Friendship is a bond which can never be broken. Even when the friend is gone, even when a fight drives a wedge in between two people, no secret or fight, no matter how great, can destroy the eternal link true friends will forever have. Two hearts become one, and in the end…friendship is magic.

So I received some feedback from my story 'A Child's Legend' about wanting Merlin and Sherlock to meet. This story doesn't really relate to the other, it can if you want it to, but here is how I think the two characters could meet. Please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own neither Merlin nor Sherlock.

Sherlock calmly shut the door behind him as he left apartment 221B Baker Street.

He didn't need this. He didn't need this fight. It was unnecessary, pointless. It wasted valuable time he could be spending on his experiments, experiments which are relevant to future cases. Why couldn't John just admit when he is wrong?

Perhaps that wasn't what caused him to leave. Perhaps it was what John was saying that caused him to calmly walk down the steps and out the door.

No. No. No. That is preposterous! It was a logical, rational move. I didn't leave because of John. I left because I need the equipment in the morgue.

Did you care for her at all? The echo of John's voice rang through his mind.

Sherlock quickened his pace along the city sidewalk.

Did you even stop to think how this would affect her? Did you even stop to consider what could have happened to her, had the police not been there? The short man's voice persisted against his skull.

"No, stop," Sherlock whispered to himself as he walked through the London streets on autopilot. But the voice kept going.

Did you even think about her safety? Did you even care what happened to that little girl when you were showing-off to the killer? Do you care, Sherlock?

"No. Stop it," Sherlock told the voice.

Or are we all some case to you? Some puzzle for you to solve?

"John," Sherlock whispered as he realized where he was, which was anywhere but the lab.

Sherlock stood in the middle of a park, an unfamiliar part of the park. He looked around and found that there were only a few people there. He should leave, go to the lab, yet his feet wouldn't move.

Do you even care, for anyone? For Mrs. Hudson? For Mycroft? For Lestrade? For me?

Do you even care?

It was with the play back of that line, that Sherlock finally cracked. He took a few steps over to one of the green metal benches lining the tarmac sidewalk he stood on, and sat down letting his breath out.

He put his forehead in his hands and leaned forward. He looked at the ground and sighed, all emotion leaving his face.

"Oh John," he whispered to the asphalt. "If only you knew."

"Whose John?" a rough voice came from his left.

Sherlock lifted his head out of his hands and looked up at the stranger. A flash of surprised crossed Sherlock's face, he hadn't realized the bench was occupied.

"Oh," Sherlock said, lifting himself off the bench, about to make his leave when the voice stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going," the voice asked. A hand grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm stopping him from moving. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read the man.

Old, above 80, but spry judging by his reflexes when he latched onto me. Doesn't fancy haircuts. Beard is genuine, strange but real. He doesn't like the simple clothes of kakis and a buttoned shirt. No. He prefers the feel of woolen trousers and cotton pullovers. His old leather jacket means he is semimetal, seeing that it looks to be as old as he is. His brown loafers seem to be the newest clothing he has. A wooden cane that comes up to his waist if were to stand, it looks like it had once been a twisted branch that some one cut down and started using it as a walking stick. So he is Earthy, likes the outdoors. His crystal blue eyes stare at me; his expression reveals he has experienced much and is open to sharing. Just another old man who thinks he knows the secrets of the world. Quite boring.

"I am sorry, but I must be going," Sherlock said irritated with the situation, trying to stand once more, but the man reached out and grabbed his arm once more. Sherlock sent a glare towards the man who wasn't even looking at him anymore. The old man was staring into the distant trees of the park and just held onto Sherlock as he tried to get the man's hand to release his. Finally Sherlock just leaned back against the back of the seat with a huff and the man released his arm. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head go back.

They sat in silence for a moment before the old man spoke once more, still looking at the trees.

"So," he started. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the side of the man's emotionless face as he leaned forward, staring into the tiny forest. "Who's John?"

Sherlock paused and stared at the man in confusion. Why did he even care? Was the man so bored he had to integrate himself into the lives of complete strangers?

"That is not any of your concern," Sherlock dismissed bluntly. The old man only chuckled in response. Sherlock arched his eyebrows, more confused than ever. "What is so funny about that?"

"Ah, young people today, I'll tell you," the man giggled out barely at an audible whisper.

There was another moment of silence, and once again the white haired man broke it.

"He's your friend, isn't he?" the old man deducted.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Lucky, easy guess.

"Your best friend," the man continued without waiting for an answer. He wasn't asking anymore, he was stating the facts. "And the two of you had a little spat didn't ye?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He looked away and scoffed towards a tall office building over the treetops.

"Listen here lad," the old man said. Sherlock despite what his mind was telling him to do, looked towards the other person to find that he was now staring at him, eyes narrowed. "Stop with that scoffing business. That's most likely the reason you two had a tussle in the first place, you being an arrogant prat and him, being a bit of mouth-off, telling you what a royal pain you really are. You can just stop that right here, I don't care how smart you thing you are, it's rude."

Sherlock's eyes widened and was about to argue, but quickly shut his mouth with a pointed look from underneath those white eyebrows.

"Now listen to me, lad," the man continued and surprisingly, Sherlock watched him and kept his mouth close. "I don't care what this fight was about, you have to go home and mend things because life is too short to argue with those you love."

"Trust me I know what happens when time goes too fast," he said with a sad, distant look towards the ground.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment; actually let the words sink into his mind, before sighing and looking down at the ground, disgruntled.

"Is there a reason you can't," the old man asked craning his neck to look Sherlock in the eyes.

"Maybe he is right," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" the man asked. "Speak up, laddie, I can't hear very well."

Sherlock looked up, as did the man, and threw his arms up in the air.

"Maybe John is right!" Sherlock shouted out with a frown on his face, causing a jogging woman to send them a weird look before moving on.

"Right about what?"

"Maybe I am a monster," Sherlock admitted sadly, looking back towards the ground. His hands rose up to grab his forehead and his fingers wandered through his wavy hair.

"Oh, I see," the old man said leaning back and looking back at the trees. "I understand what that's like."

After a pause the man looked back at Sherlock with a serious look.

"You are not a monster," he stated.

"And how would you know that?" Sherlock humorlessly laughed sitting up straight, without looking to his side. With a sudden jerk Sherlock's shoulder was gently pushed back forcing him to look at the old man.

"Trust me, I've seen monsters, I've seen horrors at there finest, and you sir are not one of them," he said somberly. "I can see the good in you."

"Nonsense, there is no way you can tell that just by-" Sherlock began to argue but was interrupted by the man grabbing his cane, stamping it on the ground, and throwing his hands up in the air.

"I darn well can! Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and go make up with your friend, so the two of you can stop being such thick-headed idiot boys," the old man shouted, Sherlock didn't flinch backwards until the man's eyebrow arched in a very shocking manor. Still he did not move from the bench.

"You don't understand," Sherlock said looking back towards the ground. "I don't even understand. I don't even know why I'm telling you this you are a complete stranger."

Sherlock pointed to him with a wave of his hand in his direction. More silence. This time Sherlock broke the hiatus with a deep breath.

"Everyone thinks I don't care, that I'm a monster, but the truth is I do care. I care a lot," Sherlock said to the ground. "But if I show it, then it will be a distraction, I will be distracted and people can die. I will be too caught up caring, and I will miss something. If I miss something a killer could go loose, someone would die, and then I would truly be a monster because it would be my fault. I know…" Sherlock looked down sullenly, "It has happened before…maybe I am a heartless monster, maybe I am evil."

He looked up from the ground and his folded hands and sent a bitter glare towards the old man.

"So tell me how you can understand that? To know what it feels like to have your friends think you are a freak? To have to think you yourself are a monster?" Sherlock cynically, rhetorically asked.

The man looked at him not in a grouchy, elderly way, but with eyes of caring. Those crystal blue eyes stared at the dark haired detective with a mixture of understanding and pity. Sherlock's defiant look vanished leaving one of surprise. Why does he care?

"I do understand, lad," the man whispered softly. "I know what it feels like to be a monster. To know that if you screw up then people would be hurt. I know the pain that comes with your best friend thinking you are a monster. I know what it's like to hide how you feel for the better of others, to hide who you are from those you care about. I'm familiar with being afraid of what you could become if you were to stop caring, and of the mistakes and heart aches that come with caring too much."

His voice went back to a normal level as he said, "I understand."

Sherlock looked towards the trees the old man had been looking at as the white haired man took hold of his cane and hoisted himself up to a standing position. He looked towards the sun eyes closed, his old bones creaking as he did so.

Why did I just speak to him? Why did I say anything? Sherlock asked himself confusedly. It just didn't make sense. He never opens up to people. He never even spoke to his mother about his feelings. What made this stranger so different?

"I don't understand," he said, squinting towards the trees. "I don't understand why I said anything to you. It doesn't make any sense."

"Let's just say I have that effect on people. It's almost like I have a power, a spell, if you will, that makes people want to talk to me. I don't really mind, I do get quite lonely," he said with a grin towards the sky. Sherlock muddled over the man's words for a few seconds, before he realized he never even asked for the man's name.

"What's your name," Sherlock asked suddenly, snapping his head towards the man who still faced the sky with closed eyes the smile gracing his lips. He opened them and looked down at the still sitting detective.

"Merlin," he said with the same grin on his face. With that he took a step and started walking towards the opposite way Sherlock came. He didn't get more than a foot before Sherlock shouted after him, standing up from his seat.

"Like the bird?" Sherlock asked going back to his detective questioning.

Merlin stopped in his tracks and looked back over his old bony shoulder laughing as though Sherlock had just told a good bar joke.

"What?" Sherlock asked both confused and a little annoyed. His normal façade resurfacing as the old man left him.

"Nothing, it's just most people think of the wizard before the bird," Merlin giggled out.

"I don't believe in magic," Sherlock said squinting his eyes towards the old man. I knew he was a crazy old fool.

Merlin only laughed, turned forward, and then looked back once more.

"Tell John that, that new Thai place isn't all that posh," Merlin said with a smile and continued walking away, leaving Sherlock standing next to the bench, more confused than ever.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock opened the dark painted door, walked up the stairs, and opened the door to the flat John and him shared. He entered the living area of the flat to find John sitting in his armchair looking out the window, leaning in on his hand as his elbow rested on the arm of the chair. He stepped towards the chair, stopped a foot away, and took in a deep breath.

"John," he began, but John did not turn around.

"I'm sorry," John said, removing his hand from his face, revealing a frown.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, almost taking a step back in the process, but he didn't speak. He just stood there and let John continue.

"I shouldn't have been so harsh. The girl is fine. You had it under control, I guess, I-I guess it just scared me," John said.

"No John, I was-" Sherlock tried to intervene, but John continued straight-faced.

"Her being in trouble didn't scare me, Sherlock. The fact that I knew you would come through. I knew for sure that you would be there to safe her, there was no doubt in my mind, and it scared me to have so much faith in someone," John stood up to face Sherlock and look at him with wide eyes, frown still on his face.

In his mind, Sherlock was taken back by John's words. Sherlock wanted to tell him how he felt, to tell him that he would always be there. That he wasn't a monster, that he actually cared, and that he would never let anyone be harmed if he could help it.

But on the outside, Sherlock only smiled and patted John the shoulder. He couldn't stand to see his best friend, the man who was more of a brother to him than Mycroft, distressed.

"It's okay John," Sherlock said with a small smile, which was graciously returned.

John walked past him towards his room, leaving Sherlock to just stare out the window and think.

He doesn't think I'm a monster. Maybe there's hope for me, for all of us, yet.

"Hey Sherlock, do you want to out?" John asked putting his jacket on as he walked back into the room. "There's this great new Thai place that Molly was telling me about."

Sherlock whipped his head around, eyes widening to their maximum, as he remembered Merlin's confusing words.

A couple blocks away from the detective and the doctor's flat, a white haired man walked along the asphalt of a medium sized park, the smile on his face lightening the world around him. He was under a canopy of tree branches when he noticed a small, baby bird with a broken leg, hobbling along, jumping up and down but unable to fly due to its age. The old man stopped, looked around and when he saw no one was within sight distance he said the ancient words Ic hæle ƥina ƥrowunga.

With a gold glisten of his eyes and a small chirp the leg was fixed.

The old man smiled as he bent down and scooped the little creature up in his hands. His eyes glowed gold once more, this time without the need of words, and his chirping little friend floated up to join its siblings in the little twig home at the top of a nearby tree.

The man straightened his back, looked up at the nest, and just smiled. With another look around, he whispered the words credic hæle niña.

Just as the spell finished its job a jogger, a man in his early twenties, came bounding around the corner and ran right into the man staring up at a bird's nest. Both ended up tumbling down to the ground in a heap.

"Sorry mate," the jogger said extending his hand to the other man. A pale hand reached up and took the help gratefully.

"Not a problem friend," the young, black haired man replied with a goofy grin.

"Uh, maybe you'd like to change," the jogger said once the other man, who looked to be his age, stood up. The jogger sent the other man's fashion sense a weird look. Wasn't he a little young for baggy, old man, woolen trousers?

The dark haired man looked down and found that there was a big splash of mud across his blue, cotton pullover. He only smiled up at the stranger and shook his head.

"Nah, I just changed a few seconds ago, right before he came jogging up. I got this covered," he said taking out an old, tattered red cloth from the pocket of his leather jacket.

"Right, well, ah, see ya around then," the jogger said warily, a little put off by the man's words, and continued down the path, leaving the stranger to wipe the mud off his shirt.

Once he had gotten all of the dirt off, he shook out the old cloth and put it in the back of his mind to clean it once he got home. He stood there in the middle of the seemingly abandoned path and just looked at the antique material in his hands.

"Don't worry Arthur," he whispered to the cloth, a sad smile on his face. "I won't give up on you yet."