Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2017, London, England — Age 29

Peter sighed as he turned around in a circle. Every street was unknown to him and he was cursing Mr. Stark in his head for asking him to do this for him. Spidey was meant for New York, not getting lost in London. Every street looked the same— gray cobblestone, pale sky, and the distant sound of a bus hissing to a stop.

Just as Peter was going to give up, someone bumped into him. “Oh sorry mate. I didn’t see ya there.” A blond man apologized as he looked up from his phone. 

Peter smiled, “Oh, it’s alright. I’m just kind of wandering uselessly anyways.” He laughed awkwardly, wondering how his Spider-Sense hadn’t warned him of the man. 

“You’re American?” The blond asked.

Peter nodded, “Yeah… could you tell by my clueless expression or the accent?” He joked, then held out his hand. “I’m Peter.”

“John,” the man took his hand with a smile. “Where are you headed, I can point you in the right direction.”

That had Peter brightening, “Really! Oh thank god.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “My phone died—well, technically I dropped it in a puddle dodging a cyclist.” Peter rambled, squinting to read Tony’s terrible handwriting.

“I’m going to— uh, 221B Bunker Street? No, um, sorry Mr. Stark should’ve had Pepper write this, I have no clue what it says.” He shrugs and glances at the man. “I’m looking for a detective…. I think it starts with an S?”

John’s eyes widened, “You’re looking for Sherlock?”

Peter snapped, “Yes!” He grinned, “Do you know where he is?”

John chuckled like Peter just said the funniest joke. “Yeah, kid. I sadly know exactly where he is. Come on, I’m heading that way.”

The blond sticks out a hand and a taxi comes to a stop. Peter slips in after him after John waved him in. “221B Baker Street,” he told the driver and Peter glanced at the paper before rolling his eyes and shoving it into his pocket. 

“So, what do you need a detective for?” John asked, sending out a quick text before looking at Peter.

Peter drummed his hands on his legs, “Oh, I don’t. Mr. Stark asked me to go and plead his case for him because Pepper was busy and he has a thing about pleading.” Peter explained, “Plus he was all like Peter, you’re a sweet kid, who’d say no to you. Which was nice of him but I’m realizing now that it was just to butter me up so he could skip it.” He rambled looking around at the passing buildings. 

“I don’t really mind cause who wouldn’t want a free trip to London. Although I really wish that Happy had been able to drive me here but he said he had to stay with the jet or something. I think he was lying but I can’t prove it.” Peter joked and then paused, looking over at John with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m a talker.”

John grinned, looking only a little overwhelmed by Peter which wasn’t too bad. “Nah, I don’t mind it.” He said and Peter didn’t bother calling him out on it. “My roommate is far more annoying than you could ever be.” He added and Peter perked up. 

“Your roommate?” 

John grinned, “Sherlock Holmes. You’re more willing to deal with idiots when you have someone shooting the wall in the middle of the night because he’s bored.” 

Peter blinked, “He did that?”

John nodded, “Oh he’s a brilliant man. But he’s also a complete ass and stubborn as hell. But then he has these moments that he’s just as human as you and I. Just a basket case half of the time.” John chuckles to himself and Peter can’t help but see how close the two men are. 

“I can’t wait to meet him.” 

John shakes his head with a fond smile and they turn onto Baker Street. “You’ll take that back.” He promised and Peter laughed. 

The car came to a stop and Peter hurried to pay with Mr. Stark's card before John could. John raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. They stepped out together and Peter straightened up as he felt eyes on him. He glanced up to see a tall man in the window above. Peter gave a small wave and the man let the blinds shut without even a smile back. 

John opens the door and Peter follows him up the stairs. He waits awkwardly as John hangs up his coat before leading him into the next door. The man from the window is sitting with his fingers under his chin, in a neat suit and studying him carefully. John moves a chair to be set in front of two cushy chairs and gestures Peter to it before he sits in the chair beside Sherlock. 

Peter moved with an awkward air as he sat and looked over Sherlock once more. “Um, hi, Mr. Holmes.” He smiled awkwardly. 

“Are you here for pleasantries,” Sherlock drawled, “or do you have something that might actually engage my brain?”

Peter shuffles. “Um— well I just—” 

John kicks Sherlock and glares at the man. “Peter, he’s just being an ass. Please continue. He hasn’t had a case in a while and he gets annoying the longer he’s bored.”  Sherlock looks at John with a betrayed frown. 

Peter clears his throat, “Oh, okay. I’m uh, Peter— Parker.” He started, the cold eyes of Sherlock more intense then he thought they’d be. “Mr. Stark asked me to talk to you. He was hoping you’d be willing to come to New York for a few days. He has a private jet and will handle any expenses of your trip along with paying you.” Peter started, his words coming out quickly. 

“The detectives in New York were annoying him and he did some research before settling on you for one of the best detectives he could find.”

Sherlock cuts him off with a sharp “Just get to the point.”

Peter winced, “Someone’s been killing people with mutant powers in New York. Well, America actually.” Peter blurts out, “Well, not killing because they're all alive but they're not— I don’t really know the specifics of that but—” Peter takes a deep breath, “They started out going after smaller targets like Luke Cage or Jessica Jones. But they’ve turned to other targets, stronger, better known targets.” Peter’s breath caught, “Hawkeye, Black Widow, The Winter Soldier, Warmachine, Daredevil…” Peter’s throat tightened as he listed their names. Each one carried a memory— a sparring match, a mission, a laugh. Now just silence. “They're all down. And there’s no sign of who or what happened.” 

Peter thought of the people he knew well. His time going on a stake out with Hawkeye or Daredevil working with him to take a drug ring down. It had his heart twisted with fear. 

Yet Sherlock grinned like Christmas came early. “John, you’ll need to pack a bag. The game’s afoot!” He pushed out of his chair and pulled out his phone. “This jet, can it stop in Ireland?”

Peter frowned, “I guess, yeah? Why?”

Sherlock grinned, “I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Who?” John asked, his brow furrowed.

“A very annoying man,” was all Sherlock answered.

~~~~~

Merlin sat in the grass of a local park, a book in his lap but his eyes were on the lake in front of him. It wasn’t Avalon, but Merlin had always looked upon the water with a sense of longing. As if Arthur’s body resided in all of them.

The peace is broken by his cell phone ringing from his bag. Merlin dug into it, answering before he even looked at the caller ID. He got enough calls these days that he rarely bothered saving numbers unless they were truly important.

“This is Merlin,” He greets, shoving his book into his bag. 

“Ah, Sherrinford, perfect.” A voice came through the line, a voice he hadn’t heard in years. 

It has a frown built of confusion and annoyance making an appearance. “Sherlock?” He asks his adoptive brother. 

“Who else would I be?” Sherlock states and Merlin can practically see the eyeroll from his tone.

Merlin stood and grabbed his bag, “You know Sherlock, I can hang up. It’s very easy, just a click of a button.”

Sherlock scoffed, “As if you’d do that to me. Anyways—”

Just to piss him off, Merlin ends the call. He moves towards his bike and lets the next call go to voicemail before he answers the second call. “Hello, you’ve reached Merlin.” He chirps with a practiced cheer.

Sherlock sighs, “Sherrinford—” 

“If I call you Sherlock, you could do me the honor of calling me Merlin. I mean, I could call you William if I so desire.” Merlin interrupts. 

That has Sherlock huffing, “Merlin is a ridiculous name.”

“And Sherrinford isn’t?” Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Can you just shut up for a minute I need—”

Merlin interrupted him without any guilt. “You need something? We haven’t spoken in years and the first time you call is to get something?” He spat and glared at his bike. 

“It’s not my fault you moved,” Sherlock snapped back.

As he reached his bike he stopped, “Just get to the point.” Merlin sighed, a weight in his chest. 

Sherlock was always making it harder… It wasn't hard to see how much he didn’t care but he always twisted it to make Merlin feel like the distance between them was all on him. As if it wasn’t the result of a childhood filled with bitterness, cold shoulders, and snapping words.

“I have a case.” 

Merlin bit back a snapping comment, “So?”

“I have a need for your expertise.” Sherlock said each word like it pained him to admit.

Merlin paused, “My expertise?”

Sherlock sighed like Merlin was an idiot. “Yes it seems like your magic obsession may come into use.”

The words hit Merlin hard and it took everything in him not to hang up. To hear Sherlock say it—like he actually wanted Merlin’s help—cut deeper than any insult ever had.

Merlin swallowed hard, “Sherlock—”

“You’ll need to pack for a week. We’ll pick you up tomorrow.” Sherlock stated and before Merlin can refuse, before he can ask anymore questions, Sherlock hangs up. Merlin stares at his phone for a long moment before just texting Fuck you, Sherly.

He doubted Sherlock would reply. But he also never would’ve guessed that Sherlock would’ve called him in the first place. So maybe Sherlock’s grown in the last few years.

Chapter Text

Merlin sat on a park bench, waiting right where Sherlock had told him to. He picked at the ratty backpack in his lap as time ticked further and further past the meet-up time. The cold wind bit his hands and he mumbled a quick "Beþian.” The warmth spell sank into his bones, and he sighed in relief. 

Relief was short-lived. His watch told him Sherlock was more than thirty minutes late. His grip tightened on the old bag— the one that had followed him from life to life. The enchantments stitched into its seams made it undetectable, unlosable, indestructible. It carried his lives inside it: relics, clothes, coins, spellbooks, a history of mistakes he couldn’t throw away.

But they didn’t give him much comfort as it sunk in that Sherlock had once again made him the fool. The Holmes household was clever and cold in equal measure. He loved them, but he’d never really belonged. 

He’d been adopted as a baby after a sorcerer from his past life had struck him with a killing curse. His magic had reacted instinctively— teleporting him away and de-aging him once more. It had torn him from a life filled with warmth and honesty and dropped him into the brilliance and chill of the Holmes family.

It had him fumbling to find a role. But for all their brilliance, Merlin learned that he had his own intelligence. Years of liars and deceit had him finding his place among them. The kind one— the performer that hid in plain sight. 

Sherlock and Mycroft had each other— the prodigy and the politician. Merlin was the extra. The strange one. The “artistic” one. The “sentimental” one. The idiot, as Sherlock had once kindly said.

He’d been small enough to fit in a crib when Mycroft’s mother first held him. And when his magic began to return, it was too late to leave without questions. So he stayed.

He regretted it more often than he admitted.

He’d spent years trying to impress them, to prove that he wasn’t the weak link in a family of brilliance. But for every moment he managed to show his knowledge and skill, there were his quirks— the ones he could never quite hide.

For every perfect score, there was a moment when Merlin got distracted by a flare of magic humming through the earth beneath him. For every flawlessly crafted lie, there was a moment when he blinked into consciousness, already tangled in some situation he couldn’t remember walking into.

Nothing hid his oddities— not even the degrees that stacked up like empty plates: archaeology, psychology, history, medicine. All impressive. All pointless. None of it ever made him feel like enough.

And one day, someone convinced him to stop chasing their approval.

Now, he lived simply. A small flat in Ireland, another in California for when he wanted to visit the few people he still cared about. Alone, he could work himself raw without anyone telling him to stop. Teach at the university. Take night shifts at the hospital. Volunteer. Help strangers, meet no one.

With a sigh, Merlin rose from the bench. He slung the bag over his shoulder and turned from the field. His chest ached— a reminder that, no matter how much he hid, he never stopped loving or hoping.

For a fleeting second, he wished he were more like Mycroft— emotionless, untouchable, perfectly composed. But he wasn’t. He still cared. That was the curse of it: no matter how many centuries passed, no matter how many homes he lost, he always cared.

Then came a sound he didn’t recognize well — low, mechanical, rising. He turned just as a jet lowered itself onto the field. Wind whipped his hair and bit his skin. The engines cut, the roar fell to silence, and the back door of the jet opened.

Sherlock stepped out first, coat flaring in the wind, with who had to be Dr. John Watson at his side. “Sherrinford!” Sherlock called.

For a moment, Merlin just stared. It would be easy to turn around and walk away. Sherlock had never wanted him around before. But that was exactly why he went to meet him now— because, for once, Sherlock did want him. Even if it was only out of convenience, it was something.

“If you call me Sherrinford one more time, I’m leaving,” Merlin said as he passed him and boarded the jet.

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat. Merlin sighed. He should’ve turned around. Instead, he smacked Sherlock lightly on the back of the head as he passed and looked around the jet’s interior.

A kid—sixteen, maybe—sat hunched in one of the seats, looking uneasy. Not a fan of flying, then. Which meant whatever brought him here mattered.

A quick glance at the sleek interior told Merlin this was a Stark Industries jet. To his knowledge, the billionaire didn’t have children. Maybe an intern, or a ward. Although, he looked too young to be an intern and having a ward still would’ve made the news. 

So, that leaves a connection either through a friend or the Avengers. And since the kid is alone, proving that Stark deems him capable of taking care of himself, Merlin was leaning towards superheroes. The newest Non-Avenger was Spider-Man, someone who was obviously young. The more he observed, the more it clicked into place.

He moved closer, noting an open backpack and the name printed on a homework assignment. “You must be Peter?”

The kid blinked, startled, then took his hand. “Mr. Holmes told you about me?”

“Something like that,” Merlin said with a small grin, before glancing toward the other man on board—a broad, serious-looking man in a tux, sitting like someone used to injuries that never quite healed. Merlin racked his brain to think of someone in Tony Stark’s employment getting hurt in any big news stories, but there were too many to pick from so Merlin admitted defeat. 

“Sorry, and you are?” Merlin asked, extending a hand.

“Happy,” the man said flatly.

Merlin grinned. “Well, that’s a name to live up to. I’m Merlin.”

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock corrected automatically.

Merlin didn’t even turn. “John, did you know Sherlock’s real name is actually William? He just didn’t think it sounded cool enough, so he went with Sherlock because ‘Sherlock the Pirate’ sounded better.” Merlin could feel Sherlock’s glare as John snorted.

“At least I don’t go by the name of a make-believe wizard,” Sherlock snapped.

Merlin rolled his eyes, not bothering with a snapback. He dropped his bag into a seat. “So, Sherly,” he said, leaning back, “why exactly did I have to call out of work for this?”

John’s lips twitched. “Sherly?” he echoed, amused.

Merlin sat down as Sherlock stubbornly claimed the seat across from him. With an exaggerated pout, Merlin groaned, “Come on, Sherlock, don’t be like that.”

John rolled his eyes and took the spot beside Merlin instead. “I’m John,” he said, offering his hand.

Merlin shook it with a grin. “I’m Merlin. It’s nice to finally meet the man I’ve read so much about. Your blog’s great, by the way— I love how you show how much of an ass Sherlock is.”

John barked a laugh. “Thank you. Though I have to say, Sherlock’s never mentioned a Sherrinford— or a Merlin.” 

Merlin’s smile didn’t waver, but it still hurt to hear.

John continued, “Although, to be fair, I didn’t know Sherlock’s brother until he stalked me and kidnapped me.”

Merlin frowned. “Mycroft did what? Oh my god, he’s such an ass.” He huffed and crossed his arms. “He tried to pay off one of my bosses a few years ago to spy on me. I sent him a glitter bomb in retaliation. Didn’t stop him, but it helped me feel better.”

That got a smirk from Sherlock and a laugh from John. “I’m sure Mycroft loved that,” John said.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Merlin said, grinning. “He never called to yell, but a reliable source told me he had to throw the suit away.”

“A reliable source?” Sherlock drawled.

Merlin paused, winked at his brother, then turned back to John. “Anyway, it’s no shock Sherlock’s never mentioned me.” He said it lightly, like it didn’t sting. “I’m Sherrinford Merlin Holmes—the youngest. They call me the normal one.”

John’s head snapped toward Sherlock. “What! You never told me you had a younger brother! I thought it was just you and Mycroft.”

Merlin pulled his laptop from his bag and Sherlock sighed. “It wasn’t important until now.”

“Important?” John shouted.

Merlin slipped away as the two argued and sat beside Peter, who was bent over homework that looked far too advanced for his age. “So,” Merlin asked, “what are you working on? Need any help?”

Peter shook his head, finishing the last problem. “Nah. It’s pretty straightforward. More busy work than challenging.” Merlin raised his eyebrows. Maybe he’d been wrong about the intern theory—especially as the kid finished within minutes. 

As Peter shoved it back into his bag, Merlin opened his computer. “So,” Merlin drawled quietly, “I’m assuming you gave Sherlock the case. Mind filling me in?”

Peter blinked, “You came without knowing why?”

Merlin wanted to sink into the seat and disappear from existence when Sherlock glanced over at Peter’s words. Instead he rolled his eyes and shrugged. “He basically begged me. It was pitiful. You’d have caved too.” He lied loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock huffed, sliding down in his seat. “He hasn’t changed. Still a liar and utterly—”

John elbowed him. “Polite. Unlike you and Mycroft. Stop being such a drama queen.”

Merlin used a flicker of magic to power his battered laptop and pulled up news from New York. The top headline from the Daily Bugle made him frown: Action Figure Murders: The Toymaker Strikes Again.

He skimmed the article, unease prickling down his spine. “So, I assume the case is about—” Merlin turned the screen towards Peter, “—the Toymaker?”

Peter nodded, “Yeah. Mr. Stark can’t find anything. It’s almost like magic.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened. He hated Sherlock more than ever—hated how easy it was for him to call on Merlin for help. Years of isolation and being considered an idiot for the strange things Merlin couldn’t avoid with all his magic and the sway he still had over the magical and mythical.

“Right,” Merlin said quietly. “I get why I’m here, then.” He slouched back in his seat, he subscribed to the news site before continuing to scroll through the article.

Chapter Text

Arriving at Avengers Compound was one of the strangest things Merlin had done in a long time—though, certainly not the strangest.

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to the Hales, asking if anyone was in New York. He had a feeling he’d have time to visit his old friends once Sherlock got going.

Before he could get pulled into a text thread, a notification flashed across his screen. The Daily Bugle. He frowned and tapped it open. The Toymaker Fails Against New York’s Witch!

Ignoring the usual clickbait intro, he skimmed straight to the details: The Scarlet Witch had been out with the Vision. The Toymaker attacked when she was alone but she managed to protect herself. Before the Toymaker disappeared and the Vision returned to her side.

Merlin’s brow furrowed. “It says here the Scarlet Witch just survived an attack,” he said aloud, glancing up from his phone.

Peter’s head snapped toward him, then back to Tony. “She survived?” His voice cracked slightly, and Merlin felt the urge to comfort him—but Sherlock blocked him, plucking the phone out of his hand to read the article.

“We need to speak with her,” Sherlock said flatly, taking Merlin’s phone as he moves towards the door. 

Merlin sighed and followed, but Tony stepped in their path. “She’s not doing too well,” he warned. “Whatever that psycho did messed with her head. We’re trying to get her therapist on an emergency call, but no luck yet.”

That made Merlin pause. “I’m a licensed therapist, if that helps. If not, perhaps the Vision could fill us in?”

Tony shook his head. “Steve’s with her right now. But her powers are kind of—” he made a vague explosion gesture “—on the fritz. We can’t send in someone who can’t defend themselves.”

Merlin’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Oh, I’m quite protected.”

Sherlock shot him a warning look that Merlin ignored. “Why doesn’t my brother go speak with the Vision,” Merlin suggested calmly, “and I’ll give you a rundown of my qualifications.”

He was led to a quiet room with Tony, the hum of the Tower faint through the walls. Merlin glanced around, taking in the gleaming tech and floor-to-ceiling screens. “I’m surprised you contacted Sherlock,” he said lightly. “He’s not exactly… popular outside of England.”

Tony shot him a sideways look. “My friends are being targeted. I needed the best of the best.”

Merlin nodded, catching the strain in Tony’s posture—the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much for too long. “Understandable.”

Tony’s gaze flicked back to him, curious, calculating. The door hissed shut behind them. Merlin cleared his throat. “Right, then.”

With a small flick of his hand, he did something he hadn’t done in years: used magic in front of someone who didn’t already know. The air shimmered faintly, and a rolled document appeared in his grasp.

“Ah—perfect,” he said, scanning it briefly before handing it over. “Here’s my résumé. Oh, and it’s not on there, but I’m actually a rather powerful warlock. Also a dragonlord, though—” he shrugged, “—there aren’t many dragons left these days.”

Tony blinked, glanced at the paper, then back at him. “What?”

Merlin shifted awkwardly but held his ground. “You asked for a therapist who could defend himself. Normally I avoid using my magic in front of people, but…” He met Tony’s eyes. “I do care about people. If I can help calm the Scarlet Witch—honestly, you don’t even have to let me ask her anything about the case—I’d still like to try.”

Tony stared at him for a long moment. “A warlock dragonlord?” he repeated, rubbing a hand down his face. “Why not? We’ve already got an Asgardian.”

Merlin’s mouth curved into a grin. “To be fair, that surprised me as well. I hadn’t met other gods.” He tilted his head, studying Tony, who suddenly looked every inch of his exhaustion.

“Well, come on then,” Tony said finally. “I suppose Warlock Therapist isn’t any weirder than Wizard Doctor.” He started toward the door—then, quick like a test, lifted his gauntlet arm. The repulsor whined, ready to fire.

Before Tony could react, Merlin’s shield flared to life—smooth, golden, and soundless. The magic pulsed once, and Tony’s gauntlet powered down on its own. Merlin smiled, utterly calm. “Lead on.”

Tony looked him over before nodding slowly. “So… is the name Merlin a joke, or—”

A quiet laugh bubbled up from Merlin. “Oh, the joke’s on me.” He glanced over at Tony, and something in his expression must have given him away—too much sorrow, too old to hide. “You know what,” he said softly, “if everything goes well, I’ll tell you a story about it.”

The grief in his voice hung in the air for a moment before Tony just exhaled and shrugged. “Sure. Add that to the weird list.” 

He keyed open the door to Wanda’s room. Captain America was already inside, standing near the girl on the bed. But Merlin froze in the doorway.

A pulsing red energy filled the space—thick, flickering, alive. It reminded him of an ancient tree he’d once watched grow poisonous after being cut down. The chaos pressed against his senses, coiling and burning until it brushed against his own magic, tearing through the golden ever-present wards and stealing his breath.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here.

He was somewhere else—his world flashing green, his body searing as he stepped between his friend and death. There hadn’t even been time to see their faces before his magic tore him away in desperation.

“Wanda! Stop!” Steve’s voice cut through the haze, grounding him.

Merlin’s power lashed out instinctively, gold sweeping through the room in a single pulse. The red magic faltered, then collapsed back into itself. He gasped, staggering slightly as the world steadied again.

On the bed, Wanda sat with her head in her hands, breathing hard. She hadn’t even meant to strike out, her magic was just acting. Merlin understood that too well. 

Merlin reached out—not for her, but for her magic. His fingers brushed the air where it still shimmered red, and it struck at him, wild and wounded. He hummed softly, letting the sound carry through the chaos. The energy quivered, wrapping around his hand like smoke.

He could feel it—the grief, the fury, the pain woven deep within it. This wasn’t natural magic. Someone had strengthened it, twisted it, left fingerprints he couldn’t yet name. 

“Shhh,” Merlin murmured to the restless energy. “It’s alright.” The room seemed to lighten, just a little, as he brushed his fingers through the air.

When he finally looked toward Wanda, she was staring at him—wide-eyed, mouth slightly open—as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Merlin smiled softly at her. “You’ve suffered a great deal,” he said quietly. “For that, I’m sorry.” He took a step closer, ignoring the two Avengers watching him. 

“Magic is volatile when tampered with. And I can feel someone else’s touch inside yours.” His voice gentled, aching with empathy. “It’s a violating thing—having someone bend your power to their will. But I imagine,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “I don’t have to tell you that.”

He crouched down beside the bed, lowering himself to her line of sight. “I’m sure your life hasn’t been easy,” he murmured, “but right now, you don’t have to fight.” The red mist of her magic drifted along the floor like fog, brushing faintly against his boots. “I’m not an enemy,” Merlin added gently. “I think you can feel that.”

Wanda gave a jerky nod, eyes wide and shining. Merlin smiled softly. “I’m Merlin—Sherrinford Merlin Holmes, technically, but I prefer my middle name.” His tone was light, coaxing a spark of normalcy. “They called you Wanda. Is that what you like to be called?” After a pause, she nodded again.

“I imagine you’re a bit confused about why your magic’s calm now,” Merlin said. “In the simplest terms… I asked it to.” His eyes flicked toward the faint red energy that still lingered. “Magic tends to listen to me, no matter whose it is. One upside to being magic incarnate, I suppose.”

The room stayed quiet and Merlin didn’t look from Wanda to see the others’ reactions. 

“I’m sure someone’s told you your eyes flare red when you cast something powerful—something more than flicking off the lights?” He went on, voice low and steady. She nodded, a little uncertain.

Merlin’s smile deepened. “Mine glow gold. Most sorcerers’ do. It’s because our magic flows from the soul. But just because yours burns red doesn’t make it evil.” He glanced at her magic, which now shimmered faintly, subdued but restless. “It’s simply been tampered with. That’s not your fault.”

Wanda frowned. “I was not born with it.”

“Maybe,” Merlin said with a shrug. “But I think you were. I think someone took a young sorceress and twisted her power until it behaved the way they wanted.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So, you think I’m a weapon?”

Merlin’s brow creased. “No,” he said firmly. “I think someone wanted a weapon—and you were the byproduct.” His voice softened again. “Someone can be raised for evil and still stand against it when the time comes.”

She studied him, suspicion threading through her tone. “Who are you?”

He hesitated, then eased down to sit on the floor, cross-legged at her bedside. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said quietly, a faint, self-deprecating smile ghosting across his lips. “My name really is Merlin. It’s not a nickname or a joke.”

He looked past her, eyes distant. “I’m… a legend that never ends. Not a reincarnation. Just a tired old man pretending to be someone new every few decades. I live each life like it’s my first, then decide when it’s time to step back and die again.”

His voice stayed light, but the grief behind it was unmistakable. “I am magic itself. A child of the Earth, Sky, and Sea. And I was alive when Ar—” he caught himself, his throat tightening, “when King Arthur sat on Camelot’s throne.”

He cleared his throat, pulling himself back to the present. “But my story doesn’t matter. Not until my king returns.” He looked back at her gently. “Right now, what matters is that I can help you. The pain, the grief, the confusion — I know it well. And I can help you through it.”

Wanda studied him for a long moment before speaking softly. “Your eyes… they’re old.”

Merlin’s grin broke through, light and teasing. “Way to make a man feel his age.”

A soft snort came from behind him. Merlin glanced over to see Captain America looking startled, while Tony had a hand over his mouth, barely containing his laughter. 

Merlin rolled his eyes, leaning back on his hands. “Yeah, yeah, all you youngens and your humor.” He teased, a smirk on his lips.

~~~~~

Peter spun slowly in his chair, staring at the ceiling of the room Tony had given him in the compound. It had been hours since they got back. Merlin was still with Wanda, Sherlock had vanished on his own errand, and Peter… well, Peter was just waiting.

He knew he wasn’t part of the case. Bringing Sherlock here had probably been the most useful thing he could do. Still, the waiting made his skin buzz. His fingers twitched with the urge to move, to help.

That’s why he’d offered the room next to his to Merlin. It usually belonged to Aunt May or Ned when they visited, but it felt wrong for Merlin to be stuck in the guest wing alone with Sherlock.

Now, though, the silence was driving him crazy. He debated making a web hammock just to burn the energy when he heard the door to the next room open. He paused, listening in.

The sounds of Merlin dropping his bag with a long weary sigh had Peter shifting. He wanted to go check on him, but he also wanted to give him space. Peter hesitated. He shouldn’t eavesdrop. He knew that. But when he heard the soft sound of a phone ringing, curiosity won.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call,” Merlin’s voice came through the wall— low, tired, fond. “I know, but I figured I’d check in. I’m glad you’re spending more time home. New York was always supposed to be temporary for you guys.”

There was a pause, then a quiet laugh. “You’re still an ass.” Peter smiled faintly— and then froze when he heard Merlin’s voice crack.

“I’m not—” Merlin started, then went quiet, as if interrupted. “He asked for help. I didn’t go back to beg for his attention.” Merlin says quietly, trying to defend himself but falling short. The silence that followed was thick. Peter held his breath.

“Hale, I can be helpful right now,” Merlin said softly. “I know I shouldn’t have answered Sherlock’s call, but I did. And— fuck how could I say no when people are dying?” A sad laugh. Then the sound of fabric shifting— Merlin sliding down the wall to the floor.

“Yes, well, you’ve never been one for doing things for others…” he murmured, voice breaking into a sigh. “I’ll stop by before heading home, at least. I promise.”

He paused. “I’m sure Sherlock will push me out of this the second he can. I’ll head to California right after.” A pause. Then his tone softened. “Yeah— love you. Tell Derek hi for me… Oh, shush. You live in the same town, I’m not asking for much.” Peter heard the faint sound of a laugh— a real one, this time— before a quiet thump as Merlin’s phone hit the floor.

For a long moment, there was silence. Peter sat back in his chair, staring at the wall between them. He didn’t know who “Hale” or “Derek” were, but it was the first time Merlin had sounded open.

Peter was familiar with using humor to hide his feelings. It was what he did every time he put on the mask. But listening to Merlin talk, it was the first time he sounded like a real person who had bad days along with the good ones. 

And instead of relaxing, it made him restless. He wanted to know more. About the man who smiled when Sherlock called him useless. Who met cruelty with warmth like it was second nature.

He lasted maybe two minutes before knocking on the door. “Come in,” Merlin called, voice lighter than Peter expected.

The older man was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, a book open across his knees. He looked up with a small smile. “Hey, Peter. Funny thing—” Merlin’s mouth quirked, “I was just talking to a Peter.”

Peter laughed softly. “There’s a million of us. In my grade alone, there are two—though the other one usually just goes by Pete.”

Merlin’s smile deepened. “The Peter I know would gut me if I called him Pete.”

Peter leaned awkwardly in the doorway. “That’s… good?”

He closed the book in his lap, studying him quietly. “You okay?” Merlin asked. “Not that I mind talking about my very short list of friends, but you seem tense.”

Peter winced, “Oh?” His voice went up slightly, “Pssh, I’m fine. Totally fine. I was just stopping by to— ya know—” he waved his hands vaguely, “— say goodnight.”

Merlin laughed softly, “That so?” He leaned his chin on his palm, “That’s very kind of you. You’re a good kid.”

Peter nodded, jerky and awkward. “Yeah, well—uh—goodnight, then.” He turned to leave when Merlin’s voice stopped him.

“Peter,” he called gently. Peter froze. “You’re not subtle, you know. You keep watching me like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”

Peter flushed. “Sorry. I just… you’re different.” He winced. “Not in a bad way. Just—you don’t act like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“That’s fair,” Merlin said softly. “I’m not like anyone you’ve met.” Peter looked at him for a long moment and realized how lonely the man looked, even when smiling.

Mj always said he had a hero complex, but maybe this wasn’t that. Maybe he just couldn’t stand seeing someone so kind look so lonely.

Chapter Text

That morning, Peter was halfway through a stack of pancakes Steve had made when everyone gathered in the common room to discuss the case. The smell of maple syrup and coffee hung in the air— oddly homey for a murder briefing.

Sherlock and John stood off to the side, quiet and sharp-eyed, while Merlin stepped out of Wanda’s room. To everyone’s surprise, Wanda followed. The conversation faltered immediately. Vision appeared at her side in an instant, his hand brushing her arm in silent reassurance.

Steve gave her a small nod, and she managed a faint smile in return. Clearing his throat, Steve began, “Alright. With Wanda’s help, we’ve managed to get a rough look at what the suspect may look like.” Tony tapped at his tablet, and the wall display flickered to life with a sketch. 

Peter stilled, staring at the image. The woman on the screen looked… ordinary, at first. Blonde hair tied back, soft curls framing a face that could’ve belonged to anyone. Rosy cheeks, even. But her eyes—

Her eyes were wrong. Lined dark, too sharp, too empty. There was no warmth in them. No life.

Across the room, Merlin’s expression changed. His gaze sharpened, a subtle tilt to his head as he stepped closer to the screen. The golden undertone of his eyes caught the light, unreadable.

“I had FRIDAY run her picture through every database we’ve got,” Tony said, swiping across his screen an actual picture popping up on the screen. “We got a hit Morgause La—”

“Fey,” Merlin breathed, finishing for him.

The room went still. Every head turned toward him. Merlin’s chest heaved, his eyes wide and unfocused. “Mor—” The word caught in his throat. Peter could see panic flicker through his features like static.

“You know who it is,” Sherlock said beside him, voice sharp as glass.

Merlin shook his head hard, his hands flying up to clutch his temples. “No—no, it’s impossible,” he choked out. “I would’ve noticed. There would’ve been signs—she couldn’t—”

A gust of air rippled through the room, soft at first, then stronger. Loose papers lifted from the table. The lights flickered once.

Peter leapt off his stool and darted to Merlin’s side. “Merlin?” he asked, voice small, frightened.

Merlin’s breath hitched, his voice breaking. “It’s not her,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “It can’t be her.” The air around him shimmered faintly, his magic slipping loose with his control.

“I would’ve noticed,” he said again, barely breathing. Then, suddenly, Sherlock was there, gripping his wrist. The older Holmes didn’t say a word. He didn’t force Merlin to meet his eyes— just anchored him, silent and steady.

“There would’ve been signs,” Merlin choked, finally looking up at his brother. His eyes were glassy with tears. Sherlock studied him, all sharp calculations subdued by something quieter— concern, maybe.

“Names,” Merlin muttered, voice trembling. “Names have power. Maybe it’s— maybe that’s why— names are important.” His gaze darted around the room as the wind began to rise again, tugging at the papers and hair around them. “Your parents,” he blurted suddenly. “What are their names?”

Sherlock frowned. “Our parents? Hunith and Balinor. You know this.”

Merlin’s head tilted, his breathing uneven. “I— I can’t remember,” he whispered. “I don’t remember her name.” His voice broke on the word her. “She— I can’t remember my mom’s name.”

His eyes flared gold, and every light in the room went out. The air thickened, humming with power as his panic rose. “There’s Arthur and— and Gwen,” he stammered. “Mor—Morgana, and the druid boy. There was a druid boy, he—” his voice caught, trembling, “I made him do it. I failed him. What was his name?”

Peter couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do— how to help. Sherlock didn’t seem much better, his jaw tight as he flicked a desperate glance toward John, as if the doctor could fix this.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, the room trembling faintly. “The Great Dragon and the Lady of the Lake,” he whispered. “They both had names— Lancelot. No.” His breath hitched. “That was my friend.” He shook his head hard, the motion almost violent. “What are their names?”

“Merlin,” Sherlock snapped, the sharpness in his tone cutting through the chaos. Merlin’s eyes flew open, wide and wild. He looked at his brother like he was searching for something to anchor to.

“Will—” Merlin’s voice broke again, fragile. “That was someone. Who was that?” His gaze darted, desperate. “Sherlock, who was he?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He shook his head slowly, helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Merlin’s eyes shimmered, his breath hitching. “He died,” he whispered. “I remember that—no—no, I don’t. But they all die.” His voice cracked. “That’s what they have in common.”

A light touch landed on Peter’s shoulder, guiding him back. Wanda moved past him, eyes glowing red as she reached into the power and quietly pushed it down. Then, as if the world exhaled, the lights flickered back on. The wind fell still. Peter looked at Merlin— he didn’t look any better. His chest heaved, his hands trembling, his legs threatening to give out. But Wanda canceled out the magic swirling around the room.

John stepped in from the other side, taking Merlin’s hand. “Breathe with me,” he said softly. His tone was firm but gentle— the voice of someone who’d steadied panic before. The breathing exercise is something Peter’s heard before, but it’s different aimed at Merlin than when Peter had to watch Pepper guide Tony through his panic attacks. 

Peter stood back, heart pounding, as the only sound left in the room was Merlin’s ragged breathing— slow, uneven, but gradually finding rhythm again.

He was still clinging to Sherlock, fingers making Sherlock’s wrist white from pressure, and for once, Sherlock didn’t try to pull away. The taller man stood still, unmoving, an anchor in a storm.

Merlin blinked a few times, his gaze dragging toward the image still glowing on the screen. “I need to go,” he muttered, eyes tracing the woman’s face. “I— I’ll be back.”

Sherlock opened his mouth—whether to argue, agree, or stop him, no one could tell. But before he could speak, Merlin’s eyes flared gold. A flash of light filled the room, and when it faded, Merlin was gone. Leaving Sherlock staggering as he’s suddenly let go.

Peter jumped, scanning the room like Merlin might reappear from thin air. John was the first to find his voice. “He just— how did he—” He stammered, turning to Sherlock, “Can you?”

The older Holmes gave him a look sharp enough to cut. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a man of science, not magic.”

He rubbed his hands together, a nervous tic disguised as detachment. “Merlin’s always been… different. While I dislike admitting when I’m wrong, I once believed my brother suffered from a mental affliction.” His voice flattened to something clinical, distant. “He had these friends—the Hales—who fed into those delusions. Until one of them proved to me that humans aren’t at the top of the food chain.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy. Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, but his tone betrayed something—a faint crack, quickly buried. “By then it was too late to correct my mistake. So I let him believe I thought him insane.”

John frowned, incredulous. “I know you’re an ass, but you’re not stupid. You never apologized? Seriously, Sherlock? What about after you faked your death? Did you even tell him?”

Sherlock just glanced at John with a frown. “It didn’t matter. It didn’t affect him.”

“Didn’t—” John broke off with a scoff, storming over to the couch. He dropped down hard, muttering under his breath as his head fell into his hands.

Sherlock didn’t follow. He just stared up at the screen, his voice low and steady. “Morgause,” he said at last. “In Arthurian legend, she’s a contradictory figure.” His tone carried no surprise. No regret. Only fact.

“So… he really is the Merlin?” Tony asked before Sherlock could continue. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, Stark. Do keep up.”

“But he’s your brother?” Sam frowned.

The sigh that left Sherlock was long and exasperated. “He’s adopted, obviously. It took me a moment to realize it myself, so I don’t blame your simpler minds for the delay.” He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly. “But once you know the facts, it’s quite simple. How do you best hide as an immortal man?” He pauses and then sighs, like he’s disappointed in them. “By not being one.”

Peter blinked at that, trying to process it— but it was Thor who spoke next, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “Immortality is not a gift so easily given or taken,” the god said. “Even among us, death is still possible.”

Wanda shifted, drawing their attention. Her voice was soft, almost reverent. “I don’t think Merlin’s immortal like you, Thor.” She paused. “I don’t think his magic would let him die.”

She hesitated, searching for words. “When his magic brushed against mine, it didn’t feel like my magic. It felt like—” her eyes unfocused for a moment, remembering— “like pure power. As if life itself breathed through him.” She glanced down at her hands. “It felt like I was truly alive for the first time.”

Sherlock hummed, intrigued. “Fascinating. I do wonder if he’d let me run a few tests—”

“No,” John snapped, voice cutting through the room. 

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine.” But Peter was certain, from the glint in his gaze, that no one in the room believed that for a second.

Sherlock cleared his throat, snapping back into facts after the denial. “As I was saying: in most accounts, Morgause is the sister of Morgana Le Fay and possibly the daughter of Uther Pendragon. Naturally, being such an old legend, the details vary.”

~~~~~

Merlin appeared at the edge of the Lake of Avalon.

The air was cold, the kind that clung to bone. His hands trembled as he stepped forward, boots sinking into the wet earth. The water bit at his legs, but he paid it no mind—his eyes fixed on the smooth surface under the setting sun.

He reached out, hands hovering over the water. Searching. For Arthur. For Excalibur. For proof that something sacred still remained.

“He’s still in the lake,” a voice said softly.

Merlin spun, nearly losing his footing. A young girl stood in the reeds, her hair dripping onto a purple silk dress, as if she decided to go for a swim in full medieval garb. 

“Hello, Merlin,” she greeted with a small, knowing smile. “It’s been many years since you last set foot in my waters.”

His throat tightened. He swallowed, trying to find the name he should have known instantly. “It’s—Morgause. She’s alive?”

The Lady tilted her head, a faint echo of sorrow crossing her face. “Fate is a tricky thing. You believed he’d rise again… but Arthur died to a sword forged in dragonfire. No one survives a fatal strike from such a blade.”

Merlin’s jaw clenched. “So he’s just—just fucking dead?”

“His soul lived on.” Her expression didn’t change. “He’s been reborn.”

Everything inside him went still.

“They all have,” she murmured. Her eyes softened, heavy with a grief older than the water itself. “You’ve lived so long, Merlin, that you’ve forgotten too much to see the signs.”

His knees hit the water with a splash. He bowed his head, the sound of his breath rough in the night air. “He’s alive?” His voice cracked. “Arthur’s alive—and I missed it?”

The Lady moved forward, the water rippling softly around her. She knelt before him and cupped his cheek in one cool, damp hand. “Oh, love,” she whispered, her touch light as mist. “Fate has never been kind to you.”

And there, kneeling in the lake of the love of his life, Merlin broke. 

Sobs tore free as he crumpled into her touch. She gathered him close, holding him as if he were something fragile that the world had long forgotten how to care for. Her thin fingers threaded gently through his hair, her presence steady— like a babbling brook, like the gentle lapping of water along the shore.

“Merlin,” she murmured, “you haven’t missed him completely. He’s out there still— he’s the age he was when you lost him.” Her voice was calm, a promise rippling through it. “And soon, you’ll meet those you’ve lost.”

He choked on a sob. “I can’t—why didn’t I notice?”

She hummed, soft and knowing. “Your memory of Camelot isn’t what it was. Too many years have passed. You didn’t recognize your mother. Nor your father.” Merlin lifted his head, tear-streaked and trembling. The Lady smiled at him with infinite patience. “You’ve forgotten my name.”

His mouth opened in apology, but she silenced him with a fingertip against his lips. “It’s no insult to me,” she said gently. “We didn’t know each other long.”

He swallowed hard. “But you—”

“Merlin,” she said softly, her voice a ripple of old sorrow. “I loved you, once. But your heart was never mine. Your mind chose which memories to keep, and mine… is one I’m glad you lost.” 

She brushed her thumbs across his cheekbones, tender and sad. “You used to look so guilty when I smiled at you.”

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, his chin trembling. She shifted closer and pressed a cool kiss to his forehead. When she drew back, she looked less like a woman and more like the water itself—her edges blurring, her skin catching the light like ripples on a current.

“You will be happy again,” she murmured. “We’ve all hoped to see it happen.”

Tears streaked down his face. “I—” he started, voice breaking.

“Two sides of the same coin,” she said, gaze drifting out toward the lake. “Reuniting at last.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I’m so happy for you, Merlin.”

Chapter Text

Peter screamed when a soaking-wet Merlin popped into existence right beside the TV. Merlin stumbled, like he hadn’t quite stuck the landing, and smacked his shin against the stand. “Fucking— that— ow!” He hissed, clutching his leg.

He grumbled under his breath, swiping a wet hand down his face. Water dripped onto the carpet in a steady rhythm. “Well?” he huffed, glancing around at everyone like this was the most normal thing in the world. “What do we know?”

Peter blinked at him. Really looked at him.

Merlin’s hair clung to his forehead, his clothes soaked through, his lips tinged blue from the cold. But what caught Peter most were his eyes—red, raw, like he’d been crying— sobbing.

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Morgause,” he began, “daughter of Vivienne and Gorlois Le Fay. Her father died when she was young. Her mother remarried, and Morgause moved in with the Pendragons. She’s currently in New York, studying under a Nimueh—”

Merlin frowned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. Yeah, stop. That’s—so fucking confusing.” He waved vaguely toward Sherlock. “Is there a motive buried somewhere in that mind fuck?”

His tone was clipped, sharp with exhaustion. “Because I don’t think it’s about overthrowing Uther and giving Morgana the throne.” He exhaled through his nose, arms crossing over his chest. “But who knows—maybe some things just don’t change.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment before Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s going after people with powers—known strengths. The question is whether she’s doing it for a reason or just to see if she can.”

Sherlock studied the image on the screen. “She’s testing her limits.” 

“It’s possible she’s only just rediscovered her magic,” Peter suggested.

Merlin grimaced. “If memory serves, Nimueh had magic too. She poisoned me—or maybe I poisoned her. Or maybe it wasn’t her at all…” He sighed, “The details are all blurred together. Time does that.” 

He frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not the point. The point is, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nimueh’s the one reintroducing Morgause to magic.”

He rubbed at his temples. “I think she was a priestess of life and death—Nimueh, that is.” His tone turned distant, like he was trying to unlock a door in his mind that wouldn’t open.

Bruce frowned. “What’s she studying?”

“Botany,” Tony said flatly, then paused. He tapped his screen and flicked an article onto the wall display. “FRIDAY, care to tell the class what I just found?”

“This is an ad for The Triple Goddess Divine,” FRIDAY reported in her even tone. “A retreat based outside the city, devoted to the ancient pagan belief of the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone. Guests can book a stay to ‘unlock their ancestral power.’”

Merlin groaned, crossing his arms. “A cult. It’s always a fucking cult.”

Peter frowned at the screen. “What do they even do? Teach Witchcraft 101 and make sacrifices around a bonfire?”

“They have ordered a large quantity of live animals to the property,” FRIDAY supplied helpfully.

“Oh, great,” Merlin muttered. “Blood magic. Lovely.”

John grimaced, folding his arms. “But it still doesn’t explain why she’s targeting heroes.”

“She’s stopping those who could stop her before they know she’s a problem.” Sherlock states, “She’s testing those who are labeled as Earth’s defenders.” He looks to Merlin, “She’s seeing if she’s strong enough to face the real threat she knows is coming.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with something sharp and dangerous—anger, grief, fear all tangled together. The air in the room seemed to hum, just faintly, and Peter felt his pulse tick up in response.

But Sherlock wasn’t finished. He gestured to the screen, tone cool and matter-of-fact. “The fact that they’re here, in America, only proves it further. All of them are from Europe, but they moved out here—away from your usual reach.”

He took a step closer to the display. “They’re building their strength where you wouldn’t expect it.” His gaze flicked back to Merlin. “They were hoping to surprise you.” There was something in Sherlock’s eyes, sharp and unspoken— regret maybe, or a memory. Before Peter could figure it out, it was smoothed over like it was never there in the first place.

Merlin’s clothes had begun to steam, the lingering water evaporating off him as his magic stirred. “So they wanted to trip me up?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Peter swallowed hard, eyes wide—part fear, part awe.

The warlock straightened, shoulders squaring. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “is Arthur in America, or safe in England?”

“It appears,” FRIDAY’s voice chimed in, calm and precise, “that the entire Pendragon family was invited to an event the retreat is hosting. They arrived with several close associates two days ago.”

A smile ghosted across Merlin’s face—dark, unforgiving. “Then it’s time,” he said softly, his voice carrying that dangerous stillness before a storm. “Time to pray to a goddess they don’t remember the name of anymore.” The silence that followed was heavy.

After a beat, John cleared his throat and looked between Merlin and Sherlock. “So—what’s the plan?”

Tony exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s pretend for a second that we can just waltz into Pagan Disney and not start a magical World War—”

“Impossible,” Sherlock interrupted flatly. 

“Thanks, genius,” Tony snapped.

Steve shifted to sit on the edge of his seat, “We don’t know how many there are, who’s complicit, or how many civilians will be present.”

“It’s a cult,” Merlin said simply. He stood perfectly still, steam still rising from his clothes. “Too many fanatics, too many innocents swept up in the middle of it all. That’s the problem.”

Steve nodded. “We need a way in, unseen. Find out their motive before anyone gets hurt.”

“It can’t be anyone recognizable,” Sherlock said. “Anyone too public would show our hand.”

Merlin shifted, crossing his arms. “I can change my appearance.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “Against magic users and still remain undetected?” Merlin pursed his lips, then shrugged.

Steve cleared his throat. “So we send in people who wouldn’t raise suspicion. John and Peter.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “What?”

Tony frowned. “No way in hell.”

“It makes sense,” John said with a slow nod.

“No way! I’m going!” Merlin shot back, almost at the same time as Sherlock snapped, “How can I learn anything from John? I’m not that famous.”

“You’d be pushing our luck, Sherlock.” Steve said, simply. “And Merlin, it’s out of the question. We don’t know how powerful their magic is. Wanda didn’t even know she was a born witch, and she still felt the difference in your magic. You’d be a dead giveaway.”

Merlin exhaled sharply through his nose, tension radiating from him like heat off asphalt.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He’d wanted to help, but now that it was actually happening, all he could think about was how Merlin looked at the screen— like he was already mourning someone.

He cleared his throat. “We should at least try it, right?” he said, shoulders lifting in a hesitant shrug.

Tony’s glare shifted from Steve to Peter. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not letting you waltz your way into a cult.”

Peter crossed his arms. “I’m capable of protecting myself.”

“From witches? Yeah, no.” Tony shook his head. “Not happening.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“No. That’s final.”

Peter’s cheeks puffed out, frustration sparking in his eyes. “Steve thinks I’m capable enough.”

Tony’s glare hardened. “Steve isn’t all-knowing. The idiot jumps out of planes without parachutes. You two make quite the pair—moronic when you want to help someone.”

“Tony,” Steve starts with a sigh but Tony wasn’t hearing it.

He pointed at Steve, voice sharp. “No. He’s a kid. I don’t care if he’s got spider powers or fast healing. He is a literal child. This isn’t some Germany or a back-alley mugger. This is a cult of witches who are trying to— have you not— our friends are downstairs in what I had to make into a morgue because they’re frozen like action figures. They’re husks of who we care about.” Tony snapped, “You’re not becoming that.”

Peter’s shoulders lifted, frustration flickering. “Mr. Stark, I do have defenses. There are people going to this event who don’t know they’re in danger—”

Sherlock stepped forward. “If John and I accompany him, I’ll see danger before it happens. He’d be safe with us.”

Tony looked around— and realized he was the only one still pushing back. Well, him and Merlin. 

Merlin stood rigid, arms folded, expression thunderous. Not angry at Peter—angry at the situation.

Tony gestured at him. “You wanna help me here?”

Merlin exhaled slowly. “... It makes sense,” he admitted.

Tony threw his hands up. “God dammit! They’re witches! Based on Wanda alone, I know how powerful they can be!”

Wanda flinched, sinking in her spot on the couch.

Merlin sighed and rolled his eyes—not at her, but at Tony. “Wanda is powerful because someone corrupted the magic inside her. And she survived it.” His voice softened. “Most witches dream of that kind of strength. I’m… honestly shocked she handles it as well as she does.”

Wanda looked up, startled as Merlin locked eyes with her. “It’s impressive,” He murmured gently. 

Merlin cleared his throat, refocusing. “Morgause and Nimueh were High Priestesses. If they’re still practicing the Old Religion they will have to rely on spells. Meaning, invocation, translation, and preparation.” Merlin explained  like someone who had explained this often enough. 

“With the link to the Triple Goddess in the ad, I’m assuming they still follow the Triple Goddess which gives us both an advantage because they’ll have some rules they can’t break without consequence.” He glanced around the room, catching every eye. “But don’t take that to mean they’re weak. They’re not. Just limited in ways warlocks and witches like Wanda and I are not.”

A silence settled over the room as Merlin finished. 

He looked over at them before pausing on Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “And I can give Peter, John, and Sherlock protection charms. They’re common enough in old magic communities— it won’t raise suspicion. I don’t even need to be anywhere near them for the charms to hold. I have a handful active already and one saved a dear friend of mine from having their throat ripped out.” Merlin stated it like a fact, but there was a slight shake to his hands. “Three more, won’t be an issue.”

He wrapped his arms around himself—not defensive, but holding something in place. The reason was clear. Merlin couldn’t go. 

Peter swallowed. He wished Merlin could. He wished anyone from the Avengers could. But stealth meant playing with the smallest pieces on the board. And Merlin… wasn’t small.

Tony sighed, “Okay… fine okay. Let’s iron out this plan then since I can’t stop you.” The older man stated as he glanced over. Peter gave him his best optimistic smile that had Tony letting out a small snort as he looked away.

~~~~~

Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor, a small brass bowl resting on his knees, golden threads of magic weaving and twisting through his fingers. The room smelled faintly of sage and something older—like rain soaked into ancient stone.

It was a spell Merlin had perfected over the years. Too late for Arthur, but in time for others. 

It hadn’t been too long ago that he had done it last. Sat beside a hospital bed—wrapping magic around a failing pulse, begging the universe to give someone one more chance. Peter Hale had been the man beneath the sheets—an impossible friendship that had come to mean a lot to Merlin.

His mouth twitched into a small smile as he glanced at the other Peter sitting beside him now—Peter Parker— younger, all restless limbs and wide eyes. The boy watched the golden threads anxiously, like one wrong word might make the spell fall apart.

“You know,” Merlin said softly, returning his attention to the weaving light, “the last time I made one of these, I managed to save a dying man.” His voice wasn’t proud—just quietly certain. “This time I’ve focused them on the situation. It’ll make them stronger. You’ll need that.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Really? How— how does it work?”

Merlin let out a short laugh, guiding the light with practiced fingers. “I could try to explain it, but magic and science don’t always agree. And my magic”—he shrugged, smiling—“breaks a lot of rules. Being magic itself has its perks, I suppose.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open in surprise, “You’re— how is that— what?” Merlin laughed then, bright and amused. It softened the tiredness lining his face.

Then it faded—subtle, but unmistakable. He inhaled slowly. “Back in my—” he paused, finding the words, “back in Camelot, the king—Uther—declared magic a crime.”

Peter straightened, listening.

“He used magic once to get what he wanted,” Merlin said, voice lowering. “When it cost him what he loved most, he blamed magic instead of his own hand.” No bitterness now—only an old, worn ache. “The purge began. Every sorcerer in Camelot—burned, hunted, executed.”

His gold flickered with the memory, brightening and dimming like breath. “When so many people with magic die, the magic couldn’t just soak back into the earth like normal. There was just too much. It needed somewhere to go.”

Peter swallowed. “So it went to you.”

“It did.” Merlin’s gaze lifted, brief and apologetic. “I hadn’t even been born yet—still inside my mother. Magic didn’t care. It pooled into a strong life, into the last dragonlord.” 

“I didn’t ask for it. I was just… there.” He reached out and took Peter’s hand; the glowing thread sank into the boy’s skin like warm light. “For years I thought I was a monster, a curse my mother didn’t deserve. Until I found purpose—protecting Arthur.” His smile was weary but honest. 

“It wasn’t for years after Arthur’s death that I realized I was wrong. Arthur is my destiny, yes. I love him more than anyone. But my purpose has always been to protect all of those who need me— who need anyone.”

He looked at Peter—older than he had any right to look, and gentler for it. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said simply, pressing the last of the spell into Peter’s skin. 

Peter nodded, throat tight. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Merlin said. “I’ll be there the second you need me.” He glanced at the spells he’d already laid down for Sherlock and John. “And this means I always will be.”

His shoulders dropped. “I can’t go with you,” he added quietly, “but I’ll still be here if you need anything.”

Peter hesitated. “Can I be honest? I didn’t think you’d back down. I thought you’d find a way to come with us.”

Merlin smiled ruefully. “I wanted to.” He let his hand fall into his lap. “But… have you ever lost someone? Someone you loved?”

Peter’s shoulders sagged. “My parents.”

Merlin’s breath left him slow and soft. “When you think of them,” he murmured, voice gentle, “do you remember the moments? Their voices, their laugh, the way they walked? Or do you just… remember that you loved them?”

“Some memories,” Peter said. “Mostly May’s stories.”

Merlin hummed, a small, sad sound. “Now imagine it’s been over a thousand years.” His eyes shimmered blue with his grief. “Do you think you’d still remember them? Their faces? Their voices? How the sun caught their hair?” He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a long, tired sigh.

“Part of me wants to storm that cult and burn it to ash—to save my king and everyone I ever knew,” he muttered. “The other part of me is relieved I can’t. I’m terrified I won’t recognize him. I’m terrified I don’t even know what Arthur’s voice sounds like anymore.” His voice was only a whisper.

Peter frowned. “I’ll— I promise I’ll look out for him.” 

Merlin gave a single, grateful nod and exhaled. “Thanks, Peter.” He pushed himself to his feet, gathering the last of the charms. “I should go—give these to Sherlock and John.”

Peter started to get up as well before he hesitated. He turned to look at Merlin with a determinedly hopeful look on his face. “You’ll remember him. I just know it.”

Merlin smiled, fragile but real. “I hope you’re right.” He turned away, but for a beat the room felt a little less cold.

Chapter Text

It felt surreal when Peter stepped into the retreat.

All the planning, all the briefings, all the warnings—none of it prepared him for this. He'd been exactly expecting cloaks, candles, maybe a bubbling cauldron in the corner. He’d prepared for chanting and bone windchimes.

Instead, he got what looked like the welcome hall of a community college orientation night. The room was bright, decorated with folding tables and printed banners. A buffet stretched along the far wall, steam curling gently from metal trays. Volunteers in navy t-shirts moved around the room, each shirt stamped in gold script: The Triple Goddess Divine.

Peter stared. It was weirdly normal. Or worse—inviting.

He followed Sherlock and John toward the sign-in booth, the volunteer behind it no older than seventeen, smiling like this was his first day at a summer job. “Welcome!” the boy chirped, sliding a clipboard toward them. “We’re happy to have you here.”

Sherlock didn’t bother responding. His boredom looked intentional— calculated. He let John write their names down. “Yes,” Sherlock said mildly, “well, we’ll see if it was worth the trip.”

Peter only half-heard him. Something on one of the inner tables had caught his attention. A display of polished crystals—arranged carefully, intentionally.

He drifted towards it, knowing that playing the enthralled kid was his cover, but a large part of him was actually interested. He smiled at the girl manning this booth. She stood behind it with a grin on her face and her name tag reading Kara. 

“Oh! These look like something my girlfriend has,” Peter said, leaning in to inspect the display. The enthusiasm was on purpose. The awe… wasn’t.

“These are seeing stones,” Kara explained, smiling. “Is your girlfriend a Seer?”

Peter blinked, thrown. “Uh—no. She just likes the ones that cause weird coincidences. She’s more laugh-at-the-chaos than predict-the-future.”

Kara laughed softly, like that was the cutest thing she’d heard all day. As Kara turned to answer another guest, the light shifted across the crystals. One of them pulsed—just once—faint and slow, like a heartbeat. Peter set it down very carefully.

Sherlock appeared at his side as if conjured by irritation. He glanced at the stones, then grabbed Peter by the elbow and steered him away. “Let's avoid Tony killing me because you touched something you weren’t supposed to,” he muttered.

John snorted as he followed. “Don’t pretend you're not interested.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My curiosity is distinctly second to my desire not to be cursed today.”

Peter huffed a laugh—then stopped, attention snagged again by another booth. “Oh, MJ would love that—”

He collided with Sherlock’s back. Sherlock had stopped dead, head snapping toward a group crossing the room. 

A blond man walked beside a raven-haired woman who was laughing as she spoke. “ —Morgause invited us, try to act like you—” Her voice faded into the crowd as they moved past.

Peter only got a half-glimpse. The blond man rolling his eyes, easy posture, something quietly steady about him—while another man with longer brown hair shoved him, the two clearly bickering like siblings.

Sherlock’s face had gone still. Not frightened or confused. Just struck.

“Who is—” John began, but the question died halfway, stretching into a quiet sigh of “...Sherlock.” as Sherlock just turned sharply and walked away. 

No explanation. No comments. Just a retreat. Peter and John hurried after him, catching up with him at a booth displaying rows of handcrafted candles. 

Peter glanced back once more, but the blond man was already gone into the crowd. Whoever he was—whatever that moment meant—Peter didn’t have the luxury to chase it. He had a job to do.

They moved deeper into the event. John handled the easy small talk. Peter mirrored him, friendly and open. Sherlock asked questions—pointed, precise—but delivered with just enough polite boredom to pass as harmless curiosity rather than interrogation.

But after an hour, they still hadn’t seen Morgause. And they all knew better than to ask for her. So they kept wandering.

Peter was mid–“oh my god look at this potion!” when a dark-haired woman stepped beside them. Her presence didn’t announce itself—no fanfare, no sudden silence—but Peter’s skin prickled as she came closer.

John smiled politely. She looked over the three of them, eyes warm and unreadable. “You’re new,” she said.

John nodded. “Yeah. We heard about this through a friend.”

Peter bounced lightly on his heels, all his unused nervous playing as excitement. “It’s so cool, too! I’ve already learned so much!” He grinned playing up his usual pep to sell the air that he was a new sorcerer 

Her smile widened—soft, practiced, welcoming. “I’m glad. New faces keep the place alive.” She stepped closer and held out her hand to John. “It’s nice to meet you.”

John took her hand automatically. “I’m John. And you are—?”

The woman didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked down at their joined hands. Just for a moment.

Peter’s heart stuttered. The charm Merlin had woven into each of them gave the faintest shimmer under John’s skin— barely light, barely movement.

“I,” she said, voice gentle and devout, “am Nimueh.” Her smile stretched— soft at first, then just a little too sharp. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Watson.” All three of them went still.

The sunlight caught her eyes, turning them golden. “I can’t say we were expecting you, Sherlock,” she murmured. The words light, intimate, as if sharing a private joke. Her head tilted— curious, amused. “But I suppose his habit of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong does run in the family.”

~~~~~

Merlin paced the length of the jet for what had to be the fiftieth time. He hated this. He should be there. He could have changed his face. Changed his gait. Changed his entire body. Gender, age, height— trivial.

He was the goddamn embodiment of magic. He could bend reality until it snapped. And yet he was sidelined.

He passed Tony for the fourth circuit. Tony didn’t even look up from whatever he was tinkering with— just sighed, exhausted. “Sit down,” Tony muttered. “You’re going to wear a groove into the floor and that’s going to be on my maintenance budget.”

Merlin shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Sit down? No. Absolutely not.” He pivoted and resumed pacing—sharper now, as if movement was the only thing keeping his ribs from collapsing inward. His hands flexed uselessly, itching for magic, action, anything.

“And here I thought Tony was terrible at waiting.” Sam said lightly. Tony tossed a wrench his way that Sam dodged like he knew it was coming. 

Tony rolled a pen between his fingers, the motion rhythmic, grounding. “Any updates?”

Tony rolled a screw on the table. “Have we gotten anything from them?” 

“Just Peter’s hourly check-in,” Steve said, tapping his phone.

The screen showed: 👀🙅😤

Merlin stared at the emojis like they were lifelines. He was just opening his mouth to speak when—

His phone rang. Sherlock’s number blinking on the screen. Merlin snatched it up. “Sher—”

“They found us,” Sherlock snapped. “You need to get here now—” The call was cut off.  Leaving Merlin frozen there in fear. 

His heart hammered once—hard, sharp—like his body was trying to warn him of something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Magic tightened in his chest, instinctive, primal—like the air before lightning hits.

His eyes stayed on his phone for a moment before he looked up. Everyone in the room was already standing. 

The pressure in Merlin’s chest was something deeper, older… wrong. His throat worked. He tried to speak. “It’s—”