Beware the Frozen Heart

Born of cold and winter air
and mountain rain combining,
this icy force both foul and fair
has a frozen heart worth mining.

Notes: Story and chapter titles from "Frozen Heart" from the Frozen soundtrack. There are many references to various Disney kingdoms, minor Sherlock characters, Medieval weapons and poisons/substances/"drugs".

This is not merely a rewrite of the movie with the names of Sherlock characters, but an attempt to take the overall plot of Frozen and change it to properly fit the characters, also incorporating parts of the original Sherlock plot. So I hope you enjoy what's come out of it!

Also, I am now on AO3 as imatrisarahtops. Find me.

Sherlock could faintly hear as Mistress Hudson called his name, off somewhere down the corridor, undoubtedly to inquire as to whether or not he was ready. He mentally rolled his eyes at what she would say—most likely something about how the day was so important and meant to be memorable and it would change things within the kingdom.

Hardly.

Instead, he focused on the book that was in front of him, fingers tracing over maps and diagrams and words, committing them all to memory. Perhaps if there was any change that did come from the day—any change that mattered, really—it would be in convincing his brother to leave him be at last. Maybe he could convince Mycroft of his deserved freedom, instead of being locked up inside of the castle like a prisoner. If he wanted to keep himself hidden away with lock and key, that hardly mattered to Sherlock—but he shouldn't be held to the same rules. Prince or not.

"Your highness?" Mistress Hudson's voice filtered through the door as she rapped on the wood. He could hear as she huffed out a sigh. "I know you're in there, Sherlock!" she called, and his lips twitched as she dropped the formality, as she often did when she thought he was acting petulantly. "You best be ready, it's coronation day!"

Sherlock let out a breath and rolled his eyes at the empty room. He was perfectly aware of the day, yet he still had no actual desire to attend the celebration. It was his sincere hope that he'd be able to hide away in the vast library like he did most of his days. He didn't care for the company, and he didn't care for pretending that today was of any importance.

He could hear the jangling outside of the room that signified that Mistress Hudson had at last fished out the set of keys she had (given to her particularly for this reason, as the one left with the responsibility that was the prince) and was finding the one that fit the lock. After a moment he could hear the metal sliding, as the door was unlocked. He did not even look up from his book as the heels of Mistress Hudson's shoes clicked across the floor.

"Sherlock," she said, and he could hear the mild disapproval in her voice. He glanced up and could see that her arms were folded over her chest. He raised an eyebrow by way of response. "You need to be ready for your brother's coronation."

"Why?" he asked stubbornly, his voice flat.

"It would mean a lot to him for you to be there," she responded with the same simplicity.

At this, Sherlock scoffed. The idea was ludicrous—that Mycroft could possibly care if his brother was at the celebration naming him king. "I'm certain he'll survive," he told the lady evenly, though his words were clipped. "If he can easily go months at a time without so much as a word to me, I think that he can manage without my presence for one more day before he goes back into hiding."

Mistress Hudson tutted at this. "Sherlock," she repeated, though this time the word was laced with sadness.

Instantly Sherlock snapped the book shut, leaving it on the desk to resume his consumption of information later. At the moment, he wanted nothing to do with the woman and her pity. It was positively horrid, and he couldn't bear another second. He pressed past her.

"And where are you headed off to now?" she asked exasperatedly.

"To prepare for this evening," he snapped, not turning to look at her as he walked out of the library. He could faintly hear her call after him once more but he ignored it, promptly making his way to his bedroom. He shut and locked the door, satisfied that Mistress Hudson wouldn't force her way into there as well. Still, he settled himself onto his bed and glowered at the door for a moment, as though challenging it to open.

After a few moments, he let out a sigh of slight relief and reclined against his pillows. He folded his hands together and rested them at his chin, his fingertips just brushing over the bottom of his lip. He inhaled through his nose and let himself revel in the moment of peace; he knew that it would be the last moment he'd be given that day.

And it was all thanks to his giant oaf of a brother—Mycroft. He couldn't bring himself to see a legitimate reason to attend the festivities. What had Mycroft done to show his brother that he cared for his welfare in the slightest? Nothing of any true significance in the past fifteen years, as far as Sherlock could see; nothing that truly meant anything.

He could still remember the day when suddenly the door had become locked, and things had changed. He'd only been six at the time, but he could still remember the stark difference between the days before and after, how Mycroft had suddenly gone from being a friend (ridiculous, Sherlock thought now, because he didn't have or need any friends) to being a distant figure whose presence in the castle was often easy to write off or forget altogether. Not that Sherlock ever did forget, but he could pretend that he did.

He spent a year attempting to solve the mystery, to understand why suddenly Mycroft withdrew completely from him. Etched into his memory was the day that Mycroft finally snapped, and the fourteen-year-old prince opened the door and stared coldly at his seven-year-old brother and six words fell from his lips: "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

The words hadn't hurt him; not like he had half-expected. Instead he recoiled slightly and felt as the ice of Mycroft's statement seeped under his skin and into his very soul.

After that, Sherlock took the implied advice and stopped caring. He had no reason to make another attempt at The Mystery of the Locked Door. Mycroft didn't wish to know him anymore; it was (maybe) that simple. (But why, why, why?)

However, the affection for his brother wasn't all that had slipped away from Sherlock since then. He pretended not to notice as his father grew steadily angrier as he drove away numerous tutors and other members of the castle staff. Still, he saw no point in filtering the observations he made about them and their lives. And how was it his fault if they were offended by the truth, anyway?

And as his father's frustration with his younger son grew, Sherlock silently watched as his mother's health declined in turn. He knew the two weren't correlated; it wasn't logical, but then he'd been assured of his conclusion when his mother had only chuckled and ruffled his dark curls when he commented on the physician's pathetic home life.

After, his father had shouted at him for being so foolish, then gone to try to convince the physician—the best physician in the kingdom, Sherlock!—to return. Once the man had left the room, his mother had looked at him with a weak smile and said, "Don't mind him, love. You're brilliant. You don't need to change that."

He supposed that he could learn to hold his tongue, as his father advised. But then, when his mother's last remaining bit of life had escaped her lips, he determined that it didn't matter. And again, his brother's words echoed in his brain: Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

So at the age of twelve, Sherlock was left alone. His mother was dead, his brother was almost constantly locked away, and his father was distant and angry. To his credit, it was then that his father had hired Mistress Hudson to take care of him—though, Sherlock figured, this was mostly so that he didn't have to bother with his younger son any longer. He had more important things to concern himself with than a misbehaving prince.

It didn't matter much to him. Sherlock found it far easier to slip out of the castle and into the outlying town when he was under the supposedly watchful eye of Mistress Hudson. And when the guards would finally drag him back from whatever trouble he was found causing, Mistress Hudson would forbid the guards to say a word and involve the king, and then fuss over Sherlock instead of reprimanding him.

Sherlock cared greatly for the lady, though he never verbally admitted it. He kept his affection well-concealed, though sometimes she would smile at him knowingly. And he supposed that if she didn't run away, then she must care for him a bit, in return.

But where was Mycroft during this time? Where had he been at the death of their mother? Where had he been when their father had passed, only two years ago? Where had he been all of those times that Sherlock felt so hollow and alone?

And Sherlock was certain that the soon-to-be king was made aware of the various states he'd been in. He was aware that someone—most likely one of the guards who always found him when he ran off—was giving Mycroft the information. Still, Mycroft merely stood back and (figuratively, considering his hermit-like status) watched. Even when he had disappeared for more than three weeks, finally discovered in the outskirts of the neighboring town, abusing opium and henbane and several compounded substances that weren't even recognizable with a few equally questionable vagabonds and beggars, Mycroft had made no physical appearance. Instead, when the last of the constant fog that had overtaken him had cleared, he was met with a young lady, only a few years older than him. She looked at him with gentle eyes and an expression that read disappointed, and he hated it.

What was more was his hatred that he was so familiar with the expression.

"Who are you?" he ground out impatiently, trying to sit up, but she instantly pressed him down onto his back again.

"Lay down, your highness," she ordered. "Your brother requested my presence." Her hands were gentle, not as clinical as he had initially expected.

"That doesn't answer my question," he snapped.

Her hands froze for a moment before turning to a table beside the bed where there was an array of equipment and various bottles and jars of different colors. "My name is Molly, my lord," she responded, and there was something about her voice that sounded constantly unsure of herself; he wondered if she always sounded that way, or if it was merely him. Mistress Hudson had admonished him for being such an overwhelming, intimidating presence, one that occupied such a large area in even the smallest spaces he occupied. "I've been studying under another healer in the citadel—"

"A healer," Sherlock scoffed. He shifted himself up on his pillows slightly, already feeling restless; he wondered how long he'd been confined to his bed, while shifting in and out of consciousness since he was recovered. Had it been days? "I have nothing that needs to be healed, so you can leave—"

"You're wrong, my lord," she stated shortly. "With all respect, sire," she added hastily and apologetically. It nearly surprised him, however, that she managed to stood her ground as she made her declaration. "His highness knows that you are suffering. And, well, my father suffered much the same way."

Sherlock huffed out a cold laugh. "So this is an attempt at a solution?" he asked her bitterly. "Why doesn't he do something if I'm apparently suffering so greatly?"

Molly was silent for a moment as she looked at the bottles on the table before picking up one that was an ugly murky green color. Hesitantly she took a seat beside the bed and looked at the prince. "I believe that yes, this is his attempt, my lord," she said quietly, once again looking afraid that she might be overstepping her boundaries, yet still confident that she was telling the truth. "And even if you don't view it as an appropriate one, you must know that you are cared for greatly, sire. You have a kingdom that looks to you, whether or not you believe it. And there are those who would do whatever they can to help better you, regardless of that status."

Sherlock looked at her strangely. There was an odd comfort in her words, though a stubborn part of his mind questioned what she knew—just a young healer, one who hadn't spent more than a quarter hour with him—at least, while he was conscious. Surely her words bore no actual meaning. And it didn't matter, anyway. He didn't need anyone; he may not be necessarily content with it, but he had accepted that he would always be alone.

"I don't need pity or sympathy," he told her coldly. "I don't need anyone."

Her eyes looked increasingly sad at this, and she looked down at her lap, shaking her head minutely. Still, she did not argue as she poured a small amount of the horrible-looking liquid with its molasses-like consistency into a tiny wooden cup and handed it to him. She had ensured he drank it in its entirety before leaving the room silently.

It had been a year, and still Molly had stayed. He supposed that was Mycroft's doing, as well; probably another way to keep an eye on Sherlock without any actual interaction.

And still the question burned his insides: why? According to Molly and Mistress Hudson, Mycroft cared (in some strange, distant way, if it was true), so why was he so determined to stay so far back? Was it only a sense of duty? Was it merely determined pride, so that the rest of the kingdom wouldn't know what his irresponsible brother got into? Why was Mycroft doing any of this?

Sherlock let out a disgruntled noise and swung his legs over the side of his bed, forcing himself up. Mistress Hudson had tried to convince him that the sooner he got ready and busied himself with the coronation and celebrations, the sooner they would be over. He saw no point in trying to argue with her that time was a constant and could not occur more quickly or slowly, and she was merely making an argument of perception, which mattered not when he dreaded every second between now and when he'd find himself returning to his studies.

He supposed the least he could do was attend the ceremony; if not for his brother, then because Mistress had asked it of him.

Mistress Hudson knocked softly on the bedroom door roughly an hour later. "Are you ready, sire?"

There was no response so she sighed, then attempted the door to see if it was locked; it, surprisingly, wasn't.

"My lady."

Mistress Hudson glanced up at the boy—well, she silently reasoned, he was a young man, now, hardly the child she first met, though he may still act like it. Still, she smiled warmly at the prince, who was standing at his desk, examining the contents of a small wooden box. Sherlock looked up and Mistress Hudson wordlessly closed the distance between them. She stared at him expectantly.

Sherlock looked down at the box. "This was my mother's," he said, and Mistress glanced down at the silver bracelet, a pale sapphire in the center.

"She favored you," Mistress Hudson told him playfully and the corners of his lips quirked upward slightly, though he did not smile completely.

He took the bracelet out from the velvet lining of the box, and the sapphire appeared a deeper blue in contrast to his skin. Gently he reached for the woman's wrist and clasped the silver chain around it. "It was never exactly intended for me to keep," he told her.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "I hardly think that your nursemaid would be what your mother had in mind when she left this to you."

"Well, there's certainly no other woman who would be fit to wear it."

"Perhaps not now, but..." He fixed her with a stare and she sighed. "Only for the night, then," she said firmly and he smiled slightly.

"We'll see," he told her and she laughed, swatting at him playfully.

"Thank you," she said. "It's very kind of you, dear."

"Don't tell the gentry," he responded. "I have appearances to keep up."

She chuckled. "Oh, you!" she said exasperatedly. "Whatever am I going to do with you, sire?"

"I'm sure you'll determine something." He smiled. "Now, I suppose you have other duties to attend to, now that you've seen for yourself that I am indeed prepared for the evening."

Mistress Hudson nodded, her other hand smoothing over the bracelet. "I will see you once everything has started," she said, and it sounded less like an assurance of her presence and more of a demand for his own.

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "You've ensured that I will be in attendance." He waved her off.

She sighed and departed from the room. Only a moment later, another woman entered.

"Good afternoon, your highness," Molly said, curtsying before the prince. After a moment, Sherlock still did not respond in greeting as he continued his final preparations for the evening, adjusting his collar and coat, pulling white gloves over his hands. "I saw what you did for Mistress Hudson," she blurted out after a moment. "That was—that was very kind of you."

Sherlock was silent for a while as he looked back down at the now empty box on his desk. "There is no one else I could fathom giving it to," he told her.

"Yes, of course." She blushed. "Well, I—I just thought that—"

"That it was a kind gesture," Sherlock finished. "Yes, you said." He turned to Molly. "Mistress Hudson is ultimately a mother to me. It's only appropriate that the last bit of my mother that I possess now belongs to her." He glanced down at the young woman's hands and raised an eyebrow.

Molly looked down at her hands, blushing furiously. "Oh," she said. "I—er—this is for you." She held out the golden-colored flower, her cheeks a deep pink as Sherlock took it from her.

"Calendula," he commented, examining the flower. "A type of marigold." He looked up at her. "Generally used in healing to help cure irritations of the skin, eyes, or mouth, though you would know that, of course..." She nodded vaguely as he twirled the flower in between his forefinger and thumb. "Said to represent grief and despair. It symbolizes sorrow."

"Oh god," Molly bemoaned, her eyes widening and a hand flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, I—well, I didn't know... It was just, well—"

"Pretty?" Sherlock offered. "Deceiving. Though perhaps not as much as, say, foxglove or oleander, with their toxicity." He chuckled. "Even you should know about those."

Molly stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry, sire," she said again. "I wanted to—well, it—it doesn't matter."

Sherlock glanced at her curiously for a moment. "It is," he said after a moment, and her head snapped up, looking at him with uncertainty.

"It is what?" she asked warily.

"Pretty," he clarified. "I could..." He trailed off and positioned the flower against his chest before sifting through the items on his desk to find a pin, which he used to secure it.

She smiled hesitantly at him, still looking sheepish and otherwise completely unsure of herself.

He offered the girl his hand. "We must be on our way," he told her. He nodded toward his hand and she cautiously placed hers in his, her cheeks once again reddening. He bowed slightly to her, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, they were a little brighter and she was smiling genuinely. "To the coronation, then, my lady."

Sherlock gazed across the ballroom, glancing at the nobility and royalty of the neighboring kingdoms, all attending the coronation ceremony and resulting celebrations. His mind insistently reeled with deductions and observations about the guests, easily seeing what each and every detail meant about their lives and the secrets they held, reading them through the very lines on their faces.

Occasionally a man or woman of the gentry (nobility was, strictly speaking, too important to be mingling with the spare son, now that the oldest had officially been named king) would approach him, offering congratulations (for his brother, as though it made sense to congratulate him on becoming even less important in the eyes of the public) and attempt conversation. It only took a few moments with any of them for him to grow bored of the interaction, however, and he'd make hurried comments that would lead to them scurrying as quickly as they could without appearing rude—though, honestly, the social niceties didn't bother Sherlock in the least.

He glanced down at his goblet. It was merely filled with water, a result of Mistress Hudson's and Molly's meddling due to his prior disappearance, despite the time that had passed since. He supposed they found it justifiable with his previous behaviors, afraid that he would overindulge or might mix ergot into his alcohol for an enhanced effect. He had no such desire, but the argument was never worth making, in the end. They thought they were helping; he simply didn't care.

"Your highness." Sherlock glanced up lazily at the woman before him. She curtsied, her head bowed low to reveal her dark hair, twisted sleekly out of her face. As she raised herself up, he could see the sharp, beautiful features of her face. "Lady Irene of Prydain," she continued with a coy smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow by way of response. His eyes raked over her, in a quick attempt to read her.

"Performing your customary magic, are you, my lord?" she questioned him, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers, brow furrowing slightly. She was still smirking playfully at him.

He scoffed. "Magic," he muttered disdainfully. "As though such a ridiculous thing even exists. No, I'm merely observing, my lady."

Irene inclined her head slightly. "My apologies, sire, I by no means intended to insult your intelligence," she said. "Which, of course, is spoken of even as far as where I am from."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "Don't waste your time with flattery," he said. "Your own reputation precedes you as well, and I can assure you that your time would be better spent elsewhere."

"You misunderstand my intentions, sire," she responded smoothly. She looked at him with slight pause. She reached a hand upwards, but Sherlock jerked away. "Sorry," she quickly said. "I was merely curious…"

Sherlock put a hand through his dark curls and the small stripe of white hair there; he knew that it was what the lady was referring to, though he'd grown so accustomed to people ignoring it or being too afraid to question it. His expression toward her was stony, though he was mildly impressed by her boldness.

"I've had it since I was a child," he explained, and Irene tilted her head as she glanced at it, though his words had a definite tone of finality so she didn't speak again. After a moment, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Was there something of importance that you wished of me, my lady?" he asked, though the words did not have an air of politeness about them.

Irene straightened slightly, recovering quickly and resuming the matter at hand. "I was merely intrigued as to whether or not your mind is in fact as impressive as they say, sire." Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically. "But I'm not interested in what you've to say about me."

"No?"

"No," she replied. "That would be rather dull, wouldn't it? To be told things that I already know?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously before setting his goblet down on a table. He settled his arms at his sides and looked down at the Lady Irene. "Who, then?" he asked.

Her grin broadened. She stepped closer to him, crossing the line into a more personal area, but Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead she angled herself so that her shoulder was pressed against his arm. "The man speaking to your brother," she

suggested.

His eyes scanned the crowd until they rested on his brother and the older man speaking to him. He showed no emotion as he glanced at Mycroft for perhaps a moment too long (taking in the details, as always—he was the one who taught him to do this in the first place, and they used to make a game out of it, but that was fifteen years ago). Instead he focused his attention on the man speaking to the king.

"Widower," he commented. "The woman accompanying him is young, definitely too young to have mothered his son. He is likely holding the position of duke, judging by the attention paid to his presentation, and the quality of his boots. He is interested in business and trade with the kingdom, probably an effort that was repeatedly made but never completed before. Very eager to please, and very precise with every movement and the way that he's speaking. It almost seems rehearsed, and the proximity he holds to my brother suggests that he was familiar with his predecessor, our father."

"You said he has a son?" Irene asked.

Sherlock waved over to a man on the other side of the room. "The center pin that he is wearing bears the same insignia."

Irene glanced at Sherlock for a moment, her smile proving how impressed she actually was. "And what of the woman he's speaking to?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the blond woman chatting to the duke's son. "Dull," he sighed. "Fairly ordinary, showing interest in him because of his hereditary title."

"What about her, then?" she asked, waving a gloved hand at a brunette girl.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "That's Molly, a healer who works within the castle," he explained. "Far too easy as I already know her." He paused. "On the other hand, the man she's dancing with is decidedly not interested in her."

"How do you figure?" Irene asked. "He looks pleased enough," she reasoned.

"The way he stands with her," Sherlock explained, gesturing at them with an open hand. "Too distant to merely be polite and respectful."

"Unlike how we are standing?" she quipped, looking up at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and focused on the pair. "Though he's interested in her, it's more likely it's for conversational purposes only, or perhaps out of sense of duty. Though—no, his posture doesn't quite read as chivalrous as a man who would ask her to dance merely because she was standing by herself."

"Maybe he knows her, then," Irene suggested.

"Possible, though more than likely not," Sherlock continued. "There is no familiarity in the way that Molly is conducting herself. Furthermore, she's flushed and perhaps a bit more flustered than usual; the only other person she reacts that way to is..."

Irene chuckled as Sherlock's sentence dropped off. "You have an admirer, then, your highness," she said.

He ignored the comment from Irene once more. "Now, watch the way that he excuses himself from her," he said, gesturing to the dark-haired man who bowed a little too quickly before turning from Molly. Nearly immediately he bumped into another nobleman and there was a quick exchange of apologies.

"Too eager to make his escape," she said, and Sherlock hummed in response. He narrowed his eyes slightly, following the man who had just abandoned Molly. "Now, what do you think of the Earl of Corona?"

Instantly Sherlock's focus turned to the man Irene was speaking of. "Lord Edward is not particularly fascinating," he sighed. "Though, he has recently turned to less-than-honorable forms of trade with some eastern empires, and he's romantically involved with the Lady Amanda, though that's still a secret."

"Really?" Irene inquired. "Wait, let me think..." She was silent for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips before gesturing back to the man. "The pin in her hair," she said after some time. "It's of jade, similar to that of the broach he's wearing. Am I correct?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "It's an adequate observation," he allowed, "though it's just one of many that create the whole image."

She sighed, though it was with amusement. "I hope you don't object to my saying that your intelligence is incredibly attractive, my lord." She chuckled. "I feel as though the time I spent earlier with Lord Sebastian was a complete waste, comparatively."

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, his eyes roamed over the attendants, until they at last fell on the figure of the aforementioned Baron of the Southern Isles. He watched as the man wavered slightly, grabbing onto the table near them before picking up a goblet. His eyes narrowed.

"I suspect he's had a bit too much wine by now," Irene said cheekily, but Sherlock took a tentative step closer to the man, without the intent of being noticed. His mind raced with the clues, quickly attempting to put them together as the man walked past them and up to Lady Anthea. He handed her the goblet and she gracefully accepted and thanked him.

"Or something more nefarious," he muttered. Instantly he was crossing the room as Anthea lifted the chalice. "Stop!" he cried, and it brought the attention to the prince, now quickly plucking the wine from Lady Anthea's hands, glaring at the Baron. A few nobles near them were turning, looking curiously at the cause of the prince's shout.

Instantly Irene was at his side. "Your highness?" she questioned.

"What is it, sire?" Lady Anthea asked in turn, looking at Sherlock with great uncertainty.

"You can't take this," he told her firmly, and as he spoke, even more guests were trying to see what was causing a disturbance in the middle of the celebration.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" The man's heart stopped at the voice those words belonged to. He didn't turn the slightest amount to watch his brother approaching. He could very well sense it, but he couldn't bring himself to look, to see the expression on Mycroft's face; already his words rang with disapproval and irritation, so horribly patronizing.

"It's been poisoned," Sherlock said in a low voice and the lady looked at him with a gasp as the nobleman laughed dryly.

"This is preposterous," he commented. He turned to Mycroft. "Your majesty, your brother is out of line with such an accusation!"

Mycroft's eyes were still locked purposefully on Sherlock's face, though his younger brother still avoided a glance back in his direction. "You'd better explain yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft growled with a sharp inhalation through the nose, as though to calm himself. "Lord Sebastian is a respectable man and a crucial ally of ours!"

"Such a respectable man wouldn't put henbane to use against a lady of our court," Sherlock spat, clutching the goblet in both of his hands, knuckles turning white from his angry grip.

"Henbane?" Irene inquired, and Sherlock's gaze broke from Sebastian's for just a moment so he could glance at her; he knew she was waiting for an explanation of his conclusion, much like his brother, and much like many around them were, now. The music, he vaguely registered, was still playing, and he could still hear chatter and laughter throughout the room, though the immediate vicinity surrounding them was hushed, watching quietly.

"Henbane is known to commonly grow by the sea," he said quickly. "The baron's exposed skin is of a darker complexion, but near his collar and cuff you can see the paler tone it usually takes. Similarly, the state of his boots denotes sand and salty air have weathered them. There's slight discoloration on his fingers, commonly caused by the berries of henbane, generally from someone who is not accustomed to using it and how to avoid such stains. The putrid smell also suggests the usage of the herb; a smell much like rotting. Prolonged exposure to the odor can commonly lead to symptoms such as dizziness, just as the Baron is exhibiting." He drew in a breath. "As for the symptoms for actual ingestion? That is a different and rather morbid matter."

There was silence in the small group of nobles. "This is ridiculous," Sebastian hissed at him. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes narrowed slits. "As though I would ever step foot near such a thing. No one with any sense would!"

"As though sense has anything to do with the matter," Sherlock retorted. "And you're hardly an expert on sense, anyway."

"Your highness," Irene said suddenly, and the tone was so deceivingly innocent. "How is it that you're so familiar with henbane and its properties?"

Sherlock rounded on her. "And what is your suggestion, my lady?" he asked her challengingly. He ignored the fact that the hand no longer gripping the goblet was now shaking slightly. He flexed his fingers before curling them back into his palm, doing his best to will the sensation away.

She shook her head. "I only think that henbane is an herb that many have not had much experience with, and you seem terribly informed." She paused, the attempt at virtuousness so sickeningly preposterous, Sherlock wanted to hate her for even attempting the act. "Especially with the powers when ingested. You speak with an air of personal experience."

The silence pressed heavily on Sherlock with Irene's implications. Of course she could figure it out; she was one of the cleverest in the lot, and she'd certainly been observing him since their meeting. Perhaps she'd even managed to dig deep enough to discover the darker secrets revolving around the royal family, despite Mycroft's efforts to bury them, prior to the festivities; he'd heard brief references to her reputation, and he was quickly learning that it was founded in truth.

"I believe that you have stepped out of line with what it is you are intending to say, my lady," Mycroft said coldly, his tone dangerous.

"My sincerest apologies," she said quickly, but it fell flat as Sherlock could hear the definite falseness in the words.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Stupid, he berated himself. But already Irene had done her damage.

"Sherlock, did you actually see the baron, or anyone for that matter, poison the wine?" Mycroft pressed on, his tone still incredibly frigid. Sherlock turned to him, but was temporarily reassured as he realized that his brother was not condemning him, but rather giving him a chance—hoping against all hope that Sherlock might be able to redeem himself.

His eyes fluttered shut and he lifted a hand near his face, as though it would help him focus, fingers twitching slightly as though he was physically sifting through his mind. Quickly Sherlock replayed every detail of the night where he had observed Sebastian, even peripherally. There was something that didn't sit right. It was one quick moment, just a split second. It was something he hardly noticed. Something...

His eyes snapped open and he turned to the nobleman. "Turn out your pockets," he ordered him.

Sebastian rounded on him once more. "Excuse me?"

Mycroft sighed. "My lord, if you wouldn't mind indulging my brother," he pleaded. "At the very least, it could clear things up and this ordeal can be properly handled."

Sebastian glared at the older brother before yanking at one of his coat pockets, proving that it was empty. Then, he out-turned the other, and a strange root was left in his hand. He stared down at it. Immediately his face reddened. "I don't even know—"

"Salsify," Sherlock muttered, staring at it.

"Excuse me?" Sebastian asked.

"Salsify," Sherlock repeated irritably. "It was placed there. It—" He shook his head and his eyes flitted over the crowd, but his search left him empty-handed. Again he turned back to Sebastian. "The man that bumped into you earlier, did you know him?"

"I don't even know what you're talking—"

Sherlock growled in frustration and turned to find the lady he needed standing with a crowd of other guests, looking at Sherlock with uncertainty. "Molly," he said quickly. "That man—the one you danced with earlier. Where did he go?"

Molly looked startled; Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because of the attention that he brought to her, or the fact that he'd noticed she'd had some brief company during the evening. "I'm not sure, my lord," she confessed.

"When did you last see him?" he demanded.

"Not that long ago," she responded, glancing around before returning her gaze to Sherlock's. "Sire—"

"Think carefully, my lady," he told her softly, and he took a step forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned in closely. "What did you say to him that might have been of some importance?"

She shook her head, pulling her head back slightly, obviously flustered by his proximity. "We spoke of... well, you mostly," she admitted in a half-whisper and she blushed deeply. "Of the coronation. Of..." Her face fell and her eyes looked into Sherlock's sadly, realizing that she may have in fact mentioned something of consequence. "Of the bracelet," she breathed.

Sherlock pulled away from her, face determinedly blank. He whipped back around to face his brother, who was looking at him expectantly. "I need to find Mistress Hudson," was all that he said by way of explanation, and then he was pushing through the crowd, quick but his emotions still decidedly controlled.

As he emerged out into the corridor, he paused for a moment, glancing around for a sign, some sort of clue as to which way to head next.

"Your highness!"

"I don't have time for you," he snapped back at the woman who had followed him. However, Irene seemed unperturbed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was absorbing the scene, but the walls and floors were cold stone and unyielding wood, bearing no evidence of what he needed. He placed his hands to his forehead, slamming his eyes shut, thinking of anything that might possibly clue him in—

But perhaps the lack of anything was a clue in itself. He narrowed his eyes and set off down the right side of the corridor, Irene's footsteps falling behind his. They stepped over two guards who were knocked unconscious, their bodies left on the floor in an unceremonious heap. Mycroft could handle that though, Sherlock reasoned, because he had a more pressing matter.

He reached the parlor that he had commonly found his nursemaid in since he'd been little, seeking her out for whatever task he had in mind and (begrudgingly) needed assistance with. It was an image of her he'd stored away, when he'd find her sitting in the bright afternoon sun, perched in a chair and sipping tea as a short respite before continuing with her duties as Sherlock's caretaker. His only hope rested in the idea that this was her safe-haven, just as Sherlock's was the library, and if she had disappeared out of her own accord, this is where she would have headed.

He pressed the door open with a definite calmness, immediately calculating how he would be able to turn whatever situation he was met with on the other side. However, the chamber seemed empty at first glance. Then, he caught sight of his nursemaid, sitting awkwardly on the floor.

Upon seeing that there was no immediate danger, he kept his composure as he walked slowly to the woman, then crouched before her. It didn't escape his notice that Irene did not follow him inside. He took in the angry red marks on his nursemaid's wrists, her pale skin quickly bruising, the bracelet distinctly missing. There was a rip in the sleeve of her dress and her shoulders quivered slightly, though she seemed otherwise in tact.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she sighed quickly. He did not respond, only grasping her gently at the elbow to help her stand, then led her to a plush chair. "I'm fine, sire," she said dismissively, waving her hand at him, though he could feel the small tremors of her body as she sat. She was like that; she always put on a brave face for him. That's just who she was. "Your mother's bracelet was taken, though, I'm afraid. I'm so very sorry," she repeated.

He heard hurried footsteps and he glanced up to see not Irene, but Molly, the other woman still standing back in the doorway.

"Can I help, your highness?" Molly offered quietly.

Sherlock got to his feet and took two steps back, allowing Molly to glance over Mistress Hudson, gently examining her wrists. "Who did this to you?" he asked instead, his tone firm and demanding.

"I didn't exactly see them," the older woman told him, shaking her head.

"Them?" Sherlock pressed on, furrowing his brow.

"There were two of them—"

"Molly," Sherlock broke in. "Once you've seen to Mistress Hudson, inform the guards that they are seeking out three men—most likely the two who attacked Mistress Hudson will already be dead. The third will be attempting an escape from the citadel."

"Dead?" Molly asked, eyes wide as she looked up at the man.

He nodded sharply. "They weren't important, so he would have disposed of them by now—he has made it clear through this attack that he is not the kind to perform such acts himself, so that is why there must be a third man involved, also employed by him for this specific purpose."

"Who is this man?" Molly asked him warily, but he turned and stalked out of the room, grabbing onto Irene's wrist and yanking her to the side once they were in the hallway.

"You will explain, my lady," he told her coolly.

"Your highness—"

"I am tired of games," he snapped. "If you value your life, you will tell me who you're working for."

"You cannot threaten me!" she said, pulling at her wrist, but the grip that Sherlock kept on her was strong.

"I'm not making threats," he responded acidly. "I am merely telling you what will happen if you don't cooperate." She narrowed her eyes and tried to tug at his hold once more, but there was no give. "It's that man, isn't it? The one who was dancing with Molly, who found out about the bracelet. But he's clearly not the type who's willing to do the work for himself…" He tilted his head. "So what? Was that all of his plan?" he demanded. "Tell me!"

"I don't know!" she responded venomously. "I was only aware of my part."

He leaned forward. "So what was your part in this? A distraction for the prince?" he queried. Her eyes shifted downward, turning away from Sherlock. "You know more. Something else. What is it?" However, Irene still would not look at him. He pulled her closer, unceremoniously. "You heard what I said about the men who attacked Mistress Hudson—in all likelihood they are dead, and you know it to be true as well. You've played your part. What makes you think that he won't be so quick to dispose of you, as well?"

She looked up at him, dark eyes showing the truth of her vulnerability and betraying her apprehension.

"Tell me," he repeated.

"He has his eyes on more than just that jewel, sire," she told him at last.

He looked at her, eyes flitting over her features as though he might be able to find more of an explanation in them. "Other jewels?" he asked, then his eyes widened in comprehension and he straightened himself. "The crown."

Irene's eyes met his, though she did not speak an affirmative. Still, it was enough. He dropped her wrist and turned.

"Your highness," she said desperately. He paused and turned to face her again. "What of me?"

"What of you, my lady?" he asked, his tone cold and emotionless.

"He'll kill me, as you said," she told him, and she glanced down at her gloved hands. "When he finds out, and I am certain that he will. He is powerful. Surely… surely you…"

"I what, my lady?" he responded, raising an eyebrow. "You think that I should be any different, knowing of your own participation in the events of tonight?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I had not known the extent—" She shook her head and took a step forward, though Sherlock took a step back in turn. She bit her lip. "You must have a heart, sire; you must help me. Please."

"You're wrong on both accounts, my lady," he assured her. "I will not help, and I definitely don't have a heart."

She swallowed tightly. "Please…" she repeated, and her voice sounded weak.

"Run," he responded.

She stared at him for a moment, blinking rapidly at him before finally realizing the full extent of his words; he was giving her a chance to escape. She was just a foolish participant, unaware of the damages that might result. She nodded and looked away. Sherlock turned away once more and as he made his way to the throne room where the crown jewels had been returned and secured after the ceremony, he could hear the clicking of Irene's heels, fading as she made her escape in the opposite direction.

Sherlock's pace was quick. He only paused briefly at the outside of the throne room, collecting a halberd from one of the guards on the floor—both of whom were definitely dead; with a fleeting glance, Sherlock could recognize the distinct wound that signified a misericorde, clean and precise, clearly dealt by the assassin employed. He gripped the halberd in both hands as he crept closer to the door, feeling slightly awkward with the weapon, as it was not one with which he was familiar. However, he didn't expect there to be enough time to retrieve his sword; he was operating on a schedule of vague, imprecise estimates. And if the man with the dagger was not yet making his escape but waiting with the mastermind, he'd prefer a weapon with a slightly longer range. It just might give him the advantage.

Sherlock gently pressed the door to the chamber open, and was slightly shocked to see the man he expected, sitting in his brother's throne, king's crown atop his own head. He was vaguely relieved to see that he was in fact alone in the chamber, as though he was personally awaiting the prince.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, your highness," the man said to him, his eyes dark and shining, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. It all felt unnerving.

Sherlock stared at him expressionlessly. He kept himself calm, detached. "I wish I could say the same to you…"

"Sir James Moriarty," he responded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "A knight?" he queried, glancing over the man. He did not bear most of the tells that the prince could recognize in those that reached knighthood; he quickly reassessed, considering the possibility of a hereditary title. "Or a baronet?"

"Of sorts," he said, lifting a shoulder slightly, then dropping it, giving Sherlock no further explanation. "Though that's far from my aspiration."

"You aspire to be a thief and a murderer?" Sherlock inquired. He slowly approached the other man until he was standing in the center of the room, the point on the halberd's head directed at Moriarty. He stared at him intently.

"Ooh," Moriarty grinned. "You're certainly an imp, aren't you? No, your grace, I'm a bit of both of those, yet not quite either. I have so many who are willing to do my work for me; it helps to keep me off of the battlegrounds." He huffed out a small laugh. "Honestly, I aspire to be much more than that, Sherlock."

The prince ignored the informality, though he bristled internally; it was disconcerting to hear his name from that man's lips, especially in his brother's throne, wearing his brother's crown. No, this situation was so inherently wrong.

"And I'm sure that you'll realize, too, that I am precisely where I need to be."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to press the man for more information—was that some attempt at a threat, promising to sit in that throne one day, after usurping Mycroft? Or had he laid some trap that Sherlock had walked into, unaware? What was his intention?

"Don't move!" The shout came from behind Sherlock, and he shifted his body to see over his shoulder as half a dozen guards ran into the room, armed with halberds and short-swords. The prince could peripherally see as Moriarty discarded the crown and raised his hands in surrender, three of the guards rushing forward to detain him; a fourth began searching him, no doubt for the dagger that killed the others.

"He has no weapons," he assured the guards shortly, and a smile curled on Moriarty's lips.

"He's correct," he told them, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sherlock.

The guard searching Moriarty glanced at another, who nodded. He rose to his feet and they wordlessly took him from the chamber just as Mycroft entered.

He glanced at the two remaining guards with a significant look. "A moment of privacy with my brother, please," he told them, and they stepped back out of the room, pulling the doors behind them as they did.

Mycroft turned back and frowned at Sherlock. "You went after him yourself?" he hissed disapprovingly.

"It was of importance," he responded simply, as though it was obvious.

"And you couldn't spare a moment to inform someone?" Mycroft pressed on. "Call on a guard? Any of our knights? Someone properly trained to handle such a situation?"

"I'm no longer a child, despite the fact that you still think of me as such. I have, in fact, become an adult." Sherlock rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. "He wasn't a threat."

"He killed two of our men!" Mycroft spat. "He murdered two of his own!"

"It was not him; he plays a game of manipulation and keeps himself as removed as he can while he lays out his plans for others to follow. He had no intention of harming me," Sherlock told him dismissively. He turned to walk away from his brother, to abandon this pointless conversation.

"You don't know that, Sherlock!" Mycroft grabbed the prince's wrist, and Sherlock snatched his arm away; even through his older brother's gloves, Sherlock could feel the cold of his hand, burning icily against his skin.

"It's fine!" Sherlock responded venomously, and Mycroft snapped his mouth shut, lifting his chin slightly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, the anger which had previously been a small fire now a raging blaze, burning him outwards to his skin. "You don't have to pretend that you care at all about what fate I would have met. You've taken fifteen years to prove that you don't care about anything, Mycroft. And I'm sure that after Lady Irene's accusations in the company earlier, that you care least about me." He paused, sucking in a breath; he allowed a half-second for his brother to object, but he did not so he continued on, more calmly. "He took Mother's bracelet. I would be grateful if you could retrieve it from him."

"And Lord Sebastian? The salsify?" He paused, looking at his brother significantly. "Lady Irene?"

"All part of his plot," Sherlock assured him. "He planted the salsify on the baron. It has a scent similar to that of henbane—I should have been able to detect the difference, really. The other symptoms… it was foolish of me to conclude such a thing, but that was his intent. He wanted for me to wrongly accuse the baron, and then have Lady Irene discredit me by referencing my past troubles."

"You wished to impress her by exposing a murder attempt."

He swallowed. "I was foolish," Sherlock said. "I can assure you it won't happen twice."

"It should never have happened in the first place!" Mycroft retorted.

"And I can not change that," Sherlock bit out. "Instead, focus on the man you're holding prisoner. There is little that you can do to properly keep him in a cell."

"I'm aware—"

"Then instead of wasting your time on your brother, chiding his mistakes, perhaps you should attempt an actual plan to charge Moriarty with his crimes," Sherlock spat. He turned again, walking briskly away from the king, rubbing absently at the place where Mycroft had touched him; the touch was so cold and strange, but his anger still felt so hot inside of him, that he tried to write off every illogical implication.

He headed immediately toward Mistress Hudson's chambers, just down the corridor from his own. He knocked, and when she called for him to enter, he did.

She smiled gently at him from her place, seated at the edge of her bed. "Has everything been sorted?" she inquired.

"It's being seen to," he assured her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. She instantly reached up to cover it in her own.

"Were you able to recover your mother's bracelet?" she asked, a slight pause in her voice.

"I'm sure they will be able to," he said. "I had more important matters."

Mistress Hudson let out a small laugh, and she shook her head. "I'm not that important, you silly boy."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock objected. "Without you, the kingdom would fall."

Again the nursemaid chuckled. She patted his hand. "Quite a day," she told him.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Get to sleep," he ordered her. "We can handle all other matters in the morning."

The bright light of the morning did nothing to illuminate the cells beneath the castle, nor to warm them. The torches on the walls provided the only light for Mycroft as he walked past the guards and to the cell at the end of the corridor. He glowered at the man sitting cross-legged in the center of the straw-covered floor; in turn, Moriarty smiled back up at him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, your majesty?" he asked, false reverence in his voice.

"I've come for information," Mycroft told him coldly. Moriarty cocked his head to the side, as though confused. "You managed to not only plan, but to carry out, a rather well-organized and thought-out scheme," he continued. "The people you exploited, others you had killed… the information you obtained." He lifted his chin and looked down at Moriarty through narrowed eyes. "You will explain how you came into all of this."

"Ooh," Moriarty responded, as though suddenly understanding. "That is quite a lot you're asking for," he continued, eyes wide and attempting innocence. "I hope you have something to offer in return."

"I do not bargain with criminals," Mycroft spat.

Moriarty frowned. "I don't suppose that I can help you, then, sire," he told him.

"Your life would not be enough?" Mycroft quirked a brow. "Failure to cooperate may be enough of a reason to be hanged."

"I am prepared to be put to death without admitting anything," he responded.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Don't think I won't resort to means of torture to find out what I need," the king said icily. "Just as you have those willing to carry out such deeds for you, I do as king, as well. I can call on them, if necessary."

"Oh, but this would be so much simpler," Moriarty told him with a smile. He easily shifted to his feet and walked to the bars, gripping them tightly, pressing against them with his entire weight and letting the clanging sound echo through the chamber. Mycroft, however, did not flinch or step back. He simply continued to glare at the man with contempt. "Are you not even curious what it is I would ask for, your majesty?"

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he allowed after several moments of silence. "Indulge me. What would you ask for in return for your cooperation?"

Moriarty grinned a little manically as he pressed his face against the bars, closer to the king. "Tell me about your brother, the prince."