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“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.”
~ Abraham Lincoln
“Sherlock, no. I will not get you a dragon egg.”
“It's just one little experiment, John.”
“Sherlock, how many different languages do I have to say 'no' in? Clearly you don't understand Common.”
“'Common' is beneath me, John, in every sense of the word. You know this. And your linguistic prowess is hardly in question. You are avoiding the subject.”
“I'm not...never mind. My answer still stands, Sherlock.”
“I promise I'm not going to hatch it.”
“Yes, well, I know you're not going to fry it and serve it with Sunday tea, and honestly, your hatching it would worry me much less than anything else you might do with it. Giving you a dragon egg would be like – like giving explosives to a rage demon.”
“Now there is an interesting idea. Thank you, John.”
“Sherlock!”
“That was a joke.”
“...Uh-huh.”
John Watson looked dubiously at the man sitting across from him, sipping his tea to buy himself a few moments' thought. The room was sparsely lit, just enough for adequate reading light. It was close to midnight, on a night when John did not have to rise early the next day for guard duty. He was dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, free of his heavy templar armor. A few months prior he would have spent the night tossing and turning in bed, memorizing the ceiling patterns he could make out in the darkness, prayer and meditation only temporary respites. Instead, he was in the company of a mage whose perpetually energetic demeanor was somehow relaxing rather than exhausting.
That first hallway encounter had led to casual conversations every time John had been on duty in the Senior Mage Quarters and Sherlock had come by (both men had not failed to notice that such occurrences were happening with suspiciously increasing frequency), though of course they had to stop immediately if anyone else passed through. Mage-templar fraternization was strictly forbidden, and somehow John doubted “Seeing him is the best part of my day” would work as an excuse. Three weeks after they met, Sherlock mentioned to John that at night he could often be found in a barely-used section of the library on the second floor, in an area containing mostly old reference texts that even the senior mages seldom had occasion to sift through. Though he was skeptical at first, that night John was able to slip away and found Sherlock sitting calmly at a table, thumbing casually through a well-worn textbook on entropic magic. Beside him was a freshly-brewed pot of herbal tea and two cups. Behind him, his staff leaned against a once-white wall stained with black soot circles, most of them just at Sherlock's height, that John suspected were the results of errant Fireballs.
They weren't able to meet there every night, or even every other night, but John couldn't help but smile when he peeked into the senior mage quarters and saw the teapot brewing every night without fail. Their conversations were light, mostly discussing Sherlock's experiments, gossip and strange stories from around the tower, and occasionally their families and lives before they had come to Kinloch Hold. On that last point, John did most of the asking, while Sherlock mostly guessed – no, deduced – nearly every aspect of his family life. Simply from the clothing he wore, Sherlock had quickly figured out that while John was still on good terms with his parents, he hadn't written to his sister since her marriage had broken up several months prior, in part due to her alcoholism. For John's part, he had practically had to twist both Sherlock's arms to get him to reveal that he had an older brother with a vaguely defined, yet extremely influential position in Fereldan nobility, though the Holmes family was not noble themselves – and John was sure that was far from the only pie the brother had his fingers in. Sherlock's response to John's postulation was that his brother served the pie.
It might have been taboo, but their friendship had become as essential to John's days as his ritual prayers and meditation, and just as calming. And though many would have been quick to believe otherwise, he knew Sherlock felt the same, and wasn't trying to take advantage. Ordinarily he would have been happy to grant Sherlock any favor, within reason. It was the least he could do for what Sherlock had given him. He just hadn't expected this particular request.
Sherlock had recently learned of the supposed stash of dragon eggs the senior enchanters kept in the basement, and possibly in other locations around the tower. John wasn't sure how Sherlock had come by this knowledge and didn't think he wanted to know. All that mattered was that Sherlock now wanted a piece of the action.
“John, haven't you ever stopped to wonder just why the senior enchanters store dragon eggs in the basement?”
“Can't say I have, really.”
“Well, do you really think whatever plans they might have for them are any worse than what I have in mind?”
“Sherlock, I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. I don't need to worry about dragonlings bursting into my quarters, low as the odds of that happening may be.”
“One dragon egg, John. Just one. One out of what's likely hundreds. How long are they going to sit there, frozen and no good to anyone? At least I'll get some use out of one.”
“Yes, because good will surely come out of whatever you'll do to it. Maybe I would prefer the dragonling. At least then when we get caught I might enjoy the mercy of a quick death.”
“You have so little faith in your fighting abilities.”
“Now who's avoiding the subject?”
There was a brief period of silence, as mage and templar regarded each other with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
John finally spoke up, setting down his teacup. “Very well. If it's really that important to you, I'll see what I can do. On one condition.”
“Yes?” Sherlock's expression nearly made John burst out laughing; he looked like a child on Satinalia morning, quite a change from his usual aloof arrogance.
“Tell me about your Harrowing.”
Silence fell again for a few moments, before it was broken by Sherlock. “John, of all the things you could ask of me at this moment, you choose that?”
“This isn't the first time I've asked you about it.”
“No, I believe this would mark the twelfth time.”
John blushed slightly as he vacillated between two trains of thought: You kept track? Oh, of course you did, what am I thinking? and Oh...that many? In the end, he picked neither. “And not once have you outright refused, nor given me a clear reason why you won't talk about it. A Harrowing is perhaps the single most important rite of passage in a Circle mage's education. If I asked any other Harrowed mage here, they'd probably be more than eager to talk about it. But you're not.”
Sherlock was quiet. “I've never spoken to anyone about it.”
“Why?”
“It was made abundantly clear that the nature of the Harrowing is a closely guarded secret, and for good reason.”
John scoffed. “Sherlock, since when have you ever given a toss about things like that? And other Harrowed mages surely would have shared your experiences. There wouldn't be any forbidden secrets between any of you.”
If any of them would have given you the time of day, he added in his mind. “I've stood guard at my share of Harrowings. The senior enchanters have given us some idea of what tests you face, to prepare us for what we might have to do. But I've never heard a first-hand account from anyone who's passed. Even the enchanters won't talk about theirs.”
Sherlock seemed almost to be in a trance. John wasn't sure if he had even heard, until he finally responded. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
John answered slowly, choosing his next words carefully. “Sherlock, ever since we met, ever since you told me about Arya, everything I could have known about her if only I'd been paying attention, I've been trying to understand more about what life is like for all of you. My abilities came from years of intense study and training; you came into the world with yours. I can't even begin to imagine what that's like to live with. I understand why they need to test you, to make sure you can handle that. The only thing I don't know is how you figure that out. You're not puzzles to be solved, you're people, with all the flaws that entails, and you have powers the rest of us can literally only dream of. My duty is to make sure you don't abuse them. But maybe I've been remiss in how I've performed that task all these years. And maybe I can correct that if I can understand how you do it.”
There was no answer.
Just as John felt the tension beginning to wring his nerves raw, Sherlock spoke. “There's another reason I've never talked about it.”
“What's that?”
“No one ever asked me.”
John leaned forward, resting his hands on the table near Sherlock's, their knuckles almost brushing. His tone was gentle. “Well, I'm asking now.”
“And eleven times previously,” Sherlock replied with a wry smile.
John chuckled. “Point.”
Sherlock joined in, and their quiet laughter dissolved the remaining tension in the air. “Very well. A dragon egg for a story. We have a deal.”
“Excellent.” They shook hands, and John took another sip of tea, wincing as he found it had gone cold. “I'm glad no one else knows we're here.”
“Hm?” Sherlock's gaze followed John's teacup as he set it down. John felt him draw on his power for a moment, noticed the faint glow of Sherlock's fingertips near the cup, and picked it up again to find its contents comfortably warm. The drink he took was more to hide his smile than quench his thirst.
“You, having a covert meeting with me in the library, sharing your deepest, darkest secrets, and me without my armor. People might talk.”
Sherlock smiled, showing white even teeth. “People do little else.”
And that's what worries me, John thought, but he wisely said nothing. He merely returned the smile, patient as Sherlock looked for a place to begin.
After a minute or two, Sherlock leaned back, folding his long, pale fingers together, idly forming small balls of light between them. As he spoke, the wisps slipped from his hands and hovered near him, flicking small tails with every motion of his fingers, extinguishing themselves in tiny bursts with an occasional snap. John thought of chasing fireflies with his sister on many a summer evening, so long ago.
“It was nearly fifteen years ago. I had turned twenty-one just a few weeks prior...”
o~O~o
Sherlock followed the templar up the endless flight of stairs, the occasional breaths he exhaled stemming more from exasperation than fatigue. His standard-issue apprentice robes, a garish blue and the longest available, still didn't quite reach to his feet, awkwardly exposing his equally ill-fitting leather boots. He had long since adjusted to the constant pinching of his toes, but the frequency with which he had to pull up his socks still annoyed him. The robe's sleeves came just short of his wrists as well, leaving a clear inch of pale flesh visible on the few occasions he donned gloves. Nothing about the Circle Tower suited him – not its curriculum, not its authority, not even its uniform. Perhaps that was where the true problem lay. Uniformity was the Tower's ratio decidendi, and uniformity had never suited Sherlock Holmes.
So he would have admitted to being a little surprised when the templar had summoned him from apprentice quarters and informed him he was going to be Harrowed – but only a little. Even if most of his instructors and the other apprentices didn't care for him, they couldn't deny he was a good student. He hadn't gravitated toward any particular branch of magic – though entropic spells had captured his ever-waning interest for a time – but was at least competent in all of them. And his peers certainly couldn't argue the strength of his will. Even at the tender age of seven, when he had first come to the tower, he had never seemed to have any difficulty controlling his talents. Rather than the power being too much for him, the opposite seemed to be true instead.
Perhaps, Sherlock mused, to their minds, too much control was just as great a concern as too little.
Before he could ponder that thought, he looked up to see the entrance to the Harrowing Chamber. The sight of the room itself was...underwhelming, to say the least. Nothing but grey-white stone and pillars, high stained-glass windows and far too much empty floor space – exactly the same features as more rooms in the tower than Sherlock could name. The gathered mages and templars eyed him with neutral expressions. A bowl of lyrium radiated quietly on a pedestal in the center.
He regarded Greagoir with cool indifference, barely disguising his utter boredom as Greagoir recited the well-worn phrase, “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.” Andraste, Tevinter, gift, curse – Sherlock could have recited the speech from memory if there weren't so many things he felt far more important to store in his mind. The same apathy was extended to Irving as the older man explained the purpose of the test he was about to take. Many of his fellow apprentices would have been rendered speechless in the presence of the First Enchanter at this moment, but Sherlock didn't understand the reverence with which some of them seemed to regard the man. He was accomplished, certainly, and had earned his position, unlike several others Sherlock could think of, but he was simply a mage with more experience and greater focus, some of which Sherlock felt his peers could have done well with.
He returned to the present just in time to look Irving in the eye. “Let's get on with it, then.”
The green-robed mage tilted his head, but continued in the same gentle, yet grave tone. “As we succeeded, so shall you. Keep your wits about you, and remember, the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real.”
“The apprentice must go through this test alone, First Enchanter,” Greagoir cut in. He looked at Sherlock. “You are ready.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I always have been,” Sherlock murmured as he approached the bowl of lyrium.
He stared at the shimmering, gently pulsing liquid for a moment before reaching for it. As his hand dipped into the fluid, it seemed to leap from the bowl up his arm, color changing from otherworldly blue to brilliant white, exploding into a blinding flash...
o~O~o
When he awoke, he was standing in the middle of a strange, twisted landscape.
He blinked, needing a moment to recover before looking around. This was the Fade, its pulsating resonance in his being as familiar as his own name. He channeled its energies with every spell he cast, felt its essence in his veins with the slightest spark of his powers. The motion of stars, the warmth of sunlight, the cool splash of rain, the fleeting chill of wind, things he had rarely experienced since childhood – all of it could be traced to the Fade, always surrounding him, yet without physical form.
And there were the voices. In dreams there were only snatches of whispers, half-formed words and beckoning mumbles, but in consciousness he heard old friends, siren songs, gentle coaxing. Some felt benign, most...not so much.
He breathed deeply, overwhelmed for a few moments. In dreams and daily life, the touch of the Fade was superficial, a light brushing of fingertips, a shadow seen from the corner of one's eye. Now though, with him awake, the rush of power turned his thoughts to a whirlpool of sights and senses, echoed in every heartbeat, flowed through his blood and breath.
This was what he was born to be – a man gifted with a lifelong link to this realm, and all the privileges and pitfalls that came with it.
For once, Sherlock Holmes was almost humbled.
He shook himself out of his reverie and looked around. There was only one path to take, and it led down a winding hill.
Along the way he encountered a few wisp wraiths, which were easily dispatched with some Arcane Bolts. Sherlock formed and fired the spheres of magical energy almost without looking, as he was too busy rolling his eyes.
This was the test?
No. There has to be more to it.
There had better be more to it.
“Well, well. Someone else thrown to the wolves, as fresh and unprepared as ever.”
As he rounded a corner, Sherlock halted at the sound of another voice, this one clear, crisp, and unmistakably human. He glanced around, seeing no one else, until he saw a glimpse of something at his...feet?
“Yes, I'm down here.” The same voice, this time clearly irritated.
Sherlock looked down. To his surprise, a grey rat was at his feet, long tail flicking as if caught in some unfelt breeze, beady eyes glaring up at him as an angry male voice spat each word.
“It isn't right that they do this, the templars, not to you, me, anyone!”
A talking rat. Not the strangest thing Sherlock had ever encountered in the Fade, just the least expected. He frowned, trying to get a better look at the rat. “Who are you?”
The rat sighed, continuing as if he hadn't heard the question. “It's always the same.” His voice softened, taking on a deeper, slower cadence. “But it's not your fault. You're in the same boat I was, aren't you?”
There was a bright flash; when it faded, there was a man standing before Sherlock where the rat had been, not quite reaching to his height (no surprise there), dark-haired and with eyes as beady as the rat's, clad in green mage's robes. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me, well...Mouse.”
Sherlock took in the man's appearance and raised an eyebrow, but made no comment, only responding dryly, “I presume that is not your real name.”
The man shook his head. “No. I don't remember anything from...before. The templars kill you if you take too long, you see.”
“So I was informed.”
Mouse went on, his voice low and soft. “They figure you failed, and they don't want something getting out. That's what they did to me – I think. I have no body to reclaim, and you don't have much time until you end up the same.”
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, wondering if there was anything to be gained from this conversation apart from the blindingly obvious. “How long do I have, exactly?”
Mouse bit his lip. “I...I don't remember. I ran away and I hid. I don't know how long.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Mouse glanced over his shoulder. “There's something here, contained, just for an apprentice like you. You have to face the creature, a demon, and resist it – if you can. That's your way out. Or your opponent's, if the templars wouldn't kill you. A test for you, a tease for the creatures of the Fade.”
Sherlock was quiet. He had been expecting something of this nature the moment he learned he was being sent to the Fade. Even the most skilled apprentice might still have an exploitable weakness a demon could pounce on like a trapped rat. Rage, sloth, desire, pride – for every human failing, there was a demon waiting.
Mouse studied him for a moment, apparently puzzled by Sherlock's lack of visible emotion. “You would be a fool to just attack everything you see. What you face is powerful, cunning. There are others here, other spirits. They will tell you more, maybe help, if you can believe anything you see.”
Sherlock started to open his mouth, but Mouse quickly cut in. “I'll follow, if that's all right. My chance was long ago. But you – you may have a way out.”
Before Sherlock could reply, there was another flash, and where the man had been, there was a rat.
Sherlock might have protested, but perhaps the former mage could be of some use. He could shapeshift, and there was no telling what other strange powers the Fade and its denizens might have granted him. At any rate, he could be a handy distraction for a fast getaway.
Sherlock continued along the path, Mouse scampering along behind him. He barely heard Mouse's warning, punctuated by squeaks, as he approached a clearing ringed by flames. This was where the test would take place, according to Mouse. Sherlock wasn't surprised – the Fade changed and shifted according to whims beyond any human understanding, so a prepared arena would have been the natural thing to expect. More wraiths appeared and were easily dealt with, leaving the pair free to wait.
Sherlock rubbed his hands together – it felt strange not to be holding his staff, though certainly less cumbersome – and took a deep breath as he approached the center of the ring. Mouse shifted into human form, but hung patiently by Sherlock's side, otherwise showing no signs of fear.
“The spirit of rage – it's coming!” Mouse breathed. “Do you feel it?”
Sherlock did, felt the pulse and pull of heat energy drawing away from him and the landscape towards the center of the ring, as one might feel the receding tides standing at the ocean's edge, as the demon materialized just several feet in front of Sherlock, its flaming hands emerging first to hoist itself from some unseen hole. It was no bigger than Mouse or Sherlock, but the wreath of flames flicking off its body made it seem at least twice their size.
“And so it comes to me at last.”
The demon's voice was deep, thick, and slow, like lava flowing over rocks, and each word was echoed by another voice, deeper still. The once ebbing heat had intensified in the demon's presence; Sherlock's eyes hurt from the brilliance of the living fire, the licking, dancing flames seeming to move of their own volition. Mouse, however, seemed transfixed, staring at the creature as if seeing it for the first time.
“Soon I shall see the land of the living with your eyes, creature. You shall be mine, body and soul.”
Sherlock smirked. “It's two against one. You really expect to win?”
“Oh, I shall.” The demon's laugh would, ironically, have chilled a lesser man's bones. It turned to look at Mouse. “Amusing. Have you not told it of our...arrangement, Mouse?”
Sherlock looked at Mouse, but was careful to maintain his mask.
Mouse threw out his hands in indignation. “We don't have an arrangement! Not anymore!” He cast a quick, pleading glance at Sherlock.
“Aww. And after all those wonderful meals we shared! Now suddenly the mouse has changed the rules?”
“I'm not a mouse now!” Mouse shot back, confidence rising with every word. “And soon I won't have to hide! I don't need to bargain with you!”
“We shall see...”
Well, one opponent was better than two, Sherlock mused for a moment, though maybe not as much fun. Those were far from his only ponderings, though now wasn't the time. He drew on the energies around him, pulling on threads of cold and ice, the action as natural as rising to his feet. As the demon summoned a horde of wisps for aide, Sherlock shouted a quick order to Mouse: “You take care of them!”
As Sherlock had thought, Mouse provided easy distraction in his smaller form, occupying the wisps, easily able to dodge their blasts of lightning and spirit energy while keeping them away from Sherlock. For Sherlock's part, all it took were a few well-aimed casts of Winter's Grasp to extinguish the demon's flames and a few Arcane Bolts to stun it before finishing it off with a final blast of ice. Without a staff, his powers were less concentrated, but he found himself liking the freedom of not using it, the extra effort it took to build up his spells and target them. Still, he looked forward to having his staff back.
With a final roar of defeat, the demon's lifeless body sank into the ground, as if the Fade were reclaiming its kin. As it did, the wisps vanished as well.
Sherlock caught his breath, feeling what little mana he had used slowly seep back into his body, renewing his strength. He had been grazed by the flames a few times, but his quick counterattacks had ensured the burns were fairly superficial. A stray lightning bolt from the wisps had sliced into his arm, lacerating his robe and the skin underneath. None of it might have been real, but the pain certainly felt like it. Still, the burns were soon taken care of with a simple healing spell. He wiped a hand over his sweating brow, brushing some singed strands of hair that could easily be trimmed later.
Something was wrong. Rage demons were the weakest of the hierarchy, and even without Mouse Sherlock would have been able to take it down easily, staff or no. This couldn't be just a simple test of combat. Why not simply summon a demon and fight it in the chamber? Possession wasn't exclusive to the Fade. Why spend so much lyrium and power otherwise?
As these thoughts raced through Sherlock's mind, Mouse quickly shifted into human form. He looked exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. “You did it. You actually did it! When you came I hoped that maybe you might be able to...but I never really thought any of you were worthy.”
Naturally. None of them were me. He frowned, letting one of his many thoughts slip. “It's all a little too easy.”
“That is because you are a true mage, one of the few.” Mouse's enthusiasm tempered as he continued. “The others, they never had a chance. The templars set them up to fail, like they tried with you.”
Sherlock only half-listened as Mouse heaped more praise on him. When he was finally done, Sherlock asked, “So, what is it that you think you can get from me?”
Mouse started out with more compliments that Sherlock tuned out, until he perked up Sherlock's ears with: “Maybe there's hope in that for someone as small and as...forgotten as me. If you want to help.” His tone was darker, more conspiratorial. “There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foothold outside. You just need to want to let me in.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Let you in?”
Mouse folded his arms, his impatience clear. “Back! Help me back! There's so much I could learn from you, so much we could achieve together. They killed me, right? Just like all who fail in here. They'll kill you, too.” He stepped closer to Sherlock. “Can't you feel the sword at your neck? They believe all magic evil, the Fade evil. Once you are here, you become what they fear.”
Sherlock had had enough. “Like you. You were never an apprentice.”
Mouse was shocked. “What? I was! Of course I was! ...I think I was. Shouldn't that be enough? For you?”
You really don't know who I am, do you? “To begin with, you are wearing the robes of a senior enchanter, not an apprentice.” He indicated his own blue robes, thinking of Irving's green ones. “There is also the indisputable fact that a mage cannot survive in the Fade without their body, much less find their way out. It's simple physics. And you never flinched in the rage demon's presence.”
Mouse, shocked, ducked his head and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up, his gaze was hard, calculated, colder than any of Sherlock's spells. When he spoke, his voice had deepened, echoing with a familiar resonance. “Maybe they were right about you.”
Sherlock's blood turned to ice. “Me?”
It never once occurred to him that the demon might not be referring to him as a person, and as just another gifted mage.
The demon chuckled, though its mirth was unsettling rather than freeing. “Every Harrowing is the same. Your enchanters call one of us, whichever kind they think will pose the greatest challenge. And in the process we get to know you very well, whether they know it or not. That's how I knew who I'd be dealing with – or not dealing with, as it may be. You don't know how long I've waited for your call.”
Sherlock's throat had suddenly gone dry. “Mine?”
“Yes, yours.” The demon seemed slightly irritated now. “Is there an echo in here, or is it just me?” It laughed at its own – not particularly funny – joke, and regarded Sherlock with equal amusement. “I know who you are. Your own dear mother doesn't know you half as well – though it might have helped had she fought the templars a little harder when they took you away. You've always held a certain...fascination for me.”
Sherlock swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken, forcing himself to take deep breaths. Don't you dare bring Mummy into this... “How long have you watched me?”
“How long have you been connected to my domain?”
All my life.
“Exactly,” said the demon, as if it could hear Sherlock's thoughts – and for all Sherlock knew, it could. “It's so nice to finally meet you in person. Your head is such a tiresome place.”
What could you deduce about a demon? What was there to deduce? They were not beings, they were traits, embodiments of the worst qualities of humanity, whose only purpose was to grant them life, wreak havoc in the manner of the only thing they ever knew, the only thing they ever were.
No matter what Sherlock asked, he could never expect a reasonable response. He could never hope to know even a fraction about the demon that would equal what the demon knew about him. So, for the first time in his life, he went for broke. “Tell me your name.”
The demon laughed again. “Names. Such strange things, aren't they? Simple mixtures of sounds and syllables, and yet the power they hold is remarkable. If you want to call me for command, all you need to do is ask. You call, I'll come – I'm just like a little pet, you see. A little fluffy friend who curls up on your bed and follows you on walks, and I can do all kinds of neat tricks, too. But if you must call me by a name, you may call me...Moriarty.”
“Moriarty.” The name was ice on Sherlock's lips. “Is that your true name?”
The demon scoffed. “You come this far in your test and yet you ask a question like that? All I will say is that it is the name I have always used.”
“Fair enough,” Sherlock managed to reply, already feeling his fear start to dissipate, replaced by his customary indifference.
Moriarty's form began to shimmer. “I will not keep you any longer. You have already refused me, and a dead mage is of considerably less use than a living one. You passed. Congratulations. And here's where normally I'd give you this big speech about how simple killing is a warrior's job, dangers in preconceptions, trust...pride. But I don't feel like it, and there's no point telling you what you already know, so I'll just say this: This shall not be the last time we meet.”
“You and I? Or others like you?”
Another chuckle, deep, slow, and menacing. “Is there really a difference?”
Without warning, Moriarty started to grow, its body contorting and shaping itself to some unseen will, until it towered over Sherlock, seeming to reach the grey-white sky. Its leathery skin was spiked, its eyes glowing slits. Sherlock stared, looking small and insignificant, standing just outside the massive shadow. A pride demon, the most powerful kind of all.
“Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests...never end.”
With a flash, Moriarty was gone.
Sherlock blinked; the world moved past him in a blur, a maelstrom of color, energy, and light...he stepped back, and felt the Fade dissipate around him, like rising steam....
o~O~o
“I awoke in my bed the next morning.” Sherlock fiddled with the dark blue scarf around his neck, its silver strands of lyrium gleaming in the dim light. “Molly was there to greet me, with a fresh cup of tea.” Molly Hooper was an apprentice who had been a longtime associate of Sherlock's – from Sherlock's description and his own covert observation of their interactions, John wasn't sure friend was the right word. Admirer, perhaps. “She told me Irving wished to see me as soon as I woke up. I did, and he presented me with my new robes, my staff, and this.” He slipped a silver ring from his left hand and held it out to John, who could see the lyrium infusions that resembled cracks in ice. “My belongings were moved to the senior mage quarters, and I spent the rest of the day in the laboratory, as I wished. And that was it. I was Harrowed.”
“Wow.” John sat back, his teacup long since drained. “So that's how they test you. Forgive my saying so, but I can understand why many don't make it back.”
Sherlock scoffed. “The truth doesn't need forgiveness.”
“A test of power, but not in the traditional sense,” John thought aloud. “And it's the best way they can offer.”
Sherlock tilted his head. “If there were a better way, you wouldn't be needed, would you?”
John conceded the point. “Have you seen – Moriarty, again?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I have looked for it and listened for its voice every time I have entered or drawn on the Fade, and in fifteen years it hasn't shown itself once. I don't know if it's been slain or if it's found another potential victim, or if it's just biding its time. Fifteen years is no time to something with no need of time. But even if it isn't there, I feel it, and others like it, every time I come in contact with the Fade.”
“It was right, then. The true test has never ended.”
Sherlock sighed, and John wasn't sure if it was due to boredom or fatigue. “Trite as it sounds, yes.”
“You think it's just biding its time, don't you?”
Sherlock let the silence answer for him.
“Maybe it's waiting for you to stop looking for it.”
Sherlock nodded. “Because that will be the ideal time to pounce.”
“What makes you think it will?”
“Aside from its saying it would not be the last time we met?”
“That could just be an idle threat. There's more to your anxiety, isn't there? Why are you so sure it'll come after you?”
Sherlock was silent again for several long moments, giving his scarf one final tug before putting his hands on the table, the gesture almost one of resignation. “Because I'm human, John.”
John tried not to let his astonishment show as his mind whirled. For most of his life he had been trained to be the guardian of the gateway, never once considering what it was like to be the gateway. To hear this man – this man, one of the most amazing people he had ever met – teetering on the brink of defeat, admitting weakness in the one thing about himself he could never change, stirred something in him. He leaned forward, setting his cup on the table and resting his hands near Sherlock's, close enough to just feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock's fingertips.
He looked at the other man, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Sherlock returned his look with a question in his eyes, and John was momentarily struck by how vividly blue the man's eyes were even in the low light, like the summer sky reflected in Lake Calenhad. Had Sherlock ever seen what that looked like?
“Sherlock, you may be human, but you're also the best man – the best human – I've ever known. Moriarty might see your weaknesses, but I see you for what you are – all of you. And the best of you – your strength, your wit, your will – can deal with the worst of any demon.”
The last of Sherlock's light wisps snuffed itself out. For several long moments, the only sound in the room was their breathing. Sherlock's gaze fell from John's, resting on a spot somewhere on the table.
When he finally looked up at John again, his expression was one John had never seen before. It wasn't piercing, or thoughtful, or distant, like Sherlock's look was most of the time. It was gentle, almost comforting, with a quiet regard that wasn't quite admiration, but closer to wonder. His eyes had softened, like the lake after a storm, his smile faint and warm as a flickering ember. John swallowed; it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him with such awe, and such tenderness.
He was almost too dazed to hear Sherlock's hushed reply: “Thank you, John.”
John woke from his reverie in time to return Sherlock's smile. “And thank you for telling me your story. But you don't need to thank me for telling the truth.”
Both men looked away at the same moment, unsure what to make of what had just happened. Before the silence could get too uncomfortable, John cleared his throat. “Well, it's getting late. I should get to bed.”
“Sleep is for the weak.”
“Well,” John said as he gathered his things, “if being well-rested makes me weak, then so be it.” He decided not to mention that every night they met, the sleep afterwards was always swift and welcome, free of nightmares and full of a new day's renewal. He would have looked forward to it more, had it not meant having to cut his time with Sherlock short. “I don't think I'll be able to come tomorrow night – we have morning training exercises two days from now – but I should be able to come the one after.”
“All right,” Sherlock said noncommittally. He looked up at John with hopeful eyes. “And the egg?”
John smiled. “You'll have it then.”