Author's note: I'm not even going to lie: This is still unfinished, but i've got about 8 chapters down and it's 23 000 words so far, so expect perhaps 7000 more.
I don't think i've ever seen a crossover done like this before, so hey, originality! I do play fast and loose with Norse Myth and some MCU cannon (when it specifically comes to norse myth), and basic military everything (i tried to reaserch, but hell, it's fucking hard if you haven't been in the army and know nothing of how it works). I've attempted to keep relatively close to the original time lines of both MCU and Sherlock.

Regular update schedule: once every two-three weeks.

Humbuggy.

The wind shrieked loudly across the lonely, open plain. It bit viciously at exposed skin and flesh created by bonds so tight that they had rubbed away the fur of a great wolf and left his swollen flesh raw. The wolf did not struggle; he'd learned long ago that to do so would cause the golden magical rope to tighten further. When he was younger, in the first months of being bound to the rock upon which he lay, he had growled and thrashed causing the bonds to cut cruelly into the flesh and great pools of saliva to drip to the ground from the gaping maw kept open with the length of a sword. By all rights - the prominent ribs jutting from his sunken frame, and the wounds that striped him all over - he should be dead. But death was a mercy that the Æsir who'd bound him, had not seen fit to grant.

In the beginning, he had wondered what he had done to warrant such punishment or wondered if rescue would come soon, but now he did neither. Instead, he breathed shallow even breaths that were just enough, yet not enough, to give him air.

He waited for absolution.

It would not be long in coming.

The dawn was just touching the land, the sun kissing the edge of the horizon, lending the snow a touch of dawn pink when the figure appeared. Stepping out of a swirl of darkness not caused by a lack of light or colour, but by the absence of everything itself, hope came in the form of a trickster god.

Loki scanned the land with flicks of his bright green eyes, and his breath caught when he saw the wolf bound to the rock. He expelled it in a soft bitter swear. "Oh love, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

A few swift steps and a short jump of teleportation brought him to the wolf's side. At first, the wolf stiffened and gave a warning growl, but as Loki drew closer, bitter anger darning itself in lines over his body and soft terms of endearment on his tongue, a spark of recognition kindled in its eyes. The wolf whined in grateful yet miserable welcome and his tail gave a small feeble wag as Loki dropped the glamour hiding his appearance.

Loki sank to his knees before the wolf, pressing his face into the wolf's, in the hollow between his amber eyes. Salty tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, soaking into the wolf's matted fur.

"Oh Fenrir. Oh my son, I am so sorry." He brushed a careful hand over Fenrir's head. It had been so long, so many years filled with longing. He had taken Tyr at his word that Fenrir was fine, was okay, was living in the wilds hunting boar and living with a pack. That his son was happy despite being a monster.
Never again. He vowed bitterly.

Fenrir gave a gentle whine, one that said all at once, I forgive you, I love you, don't leave me, Help me, it wasn't your fault.

If anything, Loki could be glad that his son is not bitter, not angry. It is a gift he'd not expected to receive and knew that if he'd been in his son's place, he would have crossed the line into hate filled madness long ago. He knew himself that well at least, but also knew at the same time that that lack of bitterness is due in part to the fact that Fenrir is still a puppy in mind whilst an adult in body. if he were not chained to a rock, he would still be romping in forests and playing in the sun.

Well no longer. Loki thought angrily, a glint of green magic glowing from his clenched fists.

He bowed his head to Fenrir's once more, and then set to work. An anxious whine came from Fenrir, What are you doing? Won't you get in trouble? Oh please, please, please. Loki couldn't actually understand his son, Fenrir was far too young to be able to speak coherently, and to be understood with the All-Speak. Nevertheless, the whimpers are clear, and he can take a good guess as to the meaning.

Loki etched his green runes over the ribbon thin chain with an exacting hand; it would take a lot of magic to break these bonds and he couldn't waste a single spell. If his magic depleted too much, he would not have a way to protect his weakened son and himself if anyone came after him.

The sword keeping Fenrir's mouth open was next, the runes glowing and highlighting his son's cavernous mouth, scars ugly in the green light. Loki planned to break the chain and the sword at the same time, because if he knew anything about his people then Heimdell was bound to be watching. If that's the case, then they'll need to be able to move, and move quickly. Loki rocked back on his heels after he was done, considering his son's condition. He knew that it would be difficult for Fenrir to hide, heal or receive help in this size and this state. He would need to do something about it. Loki was reaching with his magic to heal his son when the sound of the Bifrost cracked across the plain and Loki knew he'd run out of time. With a sharp slice of his hand, he activated the runes, snapping the bonds and breaking the sword into four pieces. The metal fell to the ground, and his son moved slowly and jerkily off the rock he'd been chained to for so long.

Loki could hear the thrum of hoof beats – damn them to hel, they brought horses – in the distance. He moved swiftly, runes falling fast as he dared from his lips. He was weaving a blanket to hide his son from Heimdell's eyes, which meant it couldn't be half done, but the hoof beats were closer, closer, closer. Then with a gasp of relief, Loki finished saying the spell; Fenrir was shrinking before his eyes, de-aging but hopefully keeping his memories. It would be a bitter blow, albeit slightly deserved, if his son lost all memory of him. He was sorry that he has done this to his son but he doesn't have time for regrets now they're nearly here, he can hear Tyr's angry bellow. He has only enough time to open one of the paths between the worlds, to shove his son onto them and close up the rift in space again before he's drawing his daggers as he whirls to fight, his glamoured appearance firmly in place again.

He spared a brief thought for his son who is now travelling – falling - down the paths of the universe, and hopes that wherever he lands, that someone will love and care for him. He hoped that wherever Fenrir fell, someone would protect him, as Loki had never managed to do. Perhaps Loki would find him again, see his son happy and finally forgive himself for failing his son so badly.

/*/

The darkness was not absolute; the stars gave light, but these flashes of brightness hurt him, so he closed his eyes and let fate take him where it willed.

/*/

John Watson looked about him with narrowed eyes, land lying out before him, harsh, unforgiving, and war ravaged, automatically marking out spots that could provide the enemy cover or were too exposed. His eyes scanned the jagged cliffs and mountains that rose hazy and imposing, looking for glints of metal, movement, or hints of camouflage netting that would hide potential danger. While he and his squad were moving into land freshly cleared of insurgents by the American forces, he was wary from experience that often came at a painful cost. Seeing and sensing nothing he, turned and walked down for the observation tower, giving a nod to one of the women leaning on a Humvee and smoking. He recognised her; John had stitched her up a couple of weeks back after particularly narrow escape with a bullet. It had left a nasty graze that John had stitched tooth floss until he could get the woman to the med tent. Although he was trained as a doctor, he was also a soldier – and a dammed good one too. It also meant that he was a crack shot with a gun, good with snipers; good enough to be called in when they needed an extra man and not just a medic. That was the reason why John had been in the field with him, being shot at and resorting to tooth-floss for stitches when the surgical string had run out.

A tall fence with barbed wire and a single gate surrounded the small, makeshift British-American camp. The base was composed of semi-permanent tents and barracks; a few helicopters with a strip cleared for landing planes, two observation towers and plenty of room for movement. The camp was close to the front line, which meant that John saw a lot of action and spare watchers were never amiss. However, for the moment, it was relatively quiet. There were a couple of squads on patrol, and John would have been out there too, but his particular squad was on down time and he'd had a couple of patients that he didn't want to leave. They were stable now though, and he'd taken the chance to scan the area, telling himself it wasn't paranoia that made him do it. A cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, it was a squad coming in. From the look of it, they'd seen a little action, but had not called in a bird. So, nothing too serious, still, he hurried to the med tent. He might be needed.

As always, let me know what you liked, didn't like.
Reviews always make my day, not even kidding.

H.