Sherloki'd ✓completed

Rise And Shine

The only proof of Loki's awakening was the soft groan that escaped his lips, and the momentary flutter in his breathing rhythm.

Then he controlled himself to fall back into that even rhythm, and anyone who'd missed that glitch wouldn't be able to tell he was awake.

He kept his eyes closed, trying to figure out where he was. On the floor, for a start. A cold floor, probably tiles. And there was a horrid draft. Where in Odin's name was he?

"You're not half as good at fake sleeping as you are at faking your death," a soft feminine voice noted.

Three and a half seconds later Loki had identified it.

Sif?

"Come on brother, get up," she went on, "Father will want to see you, he needs to make sure you're not dead. What on earth were you doing on the lake in this weather? Just because there's ice doesn't mean it's solid!"

What lake?

"Loki? Are you okay? I know you're faking it, you might as well give up. You fell out of your bed, that floor must be horridly cold."

Slowly, Loki opened his eyes.

He was in a room, lying on the floor. Hard tiles of an ironically soft grey. The whole room had a medieval look to it, somewhat like Asgard but with less... gold.

There was a bed in each of the four corners of the room, and on one of the beds were two young men; one sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching the other, who was lying in the bed.

Sif was crouched beside him, a small smile lighting up her face with a hint of concern.

"Are you okay Loki?"

-

"Time to wake up, brother mine," Mycroft whispered suavely, "Father wants to speak to you."

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly.

"Where am I?"

He observed the room, with its four beds and ancient look. One of the beds was shielded from view by a deep red curtain; a girl's corner.

"Our room, of course," Mycroft replied, "has the ice damaged your brain?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"This isn't my room. And I didn't sink through the ice either, as you are subtly suggesting. My clothes aren't..."

He trailed off as he became aware of his cold moist hair sticking to his forehead.

"...wet."

"Well, we weren't going to let you catch pneumonia," Mycroft answered, "so naturally we got you some dry clothes."

"Getting wet doesn't cause pneumonia," Sherlock muttered.

He sat up in the bed. Grey sheets. Mattress not too soft and not too hard. Had been slept in regularly, by a boy aged about eighteen.

A boy who had scratched the name "William Sherlock Scott Cumberston" into the headboard. Correction — he had had someone scratch it there for him. That was professional scratching; more like engraving.

"Where's my coat?"

"Drying," Mycroft replied evenly.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to figure out where he was, going through anything he knew about his fans. His full name wasn't known to the public, so the bed had to belong to someone he knew personally. Someone who had three siblings, one of which a girl. Or the parent was a fan, who had named their kid after Sherlock.

Cumberston, what kind of surname was that?

As he opened his eyes, he noticed for the first time the two figures on the floor, next to the bed closest to him.

Green sheets, gold engraving on the headboard.

Thomas Loki Laufeyson Cumberston

"Are you okay Loki?" The older girl with black hair asked the second figure, who was lying on the hard stone floor.

"Leave me alone," the young man, also with sleek black hair, replied icily, "I'm perfectly fine."

Mycroft followed Sherlock's gaze.

"He wants to speak to you both. I think you're in for a bit of trouble, brother mine. But I suppose you two knew that would come before you even stepped onto the ice."

But I didn't step onto any ice. I've never seen this room, or those people, until now.

Slowly, the young man they called Loki got up, dusting himself off with a dignity that rivalled Mycroft's. Sherlock swung his legs out of bed, sitting next to said Mycroft on the edge of the mattress.

"I'll bring you two to Father's room," the black-haired woman suggested, "unless you can remember where it is?"

Loki shook his head, and Sherlock did the same.

"The ice really has damaged your memories," she muttered, and Mycroft smirked.

"Bear in mind that this is Loki and Sherlock we're talking about, Sif."

Sif reflected his conspiratorial smile.

"True enough. All right, follow me."

-

Sherlock and Loki walked on either side of Sif, in absolute silence as both of them tried separately to figure out what was going on. Sif and Mycroft treated them as if nothing was wrong.

In their eyes, nothing was wrong; that much was evident from how completely at ease Mycroft was. And Lady Sif was actually nice to Loki; certainly out of character.

The young men were both jolted out of thought when Sif knocked on the wooden door, and it was opened by an elderly man with an eyepatch.

"Here they are, Father," Sif replied.

"Loki and Sherlock," he grumbled, as Loki mouthed 'Odin?!' in surprise.

"What... what happened to your eye?" Sherlock enquired, "wait — don't answer that — you've had it amputated because of an infection... about a week ago."

"You know full-well that it was a spear, Sherlock," Odin corrected grumpily, "and this is not the time to mock me about those events. That blasted Laufey doesn't even deserve Jotunheim."

Loki opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

"Keep your mouth shut, Loki," Odin ordered, "you can come in first. Sherlock, wait here."

He stepped aside, gesturing for Loki to enter his office. Sherlock and Loki's eyes met, both reflecting the other's terror.

And then Loki pulled his gaze away, and strode into the room with a small shred of his original confidence still remaining.