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Once upon a time, the Urulóki was the most powerful among the army of the Black King Morgoth. That time was long past. When the Black King was banished to the Void, gone was the age of the dragons.
Once upon the time, he and his siblings roamed the Northern Land, in the place where no elf nor man nor dwarf dared to set foot, where the last of the mighty dragons dwelled. That eventually changed. The youngsters no longer had the drive, no power, none of the hungers and craving for hoard that the old race had. They were content with picking out the random foolish orcs that wandered into the land.
Once upon a time, there were many of them, the soldiers, the winged-drakes, the creatures of fire and magic and darkness. Wars and infighting had claimed the old ones, and lethargy claimed the young ones.
He was Smaug, the last living child of Ancalagon the Black. He did not, would not bow to the power of men, or elves, or dwarfs. Especially not to one coward of a black servant. Smaug would leave the waste land and his weak kin behind to rule his own kingdom.
With that in mind, he flew towards the Lonely Mountain.
His last memory was of falling. Below was fire. The lake and the city below were on fire. Then there was darkness.
Oh, but a voice called out from the darkness. A lifeline he reached out to and followed through.
Past time and space, till he came out on the other side.
He opened his eyes, and found himself in the morgue. What is a morgue or how did he know that it was, that was not important. The knowledge laid somewhere beyond his reach. Something else was demanding attention, though…
He was lying on the autopsy table. The lamps in the room were mostly off, except the one above the table in the corner. He sat, a little bit dizzy. Someone stood near the door, hiding on the shadows created by the bright light from the hallway and the partially-opened door. A stranger. Yet his mind's eye telling him that a stranger he was not.
Fire, burn as bright and hot as his own. Twin to his own. Blood and kin.
"Ashfer1)."
"Was Ashfer. It's Rowan Holmes now."
Rowan Holmes. Sounds familiar. Like... family. Rowan Holmes, brother to one Sherlock Holmes.
And with it, came a lifetime of memories; of childhood, of days when nothing matters, of days when things were different.
Of falling. The scent of burned wood and cotton and flesh. Iron. Blood and carnage. Ash and liquid metals. Claws and fangs and Fire. Death.
"Sherlock!"
Hands framed his face, and his brother--his brother's face, blurred, so close.
"It is not your fault, Sherlock. Not yours. He is not you. Not anymore."
He didn't, couldn't say a thing. The tears would not stop, however.
"You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." His brother said gently. "The first and probably the only one in the world. Smaug will always be a part of you, but he is not who you are anymore."
"In short, I did manage to keep some knowledge of the art. Enough to know some things that happened to Middle-Earth. Also just enough to keep Molly from full-blown panic when things didn't go on as planned."
He rubbed the side of his head. Crusts of dried blood flaked off. "So I did fell from the roof." He mused.
"Missed the landing, though." His brother threw him a wet towel from his place next to the sink. He used it to clean the blood from his face.
"Must've died on the spot, if your description of Molly's reaction was correct."
"Rather messy, if I may add. I'd suggest shower, but we need to leave soon, so make do with that."
"Moriarty?"
"Dead."
"For real?"
"I may have done something to ensure that he will stay that way."
"Something I'd better off not knowing?"
"If you wanted to claim plausible deniability."
Done with his face, he used the other, still clean side of the towel on his hair. They were a bit tangled and sticky.
“Don’t rub too hard on it.” His brother said. “The wound has not fully healed yet.”
He nodded absently, then asked the one question that still burned inside. “John?”
“At home. Mycroft’s minions are dealing with him.”
“Good.”
The next couple of minutes were filled with silence. He broke it first.
"This happened to you. When you were fourteen. The accident with Father. You actually died then."
His brother did not reply and that confirmed it.
"You changed after that." He mused. "You took up music, but you discard the piano practice. You took classic guitar lessons. You left home to stay with your musician friends."
Still no reply. His brother came to him, took the towel from his dirty hands, and started helping him cleaning the spots he missed.
"I went to see you on stage once."
"You did? When?" His brother asked, surprised.
"Couldn't remember exactly when. You sat in the middle, playing your guitar, surrounded by your band mates. You were singing something about fire2), and everyone present seemed very entranced."
His brother smiled slightly. "Ah, I remember that one."
"I thought you belong there. In the stage. Did wonder why you didn't continue with it."
"Me? A professional singer?" His brother chuckled, his dimples showing as he did. "Music helped me focus. I needed it back then. Not as much now. You got used to it eventually.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the touch; the closeness that hadn't been there for years.
"Tell me how it ended."
His brother's hands didn't even pause as he replied with a questioning hum. He opened his eyes and looked closely into his brother's clear green eyes.
"Tell me." Half asking, half pleading.
Those green eyes are calm, betraying nothing. "It ends beautiful," Its owner said quietly. "On its own time." Then, with different, lighter tone, "And none of our business, of course.” He threw the dirty towel to the sink. “Now get up, we need to leave. Here, use my parka. Leave your coat on the table for the mourners to admire."
"Bossy git."
"I'm a branch head now. I have the privilege of autocracy. Hurry up."
“Tut-tut. You’re beginning to sound like Mycroft.”
“I will impersonate Mycroft if it meant you will make haste.”
“That would be—“
He did not manage to finish his sentence. For a moment, the world had gone dark, and fire raced through his veins. A voice called out from far away, familiar and questioning, ‘Who?’
When the world returned to normal, his brother was massaging his temple. “Two of you in one day.” He muttered. “I’ll never make it back to HQ now.”
“Mycroft?”
“At the moment, Tyr3). He grew wings, would you believe that? I had to knock him out just now.”
“Mycroft. Have wings.”
“Is it so hard to believe? I did heal your wounds with magic, after all.”
“Interesting. I wonder my ability would be.”
“Later. Now, change of plan. We must go to Mycroft’s residence.” Upon seeing his frown of disapproval, his brother continued. “Think of it this way. Whatever ability you have, you’ll be able to test it by destroying Mycroft’s house.”
The suggestion brought a smile to his face.
“That, brother, is why I always like you better than Mycroft. You have better ideas.”
THE END