Cecilia Holmes, Daughter of Minerva (Sherlock/Percy Jackson crossover)

Chapter 16

    We followed the track as fast as we could. The rain was falling faster and it was becoming harder to follow. The trail went over hills and into muddy dales. It seemed to go on forever. My hair was dripping, my clothes were nearly soaked, and I couldn’t feel my toes. But I continued on. In fact, I almost didn’t notice the discomforts. My heart was pounding and my mind racing as I watched Sherlock practically sniff out the scent. I couldn’t see the trail anymore, but somehow he still found traces of it.
    But then, he paused.
    “Bah!” he cried, taking off his deerstalker and running his hand through his hair.
    “You l-lost it?” I cried indignantly.
    “The farmer’s sheep trampled it,” he said, running forward a few steps. “It looks like they stampeded. Their tracks stamped out all other marks in all directions.” He growled. “It’ll take, eh, about ten minutes before I find it again.”
    “O-oh,” I said, my voice quaking. “I-is there anyway I c-can help?”
    I folded my arms together. Now that I was holding still the cold really sank in. He looked at me.
    “Why didn’t you bring your jacket?” he snapped, indignantly.
    “I-if you weren’t so h-hasty,” I said, copying his remark from earlier. “You pr-probably would’ve observed that I don’t have one.”
    His look soften. And then, he unbuttoned his long, black overcoat and pulled it off. I was thoroughly surprised when he walked over and threw it around my shoulders. I looked up at him, but he ignored my gaze and quickly walked away. His nice purple shirt was quickly covered with water droplets.
    “Thank you,” I said, quietly, slipping my arms into the coat that was a little too big for me. He didn’t reply but kept his eyes focused on the ground. He began mumbling to himself as he ran up the hill. I followed after him, unable to help marveling at the detective. I was just fully realizing how much kindness he was showing me— a stranger, claiming to be his daughter, which, I agreed, sounded ridiculous.
    I could completely tarnish his reputation. I realized, staring at his back as I climbed up the hill. He could’ve rejected me, even if he knew there was truth in my profession. But he didn’t. He listened to me. And not only that, he let me come investigating with him. He barely even knows me. I am going to trash his rep entirely, but yet… He lent me his coat.
    I couldn’t help but think of my desire for a kind and loving father.
    He may not be exactly what I was imagining… But… he’s exactly what I need.
    I shook my head, clearing my mind.
    Since when have I been so dramatic? He hasn’t exactly accepted you, yet. He’s only solving this mystery so he can send you home.
    Those dreamy, illogical thoughts of mine were finally silenced, and I was grateful, if not a little sad. I focused on inspecting the area. Maybe I’d see something Sherlock had missed. That’d impress him.
    But there wasn’t much to inspect. The grassy area was covered in small footprints that were made by sheep, apparently. From the way they were scattered about, they must’ve been stampeding, like Sherlock had already noted. But then I had a thought.
    Why were they stampeding?
    I paused halfway up the hill, surveying the surrounding area. I could see for miles around. The school was behind us, far off distance in the distance and nearly hidden by the fog. Ahead of us I could see the outline of the city and to the east I saw the farm the fields must belong to.
    I looked all around, but I was slowly coming to the realization that something important was missing.
    Where are the sheep?
    “Cecilia!” Sherlock suddenly yelled. I jumped and watched as Sherlock raced down the other side of the hill. I ran after him, and when I reached the top, I looked down and saw blood smeared across the grass. A man was lying at the bottom of the hill. The stench of death reached my nostrils. I quickly dashed down the hill. Next to the man was a bike. Or what was left of a bike. Now it was a pile of crushed metal.
    Sherlock knelt next to the man and a second later I was kneeling beside him, too.
    The man was young. He had cropped brown hair and a freckled face. His eyes were closed and his face was pale. From the smell, he had been dead for a least a couple of days. The cause of his death was obvious. There was a large gash on his chest that was already covered in maggots. I had already guessed who this man was, but when I saw what the dead man held in his right hand, I became confused. It was a sword, but not just any sword. It was a sword made of Celestial Bronze.
    “Heidegger, the teacher. Look here,” Sherlock said, pointing to his knee. I noticed a long, thin barb sticking out from his calf. Sherlock leaned in and smelled it.
    “Poison,” he said. “Paralyzation would occur on contact, allowing the assailant to strike without a fight.”
    My eyes wandered down the teacher’s leg. I stared at his feet. He only wore one tennis shoe. The other must’ve fell off. But what the missing shoe revealed made me realize this case was more dangerous than I had previously thought.
    Professor Heidegger wasn’t a man. He wasn’t even a mortal. He was a faun.
    And why would a faun be here? And why would he go after Arthur unless…? It all made sense. Who was Arthur’s kidnapper, then?
    I looked back at the faun’s wound. Shivers flowed up my arms. I stood, scanning the hills.
    “Sherlock,” I said, my voice tight.
    “Whoever killed him was strong, very strong,” he mumbled. “It almost looks like… hm. Cecilia, I’m going to have to send you back to the Priory. We need to notify—“
    “Sherlock,” I said again, looking down at him. “We’re not safe here.”
    “What?” he said, tilting his head slightly in my direction.
    “We’re not safe here!” I repeated, looking around nervously.
    “What makes you think so?” he said calmly.
    “Sherlock,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me. I stared into his eyes, my heart pounding.
    “Look at his feet,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He looked at his hooves.
    “What about them?”
    “No, look at them,” I said. “Don’t just see what you want to see. Really look.”
    He stared at them, and I knew if any mortal could see through the Mist, it was Sherlock Holmes.
    “Are those… hooves?” he whispered.
    “Yes!” I exclaimed.
    “How— how is that possible?” Sherlock snapped.
    “Remember when I told you that Greek and Roman mythology was real?” I said. “Well, I wasn’t lying. Heidegger was a faun— a satyr, actually. And—“
    “This can’t be possible,” he whispered.
    “Well it is! Get over it!” I snapped. “Now listen to me!”
    He looked at me and I saw sincere confusion on his face. And then he looked back down at Heidegger’s hooves.
    “Listen to me. Focus,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “We’re not safe here.”
    “What makes you think so?” he repeated, looking back at me. I stared into his eyes.
    Just then a deafening roar reverberated through the valley. We both jumped to our feet and turned toward the sound.
    “Where are the sheep?” I whispered.