#prince!sherlock

[mi-caw-ber]

WIP - In safe hands

Hi guys! Haven’t been online in quite a while. But I messed around again with pen and paper. Wanted to do marble statues but ended up doing Prince Sherlock being rescued from pirates by a naval ship with Captain John Watson. :] Not finished yet, will upload the finished version next week hopefully!

[imaginemycroftholmes]

Can you do an imagine, where Mycroft had a one night stand that resulted in a pregnancy? It's ok if you don't want to do this one!

His highness was less than pleased when his younger brother entered his private chambers unannounced yet again in the late hours of the night but even more so when he arrived far too early from his investigation of Princess Adler’s domain to find any weakness to avoid the upcoming war from their failed courting.

It had created backlash for both his kingdom and hers as neither court was willing to suffer an alliance without marriage to solidify it.

“A child,” they claimed. “must be born from between our kingdoms before we lay down our swords in alliance!”

While Adler’s kingdom was not as great as his it was in a the prefect spot for counterattacks toward his own and had plenty of influence of to have a handle on some of their common enemies. To have her kingdom expanded into his own would bring great advantages to his people and hers alike.

An opportunity like this could not be missed and so to appease both kingdoms Mycroft went out to woo princess Adler.

For months Mycroft had tried in vain to court her highness to no avail.

She wanted nothing to do with him and seemed to pay more mind to her chambermaids rather than himself despite his collective power and wealth.

Oh princess Adler was smart and pretty-enough for Mycroft to settle with even if it was a loveless marriage but Adler would not have it.

“While I appreciate your intellect and what this marriage would do for my kingdom your highness I must be frank that your complexion causes my regions to protest at the mere thought of having to bear your children,” she had said on one particular evening in which Mycroft was explaining how to navigate by starlight. 

The blow may not have been the most scathing one as Mycroft was never considered the most sought after husband in spite of his influence however, it did dig deeper into the wound that forever seemed to scar his heart leaving it so cold and isolated.

Nearly half a year wasted in trying to secure a marriage to a woman that found him too plain for her tastes that even the maids would do Mycroft could honestly say he was a bit bitter. And probably more so since both kingdoms blamed him rather than Adler for the failure for the expected nuptials. 

Throwing back the duvet and hoisting him the comforts of the mattress he addresses Sherlock whispering fiercely, “What have I told you about entering my chambers at odd hours? How did you get past my guards? And what are you doing here so late?”

Sherlock, however seems very unaffected by the ordeal as he approaches Mycroft bed, “John is keeping them busy at the moment.”

“Of course he is. Your little John is always the busy one isn’t he,” Mycroft scoffs trying to rub the small amounts of sleep clinging to his eyes. He hadn’t been able to obtain as much since war appeared to be imminent but Mycroft can at least say he tried. 

While Mycroft was ultimately happy for his brother in finding someone to call his companion in his ‘investigations’ he cannot say that he isn't a wee bit jealous. After all, Mycroft sees the former solider as homely (if not worse for wear from battle) as he and yet John is still more popular than himself.

“I wouldn’t sell yourself too short brother as it seems you too were quite productive with your courtship with her highness as well or should I say reproductive,” Sherlock states offhandedly.

“Sherlock it is too late in the evening for all this posturing. If you’re going to speak than speak plainly or hold your piece until morning court,” Mycroft demands subbing his temples. 

His younger brother sounding more annoyed than as he kneels before him. “I’m saying brother dear, that you managed to knock up chambermaid during your stay at Adler’s castle and one of her favored ones nonetheless,” Sherlock accuses, “Brother, why on God’s green earth would you think it was a smart idea to dabble with Irene’s personal toys?”

Mycroft wishes he could deny it-he was weak and desperate after her highness’ rejection that he would readily accept any comforts that he could to soothe the wound.

At the time Mycroft hadn’t the mind to put two and two together to why he had seen that particular chambermaid around him more throughout his courtship but he knew that she was kind and smiled at him in a way that gave him that sense of hope.

Oh and she had been so warm and inviting when he fled to her.

For all the frost that Irene had provided truly that chambermaid was the only source of warmth in the entire kingdom.

Melting every pain brought on by years of involuntary abstinence, burning him from within to thaw out his beating heart and bringing him into the brink of madness with her body over and over again until he was expelled from the borders after spring had come.

Yes, the courtship with Adler was definitely a loss but at the very least he was able to taste a small sample of what  passion must feel like. A very brief bit of what he could have if he were more attractive to the unwashed masses but a prized memory to recall and  keep him warm on colder nights.

There were many feelings that danced around in his head about the ramifications this could have on his conquest to unite their kingdoms but there were questions that needed to be vanished.

“How do you know it was me?” Mycroft countered,“ I’m sure both you and John have witnessed the lack of morals in Adler’s kingdom. It wouldn’t surprise me if there had been another even during our…liaisons.”

Sherlock gives his brother a searing look,“ Then consider yourself lucky brother as your chambermaid names you as her first man and only man she sought after.”

“People can say many things Sherlock-”

“It was also verified by her favored maids but as far as Irene knows that chambermaid has remained 'clean’ of any man’s touch which brings me to this dear brother, what do you plan to do about her? Obviously she won’t be able to stay in Adler’s court long when she’s due to start showing and if you bring her here our court will condemn you for adultery,” Sherlock says gravely.

Yes, it had been a big connection with religion thanks to Mummy’s hand in ruling but Mycroft was not one to try and usurp it even in these desperate times.

There was just so many things that could go wrong and turn this situation from bad to worse if he didn’t plan accordingly.

“And you say that Adler doesn’t know about her pregnancy?”

“Yes. Apparently she has denied it to her and sworn anyone else to secrecy,” Sherlock confirms.

“Then bring her to me and be discrete about it so we can go from there,” Mycroft orders holding his hands out as custom to seal the deal and grant him a safe return.

Sherlock takes them readily however he becomes a bit more sinister as he holds them tightly.

“Though I must confess, your highness, that if I bring this chambermaid to you that you will accept her with the most noble of intentions or I shall see to it that when I succeed you that your beheading will be drawn out most excoriatingly painful,” Sherlock promises sweetly.

Mycroft is shocked by the statement. “Are you threatening your king?” he admonishes.

“No, I’m making a promise to my brother,” Sherlock corrects him and lets go of his hands.

“She is far better than you could ever hope to catch brother dear,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder as he begins to head toward the door, “And I suspect my future niece or nephew the greatest treasure you’ll ever know so by all that is holy don’t screw this up!”

Left alone in his room Mycroft finds that he can no longer sleep with the thought of a possible child looming on the horizon.

There are so many questions that keeps him awake and endless possibilities for the future that could either make or break them both.

He sits quietly staring as the sun rises and contemplates.

[bocries]

princelock anyone??

[bocries]

but consider a medieval sherlock au

just imagine bratty lil Prince Sherlock who does whatever the hell he wants cause it's not like he's ever gonna be king anyway (that's Mycroft’s job). and imagine the noble Sir Watson who is a knight in the Holmes family’s kingdom and he is wounded on the battlefield defending the kingdom. 

And then one day the honorable Sir Watson is assigned as the lead of Prince Sherlock’s personal guard and they become best buds and run off and go on adventures and get in all kinds of trouble and Sir Lestrade (who's the leader of the kingdoms knights) trying to keep them under control but also using them to find out stuff that’s going down in the kingdom

And they keep crossing paths with an evil Lord called Moriarty. And one time they encounter a alluring enchantress named Irene

And Molly is like a serving girl in the Holmes’ castle who is tripping on the young Prince real hard

imagine Prince Sherlock and knight John traveling to all these different towns and the brave and handsome sir John tying to hit on the fair maidens and Prince Sherlock always ruins it for him just cause he's a little shit and he doesnt want to loose his favorite traveling companion 

and king holmes is a kind a clueless loveable king with his lovely but stern queen and  And mycroft is pretty much already running the kingdom and constantly frantically trying to stop Sherlock from accidentally starting wars with other kingdoms because he offended them somehow

[aufanficfanatic]

Cinderella!John part 3

READ PART TWO HERE

“Papa papa papa!” Jonathan knocked loudly on the wooden door, disturbing many people besides the one he’d intended. “Papa, open up, please! I need you!”

The door opened suddenly, and little John nearly tumbled through. “My goodness, Jonathan! What are you doing out of bed? Do you know what time—” and then Thomas stopped, taking in the pale face and shaking shoulders of his beloved son with concern. “Darling child, what is the matter? Come,” he soothed, and picked the boy up to carry him to his bed.

Thomas tried to tuck the boy into bed with him, thinking he’d had a night terror, but the blond boy was too impatient and wriggled unhelpfully. “Papa, Jamie is a changeling! I heard him say it! He was out with that awful boy Sebastian and he was talking about crying and murder and bones and teeth and—and I heard him, Papa! He said he was a nasty faerie and he was going to eat us! Oh, Papa, what shall we do?”

Thomas was flabbergasted. “What’s all this, now? Faeries and changelings and eating people … you’ve had a bad dream, lad. Come now, settle in. Papa’s here, everything is alright.”

Such gentle tones dismissing his fears made John cry. “Papa, I am afraid for us! Uncle Rossel is a bad man, and I don’t want you to go alone on a trip with him. They’ll lure you to a bog and drown you! Please don’t go!”

Thomas rubbed John’s shoulder soothingly, but his eyes were distant and he was frowning. The expression only lasted a moment, before the Baron was smiling and hushing his boy again, but it was enough for John to know—Thomas thought Rossel was a bad man too, and wasn’t looking forward to their trip any more than John.

“Papa! Papa!” Harriet’s voice echoed from the hall, and soon the twelve-year-old was pushing open the door to Thomas’ chambers, pale-faced and worried. “Papa, I can’t find John, he went to the outhouse but hasn’t come back—oh,” she interrupted herself as she saw her brother tucked safely under the blankets. “Can I sleep in here, too?” She asked hopefully.

Laughing, Thomas Watson threw back the covers and welcomed his daughter to their little family huddle. “The more the merrier,” he jested.

As Harriet was getting settled, Thomas reached over and collected something from his bedside table before shimmying under the soft duvet next to his precious children. When they were all reclined on the goose-feather pillows, he handed John and Harry a small package.

“I was saving this until you both were a bit older—but I think we all could do with a little cheer right now, don’t you? It’s a little thick for children, but I thought we could add it to our library.”

Together, the Watson children tore into the package, and revealed a thick book with a pale yellow cover. John ran his fingers over the embossed gold title, and Harry read it aloud. “Utopia.”

Thomas tucked an arm around both their shoulders. “It means, ‘Paradise.’ Like living here at Newcastle with the two most important people in my life is my paradise. Now, shall we read the first chapter together?”

“I’ll read first!” Harry exclaimed, scooting to the middle and opening up the book to its beginning. Reading was Harry’s favouite pastime, and she was very good at it. “The first chapter: Discourses of Raphael Hyth ... Hythloday, of the Best State of a Commonwealth,” she read.

Harry read, and then Jonathon read a little, with his father’s help, and then Thomas read. He read the longest, until the light of morning started to creep into the sky, and the two children beside him were fast asleep.

----

Thomas pulled on his riding gloves, taking the opportunity to hide a yawn behind them as he stepped out into the crisp morning air. It had been an incredibly late night, and he was exhausted—but, his children’s happiness was worth any amount of suffering and sleeplessness on his part.

Rossel was already at his horse, checking his supplies, and his two darling children were waiting for him by the door along with the house servants and Mrs Turner, all of whom had such miserable expressions on their faces that Thomas could only laugh. “Why, I’ve never seen so many gloomy faces! I shall be back in three days time.”

“Then go, Master Watson, for the sooner you leave the sooner we can celebrate your safe return,” Mrs. Turner said tearfully.

Thomas gave his beloved housekeeper a kiss on the cheek, and said, “We will feast upon the spoils of my hunt when I return. Dig up some potatoes and carrots, and we can have a hearty venison stew.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Thomas then bent down on his knees before his children, and Jamie Moriarty who stood beside them. “Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, John.” He kissed each on the top of their heads as he bid them farewell. “Jamie, be good while your father and I are away. All three of you, listen to Mrs. Turner. She’s in charge until we get back.”

Jamie smiled a nasty, insincere smile. “Yes, Uncle Watson. We will.”

Thomas patted the small boy on the head, and turned to mount his horse. His retainers gathered around him, checking that the supply bags were properly secured, and that the saddle would not budge while their master was astride it.

“Are you sure I cannot attend you, Master?” The marshal Gregson asked beseechingly, while fiddling with the horse’s bridle. “Only I don’t like the idea of you going without any of us with you.”

“Not a worry,” an oily voice sounded from nearby, and both master and servant turned to see Jefferson, Rossel’s marshal, looking on with glittering black beetle eyes. “We’ll take good care o’ him.”

Thomas bent over to put a hand on Gregson’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. I’m not even leaving the property, really. Just a quick trip into the forest and back out again.”

“Come on, Tommy-boy, your servants don’t need coddling!” Rossel spat, giving Gregson a disgusted look. “They should keep their mouths shut and remember their place,” he hissed at Newcastle’s marshal.

Gregson didn’t dare glare back—but it was obvious he wanted to. He bowed his head and grit out, “Sorry, Master. Safe journey.”

Sending his man an apologetic glance, the small hunting party finally rode out—Rossel and Thomas, followed by Jefferson and two other groomsman, all belonging to Rossel. At the gate, as was the Newcastle tradition, Thomas pulled his mount up short and turned back to the house, waving enthusiastically.

“Goodbye!” Harry and John shouted, waving frantically back, even long after Thomas had disappeared over the hills just beyond the gate. “Goodbye ...”

In the strengthening light of what would turn out to be a beautiful morning, it was easy to feel safe. After Thomas’s reassurances and a good night’s slumber, it was easy for Harry and John to go back to their lessons under the stern eye of their governess. It was easy for the servants at Newcastle to carry on as normal, awaiting the return of their beloved Master. It was so easy, that all fears were forgotten, and it was inconceivable that anything bad could happen.

Inconceivable, that that beautiful morning, crisp and bright, would be the last time they ever saw Baron Thomas Watson alive.

---

The hunting trip had been planned to last for three days—so when the party was seen coming up the road after only forty hours, Gregson and Mrs. Turner knew in their hearts something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  Gregson rallied his groomsmen and they rode out swiftly to meet the party, while Mrs. Turner ran into the house to interrupt the governess and fetch the children.  By the time they got outside, nearly the entire household had heard the news, and was huddled by the door in a nervous bundle.

  As the horses drew nearer, John searched desperately among them for the figure of his father—but didn’t find it.  “Oh, no,” he gasped, eyes watering immediately, panic filling his small body to the brim.  “No, no—“

  “John?” Harry cried fearfully as John broke out into a run, making for the hunting party.  Mrs. Turner tried to catch hold of him, to stop him, but the boy was too quick for an old woman.

  “PAPA?  PAPA!”  He darted around horses’ legs, causing one to rear and throw its rider—but he didn’t care.  He looked at each of the men, looked at their empty faces, looking for the one that would be gentle and bright, smiling down at him with eyes overflowing with warmth and love—

  He reached the end of the entourage, where the last horse had been rigged to a cart.  On that cart, where the spoils of the hunt should have been stacked and secured, lay only one body; wrapped in sackcloth and bound with ropes, it was very clearly a human figure—one that John would know anywhere.

  The Baron Thomas Watson of Newcastle, his beloved father, was dead.

  John screamed.

  ----

  John didn’t remember much of what happened after he discovered his father’s body.  It was only explained to him hours later, lying flat on his belly, being nursed by a distraught Bill Murray.

  He’d thrown himself onto the cart, struggling with bare hands to tear the ropes and rip the sackcloth, weeping heavily and begging the cold figure under his hands to come back, to not be dead.  There had been hands at his elbows and the scruff of his neck, trying to pull him back—but he fought them fiercely, commanding them to leave him be.  At one point, when the cart had reached the house, Harriet had joined him, sobbing and clutching at their father alongside him.

  And then there was Rossel.

  “It was a hunting accident,” the pot-bellied man had explained ruefully, hands rubbing at his bent forearms in a show of distress and regret, like a mock-embrace.  “The hounds had lost the scent of the hart by a creek.  We dismounted and fanned out, hoping to cover more ground—but Thomas, the fool, went in the wrong direction and startled one of the groomsmen.  Thinking the sudden movement was the quarry; the man shot him with his crossbow.  By the time we had arrived to the scene, it was too late. He was dead.”

  John had surged up from his father’s body in a red rage, hatefulness spewing from every pore, all directed at Rossel Moriarty.

  “LIAR!” He’d screamed, jumping over the side of the cart and pointing an accusing finger at his uncle.  “You planned this from the beginning, you and your changeling son, I know you did!  Admit it—you murdered him!  Vile man!  Murderer!”

  Hands held him back, but nothing could stop him when Jamie had stepped up next to his father, a scowl upon his lips and yet satisfaction glittering incongruously in his eyes.  “Don’t speak to my father that way!  How dare you accuse him of such an awful thing?  Your father died not as the victim of some nefarious plot, you mad dog, but as a victim of his own stupidity. It was his own fault.”

  With a monstrous roar that did not belong in the throat of an eight-year-old, John had surged past the hands restraining him and punched Jamie hard right in the mouth.

  Rossel had reacted swiftly and brutally, signaling his attendants to form a barrier between him and Gregson’s men as he slapped John across the face and sent him down hard to the ground.

  “Listen hard and well, you lot,” he addressed Newcastle’s servants, pale and horrified as they watched him plant a boot in John’s back, keeping him supine on the ground.  He snapped his fingers, and one of his smirking groomsmen put a horsewhip in his large hand.  “Baron Watson is dead, but that does not make you masterless.”  At Rossel’s signal, the same groomsman bent down and rucked up a squirming John’s shirt, exposing his sunned, unblemished young back.  “I’ll be staying on.  I’ll not let such a thriving estate fall into neglect and ruin.”  There were gasps and some small screams from the maids and groomsmen of Newcastle as Rossel soundly whipped John, in a manner that left long red welts along his back. John shouted in pain and then began to cry, as more welts were created and blood beaded to the surface.

  Gregson surged forward, horrified and angry, but Rossel’s men held him back.   “No disrespect sir,” he said sharply, his tone indicating he meant an inordinate amount of disrespect, “But Newcastle has a master still.  Young Jonathan there, lying in the mud, is the heir apparent to the Newcastle barony, as first-born son of our late Lord Thomas Watson.  The lands and the estate will fall to him, not you!”

  Rossel did not reply, choosing instead to finish the thirty lashes, painting the youngest Watson’s back a bright red. After fifteen lashes, John had stopped crying, and after twenty-five he stopped moving at all.

  Deed done, Rossel stepped away from the boy’s unconscious body and faced the frightened and furious faces of Newcastle’s servants.

  “Young Jonathan is an eight-year old child, who is barely educated and would not have the knowledge to run such a large business even if he were twice as old.”  He paused, and sent John a poorly-disguised sneer.  “But English law cannot be disputed—the boy will indeed inherit the title when he comes of age.  For now, however, he is too young.”

  He stepped past his men, and stopped in front of Gregson.  His voice carried throughout the yard, addressing everyone, but his eyes remained locked on the marshal.  “As his only remaining family, I will act as Master of this estate in his place.”  He continued on down the line, looking every servant in the eye, lingering on poor, tearful Harriet.  “And things are about to be very different around here.”