Chapter Text
“Sherlock.” Loki whispers, trying out his new name. “Sherlock Holmes.”
It doesn’t take long for Mycroft’s personal assistant to arrange Sherlock’s release from the hospital. Before Loki can do more than glance at the memories that his spell has created the woman who is calling herself “Cynthera” has returned with the clothing that the Jötun had created from his æsir garments. While her employer’s younger brother changes Cyntheara “politely” turns her back and does something on her cell phone. The second that Loki is finished changing—as he’s pulling on his coat—Mycroft’s personal assistant starts to herd him out of the hospital and into a waiting car. Mycroft is not in the car waiting for him and Cynthera does not accompany him… once Sherlock is sitting in the car she simply closes the door and steps away to watch as the vehicle pulls away from the curb and into the London traffic.
Loki finds himself staring at the back of the driver’s head—the young woman has actually dyed her hair green of all colors—as he calculates how much of the car the woman can see in her rearview mirror. Once he has this figured out Loki positions himself so that the chauffer can’t see his hands, takes a deep breath and attempts to summon a flame in the palm of his hands… the key word being attempts, because no flame arrives in answer to the call of his magic. Loki tries again, this time attempting a much smaller flame… but again nothing happens.
For a second Loki stares at his hands in something which most closely resembles horror. He had know that his magic was weak and he had know that he would need time to recover… but he’d had no idea that it was this bad. He can’t even summon the smallest of sparks. It’s practically a miracle that the illusion he has cast upon himself—the one which had turned the fallen prince into a mortal and created Sherlock Holmes—has not failed.
Despite this visual proof of how weak his magic is Loki can’t resist trying to summon the flames once more—when nothing happens the fallen prince does not even attempt to hold in a keening wail of frustration and despair, even though he knows the sound will reach the driver’s ears. Melancholy so deep that it feels like ice wraps around the Jötun’s heart and spreads though his chest before it races through his veins. In the relative safety of Mycroft’s car Loki allows himself to all but wallow in his sorrow… although that sorrow quickly turns to anger—at Odin AllFather, at Thor Odinson, even at Laufey-King and his unknown mother.
Slowly the chill in his blood spreads, moving through the Jötun’s body until it seems to concentrate in his hands. Hoping that is somehow a side effect of his magic, hoping to see a flickering flame or perhaps a bit of smoke or soot, the fallen prince looks down… only to find that his hands are covered by frost and are slowly turning Jötnar blue. As Loki watches in a mixture of horror and fascination the strange scar like marks he has seen on other Jötnar appear on his hands as the frost starts to slide down his fingers to his palms. When the frost reaches the center of his hands it starts to gather together, forming a small ball of ice in each of his hands. Startled, Loki drops these small balls to the floor of the car and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. After a few seconds he cautiously pulls out one and cannot hold back a soft sigh of relief when he finds that there is no longer frost forming on his hand and that the blue is quickly fading.
Despite that fact that his hands now appear “normal” Loki pushes them even deeper into the pockets of his coat and stretches out as best he can in the back of the car. His gaze goes to the window on his left and—finding himself with nothing better to do—the Jötun watches the world pass by as the car ride stretches on and on. Soon enough the motion and warmth of the car causes the one who had once thought himself an Odinson to first lose track of time and, eventually, to fall asleep.
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“Sherlock Holmes” wakes with a start as the car he is riding in comes to a sudden stop. He blinks sleepily before turning towards the car door, which is opened by the driver just as Loki reaches out to open it himself. As he steps out Sherlock realizes that Mycroft has sent his “brother” to Holmes Manor and—perhaps more importantly—to Mrs. Holmes.
Loki steps out of Mycroft’s car and pulls his coat tight around him as he stares up at Holmes Manor and allows the memories created by the spell to wash over him… Sherlock remembers the way that the dining room’s stained glass windows would create pools of light on the wood floor, how the steps at the bottom of the main staircase squeaks, the book in his bedroom which he’d hollowed out and kept his treasures in, the loose floorboard in Mycroft’s room where his brother had kept the letters their father had sent him… but above all Sherlock remembers that Holmes Family itself. He remembers the portraits which decorated the Manor’s halls, the stories which went with those portraits and the honor those family members had won not only in times of war, but in times of peace.
As Loki “remembers” all of this the chauffer closes the door of the car behind him and heads towards the Manor, opening the front door and holding it for Sherlock. She does not follow her employer’s younger brother inside, instead she closes the door as Loki slowly moves further into the Manor. From the top of the staircase a portrait of Sherlock and Mycroft stares down at the Jötun. Loki’s memories inform him that the portrait was finished shortly before Sherlock went away to University, right before the relationship between the two brothers started to sour. Before Loki can take a closer look at anything around him a soft gasp draws his attention to his left.
Standing in an open doorway, through which what appears to be a library can be seen, is a mortal woman whose hair has gone completely white. Loki instantly “recognizes” the woman as Violet Holmes—the woman whose deceased son he is pretending to be. The Jötun finds that he can’t keep himself from staring at the mortal, because she looks like his disguise. Mrs. Holmes looks like Sherlock Holmes, despite the fact that Loki’s outward appearance had been created without any real thought, research or planning. Despite all of this “Sherlock” looks like Mrs. Holmes’ son—the most noticeable difference between mother and son is the color of their eyes. When he’s created his disguise Loki hadn’t bothered to change his eyes too much—he’d just made them less… well “unusual”. So while Sherlock’s eyes are a pale green, Mrs. Holmes’ eyes are the same grey-blue as Mycroft’s. With the exception of her eyes Mrs. Holmes looks like Sherlock—in fact she looks more like Sherlock then she looks like Mycroft. Ever her hair, before it had gone white, was the same jet black as Sherlock’s.
“Sherlock.” Mrs. Holmes whispers as she slowly moves towards the man that she believes is her youngest son.
“Mummy.” Loki Laufeyson replies as he finds himself pulled into the mortal’s embrace. It takes the Jötun a second to return the embrace, to “get into character” and whisper something about being sorry for making his “Mummy” worry. As the mortal weeps on Loki’s shoulder he reviews what his magic has told him of the woman…
Violet Elzabeth Holmes had married Siger Sherrinford when she was twenty-seven. Siger had been three years older then Violet and working for her father at the time of their marriage. When she was thirty Violet had given birth to her first child, whom she named Mycroft after her favorite uncle. Four years later Violet had another son—one who had been conceived in an attempt to save her marriage. The child—a boy—was born prematurely and christened Sherlock Holmes. Two days after his birth Siger had left Violet, taking neither Mycroft nor Sherlock with him.
In reality Violet’s second son had died when he was less than a week old. But now anyone who mattered believed that the tiny boy with curly black hair and pale green eyes had made a miraculous recovery and lived to grow up and become the man who was currently in Mrs. Holmes’ arms. As his “mother” holds him tight Loki finds himself wondering who the real Sherlock would have been—had he survived the circumstances of his birth. As Loki’s thoughts start to stray from the present moment Violet Holmes takes a half-step back and reaches up to cup her son’s face. Before mortal or Jötun can say anything Sherlock’s stomach lets out a loud grumble, which causes Loki to flinch but draws a laugh from Mrs. Holmes.
Violet takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him into the kitchen, to a breakfast nook where a glass and a set of silverware has been laid out. Once her son is seated Mrs. Holmes sets a plate piled high with food in front of Sherlock and sits down across from him, claiming only a cup of tea and a small plate of cookies for herself. Despite attempting to remain civil and carry on a “pleasant” conversation with Violet, Loki finds himself eating… well like Thor at one of Asgard’s feasts. He cleans his plate twice before he finally feels full—at that point Loki finds himself struggling not to yawn.
Mrs. Holmes smiles behind her cup of tea and carefully sets it back on to the saucer before she stands and picks up Sherlock’s plate. The woman kisses Sherlock’s cheek and informs him that she has “put new sheets” in his bedroom. Loki accepts the invitation to leave his mother’s company and, pausing only to refer to his memories for the location of his room, heads upstairs.
According to his memories it had been over a year since Sherlock was last at Holmes Manor. The family of three had gathered to celebrate Christmas when, two days after the holiday, Mycroft had discovered Sherlock’s stash of cocaine. The older Holmes brother had destroyed everything he’d found, which had led first to a screaming match and then to a fight between the brothers. When Mummy had pulled the two apart Sherlock had stormed out of the house and hadn’t returned or even talked to his mother or brother until… well until now. Despite the lack of communication Mycroft had kept tabs on her brother—he’d only lost track of Sherlock about three weeks ago, which was why Mycroft and Violet were so relieved to see Sherlock, even though he looked like death warmed over.
When he reaches his bedroom Loki locks the door behind him and—without really looking at the room—he checks that each window is closed and the curtains are tightly drawn. Once this is accomplished “Sherlock” makes his way to the bed… and proceeds to sleep for eleven hours straight.
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Loki Laufeyson spends two weeks at Holmes Manor, in the care of his “Mummy”. Other then forcing him to eat on a semi-regular schedule the mortal woman mostly leaves “Sherlock” to his own devices, so that Loki ends up spending the majority of his time increasing his knowledge of Midgard—both in the Manor’s library and on the internet, which has quickly become Loki’s favorite mortal invention. Although Loki’s knowledge of mortals is far superior to Thor’s and well above average for an æsir (let alone a Jötun) that knowledge is pitiful when compared to the knowledge which even the most dimwitted of humans possesses. Loki knows that—no matter how much he reads and learns—mortals will undoubtedly find him “strange”, so he sets a goal for himself to learn enough that any mortal he comes in contact with will overlook his oddities.
Exactly thirteen days after Sherlock arrives at Holmes Manor Mycroft sends his personal assistant—who is now calling herself Callisto—to collect him. Mrs. Holmes has apparently been informed of Sherlock’s departure before hand, because she does not seem surprised when the young woman appears at the Manor. Violet even has a small suitcase for her son, which Callisto takes as Mrs. Holmes presses a kiss to her youngest son’s cheek and wraps a dark blue scarf around Loki’s neck. As she does this Violet manages to make Sherlock promise to call her often and visit her frequently.
Callisto and Sherlock do no speak on the car ride back to London. Mycroft’s personal assistant spend the ride staring at her cell phone, sending out texts almost nonstop. When the two arrive in London Sherlock finds himself being installed in a small furnished flat—two rooms (three if you count the bathroom) with more cameras then a television station and neighbors who are clearly on Mycroft’s payroll.
However the fridge is well stocked, the closet is filled with clothing that Loki actually likes and there’s even a sort of small laboratory set up on the kitchen table… besides, it’s not like there is much for the cameras to observe. Loki’s magic is still too weak to do anything useful—it takes almost all his magic to produce a flame large enough to light a cigarette. Also Loki has no intention of actually trying the drugs that his brother believes he is recovering from. So “Sherlock Holmes” ends up passing his time in very mundane ways—while he in his apartment he eats, sleeps and teaches himself the Midgardian “science” which he would have learned in his school years. However the place where Sherlock spends most of his time is on the streets of London.
There were few who knew Asgard as well as Loki. Sure, most æsir knew of at least one or two secret entrances or shortcuts, but there had been many paths in Asgard—and many paths to and from Asgard—which were known only to Loki. Now, as Sherlock Holmes, Loki spends his days—and sometimes his nights—learning the secrets of London. As Sherlock spends his days wandering the city a splendid map of the city begins to form in his head, a map which is no static image of roads and landmarks, but a elegant flow of mortals moving through a living space.
As he wanders the fallen prince observes not the city, but the mortal who inhabit it, so that, within a few weeks, Sherlock can read the mortals who surround him as well as he could read Thor Odinson. Loki gets most of his practice from verbally sparing with Mycroft whenever his “older brother” decides to stop by and check in on him. Sherlock’s deductions are clearly amusing to Mycroft, both when he fails (and he fails quite frequently, at least at first) and when he succeeds, when Sherlock figures out how to tell when Mycroft has met with the Russian ambassador for dinner or when the “man behind the British government” has been meeting with some “top secret” American organization whose named Loki hasn’t been able to deduce yet.
Despite the monumental task that Loki has given himself, the days pass quickly… soon it is the two month anniversary of Loki’s fall from the Bifröst and his arrival on Midgard and Sherlock is having dinner with his brother—who is trying to get Sherlock to agree to work for him in some branch of the government. Loki isn’t sure what branch, since it seems to change from day to day and sometimes even from moment to moment. Today Mycroft is trying to get Sherlock interested in working for the government by all but dangling files and photographs in front of his younger brother. Among the dozen or so photographs there is one which catches Loki’s eye because Mycroft is holding a picture of Thor Odinson.
There are two other photographs in the file containing the picture of the man who Loki once thought was his brother. The first photo is of a large crater in the desert, with what looks like mjölnir in the center while the second depicts a empty stretch of desert where the sand and dirt bears the traces of the Bifröst. However what really catches Loki’s eye is not the photos themselves, but the date on the accompanying file… for Loki the events the photos depict occurred at least two months ago (plus however “long” he was falling off the Bifröst) but according to the file the photos had been taken only two days ago.
Which means that Loki Laufeyson had fallen not just through space but—somehow—through time as well. Which means that, prior to this week, the forces of Asgard didn’t even know that they should be looking for him. The thought terrifies the Jötun, although he doesn’t exactly get scared… instead he starts to prepare. The same day that Loki makes this discovery he uses his magic to craft two throwing daggers, which he starts carrying with him at all times, hidden behind an illusion in the pockets of his coat, so that he can access them but no one else can. Loki’s magic has recovered greatly from his fall, so much so that—theoretically—he could defend himself if he was attacked… but only if those attacking him had no magic of their own.
As the Jötun’s mental map of London grows ever more complex Loki gives himself a new task… if he is to continue to use London as his hiding place, then he needs more than a map, no matter how perfect that map is. What Loki needs is eyes and ears in London… he need spies who can inform him of everything that occurs in the city, people who can blend into a crowd and watch the world without being noticed.
It doesn’t take Sherlock long to figure out who he should use to form his spy network... less than two days after his meeting with Mycroft Loki begins creating what he will eventually refer to as his “Homeless Network”. Within a week the Jötun can’t walk for more than ten minutes without encountering a member of his network and—as Loki beings his third month on Midgard—the network helps him discover just who Sherlock Holmes will be, or at least who mortals will believe him to be.
Sherlock is sitting on a bench in Russell Square Gardens, practicing his skills of observation and deduction on the various mortals who pass by, when a young woman sits down next to him. She’s thin—not starving, just naturally thin—with messy dark brown hair that falls over her face. Her hair partially obscures the damage that has been done to her face—namely a black eye, a cut high on her forehead and numerous bruises. As Sherlock continues to observe the passing mortals the young woman—who introduces herself as Liv—tells Sherlock about the man who had propositioned her and then proceeded to beat her up when she turned him down. Liv describes him as young—no more than thirty years old—with dirty blond hair, a fake tan and expensive clothing. Liv had only escaped because the man had been spooked by a passing police car.
It doesn’t take Loki long to find seven other victims who had described their attacker as Liv did… there’s also one elderly homeless man, who had been found dead near where the other seven were attacked. It doesn’t take Sherlock long to find a pattern to the attacks—they all occur between a night club and the nearest spot where a taxi can reliably be found. There’s even a schedule of sorts, with an attack occurring every time the night club hosts some sort of singles event.
So, on the next night the club hosts the singles event Liv places herself in the man’s path and—after ensuring that any other likely target is far away—Sherlock waits in the shadows near the young woman for her attacker to arrive. The man doesn’t make the two wait for very long—less then forty minutes after they arrive the man all but swaggers up to Liv and proceeds to proposition her in some of the most vile Midgardian language Loki has heard. When Liv turns him down the man starts to take a swing at her, only for Sherlock to interfere before he can add another bruise to Liv’s face. When the man realizes that he’s not alone he takes off running, with Sherlock following close behind him.
Loki Laufeyson didn’t have a very elaborate plan to catch the man and he didn’t have a very elaborate plan for ensuring that the man was locked away—he’d just planned on catching the man, using some flashy but easy magic to put the fear of god in him before dragging him to the nearest police officer. Unfortunately the area of London which the man had used as his stalking grounds is one of the few which is still mostly unaccounted for on Loki’s mental map… and it doesn’t take long for the man to use this to his advantage—he takes unexpected turns, jumps over low walls and gates and almost manages to get away once or twice.
Despite this it doesn’t take Loki long to get close enough to reach out and grab the man’s arm. Once he does this it’s simple enough to use his grip to haul the man back towards him—while Loki may not be as strong as Thor, he is a Jötun and thus several times stronger than a mortal man. With a firm grip on the man’s shoulders Loki turns, intending to slam him up against the nearest wall… only to have the wooden wall shatter under the force of the impact, which sends both the man who has been attacking the homeless and Sherlock tumbling into the room beyond.
Sherlock finds himself at the feet of a police officer only a stone’s throw away from what is very obviously a crime scene—there’s a dead woman lying on a mattress in the far corner. As Sherlock and the man who had attacked Liv get to their feet a detective inspector with silver hair approaches them. The man all but scrambles away from Sherlock, hurling accusations that the fallen prince is a crazed drug addict who had been trying to steal his wallet. As he rants and raves to the uniformed officer Sherlock graceful stands up, brushes some of the dirt off his pants and directs his attention towards the DI.
“This man beat up a homeless woman.” Sherlock says, cutting off the inspector’s questions. “When I tried to help the woman he stole my wallet and ran—I was just trying to get it back.”
The man immediately protests that he hadn’t stolen Sherlock’s wallet, even going so far as to invite the officer whose feet he and Sherlock had landed in front of to search his pockets… which she does, but not before Loki performs a simple spell that relocates his wallet from the pocket of his trench coat to the man’s pocket. Only seconds after the spell takes effect the uniformed officer is holding Sherlock’s wallet open, so that both she and the man can see his driver’s license.
“It’s not the first time he’s attacked someone.” Sherlock informs the DI as the same uniformed officer who had searched the man’s pockets arrests him.
As she does this Sherlock pulls a notebook out of his pocket and quickly scribbles down directions to where Liv is and the contact information for the other men and women that the man had attacked… all of whom had been presented with prepaid cell phones the previous day to make any attempt at contact easier. At the end of the note he adds his own phone number and signature.
“They’ve agreed to talk with the police as long as the man is dealt with DI…” Sherlock trails off as he holds the paper out towards the silver haired man.
“Lestrade. How did you get involved with this?”
“A friend of mine was attacked by this man. She asked me to find him.” Loki replies as he stares at the crime scene out of the corner of his eye… there’s a dirty mattress on the floor, no doubt left by the last legitimate owners or renters of the house. Someone has covered the mattress with faux silk sheets and there are several red candles scattered around—obviously for illumination, since the police had brought their own light source which was running off a small portable generator. On top of the mattress, her lower body covered by the sheets, is a young woman who has a rope around her neck but no visible bruises—so she hadn’t fought back, even when she’d been strangled.
Next to the body is man wearing blue police scrubs. He has a camera in his gloved hands and is taking photographs of the scene—as DI Lestrade takes Sherlock’s wallet from the officer the Jötun darts forward, throwing out his arm and stopping the man—who he assumes is in some way affiliated with the police’s Forensic Services—from stepping forward.
“What the hell are you doing?!” The man squawks like an Inov (which happen to look an awful lot like what the mortals call a “velociraptor”) as Loki pushes him away and kneels down next to the spot where the man had almost placed his foot.
“Stopping you from destroying evidence.” Sherlock informs the man. “Specifically the fingerprints of your murderer.”
There—perfectly preserved in the still malleable wax—are five fingerprints. As the forensics man stares down at the evidence he’d almost ruined Sherlock stands up and turns towards Lestrade once more, plucking his wallet from the “older” man’s hand.
“Of course it was an accidental death—erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.” Sherlock informs Lestrade as he slips his wallet back into his coat pocket. “Those bruises around her neck—two from tonight, not including the one that killed her, but there’s also some at least two weeks old. She’d been doing this for some time… although the woman who killed her may be new to the ‘scene’.”
“The woman?” The forensics man asks with a sneer. “How did you know it was a woman?”
“There’s an earring next to the victim’s neck. She’s only got one hole in each ear and both earrings are still in. Oh sure, it could be a man with a pierced ear, but they don’t tend to wear hoops that large. Also the fingerprints are too small and there’s a chip of nail polish in the fingerprint—your victim isn’t wearing that color. You’re not very good at your job, are you?”
“Anderson, just get the prints.” Lestrade sighs and the forensics man growls softly at Sherlock before he moves to follow the DI’s orders. Once Anderson turns away from Sherlock and Lestrade the DI turns back towards Sherlock. “Who are you? Some sort of detective?”
“The name is Sherlock Holmes.” Loki replies with a smirk. “I suppose you could say that I’m a consulting detective.”
And just like that Loki Laufreyson becomes the world’s only consulting detective.
Of course Mycroft objects—after all it would but much easier for Mycroft to keep an eye on his younger brother if Sherlock was working for the government. However the man behind the British government does not actively try to keep Sherlock from setting himself up as a consulting detective. As the one year anniversary of his arrival on Midgard approaches Sherlock has himself set up quite comfortably… while Anderson (Loki has yet to learn the man’s first name) doesn’t like Sherlock, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade contacts him regularly for assistance and soon enough his name is fairly well known among certain circles who would prefer the police not get involved in their problems. Sherlock has even managed to gain access to Saint Bart’s hospital and morgue thanks to a pathologist named Molly Hooper and a doctor named Mike Stamford.
On the first day of Loki’s fourteenth month on Midgard he moves out of the apartment that Mycroft had given him. His new apartment—with it’s very affordable rent—comes curtosy of a chance encounter with a certain Mrs. Hudson, whose husband had found himself on death row in Florida. It doesn’t take very much effort on Sherlock’s part to ensure that the man is executed for his crimes, which gains Loki the woman’s devotion (in a sort of motherly sense of the word) and residence at 221B Baker Street.
The only hiccup in Loki’s plans—or rather annoyance in Loki’s life, since nothing since he’d become a consulting detective had really been “planned”—is that, somehow, Mike Stamford becomes convinced that Sherlock is looking for a flatmate. However—other than the annoyance of Stamford asking him about his “personal habits” and putting forth several idiots as potential flatmates—Loki Laufeyson, fallen prince of Asgard, finds himself enjoying his new life on Midgard.