[personal profile] nickelsandcoats
Title: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 20/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/[livejournal.com profile] nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,500 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: For [livejournal.com profile] flying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.

This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.

part i || part ii || part iii || part iv || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi || part xvii || part xviii || part xix






Come and play.
Tower Hill.
Jim Moriarty x.


Sherlock glanced from the screen to John’s worried face, and thought, And so it begins.

John was already running back towards their bedroom to change. Sherlock stood up, placed the mobile carefully on the table, lining it up in a precise parallel to the microscope, and allowed himself one minute to panic.

When John came back to the kitchen, buttoning the last button on his shirt, all traces of Sherlock’s breakdown were gone. He nodded at his husband, snatched his coat and scarf off of their hook, and took the stairs two at a time. Time was moving forward in great lurches and leaps, and it seemed no time at all had passed before he and John were stood in front of a screen, watching as Moriarty wrote a message for him on the glass, then shattered it, sitting down and draping himself in the Crown Jewels.

Time slowed back down as both Lestrade and John looked at him. He resolutely ignored them, instead concentrating on keeping his emotions from revealing themselves by causing him to change form in front of half of the Yard.

When they finally got back home, Sherlock immediately changed and flew around the flat in agitation until he finally alit on John’s outstretched finger. Wordlessly, John pulled him in and cradled him to his chest, letting Sherlock hear his strong, steady heartbeat.

Sherlock refused to change back (being in this form right now was soothing him as much as John’s careful handling⎯he’d spent the evening alternating between perching on John’s shoulder and being held close to John’s heart), so John changed himself before fluttering down onto his pillow, joining Sherlock. John tucked himself up close to Sherlock’s side, and one of Sherlock’s wings came down and over him as he dropped off to sleep. Sherlock tucked his beak between their bodies and let his eyes close as the barbs of John’s feathers brushed reassuringly against his head.



Mother came to see them the next morning, tapping politely on their window until Sherlock changed and opened it to allow her inside. John’s head came up and he blinked, ruffling his feathers a bit in agitation (or embarrassment at getting caught in bed with his husband⎯Sherlock wasn’t sure).

“Good morning, Mother,” Sherlock said as she settled briefly on his shoulder.

“I need to speak with you. All of you. Be at Mycroft’s in one hour, please.”

“We can meet here,” John offered, changing back and moving so that both of them could see him.

“Mycroft’s is more secure,” the Morrighan said gently, “But thank you.”

She flew back through the open window without another word. John looked at Sherlock. “What was that about?”

“Mother wants to talk to us, obviously.”

“About?”

“I haven’t a clue, John.”

“Well, I can guess. She must know Moriarty’s in custody⎯maybe she knows something else. Didn’t she say she was going to do some investigating of her own when she found Moriarty’s…message to her?”

“Perhaps she does. Mother will tell us when she’s ready. And, as much as I dislike pleasing my brother by being on time, I do not want to upset her. I haven’t seen her in her bird form in many years⎯something must be upsetting her greatly.”

Precisely fifty minutes later, John and Sherlock rapped politely on the window to Mycroft’s study. Greg was there, alone, and he jumped a bit before he moved over to the window, looking confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and croaked, “Let us in, Lestrade.”

Greg’s eyes widened as he hastily yanked open the window, stepping back to allow them through. John was watching him (and how Greg knew which one of them was which was something he’d have to think over later) with one eye as Sherlock flew off in search of his brother.

“Haven’t you seen Mycroft like this?” John asked as he settled on the back of a chair, preening a bit to settle his feathers after their journey.

“Well, yes, but only once,” Greg answered, openly staring at John. “I tend to forget that the two of you can do that, too.”

John gave him an odd look (He’s only seen Mycroft like this once?), and then fluttered down and changed back.

Anthea walked in when John was in mid-change, causing him to give an odd half-squawk, half-yelp of surprise.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, not even batting an eye. John stared at her, and she huffed and said, “Mr. Holmes has made his ability known to me since I started working for him. He’s asked you two to join them in the kitchen⎯his mother has arrived.”

“Wait, you’ve known all this time?” Greg spluttered. “And he couldn’t tell me for years?”

“Need-to-know, Inspector,” she said dryly.

Greg spluttered again, but allowed John to lead him away.

John sucked in a breath when they entered the kitchen. Mum was there, and she looked, well, awful. Her coat was bedraggled and had lost its lustre, her hair was tangled and dull, and there were deep, dark circles under her eyes that made them look even darker than normal.

She nodded at them when they came around to the table. Her hands were curled tightly around a mug of tea. Mycroft raised a brow at Greg in a silent offer of a cuppa. Greg shook his head, but John moved over to the kettle and poured himself a cup, leaning against the counter as he sipped on it.

“What’s happened, Mother?” Sherlock asked, opening the conversation none of them were quite willing (or brave) enough to start.

“I’ve been busy,” she said, voice clipped and angry. “Doing research.”

“And what have you learnt, Mummy?” Mycroft asked gently.

Her eyes dropped down to her tea, and her shoulders slumped. Mycroft and Sherlock shared a look of alarm over her head⎯they’d not seen Mummy like this for years upon years⎯not since Father died.

“That this fight is beyond all of you,” she replied.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “How do you mean?”

“This Moriarty is the son of Euryale.”

At that, both Sherlock and Mycroft hissed in alarm. Greg and John looked askance at their partners, brows furrowed.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock snapped.

The Morrighan merely looked at him. Sherlock spat a curse and stood up, stalking around the perimeter of the room.

“Sorry, but what’s the matter?” Greg asked.

The Morrighan looked at him. “Have you heard of the Medusa?” At Greg and John’s nods, she continued, “Euryale is her immortal sister. One of them, anyway. They are the Gorgons, those whose hair is made of snakes and who can turn a person into stone with just one glance. She currently resides at the gate to the Underworld.

“No one knew that she had a son, let alone one who wandered about in this world. Little is known about her, and even less about her family. I learnt that this Moriarty was born to her not long after Sherlock’s birth. Apparently, the Fates have deemed it fit for this Moriarty to wander where he pleases, regardless of whom his parents are.”

“And what can he do?” John asked.

The Morrighan shook her head. “I could not discover what talents this creature has, other than that he can capture and kill one of my children without my knowledge. I am warning you all now, more than ever, to be cautious. I know that he has been taken into custody,” here she glanced at Mycroft, then Greg, “but I do not think that will keep him from causing harm for long.”

“I’ll send out recommendations for more guards,” Greg said, reaching for his mobile.

“That will do nothing, not unless you have guards who are of the same ilk as myself. And even I do not think I could keep him contained for long.” The Morrighan smiled at Greg to lessen the sting of her words. “But it was a good idea.”

“You wouldn’t look like this if that was all you’d learnt,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and clasping her hand. “What else did you find?”

The Morrighan swallowed and said, “Your father, children, do you remember him?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied instantly.

“A little,” Sherlock said softly. “I was so young.”

“He did not die⎯he was murdered. By Euryale.”

Sherlock’s hand gripped hers so tightly that both their knuckles turned white. “How? Why?” Sherlock asked.

“She abhors happiness, and she abhors the idea of one of the Elder Ones mating with a human and making a life-bond with one. As for the how, I do not know.” She steeled herself and then looked at all four of them, forcing them to meet and keep her gaze. “I do not want to see what happened to my husband happen to you. Be wary, and be safe.” She looked especially hard at Greg, then Mycroft, before she shook herself, resettling the feathers on her cloak. She stood, and the others stood with her. “I must go,” she said. “I will keep searching, and see what else I can learn. These are dark times and dark magics that are upon us now⎯I have not seen the like for centuries.”

“Be safe, Mummy,” Mycroft said. John and Sherlock nodded their agreement. Greg sketched a little bow. She gave them a sad smile and disappeared with a crack, leaving behind a faint smell of a bonfire.

Once she had gone, the four of them looked around the table at each other. “What now?” Greg asked, feeling more than a little out of his depth.

Mycroft and Sherlock were looking at each other, weighing and judging and asking questions all at once. Sherlock finally said, “Tell me.”

John reached over and took his husband’s hand, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock’s palm in an effort to calm him.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you all you need to know.”

“No, you really haven’t, brother dear.” The sarcasm was chilling. “I know you’ve told Greg more than me, and I’m the one who lost him. So, tell me.”

“What do you mean?” John asked quietly, thumb still moving in hypnotic circles on Sherlock’s hand.

“He knows more about Father’s death than Mother does, and I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened, because it could happen to you, or more likely, Lestrade, and I want to know how to keep it from happening again.”

“Measures are in place, Sherlock, to keep what happened to Father⎯”

“There are no measures in place!” Sherlock roared, surging to his feet. “You cannot possibly have protections up⎯even Mother cannot keep us all safe.” He leaned over the table, only centimetres from his brother’s face as he bit out, “Tell. Me.”

Mycroft sighed and stood, tugging down his waistcoat. He caught Greg’s eye and left the room, heading for the study. The other three trailed behind him, John in the rear.

“Father was always aware that something could happen to him,” Mycroft began. “And he and Mummy took precautions to ensure that nothing would happen. But they did not count on Euryale and her hatred of the Elder Ones,” he looked at Greg and John, who looked faintly confused, “Those who came first, the gods and goddesses who helped shape the world, like Euryale and Mummy,” (Greg and John nodded) “But no one knows why Euryale has such hatred towards her fellow Elders loving humans. The first, and most likely, rumour is that she had a human lover who spurned her, but others say she loved a human and he died. No one else has loved her since, nor has she loved another, and they say that such a loss has made her bitter and angry.

“When Euryale learned of Mummy’s bonding, it is said that she became even more dangerous than before. She went mad with jealousy and began to plot her revenge. She bade her time until Mummy and Father had everything they wanted⎯a life, love, a bond, children⎯and then she took it away.” Mycroft paused and swallowed. “I don’t remember much of the day Father died. I remember being out with Mummy and seeing her go pale. I remember flying home on her back because I was too young to keep up with her. I remember seeing Father lying facedown in the garden, surrounded by blood, with Sherlock sitting next to him, crying and begging Father to wake up.

“What I don’t remember is seeing any indication of how he died, and Sherlock was too young to have remembered anything, even when Mummy tried hypnotism to see if she could get anything from him. No one has ever asked Euryale why she did such a thing⎯in fact, she has never been formally accused of committing the crime, even though it is known that she had a part in it, even if she did not actually kill our Father. Everyone, even the Elder Ones, are afraid of her and what she can do. As the Gatekeeper of the Underworld, she has enormous power and can call upon the most vile of the dead to raise an army.”

“How do you know all of this?” Sherlock asked, finally, after allowing some time to digest this new information.

“I have my ways. I use the birds as spies, and my position has granted me access to some secrets and knowledge over the years that the general public, and nearly all of the government, has no awareness of.”

“What do we do?” John asked, ever practical.

Mycroft raised a brow at him. “Mummy was right⎯there is nothing we can do. Moriarty has remained a dark spot in my information⎯no one seems to know anything of him, other than his human criminal acts. If he is Euryale’s son, then he is extremely powerful and even more dangerous, especially since we do not know what he is capable of doing. We must simply guard ourselves as best we can.” He leveled a significant look at Gregory, who cupped his hand over his jacket pocket in a protective manner.



That night, Gregory dreamed of a magpie plucking at his eyes and pockets until it got hold of Mycroft’s feather and stole it away. Gregory woke from that dream sweating and swearing as he lurched upright, hands grasping at thin air in a vain effort to get his feather back. Mycroft’s hand was on his shoulder in an instant, the confusion clear in his voice as he asked him over and over what was wrong. All Gregory could do was scrabble about under his pillow in naked, blind fear until he finally found Mycroft’s feather and clutched it tightly in his hand.

“Just a dream,” Greg said with a failed attempt at a self-deprecating smile. “Nothing to worry about, honestly.”

Mycroft’s brow remained furrowed, but he seemed to acknowledge Greg’s unspoken plea of don’t ask me to tell you it’s still too raw and fresh and laid back down. Soon enough, his breaths deepened as he fell back asleep.

Gregory, on the other hand, laid awake deep into the night, clutching the feather to his chest like a talisman.


part xxi


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