Chapter Text
Mellie Holmes was surprisingly comfortable with her unexpected houseguest. Of course, it helped that said houseguest was almost embarrassingly grateful, and missed no opportunity to say so (to the point where Mellie finally walked over, put a soothing hand on the fae’s burly shoulder, and said “enough”). Sherlock told John that he thought his mother was looking forward to showing off her celebrity admirer to her fae peers.
The first week was quiet; Sherlock and John stayed close to home, as the detective was required to extend his medication regime as a result of his two-day lapse. He whinged, but complied, which said to John that he was feeling more poorly than he was willing to admit. They had the house largely to themselves, but for Siger: Mellie took Pan across the Veil, both to announce his return to the royals, and to reacquaint him with his well-preserved home.
Mellie took precautions to ensure they stayed no longer on the Other Side than intended—she gave Sherlock a Gate and instructed him to activate it in exactly seven days. Pan was kind enough to teach him how to do that before they left—Mellie wasn’t the most patient teacher on Earth but Pan quite enjoyed it. “I have taught many a fae,” the former dragon said cheerily. “’Tis my calling. Well. One of them, peradventure.” He gave a wriggle that made John think of red tendrils dancing around a dragon’s skull.
At the end of the week, Sherlock and John, with Siger an amused onlooker, assembled in the drive out front with the nondescript pebble marking the Gate in Sherlock's palm. "Remember, son," Siger said. "Concentrate on the call—nothing else."
The first attempt didn't go especially well. Sherlock, eyes closed, held the pebble at arms length and scowled at it. Nothing immediately happened until John noticed one of the gateposts beginning to smoulder. He quickly reached out with his indefinable gift and pulled. The smouldering stopped, and Sherlock staggered beside him. "What was...?" Sherlock said, looking confused. "What just happened?"
"Collateral damage," John muttered, and pointed at the now-singed post. Sherlock flushed a ruddy pink, darting his eyes at his father, who was attempting to appear deaf and blind. Siger was better at it than John.
"I... I was distracted," Sherlock said, refusing eye contact. "Don't make noise." This, of course, belied the fact that the only "noise" had been the wind blowing through the trees. Siger rolled his eyes but stayed silent.
This time it worked better. John could feel the tendrils of magic drifting through the air. A shimmer arose, about 10 feet away, little sparks of light flitting about. And suddenly, with a whoosh of displaced air, Mellie and Pan were standing, startled, on the drive. They were radiantly arrayed: Pan in a deep violet, velvet floor-length robe, embroidered with silver, gold and tiny amethysts, and clasped with gold dragons down the front; Mellie, in full fae mode, wearing a ballgown that appeared to have been crafted out of the beautiful silver wrap Pan had produced for her in the cave. The silver-lace neckline, extending from an Elizabethan collar rising above her shoulders, dropped nearly to her waist and was apparently held in place by spellwork and positive thinking.
It was. She was. John blinked and mentally slapped himself, as something that had been occurring over the past week, when he recalled her (naked, so very naked) arrival in the cave, reared its ugly head again. His inner Catholic schoolboy was appalled: he was lusting after Sherlock's mother. And—now that he thought about it—technically his mother-in-law, at least until the paperwork went through.* He felt a sudden urge to return to confession for the first time in twenty years.
Thankfully, Mellie quickly reverted to her normal, rounded older-lady form, and all impure thoughts ebbed quickly away. But not before Sherlock (because of course he noticed) turned to him and lifted an eyebrow in derision.
He might never live this down.
They settled comfortably into a routine in the coming days. Mellie moved back into her usual duties in the village and church; Siger made trips into London for mysterious errands, once returning with a beautiful clock, a gift from a foreign diplomat (to join all the other beautiful things arrayed on the many shelves and etageres throughout the house).
Pan, as promised, returned to Sherlock's education in fae magic. "Thee has a great deal of strength, Child William," he said, "but thee must learn proportion. Many tasks need not the cudgel, but rather the blade."
Three days after his return from beyond the Veil, Pan assembled a table and various implements in the back garden. "We must needs determine the nature of thy Gifts," he began, while Sherlock and John looked over the curious objects. "Every fae hath at least one, and many have several, of divers nature and potency. Mine own be Conjury and Healing." He turned to gesture at the odd array on the table. "These be small magics in their own right; offered to children, arriving at their first power, to see wherein their affinity may lie. Thy lady mother tells me thee was not so tested; afore we proceed to more rigourous magicks we must needs find thy Gift, or we may borrow danger."
Sherlock moved cautiously to the table, looking over his shoulder at Pan for instruction. "Pick up the first object and extend thy thoughts to it," the former dragon said. "See if thee can feel the magic within; it will prompt thee, an' thee is attuned to it."
The first object, a carved wooden knife, did nothing. Sherlock scowled at it, held it to his forehead—nothing. Pan sighed. "Not Healing, then. Try the next."
The second was a tiny silver mirror. Sherlock picked it up, concentrated—and suddenly blurred before John's eyes. In his place stood a small, delicate boy, perhaps 8 years of age, with dark-red curls. It was alarming until John saw the child had Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock, seeing John's dropped jaw, quickly looked in the little mirror and gasped, before the view shimmered again and the adult detective reappeared.
Pan made a pleased noise. "Ah. Glamourie, then," he said. "I had thought me that thee may well have such a Gift—thy mother is most talented therein. We will spend some of our time on perfecting thy skills." He pointed with his chin. "The next tool, an' it please thee."
The next, a little silver ball, did nothing, nor did the fourth. "Perhaps thee has but the Glamourie," Pan mused. ""Tis very strong; mayhap all thy strength is tied to this Gift. 'Tis not unheard of."
Sherlock frowned, and reached for the final item, a tight bundle of sticks dipped in a waxy substance at one end. He picked it up, holding it at arm's length, and concentrated. This time John could feel the magic coalesce and move. Suddenly the waxy end of the bundle burst into violent flames—Sherlock, startled, dropped in on the grass and jerked backwards.
Pan smiled and waved a hand to dowse the flames. "Aye, I see. Thee has a Gift, a very strong gift, for—"
Across the lawn there was a deep FWOOMP of noise, and two 10-foot hydrangea bushes became giant torches, while Sherlock blanched.
"—Fire," Pan croaked.