Mycroft had always found it odd that his father would cast out one of his sons. Odin loved all his children, and would rather keep them healthy and happy there in Asgard. But Mycroft was also witness to Odin stripping his youngest son of all Godly powers and throwing him across the rainbow bridge to Midgard to live as a human for as long as his now-mortal body would let him.
Anthea cried. Of course she did, though. Sherlock and she had the same kind of sarcastic wit about them, and he had truly become her little brother. Mycroft had given his wife a kiss before going back to the palace, but Anthea did linger long after that.
Sherlock wasn’t sure what he did wrong to warrant such a punishment, but as he hurtled down through space to Midgard, he made a silent promise that one day he would return. Not right away, however. Sherlock would bide him time, waiting for the opportune moment.
It took too long, this journey. But Sherlock was hurtling too fast and too hard through space. Though if he turned his head to the left or right, he could see stars and galaxies, and then planets as he went past the clouds of dust at the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy. He hurtled fast passed gas giants planets and asteroids, until he was just passed Earth’s moon, and--
When he hit the ground, he was jarred. Oh, how mortality hurt. Not just this new body, but his pride as well. The body was weak, and the clothes Odin had left him with were flimsy compared the full suit of armor he had been wearing when he stood proud at his father’s side.
‘With wings I wouldn’t have even noticed the journey,’ he thought, a little dizzy.
“Oi, could you please get off me? I’m late for work!” cried a voice from under him.
Sherlock blinked and climbed off of him, not even apologizing.
The male blinked as he pulled himself up. “You… kind of fell from the sky, mate,” he pointed out.
Stupid. Humans were stupid, Sherlock remembered.
“Can you… can you talk?” the mortal asked.
Sherlock nodded, “Of course I can.”
“You fell from the sky,” the man said again, “Are you an angel?”
Sherlock? An angel? Well… they did wear wings when they had visited back in the Old Ages of Midgard, and they wore them when going back up. Sherlock would get his wings back if he ever showed his father that he was a good son…
“Not quite,” Sherlock growled.
The man looked around, “Oh, right. I’m John. John Watson.”
Sherlock glanced down his nose at John’s hand, which was outstretched in greeting. He looked away from it, ignoring it as he said, “Sherlock Holmes.”
“Odd name for a god,” John commented.
Sherlock blinked. This one was smarter than the rest.
“Greek, Norse, Celtic? Which one are you. I can finally win the theological disputes,” John said, clearly joking.
“I come from… Asgard, if that helps at all…” Sherlock replied, now intrigued by this mortal.
“Asgard. Norse mythology. Looks like Skiff was right,” John grinned. “Anyway. I’ve got to go to work. You going to be all right?”
Sherlock wasn’t sure. It was January, so it was freezing cold outside. He was wearing clothes that were something like thermal underwear, and his human body was shivering. John noticed this, “Damn. Let’s get you to my flat, then. Jesus, I thought you said you were a god!”
“I was. My father cast me from Asgard for no reason at all!” Sherlock cursed as John tugged on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock would have flinched away, but the mortal’s touch was warm compared to the freezing air.
“That’s what all children say when they’re punished,” John muttered, “Down here, at least.”
Sherlock grumbled a bit before John let go of him to fumble in his pocket for his keys. “I’m taking a day off for you,” he said. “Bloody Prince of heaven falls from the sky and I lose money for it,” he grumbled.
Sherlock blinked. It wasn’t usually like him to care about anyone other than his immediate family… which included Anthea, since she was married to his elder brother Mycroft.
“You’re a retired soldier… no not retired… invalided. You’ve a slight limp, but it’s died away thanks to your job. Did a friend get you to be a teacher with him at the hospital?” Sherlock asked.
John turned to him, “Are you… did you bring some magic with you?”
Sherlock growled, “Please. As if my people would let me. It’s just a hobby I picked up. Being a prince is not all it’s hung out to be.”
“You poor baby,” John replied, opening the inner door once he was up the seventeen steps. “Welcome to 221b Baker Street, your highness.”
The flat was far too clean. But it had a sort of Victorian era charm, with the modern day twist about it. There was a laptop on an armchair. There were two armchairs near the gas fireplace. The couch was pushed against the other wall, there was a table in between the two windows and stairs leading up to more bedrooms and a kitchen. It was cozy. But Sherlock didn’t say anything about it.
“I’ll try to make this up to you, John. I can get a job, pay my own way in a few days…” he said.
“What would you do?” John asked, scoffing a bit.
“What I just did. Observe and deduce. There’s got to be job out there for people with those skills.”
“Policeman,” John replied. “Or private detective.”
“Police don’t go to private detectives. No… I think I want to be more of a… consulting detective. Have you a… oh what are those journals called… the ones on the computer?”
“Blogs? Yeah, I have one,” John replied.
“Wide readership?” Sherlock asked.
“Family, a few friends. I’m not exactly friends with everyone on Scotland Yard…”
Sherlock thought about this for a moment, “Well, until I get my own blog that will do. You can write a blog about me and advertise,” he said, waving his hand at John as a gesture to make him go do it. “If you would be so kind,” he added more as an afterthought.
“What if I don’t want to?” John asked.
Sherlock gave him a cool stare, but he was actually thinking about it. “Can you afford to take care of me on your professor’s salary?” he asked.
“I… don’t know. What do you eat, if you do?”
Sherlock was taken aback at this, but he heard his mortal stomach growl and moan. John smiled and went into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him, fascinated by everything a mortal did to stop the pain in his stomach. “I guess I need everything you need. Which is… irrelevant where I come from…”
“I lecture every day, about three classes a day, so I can afford to put you on my own meal plan and such. But two paychecks are always better than one, and Mrs. Hudson, my landlady, might be wanting you to pay you’re share of rent once she realizes that you’re not… my… um…” John suddenly faltered in his speech, which was interesting.
Sherlock studied him for a minute, “Your what?”
“What humans like to call a one-night-stand?”
“A lover one only has for one night,” oh, that seemed painful for the mortal male to get out.
“I thought the human race was better about sexual liaisons between members of the same sex nowadays,” Sherlock said.
“We are! Well… some of us are. Don’t get caught in the Middle East,” John quipped. Then his arms were flailing a bit, “But that’s not the point! Mrs. Hudson will want money from you once she notices that you’re… probably going to be around a lot.”
Sherlock pinned John’s flailing arms at his side, his hands placed gently on his sides. “Stop that. It’s annoying.” The hands were gone in seconds.
John sighed, but returned to preparing food for the fallen God. “So, did you have anyone up there?”
“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, walking around the kitchen, looking at things and touching some of them. He had read about some of these things in books, seen glimpses of human history through his father’s all-seeing eye.
“Any family, people you’re close to?” John asked. “Besides your father.”
“Oh, my brother and his wife,” Sherlock replied. “And the other gods and goddesses. But I haven’t seen them since I was a young child.”
“By choice?” John asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock replied.
There was more silence between them as Sherlock circled the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, exploring everything.
“So… you haven’t got a girlfriend?” John asked.
“No, not really my area…” Sherlock replied, still more interested in kitchen appliances.
“Oh. Boyfriend?” John asked.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to his rescuer, the cutting grey steely as he looked the man over. John seemed a bit too curious for Sherlock’s taste.
“Which is fine, by the way—“
“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock snapped.
“So you’ve got a boyfriend?”
“Oh, you’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good,” John stuttered.
The wheels began turning as Sherlock leaned against the island counter, studying his companion. John was blushing slightly.
“Look, John, while I’m flattered by your interest, I’ve only just met you and I’m not this… one-night-stand kind of person so—“
“No, no. I wasn’t hitting on you. Trust me,” John replied. “I just get… slightly uncomfortable when my roommate brings home girlfriends and/or boyfriends. I live here too, you know.”
“Not like I was going to bring home someone,” Sherlock replied, “I don’t do relationships.”
“Ah. Asexual?” John asked.
Sherlock shot him another steely stare. “No. No one’s come along yet.”
“And are all the Holmes’ heartless bastards?” John asked. He put whatever he had been cutting into a casserole dish.
Sherlock blinked, thinking about it. “Mycroft isn’t. But his wife as softened him up a bit. He’ll need to be less of a ‘heartless bastard’ once he takes the throne from our father, though. I think that’s why our father put them together so quickly after seeing their destinies entwining in their futures…” he mused. “But I don’t need to soften. I’m probably going to be my brother’s advisor or something equally dull.”
“Hang on… you’re father is Odin, right?” John asked.
“So we’re still pretty popular?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I had a phase in grade school where I wanted to be Thor,” John replied. “Later I became a soldier… though I guess that’s more Tyr’s area.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “The Norse got Odin’s name correctly… I’m not sure I know Tyr or Thor…”
John stared at Sherlock for a moment, “Wow… then we really got some stuff wrong. So there’s not serpent biting its tail here on Earth? Or a giant hell-hound? Or Loki? Frejya?”
Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t even know who you’d be talking about in the Palace,” Sherlock replied.
“Thor was the god of thunder, I think… with the hammer?” John asked.
Sherlock still shook his head, “There’s me and my older brother, Mycroft, and his wife Anthea. Odin is Odin the All-Father with the all-seeing eye. He gauged out his own eye for that gift. Of the serpent and the dog… my brother owned a snake like the one you’re talking about, but one of the other god’s killed it when we were younger. The dog… Well… I used to have dogs when I was a child, nothing like this Fenrir you’re talking about.”
John blinked, “Then where could these legends have come from?”
Sherlock shrugged and went into the living room to study everything there.
Anthea should have started to worry right when Odin cast his youngest son out to Midgard. Because she didn’t, she should have started worrying when Odin asked Mycroft to keep an eye on his younger brother using Odin’s all-seeing Eye, an orb that saw the past, present, and future of anyone in the worlds. Odin never let any of his family touch it, and here he was giving it to Mycroft to watch over his brother. Anthea, of course, would assist her husband. But what made Anthea worry was that Odin then disappeared into his rooms, and he had no wife to watch over him.
Mycroft wasn’t pleased that he had to babysit the Eye and watch his brother. The younger Holmes seemed to be doing fine: he had found a roommate that first day, and his roommate seemed fine with assisting his brother in all ways of the Midgard mortal. They went shopping and out to dinner that night, and the mortal had eventually written up a blog about Sherlock’s skills in observation and deduction, a skill that Mycroft had trained Sherlock in.
“So it is useful,” Mycroft teased. Anthea knew he missed his brother, secretly.
Anthea was stuck alone with the Eye one evening as Mycroft had a meeting. His father never came out of his bedroom, and so Mycroft was his second in command.
Anthea watched the orb for a few minutes, yawning slightly as the tedium of John’s life clashed with Sherlock’s: Sherlock had some private clients now, and John was still teaching at Bart’s. Sherlock and John, though living together, didn’t quite get along, however. John probably felt disturbed that a former God was still living in his apartment with him.
She shouldn’t have pried, however. But she was a natural woman and she wanted to know if the two men would ever at least be friends. She unconsciously tapped the orb slightly with this question in mind, and… the scene changed.
Anthea was taken aback. She saw John all in white, Sherlock standing beside him all in black. They looked like they were at a wedding, but the wedding was no Midgard ceremony. It took her back to her own wedding with Mycroft, only she wore a dress and John wore slacks and a uniform shirt. But there was a certain power about John that Anthea had seen only once before: a mortal usually didn’t have that aura around him unless he had been turned immortal from the Kiss of Rebirth.
She blinked, but the image was gone in a flash. She looked around her warily before going back to the present of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. But the Eye was all-seeing, and she knew her brother-in-law would have a spouse of his own… but not an ordinary one. Well… ordinary by Asgard standards, at least.