin nodded and hopped down the stairs, remembering his headache only when he hit the bottom step. He hissed in pain and rubbed his eyes. He hated being incapacitated. It didn't happen often, which made the rare occasions all the more annoying. Moving to open the front door, he was stopped by a soft exclamation.

"Oh! Hello dear." Mrs. Hudson bubbled. She stood in the doorway to her kitchen with her little eyes wide with question, not worry. "I didn't realize Sherlock had a client."

Merlin turned slowly and managed to pull a gentle smile to his lips. "Actually…" He fumbled for a moment. He needed a simple, but stable lie. "I'm John's nephew," he decided. "I need a place to stay for a bit, so John said I could sleep on the couch in the flat."

Mrs. Hudson nodded agreeably, buying the lie without a thought. "That's nice of him. I hope Sherlock's not giving you a hard time. He can be a bit…" She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, you know."

Merlin chuckled. Lying came easy. He had more than enough practice. "Apparently John agreed to let Sherlock do some sort of experiment on him if he didn't complain."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Hudson moved back into the kitchen, where she'd been doing dishes, and she looked back at him through her open door. "That's sounds like those two, it does." She looked down at her work and then back at Merlin. "Well, it was very nice to meet you, sweetheart. I… I don't think I caught your name."

"Morgan," Merlin supplied easily.

"Well, Morgan, I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. If you need a cuppa, I'm down here. 221A."

Merlin smiled and stepped out of the door. How interesting that she would constantly insist that she wasn't John and Sherlock's housemaid, and yet, for a soul that looked just past childhood, she was more than willing to supply food. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Merlin sniffed and continued down the road. It was almost disconcerting how much appearance changed the way people treated a person.

MSMSMSMSMSMSMS

Sherlock knew it was Mrs. Hudson at the door of the flat before she opened it. It had been a half hour or so since John had left, going by the clock on the wall. Mrs. Hudson's quiet, hesitant footsteps gave her away.

"What is it?" he growled.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't concerned by his tone. She came in with a smile. "I met Morgan. Didn't know John had a nephew."

Sherlock frowned and opened his eyes. He considered her words over his steepled fingers. "Who?" he murmured.

"Morgan?" Mrs. Hudson huffed when he failed to respond. "Such a strange thing, you are. He's a sweet boy, dark hair, and a shy sort of smile. He said he's been sleeping on the couch. You can't have been that far in that head of yours not to notice..."

Sherlock took a quick breath in. Oh.

Oh, clever John. Clever, clever John. Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. Right. That Morgan. He's so small I nearly deleted him."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, hands on her fragile hips. "Don't you go traumatizing that boy, Sherlock. He seems very kind. I'd hate to see you deflect him."

The like you do almost everyone else went unsaid, but Sherlock heard it anyway. He nodded slowly. "Is that all?" His phone buzzed and Sherlock's gaze caught it like a shark.

"No, but there was also a message from your brother on my answering machine…" Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were on the phone. He picked it up. Mycroft, you son of a-

"-It seems you weren't answering his calls…" Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock stood abruptly. "Thank you for the update Mrs. Hudson."

"But Sherlock-"

He slid past her and grabbed his coat. A scowl furrowed deeply in his face. "You can tell Mycroft that what's mine is mine and not his for the keeping."

"Sherlock?"

But Sherlock was already out the door. He'd call that one taxi, the guy who didn't ask questions…

Standing on the curb, he texted Merlin back.

I'm coming.

SMSMSMSMSMSM

Merlin wasn't surprised in the least when the black limo scooted up next to him as he walked home. He sighed and looked down at the groceries in his hands. It was a futile effort from the beginning, he decided.

"Leave the bags," a smooth, detached voice said. Merlin glanced around him, wondering. He couldn't identify where the voice came from. A hidden speaker?

"And get in the car. Please."

Merlin frowned. Mycroft never said please. Still unsure, Merlin dropped the bags. He reassured himself quickly. Mycroft would act intimidating, and he'd have to pretend to be intimidated to keep in character. In an hour, he told himself, he'd be back at Bakers street with a cup of tea and a smirk. Slowly, Merlin opened the car door and scooted inside. The car slid from the curb and there was Angela, pointedly disinterested, sitting across from him just like before. Merlin cocked his head and studied her for a moment. He hadn't meant to pick up her real name when he asked for it the first time he was 'kidnapped' by Mycroft, but her thoughts were oddly loud and he knew the truth without trying to find it.

"Hey"

"…Hey?"

"I'm Morgan," he said with an easy smile. "What's your name?"

Angela looked him up and down critically, and then a soft smile filled her mouth. Again, his apparent age had a factor in the reaction he received. "I'm-"

"Wait, no," he interrupted her quickly, "Let me guess… It starts with an 'L', right? Lauren? Lacey? Something like that?"

Angela's eyes widened. She covered her shock gracefully and quickly, but not quickly enough. Merlin smirked.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Angela cocked her head. "You're a clever kid. I'll give you that."

Merlin shrugged modestly. "I've got a knack for names."

With a chuckle. Angela turned back to her phone.

Following suit, Merlin took out his own phone and considered texting Sherlock. At the moment there was no real need. Perhaps the 'please' was a momentary slip up. Or maybe Mycroft was being nice because he thought Merlin was young and he didn't want to scare him. But wasn't the whole purpose of this ordeal to scare him? All the same, the 'please' worried him.

"Given that you are in the car and dropped the bags as I directed," the same detached voice sounded around Merlin, "it is impossible to deny that you can hear me."

Merlin stilled.

What?

A sinking feeling pulling him deeper in his seat. He glanced at Angela but she didn't appear to notice the voice.

Where was the voice coming from?

"The funny thing about mind reading is that one does not have to have a... unique ability in order to have their thoughts read." the voice continued, "They just have to make their thoughts louder and more concentrated than anyone else's thoughts. In theory, extremely intense thoughts would catch the attention of a mind reader, or a warlock for instance, within seconds, yes?"

Oh. This was bad. Very, very bad.

He'd been an idiot. How many times did he tell himself not to become overconfident? And yet here he was, doing it again.

"Don't try to talk back." the voice continued, "I can't hear you. The thing is… I have been waiting a very long time to meet you so if you wouldn't mind giving me a moment, I would be much obliged."

Now that was even scarier. Mycroft, (he assumed it must be Mycroft) was asking if they could talk? The car slid to a stop in front of a large estate and Angela raised her eyebrows, her equivalent of "get out".

His steps reluctant, Merlin stepped out of the car and soon stood before the massive front door. Were they made so large in order to intimidate those stepping inside, Merlin wondered? Intentional or not, it worked.

Then Merlin shook himself. Whatever he walked into would be nothing he hadn't faced before. He was smart and he had Sherlock on his side. With that thought, Merlin withdrew his phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

MYCROFT KNOWS.

Pocketing the phone, he raised his fist to knock, but the doors opened automatically. Merlin blinked. "Alright, Mycroft. Be mysterious if it makes you feel better."

The hall was cool and dark on the inside. The tiles were slick and Merlin steps echoed off the walls. Hopefully this would be over quickly. With a sick feeling in his gut, Merlin moved softly through the hall. A small door was cracked open just barely on the other end. Light fractured from the other side. Did Mycroft expect him to go through?

Behind him, the front door shut with a soft 'click' and Merlin jumped. Right. No going back, then. Gulping down the metallic taste of fear in his throat, Merlin stepped forward quickly and opened the door wide.

It was a well-lit room, furnished in an elegant, English style complete with tea on a coffee table. There were several couches and armchairs and it was altogether a very quaint set up. However, there were no windows. A large mirror dominated part of the back wall. Merlin wasn't fooled. This was where Mycroft interrogated 'guests' and Merlin was certain there were far less pleasant rooms saved for his prisoners.

Mycroft himself stood by the mirror. He rubbed at a smear and his reflection met Merlin's eyes.

"Fascinating. It worked," he said, "Can't be sure with this sort of thing."

But his lips failed to move.

Merlin frowned. He stepped farther into the room and warily closed the door. It clicked, locked. How reassuring. "What do you want from me?"

Mycroft swiveled around and smiled tightly. Somehow he managed to do it without ever moving his lips upward. "Good. I hate it when they won't get to the point."

Merlin wasn't sure who 'they' were, and he didn't care.

Mycroft gestured to a chair. "Sit."

"I'd rather not, actually." Merlin couldn't let Mycroft get the upper hand in the situation. If he sat down, Mycroft would tower above him and the power would be entirely in his hands.

Shrugging, Mycroft eyed him carefully. He poured himself a cup of tea and sipped.

"Are you going to just stare at me, or do you actually have a reason for all of this?" Merlin gestured around the room, irritated.

Mycroft only smirked. It was cold, like Sherlock's when he knew something he shouldn't. "You don't sound surprised. To be kidnapped, I mean."

"If you know who I am, then you shouldn't expect to catch me off guard." That was an outrageous lie, but Merlin knew how to bend myth to his advantage.

Mycroft merely cocked his head. After a moment, he sat down.

Oh, good boy.

Usually, Merlin wasn't the manipulative type, there was nothing more pleasurable than making Mycroft Holmes to sit. Only when Mycroft set his tea on the table did Merlin step forward and take a seat across from the man. Now they were equal. See? He could play the Holmes' game.

After a moment, Merlin cleared his throat. He sat forward and pinched between his eyes. "Who do you think I am?"

"I know that you have the power to kill with a thought. I know that you are very, very old. And I know a whole lot more."

Merlin didn't reply for several seconds. He leaned forward. "You know, most people wouldn't kidnap someone, if they thought that that someone could kill them literally," He snapped his fingers, "Like that."

"I'm not most people."

"No. You're insane." He sat back with a huff. "Crazier than me and a heck of a lot more irritating. And believe me, I'm very irritating."

"I'm sure Sherlock would agree." Mycroft was scowling. He seemed to realize that Merlin was getting away with his interrogation. "I have questions and I hope that you will answer them."

"You 'hope'." Merlin snorted. "Fine. Whatever, ask away. I'm an open book." (He wasn't.)

With a small nod, Mycroft didn't waste any time. "Your name is not Morgan, as you told Mrs. Hudson?"
"No."

"What is it?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "You already know."

"I want to hear you say it."

Carefully, Merlin regarded Mycroft. Holmes was poised, stiff despite his attempts to relax. Mycroft nervous?

"My name is Merlin and you have no business poking in my life. I haven't hurt anyone. To be honest, I haven't done anything of consequence for nearly two centuries. If you check with UNIT, they'll back me up."

Most people wouldn't believe a sentence like that but Mycroft did. Immediately. His eyes widened just slightly and an almost savage look of curiosity overcame the man. It was quickly repressed, but Merlin saw it and it made him shiver inside.

Mycroft was on to his next question before knew it.

"You said John Watson was your uncle?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I'm doing a bug sweep the moment I get back."

"Who is John Watson?"

Merlin shifted in his seat. He couldn't tell Mycroft the truth. "I lied."

"Obviously. Does John know you?"

"Sort of."

Vague. He'd keep it vague until Sherlock finally decided to show up and end this conversation.

"Really? That's quite interesting." Mycroft frowned and took out a file from nowhere. He opened it up on the table. "Because… you don't seem to know each other 'sort-of'."

Merlin stared at the file's contents. I've gotten too cocky. There were a few pictures of John, and then a few of him. One picture was taken from across from Bakers street. Merlin was sitting on John's bed, eyes downcast.

"What do you suppose a wizard is doing in John's bedroom, ey?" Mycroft murmured. "The odd thing is… you never went in, and you never came out, and yet we'd catch shots of you in the park or at the store or in John's room. Why's that, hmm?"

At each of Mycroft's words, the rock in Merlin's chest grew larger, grating his ribs. It hurt to breath. However, Mycroft continued, ignoring, or oblivious to the warlock's distress.

"It's enough to make any man curious, so I did another background check on John Watson. And you know what?" His tone was almost teasing now and Merlin wanted to punch him for it. "The strangest thing happened. Every time I looked up his history, I would suddenly get distracted. It was as if some sort of force didn't want me to look. Now, isn't that suspicious?"

Merlin shivered. He'd put up a perception filter on John's fake history. It was just in case. Most people would look away and never notice that they were being pushed away. But Mycroft was not most people.

"It took several days for me read John Watson's military history. Do you know what I found?"

Merlin was silent.

"It was bogus and obviously so, but then again, who needs a convincing alter-ego when you can keep people from prying into it!" Mycroft sat back now and gathered up the papers that sealed the death of Merlin's newfound happiness. He could never go back to Sherlock now, not without Mycroft finding him. Why could he never have a bit of happiness?

Mycroft sighed. "And Sherlock being who he is, it was an easy thing to guess who you are."

Wait.

That didn't make sense.

"What?"

"I said, it was easy to-"

"-No." Merlin waved away his words. "What was that about Sherlock?"

Mycroft blinked. Long and slow. "Dear me, I do hope you know. Sherlock..." he paused and bit his lip. Mycroft stared pointedly at nothing for a moment and then his voice sounded clear in Merlin's mind.

"Arthur Pendragon…"

Merlin froze like a statue. What?

WHAT?

Shock caused Merlin to sway. He broke the connection swiftly and Mycroft flinched.

"You knew?" Merlin whispered. "How could you possibly know?"

Mycroft shrugged. He rubbed his temples as if he was getting a headache and his eyes shot to a far corner of the room. A recording device was positioned there, certainly. "Sherlock had strange dreams when he was a child," he began, "As I grew older, I became involved with a… elite group of individuals, and I made… connections."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

Frowning, Merlin's words came out with quiet venom. "And you never thought to tell him?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw. "Can you imagine how he'd react if I did? He'd have laughed in my face."

A valid point.

"No…" Mycroft continued, voice impossibly low. No camera would be able to pick up his words. "It made far more sense to let you find him, as the legends said you would." His gaze snapped up to Merlin. "I never told them." he whispered. "They expect me to keep you here until you tell me who Arthur is."

The anonymous 'they' again. What was Mycroft involved in?

Merlin shifted uneasily.

What are you planning at, Mycroft?

Mycroft flinched at the warlock's mental contact, but he recovered quickly. If Sherlock is indeed Arthur, and you, John Watson, Merlin, Emrys, whoever you are, really are a warlock, then I'd rather not be on the other side.

Considering, Merlin leaned back and spoke the first thing that popped into his head. He needed to keep the pretense that they having an audible conversation so that no one would suspect a telepathic one. Mycroft caught on immediately and replied in kind.

I assume that your 'group of elite individuals' are not… good people.

I wouldn't go that far but, they certainly don't appear to be on your side. If they're willing to lock you up (which they are) there is nothing keeping them from taking away Sherlock as well.

Ah. Now that made sense. Mycroft would do anything to keep his brother safe, even if he'd act like a jerk while doing so.

Do you believe we're the good guys? Merlin asked.

For a long time, Mycroft did not reply. He pursed his lips. I think you try. And that has to count for something.

Merlin smiled softly. Good man.

It was at this point that Sherlock decided to make an entrance. To say that he was angry would be a gross understatement. The fury in his voice was enough to make Merlin stiffen.

"Let me in right now, Mycroft or I will break down the door!"

Merlin's eyebrow rose. Wow.

Mycroft sighed. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible, Sherlock! Go away."

Multiple bangs on the door later, the room grew quiet.

"How long are you keeping me here?" Merlin murmured as if he didn't know.

"Until you tell me who Arthur is," Mycroft replied with steel. His eyes flicked to the camera and back.

Okay. So he'd have to escape then. Nodding, Merlin stood quickly. Glancing at Mycroft, he proceeded to the door. Placing a hand on the handle, he willed it to unlock and quickly opened the door.

A startled, irate Sherlock stood on the other side, mouth open for another shout.

"Do be quiet, you idiot," Merlin whispered. With that, his eyes flashed and a gun habituating Mycroft's coat closet materialized in his pocket. Turning quickly, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pointed the gun at his head. "I seem to have procured a hostage," he said calmly. Sherlock faked resistance, and Merlin jabbed him with the gun. How convenient that they were all brilliant actors.

Mycroft did a miraculous job of appearing petrified. "Where did you get the gun?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Merlin shot back, granting himself a grin. "You have no proof other than your alligation that I can physically harm anyone using magic, or even that magic actually exists. You have no reason, then, to detain me. Until you do, I think I'll leave with my hostage."

Mycroft slowly stood. He feigned a disgusted scowl. "You think you're clever."

"Well…" Merlin thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Yes." Quickly, he backed out of the room, still pressing the gun too Sherlock's head.

They walked down the hall and out the door unharmed. A taxi was waiting outside. The driver raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. Carefully they crawled inside and only once they were driving away did Merlin uncoil the tension in his stomach. He sighed in relief and dropped the gun onto the seat between them.

The driver was still unfazed. Need to get that guy's name. Could be useful.

"You should have let me kill him," Sherlock muttered angrily.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I just saved our backsides. A little of gratitude would be nice. Good timing, by the way."

Sherlock wasn't listening, still seething. "The nerve. How dare he try and-"

Merlin sighed. Brothers… "Sherlock."

"What?" Ice blue eyes turning to his friend, Sherlock's anger softened. He huffed and stared moodily at the back of the seat.

"He'll leave us alone now," Merlin murmured. He sat up and momentarily dulled the driver's hearing so that he wouldn't hear their conversation. "He can't take me without sacrificing you."

As Merlin's words registered, Sherlock stilled and turned to look at him. "He… knows?"

"That you're Arthur? Yeah."

Wrinkling his nose distastefully, Sherlock picked at a thread on his pants. His lips settled into a tight straight line. "This isn't going to turn out well. His curiosity is monumental."

Afraid he'd been upset, Merlin nudged his shoulder. The detective didn't look up. "Hey," Merlin murmured almost playfully, "don't jinx it."

Sherlock shrugged, but he finally caught his friend's gaze once more and a small smile lifted his lips. Merlin almost saw the prince beneath the detective. "I don't believe in destiny," he said with a smirk.

Merlin snorted. His throat was raw from his cold and his head fell back tiredly against the seat. "Cheeky."

Later, only the London night witnessed two men, one dark and tall, the other shorter and blonde, walking along a pond and sit down on a rickety bench. The two men spoke in whispers and then the dark one said something funny because the bright man let out a laugh.

There was no one to see the bright flashes in the bright man's eyes, or the awe in the dark one's.

Occasional CTV cameras dotted lampposts and buildings but oddly enough, that night they were all on a loop.

AN: Super sorry about that weird formatting. Thanks to those who informed me. Hopefully it's all fixed now. I think this fic will have one more chapter but who knows... I'm SO changeable.

Please leave a review:))