A/N: Relax, there is no more to this fic. I think.

...On the other hand, it is my birthday soon, and I do like to try and post something on my birthday... hm. Ah well, I've got a list of prompts to go through, surely one of them will work out.

"Sometimes," his sister slurs, "sometimes I dream, you know,"

"Everybody dreams, Harry," John says dryly.

"No, you prick. Lemme finish. I dream about, about Mum's fairies you know, her - her, wha's the word, like a goblin but Scottish?"

"Bodach," John says.

"Yeah. I dream about bodach." She giggles inanely. John looks at her and hates their father, hates the example he has set, hates that Harry isn't strong enough to keep herself from walking the same path - hates himself a little too. He can't decide which idea he hates more - that he was too weak to protect her, or that he was too strong and shielded her so thoroughly she doesn't understand.

He doesn't doubt that it is his fault.

(It falls to you to be the head of the household)

"Goblins, an' - an' a king, John."

Something in John twists, tightens and clenches, an uncomfortable knot of emotions low in his gut.

no, no, he's mine, mine, I don't want to share this with you, Harry, not him too, haven't I given you enough?

("Look after Harriet, Johnny."

When did that become 'give everything, leave nothing for yourself'?)

"He was amazin', John. Arrogant bastard, but amazin'. Wasn't very interested in me, though. Which is good, 'cause, you know, gay. So I'd hafta kick 'im in the goolies, an' that would be a waste of cheekbones, cause it didn't look like he'd passed those genes on yet-"

"Harry," John says, hates how much he hates to hear her referring to one of the most definitive times in his life, and the person that made it so.

"Watched you in a li'l glass ball," Harry says sleepily. "Thought you were trapped there, cause he smiled all smuglike about it, but you weren't."

John says nothing.

"I dreamed you didn't want me," his sister says. "But you do, don't you?" she says plaintively. "You're the only one who's ever wanted me, John. Mum was always away with the fairies and Dad was-" she makes a face. "God, look at us. So maudlin."

"You've had enough to drink then," John says, forces her to stand up. She leans on him as they walk away from the pub - he thinks, some resentful seventeen-year-old part of him, story of my life.

"You're away with the fairies, too," she whispers, alcohol-laden breath against his ear. "Don't go, Johnny, don't leave me."

"Okay," John says. "Okay."

"'m lying," she says later, when he tips her carefully onto her bed, lies there staring at the ceiling like something is written there. "I 'member 'nuff of Mum's stories. I know you can't dance with the fairies an' come back the same, be happy."

Oh, John realises, something leaden and sad in his chest. So it really is his fault. She drinks to forget.

She glares like she can read his mind. "Don' - don' even think it, Johnny boy. God, you're such a martyr. Not everythin' is your fault, you know."

"Whatever you say," John says, paints a mild, cheerful expression on his face. She scoffs at him.

"If it makes you happy," she says softly, as he walks around the room, puts a glass of water and mum's godawful but effective hangover cure by her bedside so they'll be the first thing she sees in the morning, "John, Johnny, big brother - if it'll make you happy, go dance."

John wakes up, and wishes he hadn't. Everything aches, down to his bones, just as it did the day after he ran the Labyrinth. (He woke feeling as if something had been torn from him and knew it to be true; shouldn't its return be the opposite?)

"Welcome home," a voice says, carefully flat and devoid of expression.

John can taste peaches.

"What have you done?" he says softly. He isn't sure if it is fear or outrage that steals his voice. Perhaps it is something else entirely, as it often is where the Goblin King and his demesne are concerned.

"What was necessary." The Goblin King keeps his back turned, watches the orange sky, and no matter what he tries, John cannot get another word out of him.

Eventually, he drifts back into fevered sleep.

He is sure it is a dream when he hears the words you wished, said with something indefinable, something fervent, hope that had rested in a crucible too long, been transformed into something else.

He is sure it is a dream. It has to be, or that tone, that voice, those two words - they would not have broken his heart.

"Stop that," the Goblin King says irritably, watching John pace, careful and awkward.

"Stop what?" John says.

"Limping," the King snaps. "Stop it."

"I can't help it," John says tightly, .

The King seems to unfold more than stand, looms over John with teeth bared. "You can," he says, his eyes fierce and dark, the way John imagines they'd look if he found he'd been wronged in some way (odd then, he notes, that he has never seen it before. You'd think besting a king of his kind would count as a wrong). "You were shot in the shoulder, not the leg. You think I couldn't heal you, even so? Stop limping, stop acting like something in you has broken!"

"But I am broken," John says before he can stop himself.

(I can't go to the crossroads for you, Johnny

Why do you assume I need someone to free me? Why is your first thought that there is something wrong with me, something that needs to be fixed?)

The King storms past him, Victorian frock coat snapping against the air, hawklike face still as stone.

John watches him go, wonders what his problem is, and tells himself it doesn't hurt to see so many dreams come true.

"I told you, didn't I?" The King hisses against his ear. "I told you that world would break you down."

"You told me everything I wanted was here," John corrects. He is not surprised to find himself standing on a distant hill, all the Labyrinth stretched out before him.

"Isn't it? You wanted, no," he corrects himself, "you needed adventure, needed strength, didn't I give that to you? Haven't you always sought your way back? Back to your genesis? Everything you ever wanted, it is right here. So why did you leave?"

"It was a lie."

"You know the lore. I cannot lie."

It's a dream. It doesn't matter if he is honest.

(I've brought you a gift.)

Remember, Johnny, illusion and trickery are the gifts of the Fair Folk. Never believe what they offer. A dream from their hand will turn like a snake and bite you.

"If everything I want is here, then where are you?"

(Welcome home, not back. There is something important about that.

You know the lore.

Yes. Words are important. Word choice is always significant. 'Welcome home', he said, not 'welcome back'-)

"Where I always am. Waiting for you."

"Waiting for me what? To do something, be something, understand something-?"

The Goblin King studies the distant castle and says nothing. John hears: if you can't work it out, you're less than the man I thought you to be.

It makes him angry. It touches the iron core he hadn't realised was in him until he ran the Labyrinth, it makes him determined to beat this - whatever this is - too.

Clever, he realises after a moment, looking at the Goblin King's smile. That's the idea.

(Think, John.)

"You have no power over me, and if I ever gave it to you, I take it back," John snarls. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Good," the Goblin King says.

(ask your right questions)

John pauses, stymied. "Good?"

"Yes," the King says, doesn't explain. He looks at John with patient indulgence, waiting for him to understand.

Think. Words are important. Word choice is important. That applies to your word choices as well - his reaction to your word choices.

Go through it, bit by bit, assumption by assumption. One: he has no power over you. Two: you can give him power. Three: that power is fear. There. Fear is not the only thing that gives someone power.

"Oh." John says. The Goblin King's smile widens. "Right. Well you still have no power over me, anyway."

"Liar," the King says - John wonders if it is affection rather than mockery that lightens his tone.

"Goblin King-"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Sherlock. I know you know my name. Use it. That is, after all, the reason I gave it to you."

(Equality. Stupid, John - it is a matter of exchange. Someone has power over you only if you allow it. He allows it, gave his name freely -

Acknowledge a gift, but never thank them, because they might decide it puts you in their debt. Give your help freely and you will get help when you need it. If you are offered something, accept it, and expect to be asked for something in return.)

Always be fair in exchange.

John takes a deep breath, looks at the Goblin King - at Sherlock. His kind can bend the truth till it breaks, but there are rules, and they are bound by them.

John has always considered himself a fair man.

"John Hamish Watson," he says, clear and steady, not a single trace of doubt in his tone.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock repeats softly. "John."

(Welcome home)

If it'll make you happy - go dance

He was wrong, John decides, about what he thought when he woke up. It was not an end to his life, just a beginning of a different stage.

His leg aches as he follows Sherlock, but he doesn't limp.