1

I own neither Sherlock nor Merlin.

A/N: I wrote this a little while ago, so it is finished. I wrote it because I suddenly wondered if it would be possible to take an episode of Merlin, take Merlin out, replace his character with one who is the total opposite of him, and still have everything be exactly the same as in the episode while still making sense. Because of that, there are a lot of quotes in here.

—

Night lay upon Camelot, blurring the edges of things. Sherlock woke from an uneasy sleep, and looked out the window over the darkened city. He thought someone had called his name in his dream, which had vanished as he awoke. The voice, though, stayed in his mind, deep and powerful, ageless. It seemed to come from the earth itself, and at the same time, it seemed to have been spoken only in his head. It was unmistakably a summons.

Sherlock… Sherlock…

He had only gotten to Camelot yesterday. Mrs. Hudson had sent a letter with him to show to her old friend Gaius. He knew what it said, he'd read it as soon as he was out of sight of Ealdor.

"My dear Gaius, I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust. I love Sherlock, and he is special, yet sometimes I would give my life that he were not. Ours is a small village and he is so clearly at odds with people here that, if he were to remain, I fear what would become of him. He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might help him find a purpose for his gifts. I beg you, keep him safe, and may God save you both."

He didn't hold it against her. She'd done her best to care for him since his mother died and unlike some, she truly did care—no matter how much easier it would have been not to. But as time went on it grew harder and harder to hide his gifts, and he grew less inclined to hide them at all, risking his secret with careless abandon. It really wasn't fair to her, he thought; the only wonder was that she hadn't sent him away sooner.

Coming to Camelot hadn't been a good idea, he decided. He should have gone his own path, to another, weaker, kingdom where no one would notice him, or care. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to hide his gifts, either one of them, pretend to be a regular, boring human who noticed nothing, or a regular, boring human who didn't have magic.

After he arrived in Camelot, his day had taken a turn for the worse. The first thing he saw was a man being executed for sorcery, something that made a dark pit open in his stomach, and gave him a strange feeling he couldn't identify—a mixture of fear, exhilaration, and contempt. Then another sorcerer, a woman, showed herself, screaming and crying. His mother. Typical. He knew it even before she confirmed it with her words, and turned into a whirlwind and disappeared. He'd have to learn that trick, he'd never tried it before.

Then he'd found Gaius's chambers, and gone and betrayed himself in two seconds, saving him from a broken neck. He felt pretty sure he could trust the old man, even if he was a bit forgetful, but still…

He sighed, turning from his study of the sleeping world below him to the stars above, bright and cold.

—

…Gaius turns, and the railing breaks… Sherlock acts before he thinks, sweeping the bed under the falling man… time speeds up again, and he falls.

"What did you just do?" He doesn't seem happy, but then, in these times magic wasn't usually a cause for celebration. Remembering Mrs. Hudson's last words to him, "Sherlock, dear, please try to… act normal, for Gaius…at least a little?"

–Subtext: don't make him send you back.

He tries. "Nothing, what are you talking about?" Well, not normal, perhaps… but close.

"Tell me!"

Well, this one isn't a complete idiot, at least.

"I have no idea what happened. Perhaps you were hallucinating?"

"I was not hallucinating, which you know very well, from the look on your face. If anyone had seen that…"

Strange. He thought his face was unreadable.

"That was nothing to do with me." Sherlock's mind went in a million directions, calculating. Could he somehow wipe the man's mind? only he was better at physical things and didn't always have the control he would have wished over his magic, he could accidently cause serious harm. Knock him out, then, and run? Or—

"I know what it was! I just want to know where you learned how to do it!"

Well. This was unexpected. Sherlock reevaluated the situation.

"Nowhere," he answered honestly, gauging the man's reaction.

"So how is it you know magic?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Where did you study? Answer me!"

"I've never studied magic, or been taught."

"Are you lying to me, boy?"

It wasn't the accusation of lying that made him answer so scathingly, but the casual boy tossed in at the end. As if he were a child.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth!"

"I was born like this!"

"That's impossible! —Who are you?"

The sudden change of tack made him eye the old man warily. He reached into his backpack. "I have a letter…" he held it out. The game could be played by more than one.

"I—I don't have my glasses."

—farsighted. Needs glasses to read.— He was telling the truth.

"I'm Sherlock."

"Hunith's son?"

"Yes."

"But you're not meant to be here till Wednesday!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It is Wednesday." …

—

…He sighed, going back to his bed, staring at the wall.

2

Sherlock emerged from his room and entered the physician's chambers.

"I got you water." Gaius said. "You didn't wash last night."

Sherlock thought this might be small talk. He'd never gotten the hang of small talk and frankly, he didn't know why he should bother. He grunted an unintelligible reply.

"Help yourself to breakfast."

Sherlock sat down, eyed the porridge on the table, and began to eat it indifferently.

It happened in an instant. Gaius knocked over the bucket of water and Sherlock's magic held it in thin air before it reached the ground—well of course it would be falling he's a scientist, the variables should be as similar as possible—

Gaius let out an inadvertent gasp, though he must have been expecting it. Sherlock let the bucket drop. Reflexes. He silently berated himself.

"How did you do that?" The man asked. "Did you incant a spell in your mind?"

Sherlock wouldn't have answered, but the man would have kept nagging him.

"I don't know any spells." He said it as patiently as possible. Surely he had explained that yesterday?

"So what did you do? There must be something."

Sherlock sighed in irritation. Couldn't the man see he was not wanted? "It just happens," he growled, only just managing to keep himself from screaming.

There was no sound from the man for a long time, and Sherlock almost dared to hope he'd given up, when he said, "Well, we better keep you out of trouble. You can help me until I find some paid work for you. —Here." He placed a small sack and bottle on the table.

Sherlock almost told him exactly what he could do with his charity but he recognized a truce when it was offered, and picked them up. —For John—

"Hollyhock and feverfew for lady Percival," Gaius said, "and this is for Sir Olwin. He's as blind as a weevil, so warn him not to take it all at once."

Sherlock nodded.

Suddenly serious, the man added, "And Sherlock, I need hardly tell you that the practice of any form of enchantments would get you killed."

Sherlock would have told the man he wasn't stupid but he'd already used it twice when he didn't mean to. He thought it best to say nothing.

—

Sir Olwen was blind, as Sherlock had reason to find out. Squinting, he groped for the bottle, didn't look at the label (not that he would have been able to read it) and before Sherlock had finished telling him not to drink it all he'd drank it.

Since he didn't immediately fall over dead Sherlock guessed he'd be all right.

—

Sherlock was walking through Camelot when he came to the knight's practice area. Some knight was throwing daggers at a serving boy carrying a heavy wooden target. Sherlock watched for a few moments. The knights were laughing and joking, and didn't seem to even register the boy as more than the butt of their jokes. Sherlock knew everything about him in one glance. And in fact, all the knights were pretty easy to read. The leader, and the one doing the throwing, was a sandy-haired man with a pretty good aim, as knights went.

The boy finally let the thing fall and it rolled over to Sherlock's feet. He put a foot on it, studying the knight with the blue eyes. This one was different. Interesting.

"That's enough," he said mildly. It took some effort for Sherlock to do mild but he'd always been a master of disguise, of hiding in plain sight. There was an art to hiding, he'd learned, and many ways to go about it. He should know, he'd been doing it his whole life, one way or the other.

"What?" The knight actually looked puzzled. Sherlock smirked. Time to be the 'hero'. He had a feeling this wouldn't be boring. "you've had you're fun, my friend." That was revenge against Gaius, and his boy. He had the feeling my friend would affect this knight similarly.

"Do I know you?" –Oh, come on. You aren't that stupid.—

"I'm Sherlock."

"So I don't know you."

"No."

"Yet you called me 'friend'." He actually seemed more curious than insulted. Definitely interesting. More brain than he let on, though he probably didn't use it much.

"That was my mistake," Sherlock answered. He was liking this.

"Yes, I think so." He was perfectly cool, unfazed. A wonderful opponent, in fact, better than Sherlock had had in some time.

Now in for the kill. "yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass."

He started to walk away, waiting for the next move.

"Or I one who could be so stupid," the knight answered. Sherlock stopped. He had a mind to deduce everything about this man's personal life right in front of his friends, and he was about to when the man spoke.

"Tell me, Sherlock, do you know how to walk on your knees?"

A pity. He'd descended into threats, which would lead to physical violence, the same old boring routine. This was not interesting anymore. And it had seemed so full of promise.

"No."

"Would you like me to help you?"

"I wouldn't if I were you." Only, if Sherlock was the blue-eyed man, he probably would, judging by the way things were going.

He was laughing. Sherlock hated being laughed at. "Why?" the knight asked. "What are you going to do to me?"

"You have no idea."

—

Everything was fine until it got physical. That's where his luck ran out. Not that he couldn't have won if he had been given the chance, but suddenly he was outnumbered by many many swords, and when he let up the blue eyed man twisted his arm behind his back (now that he couldn't do anything about it).

"I'll have you thrown in jail for that," the man said, and he wasn't lying.

"Who do you think you are," Sherlock asked, "the King?"

The other man smiled, the smile of the victor. "No. I'm his son, Arthur."

—

A/N: There's only one part where I really couldn't get the script to fit to Sherlock's personality, I think: the part where he said he'd never had a friend who could 'be such an ass.' So, just pretend that's something Sherlock would say.

3

It was a rather big cell for only one person, but Sherlock wasn't complaining—about that at least. How was he to know that man was the king's son? And furthermore, why was it he who was in jail when it should have been Arthur? He knew the answer, though. It was because Arthur's father held the power and Arthur used it, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it.

With a sigh, he settled back to wait.

He was in a strange state, half between waking and sleeping yet properly neither, when he heard the voice again.

Sherlock… Sherlock…

Who are you? Sherlock tried to think back to the voice. Are you real? It didn't answer, only calling his name again. It was definitely in his head, and yet equally definitely it seemed to be coming from under him. Why under him? He wondered if it behaved like a real noise. If he got closer to the sound, would it get louder, or fuller?

He was lying with his ear to the ground when Gaius came in. The sound vanished. He scowled darkly at the man. Could he have come at a worse time?

Gaius sighed. "You never cease to amaze me!"

"You have only known me for one and a half days," Sherlock pointed out.

"The one thing someone like you should do is keep your head down, and what do you do? You behave like an idiot."

That stung. He turned away, and looked out the high barred window. It stung because part of him was insulted and angry and bored, and because some other part of him knew it was true—a part he had ignored to get in here. So you're the great Sherlock? He asked himself. You pride yourself on your mind more than your magic, and you went and got yourself thrown in jail first day in Camelot. And you didn't even mean to.

"You're lucky." The man was speaking. "I managed to pull a few strings to get you released."

Sherlock eyed him warily. "What's the catch?"

—

He didn't like the catch. In fact, he decided to stay in jail. From Gaius's look of surprise, he was the first to choose that option, and he'd probably seen a lot of prisoners in his life.

When he got out of the dungeons he reflected he hadn't made any friends during his short stay. The guards were terrified of him. He knew everything about him, and it wasn't magic. For some reason that scared them more than if it had been magic. Magic, at least, was part of the natural world, it had some reason to it, it was a threat they were all used to, but someone who could do such things just by looking made them feel vulnerable, because it was true—they were vulnerable. Magic could always be fought against, but how do you fight against genius?

Well, it had shortened his stay considerably at least. As he knew it would.

—

When Sherlock walked through the doors of the Physician's Chambers Gaius just raised an eyebrow and didn't comment.

4

Gaius was nagging at him again. "What did your mother say to you about your gifts?"

"Nothing," Sherlock sighed. "Just that I was special. I don't think she really understood it herself."

"You are special." Gaius said. "The likes of which I have never seen before."

—Subtext. You're not normal, Sherlock. You're a freak.

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, listen." Gaius's voice was half pacifying, half scolding. "That is not what I mean and you'd know it if you used your head. I am not interested in whatever is in your past. Magic…requires incantations, spells. It takes years to study. What I saw you do was elemental, instinctive."

Sherlock's curiosity was aroused. The people in his village didn't know what to make of him, neither the ones who knew his secret nor the ones who didn't. The only person who really understood him was John… He tried not to think of John. There was a hole in his chest where John used to be, and thinking about him wouldn't help.

But Gaius was a physician, old enough to remember the time before the purge, and he said Sherlock's magic wasn't ordinary.

Perhaps the voice could explain… if he could get it to come back.

"Well, what is the point of magic? If it can't be used?"

"That I do not know. You are a question that has never been posed before, Sherlock."

"Thanks," he answered sardonically. Then he thought. It was the first time they'd had a proper conversation without one of them (usually Sherlock) losing his temper. Now was the time to ask questions, if ever. "Did you ever study magic?"

"Uther banned all such work twenty years ago."

Sherlock half nodded. Gaius hadn't given a straight answer. Interesting. "Why?" He knew of the purge, of course, it was hard not too, even in Cenred's kingdom, but he'd never heard any but the barest sketch of the king's reasons.

"People used magic for the wrong end at that time. It threw the natural order into chaos. Uther made it his mission to destroy everything from back then, even the dragons."

—typical. Give me the children's story you tell everyone. What was so secret about the reasons for the purge?—

But the dragons… now that was interesting, and he seemed to be less reticent on that subject. "All of them?"

"There was one dragon he chose not to kill," Gaius answered. "Kept it as an example. He imprisoned it in a cave deep beneath the castle where no one can free it." Suddenly he became abrupt. "Eat your breakfast. When you're finished, I need you to take a preparation to Lady Helen. She needs it for her voice."

Imprisoned it? Sherlock thought about the cruelty of such an act. It would have been kinder to kill it. What sort of a man, having defeated and killed all but one of the dragons, took the last and imprisoned it beneath his own castle? He suddenly felt more afraid of Uther than he had before. He hadn't seemed that dangerous, despite ordering the execution of a most probably innocent man. But if this was an example of his work it would be well not to underestimate him.

5

Sherlock was in Lady Helen's room. He put the potion bottle down on the table. He noticed that she had a strange book on the table, and a doll made of straw. A strange book and a doll made of straw… Magic? He picked up the book. If it was magic, how much he could learn from it… he flipped through, but most of it was in a strange language he couldn't read. –The old tongue. The language of spells!— He was so engrossed in the book he didn't hear the footsteps until she was almost in the room. Quickly, he put the book down in its spot but before he could hide the Lady Helen walked into her room.

There was something strange about her. Something familiar. He was sure he hadn't seen her before, though.

"What are you doing in here?" the Lady asked.

Smoothly, Sherlock picked up the bottle. "I was asked to deliver this."

The Lady eyed him suspiciously but let him go without stopping him.

—

Later, Sherlock was walking through the Lower Town, thinking about the things he'd discovered that day. Uther was dangerous, there was a dragon under the castle—could that be the voice?—and Lady Helen was a sorceress. He walked past Arthur, but ignored him. He had better things to do than baiting him at the moment; in fact, he might even have a mystery.

"How's your knee-walking coming along?" the man taunted.

—How dull.—

"Aw, don't run away!" Sherlock stopped. He didn't want another stay in jail, not now that things were getting interesting. Hopefully he could get this over with quickly.

"From you?" Sherlock asked. Did he really flatter himself that much?

Arthur sighed. "Thank god. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb."

Perhaps it would be best to just hurry toward the confrontation. It was clear he wouldn't get away without it. Sherlock considered the fastest way to get Arthur to lose his temper. He suspected that deduction wouldn't work on him like it did with the guards. Perhaps crude insults would be the best? It had worked last time. "Look. I've told you you're an ass, I just didn't realize you were a royal one." He smiled. "Oh, what are you going to do? Get you're daddy's men to protect you?"

Arthur laughed. "I could take you apart with one blow."

"I could take you apart with less than that," Sherlock answered, but clearly the prince didn't believe him. Why should he? Well, he was in for a little surprise.

—

They both surprised each other. Arthur let Sherlock off from going to prison. And he noticed something was different about Sherlock, he said so. Sherlock wondered what it was, his magic or his mind, that had caught the prince's attention.

"I'm not a monster, am I?" Sherlock was lying on the bed when Gaius came in. After his harsh words about magic Sherlock didn't know what the man thought about him anymore.

Gaius sat down on the bed with a sigh. "Don't ever think that."

—But it's true, isn't it? There's something wrong with me. It's more than magic, but maybe magic makes it worse. I am not like other people.

…I wish John were here. He would know what to do. He always does—

"Then why am I like this?" Sherlock's gesture encompassed all of him, but Gaius only knew about the magic, because Sherlock was good at hiding what was broken about him.

"Maybe there's someone with more knowledge than me," Gaius started.

"No," Sherlock said softly. There was no one who could explain him, even imperfectly. Even John didn't understand him fully, though he tried.

6

Sherlock… Sherlock… It was the voice again. Sherlock got out of bed. He had been waiting for it. He sneaked out of the room and across the moonlit square, abandoned in the night.

Sherlock…

He descended the wrought iron stairway to the dungeons, and sent the guards to sleep with his mind. They would wake up soon, remembering nothing of what had occurred.

He picked up a torch, and slipped like a ghost into the tunnel, the only one no one ever walked down. It was from there that the voice came.

Sherlock…Sherlock…

He entered a large cave. The path suddenly ended at a ledge far above the ground. Sherlock looked around for the dragon but the voice was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock… The voice laughed. It was low, and rumbling, and unmistakably filled with humor. If it was the dragon, it was strong; to still be able to truly laugh after all that had been done to it. Sherlock hadn't been able to laugh truly since his mother died, until he met John. —don't think of John.— But then maybe the dragon was also adept at hiding that which people couldn't accept, the twisted parts that would make any normal person back away.

"Where are you?"

And suddenly, he was there, flying down to land on a rocky pinnacle, and it was the dragon.

"I'm here. …How small you are, for such a great destiny."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Destiny?"

"Your gift, Sherlock, was given to you for a reason."

"So there is a reason," Sherlock commented sarcastically.

The dragon seemed to take this as a question. "Arthur is the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion."

Sherlock personally thought that was unlikely.

"But he faces many threats from friend and foe alike."

"What does this have to do with me?" Sherlock demanded.

"Everything. Without you, Arthur will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion."

"Sorry, but you're wrong," Sherlock said.

"There is no right or wrong, only what is and what isn't."

Sherlock shook his head. "Why should I help him? He is no king. He could be, perhaps, but he isn't. Why should he rule over the people? He is no better than anyone else."

"None of us can choose our destiny, Sherlock, and none of us can escape it." The dragon sounded as if he knew. Perhaps he'd had this conversation many times.

—We'll see about that.—

Sherlock shook his head. "Look, there must be another Arthur, because this one's an idiot."

"Perhaps it's your destiny to change that," the dragon answered, and flew up into the gloom, chain rattling behind him.

7

Uther was speaking, introducing the Lady Helen. Sherlock stood along the side of the room, observing. It was a feast. He tried to pretend it was nothing out of the ordinary, but he'd never seen so much food in the same place at once. How would they finish it all? Most of it looked like it would spoil easily. He wondered if they just threw the leftovers away.

Then the Lady began to sing, and it was not just any singing—it was magic. But not benevolent magic. The room began to darken, the guests nodded off, and cobwebs grew along the table as if the feast had been there for a thousand years. Sherlock put his hands to his ears, blocking out the noise. He was the only one who could resist the magic, the only person awake. She walked up to the head table, still singing, and reached to throw her dagger—straight at Arthur. Sherlock almost let her. It would be proof that his destiny didn't rule him. But if he didn't, then Uther would stay king and when he died he would have no heir. Camelot would be in turmoil. The dragon would stay chained.

Perhaps… if there was any hope for Arthur…

The chandelier dropped onto Lady Helen and she fell to the ground, her music stopped. Everyone began to wake up.

Only she was not Lady Helen anymore. She lifted her head up, and Sherlock recognized her as the mother of the man Uther had beheaded. Her face was full of fury, and hatred, mad in its intensity. With her last breath she threw the dagger, and it flew true.

…time slows down. Sherlock runs forward, and pushes Arthur out of the way… the dagger spins, flying, through the air… and rests with a thud in the chair, right where the prince's heart would have been.

Time resumed its course, and Uther, unwittingly, gave Sherlock the worst torture he could have devised. That was the problem with destiny, Sherlock thought, it never took into account if you'd rather be doing something else…like solving crimes, perhaps, like Lady Helen's. If he'd found out what was going on earlier none of this would have happened.

Gaius had given him a book of magic, and talked some nonsense about having found a use for his magic. A use for his magic, perhaps, but what of a use for Sherlock? He was just as ill-fitting in this world as before. If only someone else could've had his magic, and his destiny, Sherlock thought as he stared moodily out the window onto blue skies over Camelot. Everyone was at peace, except for Sherlock… and the dragon; and nothing could ever change that in this world.

Finis