Young Writers Society

"Wait, what did you say? A sorceror?" That was John, the surprise showing clearly on his face. "You mean you actually believe all this magic stuff?"

Sherlock inhaled, staring through Merlin. "John. We just time travelled to Camelot. Are you really going to start with the questions?" His friend's scrunched up nose relaxed slightly at this question, and John settled back down onto the chair he'd stood from.

"Anyway, Merlin," Sherlock continued, "come inside." The warlock instantly did as he was told, casting one quick glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching; he didn't want word of his visit to get to Arthur.

Merlin nodded at John, who eyed him suspiciously. He took a spot by the bedpost and rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting for Sherlock to shut the door. Only when the thick wood banged against the stone wall did he say what he was so eager to express.

"I want to talk to you about the Lady Morgana."

"Yes," the detective folded his arms, "I suspected as much."

"She's responsible for this, all of it. I know she is." Merlin recalled what Gwen had told him, just after they'd met the young girl from the future, Christy. And just before the witch-finders had made their dramatic arrival. Morgana left last night... I heard her talking to someone... she said she was going out... she was angry, just like before. The warlock knew what 'before' meant, the memory of it was still fresh. When Arthur had undertaken his quest for the trident, Morgana had enchanted a bracelet, draining him of energy. Arthur would have died had his friends not gone to help, and Gwen had almost gotten into strife herself when she'd caught Morgana in the act.

Gwen had seen Morgana performing magic once more, and that, as well as her absence, was proof enough that she was responsible this time.

"Oh, I know that too." Sherlock placed his hands together, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. He was calculating something in his mind. "Yes, she's obviously the guilty one." In one moment, as if he had been hit by an electric shot, his hands flew back to his side and he was overcome with a burst of energy. "I mean, how does the King not see? Everytime she looks at him I see her hatred and..." he was almost bouncing up and down, "it's written all over her face, to put it in simple terms. Are the people here really that oblivious?"

"Not everyone has your brilliant mind, Sherlock," John said sarcastically. Sitting back in the chair, Merlin didn't think the man was very interested in their conversation. But now, as he watched him, he noticed how John's gaze was flicking back and forth between the two, taking in as much detail as possible. It was as if he was making a mental note of everything that happened; like a scribe would at an assembly.

"But really?" The people's stupidity frustrated Sherlock considerably, that was even more obvious than Morgana's guilt.

Merlin answered simply, "Uther is blinded, and the others only see what they want to see."

There was a bowl of fruit resting on the side table beside John, and a fly hovered above a shining red apple. Its dusty wings, and the dirty buzzing sound it made were completely out of place surrounded by the polished fruit, hand-picked with compliments of the king. The fly knew this, and it left the fruit to hassle John, causing the war doctor to wave his hands in annoyance. He smacked his hands together with perfect precision, and the fly was dead.

Such a symbol as the fly represented should have only been possible in story books, but there it was, a perfect example of what would happen to the modern-day people in Camelot. They had come into the foreign land, not belonging, flies on the fruit. They had already stirred annoyance and chaos; sooner or later Uther would snap, as John's palms had, and the people would be executed. It was now more important than ever that they thwarted Morgana's plans, whatever they were.

"Where did she go?" Sherlock seated himself on the wide bed. "Morgana, where do you think she was when this happened?"

Merlin remained standing, he wouldn't sit unless invited. "I don't know," he shook his head, trying to think over the possibilities. "She has a sister, maybe she went to see her. Or to some sacred site, if this was done with magic. But I don't really know..."

"So the Lady Morgana has magic too?" John finished wiping the remnants of the fly from his hand. "Abra-cadabra magic?"

Merlin had no idea what abra-cadabra meant, but he understood the question. "Yes."

"And her sister too." The detective said; it wasn't a question, but a statement. "And magic, John, is just the name we've given to the next stage of human evolution. It's all science, there's no Hogwarts or Middle Earth involved."

John chuckled at his friend's attempt to reference "pop" culture; Sherlock always made a gesture when he said "pop".

"What does Morgana actually want?" John leaned forward. "We should start with the basics, right? So what does she want?"

"Yes," Sherlock's head bobbed slightly and he gestured to an empty chair across from his companion. "Please sit down Merlin." Merlin did as he was told, and recounted some of the other schemes the king's ward had been involved in. The two witch-finders listened intently.

"Ever since she found out about her parentage," he concluded, "she's wanted the throne. She wants to be queen."

~

Though the Doctor's shocked gaze was fixed on the screwdriver he held before him, he was aware of the three people walking towards him. In the middle of the trio was an old woman, her white hair puffed around her head like a halo. She wore a homely woollen jumper, and clutched happily onto the arms of her companions; a middle-aged man and woman whose similar features suggested they were siblings.

"My Freddy says he works with you!" The old woman beamed and the Doctor lowered his instrument, eyeing the group wearily. The man, who he assumed to be Freddy, held a vacant expression, his mind focussed on the task of moving forward as if each step took effort.

Not unusual, the Doctor thought, whatever consciousness is inside him isn't used to the body yet. Out loud, he said, "I don't think that's quite right. I'm the Doctor." He held his hand out, counting the seconds it took for Freddy to make contact and shake it in greeting. Twelve seconds, they were most definitely clones, without a doubt.

"Oh, Freddy was certain..." The old woman looked to her left. "This is Lucy. I'm Amanda Dawson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Dawson." The Doctor narrowed his eyes, leaning in closer (just to be dramatic, of course). "But who are you really?"

At that exact moment, the Lucy clone suddenly sprang to life. She pulled her arm away from her surprised mother and pulled a gun-like tool from her jacket. In a second the bright yellow gun was thrust against the old woman's neck, and with a click she fell unconscious to the ground.

"She was not one of us," Lucy spoke like a robot. "Neither are you." Freddy stepped forward, his arms reaching for the Doctor in the style of a zombie lunging for its victim. Lucy pointed the clicky gun, as Eleven quickly named it, towards the timelord.

"Hold it right there!" The Doctor acted quickly, pulling back out his screwdriver. He raised it into the air with one hand and used his other to cover one ear. Proving true to its name, the sonic errupted in a high-pitched screech, causing the siblings face's to screw up, and their hands to reflexively float to their ears.

The other clones had ignored the scene so far, but now London's population turned towards the Tardis, sensing the conflict. Workers, once hurrying past, now halted mid-step and faced the Doctor. Skipping children flung around and began prancing in his direction. Even the vehicles came to a stop, their inhabitants stepping out to see what was happening. The Doctor had set off an alarm, and all the clones were responding.

Confident that Lucy was no longer going to zap him into unconsciousness like unfortunate Mrs Dawson, Eleven folded his arms and stood boldly in place. A large smile engulfed his face as he thought of the ultimate line... "Take me to your leader!"