A/N: So I actually finished it! Holy crap. :) I think I cried nearly every time I worked on it. Darn Reichen-feels :)

I just wanted to thank everyone who followed, favorited, read, and/or commented on this. Thank you for waiting so patiently as it dragged on and on! I hope the end does the rest of it justice. Enjoy! :)

"It's not a bean, my King." Moriarty's face twisted in vexation, which he quickly smoothed over. "It's simply a possibility, one which I, alone, can twist into being."

The King wasn't certain if he ought to believe Moriarty before he realized that of course he should not. The man may make all the promises in the world, but he would never follow through with something that wasn't to his own advantage. It was hard to think of James, his friend, that way; but what was seen cannot now be unseen.

"Do feel free to tell me how the dead can be resurrected, James." Mycroft let all his skepticism appear in his voice. Perhaps it was too much. James narrowed his eyes at his King. Then he laughed, a high, shrill noise that made the King's teeth shiver.

"Your brother was really a very brilliant man, you know, much cleverer than you. He saw my true nature as a mere boy, though he was unable to do anything about it once I had you on my side. It is a shame he was so utterly ordinary in the end. All it took was threatening his precious huntsman." James said this in a light, playful voice as if he were teasing. "I had heard such tales of the matchless intelligence of the princes of the Holmes lineage before I came to this kingdom, but your brother willingly ingested poison to spare the life of a mere peasant and you, you still do not truly see. You cannot see what is right in front of you. It is rather pathetic."

Moriarty's voice had grown sharp and annoyed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath like he was centering himself, and beamed, gesturing in the air like a showy magician. "I do not propose resurrection."

Here the arrow appeared at the window, its trajectory sure and true. The King had two thoughts within that brief moment of time: please let it hit James, for he was still guilt-stricken with his own role in his brother's death; and no, not before he tells me what he means; but only the first fervent request was granted.

The arrow hit Moriarty's chest as he turned in vigorous gesticulation. Considering how far it must have flown to even reach the window, it hit with quite a bit of force. Moriarty stumbled back mid-gloat, astounded at first; then his eyes glinted with mania as blood bubbled up into his mouth.

"This is an outcome I did not predict, Mycroft." He coughed and his chin flooded with scarlet. "I thought we'd make a deal. But now, I'll take your brother to the grave."

"He's already there," Mycroft stated plainly.

"Yes," was the bloody, smirking response. Moriarty's legs faltered beneath him; he hit his knees, then the floor. The King's eyes didn't flick away from Moriarty's until they had become glassy and still.

King Mycroft waiting another few minutes before calling for help – both for John to take his leave from the archers and to make sure nothing could be done for James Moriarty. As the lifeless body was hauled away, questions asked, gossip spread, King Mycroft felt more relief at James' demise than bitter regret at not discovering all of Moriarty's secrets. It was probably a lie, anyway, the possibility of Sherlock coming back, one of thousands of whispered, wormy little lies. He'd only hear them in his nightmares from now on.

John bid the archers farewell and clasped Lestrade's hand, exchanging their secrets with just a look. John walked unmolested from the city without hearing any hue and cry. In fact, there was so little deviation from mundane routine, John wondered if the whole plan had come to naught. It wasn't until he stopped at an inn two nights hence that he heard of his success.

John had ducked inside due to a fall of rain that made him consider the tale of Noah. While his sodden clothing steamed by the common room fire, he overheard two noblemen discussing the incident at the castle – one was outraged that more hadn't been done to punish the Guard archers while the other reminded him that neither of them were sad the mad bastard was dead. "Besides, he was the King's closest advisor. If his Majesty sees fit to declare it an accident, be grateful he is not looking for conspirators within the castle walls."

John felt something inside him break. He wouldn't call the feeling relief, exactly, but it wasn't quite grief, either. No one, not even John, noticed the tears that mingled with the rain still streaming from his hair.

The coats of the deer and other animals had begun to thicken by the time King Mycroft found his way back to the decrepit noble house in Marylebone village. He trod the familiar path to John's cottage with only Lestrade trailing behind.

"I imagine you have heard," the King said when John responded to his knock.

This time John spoke to the King on his first visit, though King Mycroft wasn't entirely certain he would. Much of his anger had dissipated in the intervening months though he wasn't certain he'd ever feel peace again.

"Yes, before I reached Marylebone."

The silence stretched between them. After a bit, John pulled back from the door, leaving it open in as much invitation as he was capable of lately. The King stepped inside. The cottage was sparse and tidy as if John only rarely lived there. The shorter man pulled a small glass of ale from a cask in the corner. He set it on the short plank table and the King sat.

"This is quite good," the King said to break the silence.

"Traded it for a bear skin from last winter," was all John said. He did not add that Sherlock had been a party to tracking that bear, had helped him field dress it. Certain words caught in his throat still.

John sat in the opposite chair and drank with the King.

"John, may I ask you again to take me to see my brother?"

John knew that question had been coming. The King would not have come all this way just to inform him that Moriarty was dead.

"Tomorrow, quite early. Just you. No guards."

King Mycroft didn't have to think about the offer, not for a moment.

"Yes."

The King wore simple, durable clothing borrowed from Lestrade, though his fine boots were still his own. He judged they would have to do. He arrived at John's cottage before the dawn had lightened the forest. John was awake and dressed with a pack of food waiting on the table. Neither of them had slept.

The King was not used to the distance they travelled, even if some days he felt like the corridors of the castle were endless. John allowed him to rest frequently, though King Mycroft was anxious to continue the journey at the end of every break.

"How is the queen?" John asked as the sun hoisted itself into the sky.

"With child," the King huffed in return. "Running the kingdom."

John wondered when his heart would stop aching.

"Thank her for the bow and arrow."

"I do, every day."

The clearing broke open before them some time later. The ground was thick with grasses and wildflowers. The wooden coffin peeked out over the tops of the swaying flora, as pristine as the day it was hewn.

John couldn't greet Sherlock as he usually did; his royal audience made the pain too raw. He moved towards the coffin slowly, leaving the King behind, and peered at the still, pale face behind the window of ice. He plucked away a few white petals that had fluttered from the trees since he'd last visited.

The King was slow to approach, but his eyes moved quickly over the scene. If he was surprised at this unique manner of entombment, he said nothing. He looked through the incongruous pane of ice and saw his brother for the first time in nearly a year. He fell to his knees, an honor bestowed by the King unto no one else.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock."

John stood a short distance away as the King bowed his head and placed one hand on the coffin over Sherlock's heart. John had spent many hours in the same position. For now, though, he hunkered down at the edge of the clearing and looked out towards the gently rippling waters of the lake.

After a tentative touch to the pane of ice that revealed the Prince's face, the King joined John. He sat on the ground cross-legged; it looked strange, as if John expected a servant to follow the man around carrying a throne, or at least a padded, velvet stool. The King remained silent as John broke open a round loaf of bread to share and arranged their lunch on a scrap of cloth. He had no fine pastries to tempt the King's appetite, but King Mycroft made no complaint of the plain fare.

"I feel as if Moriarty had my head muddled with a spell all this time, and that he finally lifted it so I could feel all the anguish and pain and guilt purely." The King pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long drink. He didn't expect John to feel any sympathy for him. "That arrow silenced quite a vitriolic diatribe, John. Moriarty seemed convinced that I would turn over my kingdom, my wife, everything, to bring my brother back to me. And I considered it.

"However, I could not believe the offer. No one can resurrect the dead. But I couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Moriarty said, that it would not be resurrection." The King watched John avidly. The simple man's head was bowed, but the tensing of his jaw, the clenching of his fists was more than obvious. "Now I see my brother as if he had ceased breathing a moment ago and I do wonder if Moriarty's ranting held some iota of truth. I do not say this to give you hope where there may be none, John. I say this to beg your permission to try something."

"What is there to try? His body lies uncorrupted due to the enchantment within the forest. If he could have magically returned to life, don't you think he would have by now? When Moriarty died, perhaps?"

The King did not answer this directly.

"Once Moriarty was gone, I made it a point to search his rooms at the castle thoroughly. I had men removing the very walls, stone by stone, to reveal anything that might be concealed there. I had the entire staff clean the castle from top to bottom and bring me any insignificant but unusual item they found. I was certain after a time that I truly was looking for a magic bean, a pill, a phial, anything Moriarty might have concealed. But there was nothing."

After a moment, he said, "My brother was a brilliant child, but difficult. His alchemy tutor was the only teacher he didn't drive from the kingdom. I am convinced that Sherlock would never have learned to read or write or do mathematics if he hadn't needed to learn these things for his work in the sciences. Still, his tutor understood that he needed to be set with difficult tasks, even as young as he was, and thus set him upon creating a panacea.

"This led to more than a year of mixtures and experiments; Sherlock was utterly engrossed as they worked to a viable solution. One day, and keep in mind, he was all of nine years old, Sherlock came to me with a tiny golden vial on a chain. He told me, quite seriously, that I ought to wear it at all times. As heir to the throne, I was susceptible to threats on my life. He was certain his concoction would negate all known poisons.

"I did laugh at the time, but took the charm. I put it on to humor him, but as the years passed and our brotherhood progressed towards antipathy, I put it aside." The King withdrew the small gold necklace from his shirt, drew the chain over his head. "I kept it, but only in the sense that I rarely thought of it and certainly not for long enough to dispose of it. And after Moriarty's death, I began to wonder if he knew of this panacea of Sherlock's, if the key to bringing Sherlock back was such a little thing already in my possession.

"But I needed you to bring me here, John. Because there was no way for this to work if Sherlock had…" He could not say it, but John knew. "I didn't want to tell you yesterday, in case… I had to see his body."

"Must you talk so much? If you're going to try it, then do it," John snapped. Somehow that little bit of hope, that glint of gold in the King's hand, made John sick and all the pain was refreshed. He just knew that the disappointment would start the process of grief all over again. The childish elixir wouldn't work and Sherlock would be dead anew. Damn the King.

The King's hands shook as they pried away the small wedges holding the icy window in place. Once that was removed, John couldn't help but reach inside and stroke a fingertip along a still-supple curl. The King was reminded of his Queen. "He loved your brother," she had told her husband when they were alone and Moriarty was gone.

"It seems so," agreed the King, though this seemed unbelievable. He wondered if his brother had returned that love, if he'd found himself capable. Sherlock had always shut himself so tightly away from such things. Their mother was the only person to whom the Prince had ever shown any affection, and that was before her illness.

And here the King was, watching John, a simple huntsman, grieve his aloof, abrasive brother; and all evidence indicated that Sherlock had died for this man. He opened the tiny vial carefully, not certain what, if anything, was within. The King gently parted Sherlock's lips and tipped the gray, powdery dust into his mouth. There was no glint, no effervescence, no miraculous waking. The Prince did not grimace at the foul taste, nor swallow, and those pale lips certainly did not berate Mycroft for such a coarse mouthful.

As much as King Mycroft's heart broke as they waited fruitlessly, he felt John's despair more keenly than his own. John looked like he'd sooner crawl in the coffin with Sherlock than live to be disappointed again. The huntsman's rough hand stroked over Sherlock's lips, closing his mouth and then he spoke as he did when the King wasn't there.

"Sherlock, my love, I know you hated sleeping. You never wanted to miss anything. But right now you're missing your stupid brother groveling at your side. It's quite a sight, let me tell you. And you missed a summer of long, lazy days swimming with me in our lake. Or perhaps you'd prefer to experiment on the tadpoles. We can't do that now; they've all turned to frogs."

King Mycroft stood and moved away, letting John talk to his brother. He rested his own head in his hands and wept, unaware how much he anticipated being right and just how utterly crestfallen he was that the elixir did not work. He wept until his head hurt from it and John fell silent.

John sat next to the coffin, one arm draped over the wood as if he could hug the man inside closer. His face dripped with tears that he let fall freely as if he couldn't even feel them anymore.

"Sherlock, my love, I was so alone. You were my miracle; you brought me back to life. I hate to have to ask this, but would you do just one more thing for me?" He ran a thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone and took a deep, shuddering breath. "One more miracle? Don't be dead. Just stop this. For me."

John leaned over the open window and lightly pressed his tear-damp lips to Sherlock's.

John would later attribute what happened to the magic of the forest and the endings of fairy tales. King Mycroft suspected that the panacea had dried out in the little vial and needed to rehydrate; the liquid of John's tears on his lips as he kissed Sherlock was enough to activate the elixir. Whatever the reason, when John pulled back, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. He inhaled with a sudden, sharp gasp.

"John?" His voice was rough with disuse and his hands were cool when they stilled John's desperate attempts to rip the wooden coffin apart. "John, you're alive."

"Of course I'm alive, Sherlock." John knew he sounded hysterical as he laughed and cried at the same time. "You were the one who was dead."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John. I couldn't bear to watch you die." Sherlock could barely get his words out as John took his face in his hands and kissed him again and again.

"You can be sorry later when I'm not so glad, Sherlock."

The King wanted to greet his brother, beg for his forgiveness, but John's ebullition put a blush on his cheek and so he turned away to give them some semblance of privacy.

The clearing was closer to the cave housing Hudson and the other small men, though John rarely had the heart to visit. Still, Sherlock had no clothing or shoes save the sheet he was wrapped in and his cloak. Sherlock argued that he would prefer to go straight home, meaning John's home, but he wouldn't take John's boots and John wouldn't allow him to walk all that way barefoot. He still had belongings in the cave, and despite the fact that the men would surely make a fuss about Sherlock being alive were they home, they would go collect them.

Due to Hudson's fussing, the exhausting explanations all around, and the long walk, it was night by the time the King had left them alone in John's small cottage. Despite the bad thing that had happened there, good had happened as well and there was no place they would rather have been.

John undressed Sherlock again and pressed his lips to every place he could feel Sherlock's heart beat. The flat of Sherlock's chest reverberated under John's lips. The blood swooshed rapidly through the artery in Sherlock's neck. The rhythm was faint at the bends of Sherlock's elbows and at his wrists, but John could taste the pulse on his tongue. And then John gripped the soft, smooth skin of Sherlock's inner thigh between his teeth so gently.

But while John lusted for every living inch of Sherlock, nothing but the pulsing throbs of climax, nothing but the warm, living fluid flowing into his mouth would satisfy him.

As for Sherlock, he could only vow to never let this man leave his arms again.

King Mycroft wished to find them a grand home befitting the brother of a king. He offered to rebuild the manor house in Marylebone if they did not wish to return to the city. Prince Sherlock refused on both counts and he and John built themselves a small, simple home. It had servants, yes, more than John would ever become used to, and a space for Sherlock's laboratory; but it was peaceful and close to the forest where they could hunt and provide for the villagers.

A new Prince and heir was born the following spring and in due time, he and his siblings' earnest minds were well-filled by their uncles. Uncle Sherlock taught them facts, sciences, math; Uncle John taught them to play and to hunt, and tucked them into their beds at night with tales of heroic princes, loyal knights and magic.

As those fairy tales often end, John had gotten his Prince. And Prince Sherlock, well, he had found his heart in a simple huntsman.