Sherlock Imagines

Excaliber (MoriartyxReader, King Arthur AU)

Don't know what I'm doing with this, yet- but it might become a mini series? It's basically the King Arthur story line with how I think Sherlock characters would act and behave? I'm actually choosing Moriarty based on backstory, not on my obsession with him.
—Considering bringing this back, and possibly making a book of it? I have it mostly completed, so it wouldn't be hard...idk, tell me what you think?—

The brothel had always been his home. None knew where he came from, if not that brothel, not even he. But James didn't care. Whoever sent him adrift as none more than a child weren't his family, the working women and the thieves were. Life on the streets had taught him motives such as survival and to protect, and none more than he knew that those were the most important things to value. Of course, his morals were skewed- kill a few Vikings for hurting a few harlots, and thieving off of decent men and lady for a fractioned share. His dear friends Sebastian and Tristan, his partnering thieves. All was right, the King was being Royal, building his tower up, and the harlots were working, and James was making Vikings pay their dues.
Until Jack came in, asking questions about Vikings and graffiti, and Lucy. And obviously, that night, the black legs came for James, wishing his head to pay the dues.
Sebastian shook him awake, "Up, you smart arse- they're 'ere!" He rushed, grabbing his friend a bag and some clothes, James' body refusing to be done with sleep at such an odd hour.
"Wha-? Who's coming?" His groggy accent asked. His mate rolled his eyes, shoving the items into his smaller form.
"The black legs! And they come to make an example out o' ya!" That got Jim up. He rushed to put his pants on, when pounding shuffled from the door.
"They're here- no time, out the window!" He was already shoving Jim that way, the wry man forcing himself out the window, and plopping over a wall. He ran, only to be met with more black leg's, but they weren't there for him. They were watching for young men, the age that the young king would be.
At age 23, that fit James well.
"Night, fellas." He kept his head down, hoping to pass without incident. He may've been well trained, but that would mean little against four kingsmen.
"Ello, boy. What're you doing out at this time?" One asked, ruining his plan to simply roll by. He partially stopped to answer, the lie slipping easily from his lips, as many previous had.
"I work on the boats, sir," He feigned respect as he neared the soldier, "Out on the first tide." His dark eyes met the man's green, forcing himself steady and calm. The cocky grin across the face of an enemy unsworn made him itch to punch something, but he kept his hands steady at his sides.
"The boats, eh?" His hand motioned to the bag he carried, gaze dropping for only a moment, "What's in the bag?" As Jim handed it over, reluctantly, the man kept speaking, "Now, you're about the right age, show us your brand." He demanded, taking the bag to have a look as James shifted up the sleeve of his long shirt. The guard stopped short at his blank wrist.
"Have you not been tested?" A certain urgency laced his voice as he stood straight, forgetting of the bag altogether.
"I'm always at Sea, sir, I haven't had the chance." He attempted to dismiss, putting as much sass into his voice as humanly possible.
"Well, that's about 'a change, then. You're goin' on a boat, alright-" James knew he was cornered, and didn't even attempt to fight as they herded him towards the barge, "just not the one you think." He taunted. James wanted to fight back, do anything to just not go. He couldn't leave his family and friends behind like this, to suffer without him. But he had to, if he so wished to live, which he did.

Men were so stuffed into an odd forgery of a line that they may has well been cattle. He just wanted to get through as quickly as possible, sure he wasn't the heir. Flashes of caged children clouded his memories of the boat as he shoved to the front of the line. He stepped up to the stone, sword protruding out towards him.
"Alright... how do you want me?" He called to the black legs, mostly to irritate them. Used to this casual resistance, their leader turned slightly towards him, scoffing at his relatively small stature. This would be a quick tug, fail, go- he assumed.
"Bouncin' on my knee- how d'you think I want ya? Hand on de hilt, stupid." Trigger taunted, and James' fist itched again. He was far from stupid, and he'd like to teach that stupid bloke that. But he knew better than to sucker punch death.
He stepped up to the stone, putting his hand on the hilt, only for it to begin to... burn. That wasn't normal, not for a regular sword, at least.
"Oi- both hands!" Trigger's voice was distant, mingled with the far-away barking of violent mutts. As the distortion left him, he heard the repeated order.
"I said, 'Both hands'," he was still out of it... what had that sword done to him?
"Right- ten digits," Trigger wiggled them in front of himself before pretending to put them onto an imaginary blade and tug at it, "Round the blunt of it, give it a tug. Left foot, right foot, collect your brand, back on the barge." He kept on, getting annoyed by the young man. He looked back to the blade, slowly reaching his first hand onto it, and then the next. With barely any resistance, he freed the blade from the stone. The waves of the born king claiming his sword- the sword of his father. The soldiers readied themselves immediately for battle. Throughout Britain, the waves were felt. Only to have the "victor" collapse, blade falling from his hand, in front of them...

The resistance's cave looked calm from the outside, but dreams of a woman in a dark blue cloak, with h/c bound onto her shoulder, and e/c eyes ready to change and be shaped to whatever the situation needed, had been blessed upon Bedivere. And he knew who she was without question. She was sent by Merlin, and she would soon be coming.
The Mage.