Just Johnlock- The Big Book of One Shots

My Father's Prisoner

The horse's hooves clopped quietly upon the rock, the sounds of the battle now fading as the last of the screams began to die down. John sat low upon the horse, keeping his face pressed against the mane in case anyone was scanning the landscape, looking for any rouges. He was afraid to be misidentified as a fleeing soldier from the other side, vulnerable to the arrows his father's archers might be firing despite the call of retreat. From here John could see what was left of the field, what was once a grassy meadow now turned grave for the many who had fallen to the sword. Men were lying about in the flowers, their blood leaking into the grass and their eyes staring lifeless towards the blue sky which shone above. It was a beautiful day for anything but a battle, though John's heart was set at ease to see that his father's banner still waved. It was the end of Victor Trevor's army, their red soldiers scattered through the hills and back across to their respective border. But it was not the end of the war. At long last John decided it would be safe for him to descend into the valley, there seemed to be no blades raised in opposition. There were men now combing the fields, searching for weapons and other treasures which to confiscate from their opponent's dead and use to their own advantages. John was curious as to what was left behind, both metal and man, and so he began to ease his horse down the narrow path, noticing signs of a skirmish even from up here in the hills. A couple of men lay dead in the rocks, arrows protruding from their chests, and in the dirt where his horse stepped there was beginning to trail an eroded stream of blood, trickling faintly through the dust on its way to lower elevation. His stomach sickened, though John told himself to stay strong. If he was ever going to be a solider himself, he would have to learn to handle the sight of blood.
"A rider!" called one of the soldiers, and on command each one of the archers raised their bows in opposition. John threw his hands up in surrender, letting his head emerge from behind the long neck of his horse so that he could display his face to the palace soldiers. Certainly they recognized him, even from so far away.
"It's me, it's John!" he declared, staying quite still just in case that name did not sound familiar to the men who guarded the field.
"Prince John?" they clarified, letting their arrows slack on the bow string and easing the tips to point towards the grass.
"Where is my father?" John demanded, beginning to gallop towards the guards and scan the field. He was trying to spot any other horses, any one which might host the large and kingly shape of his father.
"He survived the battle, sir. He may be with the prisoners." One of the men directed, though he sounded reluctant to give such valuable information away. Each of the soldiers had been witness to John's scolding, in which he was shooed away from the advancing army and told to wait in the palace with his mother and sister. His Father was overly protective, especially when it came to the life of his only heir. John thanked them briefly, easing his horse through the field towards where he at last saw the bodies of many men, each one on their knees, surrounded and surveyed by some of the more familiar soldiers, those dressed in the Watson family yellow. He tried to focus on the living forms from across the fields, trying not to get too caught up with the people he was now trampling under the hoofs of his poor horse. Friend and foe alike, all scattered in their bloodied remains on the field he often visited as a child, now soiled forever and christened with martyr blood. As his horse's whinnies began to give his position away the attention of the small shaded camp was drawn, and from the shadows of the oaks came the booming voice he had heard too many times, one which was raised in that familiar scolding octave.
"John Hamish Watson!" called out his father's voice, the man emerging from the trees and throwing his helmet down upon the grass in opposition.
"Hello father." John grumbled, pulling his horse up next to the line of prisoners and staring down at the king, happy for this high ground. The King looked tired, his eyes red and his face smeared with dirt and blood where his helmet would have permitted it. His hair, which was usually styled appropriately, was mashed with sweat upon his head, and there was even a white rag tied about his arm which was stained a deeper red with every passing moment.
"You're injured." John commented, his voice dropping in worry.
"And you're trespassing! How dare you abandon your mother, what would have you done if you came to a lost field, met with the army of Victor Trevor?" the king demanded.
"I would've turned around." John insisted, at last dismounting from his horse and jumping down into the grass below.
"And shot in the back, like a coward!" the man agreed with a growl.
"Then it's a good thing you've won, yes? We're all safe." John assured, giving his father a little smile as he stroked the nose of his loyal horse. The man gave a grunt, as if he could not argue with the glory of battle, and decided not to pursue this argument anymore in the public eye. John would certainly get a prolonged scolding once they returned to the castle, but until that time he was safe from his father's wrath. The man was now more focused upon his prisoners, only about twenty in all those who were too wounded to run or too scared to face their master's wrath, deciding to trust their safety to their opponent instead. They were cowering on their knees, some with wounds which were oozing and gushing into their laps, others who had their heads hung in shame as they were looked upon by the army which had defeated their master.
"What are we to do with them?" John wondered. He had never seen such a sorry show of such noble faces, men twice as broad as he, more chiseled, more impressive. Each one sat like a dog at the feet of its tamer, waiting for an instruction, waiting for an execution.
"Well, they're enemies of the kingdom. It would be a lot easier to construct a gallows and be done with it." the king decided. The men began to squirm, some letting loose sobs while others just sat quietly, brooding and contemplating their embarrassing failure.
"That's terribly cruel." John commented in protest, to which some of his father's knights turned abruptly away, pretending not to have heard the king be shamed by his own son.
"That's why children are not fit for battle." The king pointed out.
"I'm not a child! I'm seventeen!" John debated.
"Still a child in the eyes of your father! Still just as obedient, just as clueless!" the man growled, pushing his son away with a stiff hand to the chest and going to observe each of the prisoners individually.
"These wounded will not last long without treatment." John pointed out, following in his father's footsteps and examining each of prisoners individually. There were some which seemed dizzy from blood loss, others that were bandaged with torn off bits of their own soaked clothing, and others who seemed to be missing very essential parts of their anatomy. John noticed one who seemed to be wearing an empty glove shoved atop a stumped arm, a glove which perhaps was a lighter color and now soaked a dark, dangerous crimson.
"Father, they need a physician!" John insisted, turning towards where the king had stopped, examining one of the prisoners with a much closer eye.
"Speaking of children..." the man muttered, kneeling down so as to face this particular prisoner with more interest. John wandered over, noticing that the boy was indeed much younger looking than the rest, perfectly unfit for battle if for labor at all. He was dressed like a solider, with the red crest of the Trevor kingdom stamped across his chest, though his armor was much too big on him and he seemed to be sliding around in it as he kneeled. Relatively unharmed, the boy was soaked in what appeared to be someone else's blood, his dark hair matted with sweat and his pale face half hidden in the shade of their small encampment. John moved closer, recognizing in that trembling boy that they were quite the same, too young for battle but too proud to show it.
"Who are you, boy, and what are you doing in battle?" the king asked a bit roughly.
"A guest of the Trevor household, sir." The boy whispered, keeping his eyes low so as not to stare into the gaze of his opponent.
"Riding among knights with a stature such as yours? What are you, a serving boy?" the king presumed.
"A soldier, sir." The boy whispered.
"Some solider." John muttered, though without contempt. In fact, he found it quite honorable that the boy found it within himself to fight.
"I took him by the edge of the field, your majesty. He surrendered as soon as Victor Trevor retreated." One of the knights commented from behind, a tired looking soldier who was now leaning upon his spear like a walking stick. The King nodded, though he didn't seem to find this very helpful.
"Are you a coward?" the king wondered at last, turning his attention again to the trembling boy.
"No sir. I have no loyalty to the Trevor household, and saw an opportunity to leave. Sir." The boy admitted.
"Were you a prisoner?" John presumed, stepping forward and standing now at his father's shoulder. The sound of his voice finally drew the prisoner's head up, revealing a strange combination of colors hidden within his eyes. His gaze was quite piercing, though John saw within him a sense of trust, the sort of fear that would make a man submissive so as to save his own skin.
"I was a guest behind locked doors." The boy said honestly. The King hesitated, at last getting to his feet as if this prisoner's story was not worth his time.
"Just a boy, no need for excitement." the King decided, beginning to move along to examine any of the other stoutly knights his army had reduced into whelps.
"I have magic, sir." The boy declared at last, words which were effective in halting the King's advance down the line. John's eyes widened, now worried that the ropes which bound their prisoner would not be enough to keep him restrained.
"Indeed? Why do you not use it, to get yourself out of your bonds?" the King laughed, obviously doubting the authenticity of the boy's claims.
"I surrendered, sir. I didn't think it necessary." The boy admitted.
"What is your name?" John interrupted, tired of these rude interrogations. There was obviously a venerable boy hidden underneath that armor, one who deserved to be treated with respect despite his current position. To be snarling and shouting at him was not going to get them anywhere, especially when his mere glance was more powerful than any of their swords.
"Sherlock Holmes, sir." The boy muttered. "A farmer."
"A warlock?" the king presumed. "Have you any proof?" Sherlock hesitated, looking between John and the King as if trying to decide if they were an honorable audience.
"If I prove myself, will you let me go free?" he asked at last.
"To serve what purpose?" the king wondered.
"Well, I have family sir. I would much like to return to them." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"If you have magic you will prove useful to us. And if you have indeed been within the Trevor household, well that makes you invaluable. I cannot let you go free if you are who you claim to be." The king said at last.
"Then I shall not do it." Sherlock said at last. "Better to die a true prisoner than to live as a captured puppet, dancing upon the strings of new royalty."
"You shall be an honored guest, Sherlock Holmes. Not a puppet." John interjected, feeling the need to push his father away and make promises to that boy he may never be able to keep. The more he learned of their strange prisoner the more protective he felt over him, until at last his final wish was to cut the bonds on the boy's wrist and let him run back to the fields from which he came. Perhaps it was a sort of wizardry, an influence that was cast upon him by a nonverbal spell. That, or it was mere proof of John's humanity when compared against his monstrous father.
"I've heard such promises before. You are not the only young prince with a tongue of silver." Sherlock warned.
"Victor Trevor's tongue is forked, not silver." The King protested. Sherlock's eyes fell back towards the ground, as if he was afraid what his eyes might reveal on the subject of Victor's wickedness.
"Father, untie his bonds." John instructed.
"I do not take orders from my son." The King demanded. "And I will not so easily be seduced by spells! Sherlock Holmes, demonstrate your worth or be hanged with the rest of your men!"
"Father, untie him!" John insisted. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, dropping his head towards the ground and arching his back, so as to display the knots which were tied tightly around his wrists. For a moment John wondered if this was a mere plea for release, though as he watched he noticed the cords begin to move, the rope slithering about itself very slowly as if to demonstrate the process. As if moved with invisible hands each end of the rope unknotted itself, soon dancing about the opposing side before at long last the knot fell loose, and the long cord of rope fell coiled in the grass below. Sherlock pulled his arms from behind his back, though instead of taking some offensive action or running to the trees he stayed silent, folding his hands together as if to pray. The knights fell silent, and the King's jaw had dropped. Only John could display any emotion other than shock, for his lips were parted in a large, admiring smile.
"I shall do what I can to satisfy your wishes, King Watson. With the promise that you will let me go free once the war is over, regardless of the champion." Sherlock said quietly, bowing down low so as to show his submission.
"I accept your allegiance, Sherlock Holmes. Now stand, and look your king in the eyes!" the King demanded. The boy struggled to stand, as his legs were heavy with exhaustion, though at last his face could find that of the King's, his eyes meeting in a glare and setting with determination against that of his new master.
"You will make a useful player in this game of war." The King decided. "As it happens, the arrival of my son is a thankful thing. John, escort Mr. Holmes to the castle."
"Thank you, my lord." Sherlock muttered, looking off towards where John stood rather hesitantly, wondering what exactly was involved with escorting.
"Yes Father." The boy said at last, figuring there was no point in arguing. The rest of the prisoners had fallen silent, some perhaps trying to make up their own story of magic so as to release their bonds and run free. As for the Watson's knights, they had grown bored and were beginning to poke and prod at their prisoners, trying to get some humorous reaction.
"Can you ride?" John asked a bit gently to the boy, so weak looking that he might fall over at any moment.
"Yes." He said quietly, his voice dropping in intensity now that he found himself within trustworthy care. Despite their aggressive circumstance of introduction, surely Sherlock could see that the Watsons were already much better than the Trevors in terms of hospitality. He would be taken care of in their care, a guest rather than a prisoner. John helped Sherlock onto his horse, figuring they had no choice but to sit together in the saddle. The castle was not far, though it was too far a distance for either to walk, and surely Sherlock could not steer a horse on his own strength. The boy was now close to faint, requiring the aid of John and two knights just to secure him within the saddle. At last Sherlock was secured, lying up against the horse's neck in a state of exhaustion and complacency. Perhaps his body finally felt safe enough to shut down, as if he knew in his heart that he would be taken care of despite his state of consciousness. John clambered up after him, straddling the boy and wrapping his arms around him so as to take the reins from behind. As John steered away he felt the boy go slack, though he dared not adjust him until they were past the field and beyond his father's view. With his arms John managed to keep Sherlock within the saddle, clenching tightly with his elbows along the boy's thin frame.
"I'll take care of you, Sherlock Holmes." John promised in a slight whisper, unsure whether his words were heard or not. He got no response, though he hadn't been expecting one in the end. Sherlock must have fallen asleep, unable to see the first of the towers jutting above the ridgeline, the tallest and most impressive spires of his new home.

A/N: Written as prize for @tiredteacup as a Merlin and Arthur AU of sorts. I actually really liked this one shot and may consider making it into an actual story, but we'll see where the wind takes me...