#delivras

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Home, thought I weakly. What a beautiful notion. I had a brief flash of my younger self, determined and curious enough about the world to sign up for a bloody war. I wondered if he ever could have seen himself making a home out of the rooms I had at Baker Street. Truth be told, he would probably have scoffed at the very idea.

I was roused from my stupor when Holmes paused his précis of the investigation. “You are very silent this evening, Watson.” He paused another moment. “I do hope I'm not boring you.”

The mixed exasperation and concern in his voice seemed to awaken me. “Certainly not!” I cried. “I beg your pardon my dear fellow. I—well, that is to say—”

“You are tired,” Holmes remarked astutely. “I am not surprised. Indeed, I have been expecting such a thing for some time now.”

The Adventure of the Gaping Charwoman is a tale sufficiently horrific and scandalous enough that it will be many years before my account of it will be made available to the public. It was also, in my experience, one of the shortest cases I had—as yet—witnessed Sherlock Holmes set his mind upon: brought to his attention at the dinner table, it was already closed and the culprit apprehended in the small hours of the following morning. It was the resolution of this very case that we were returning from. All this to say, Holmes’ remark of suspicion ‘for some time now’ took me rather by surprise.

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Pairing: Altair/Malik (Altmal)

"I had heard word that the Grandmaster is always seeking to expand his repository of knowledge," the man said, bowing so low the ends of his scarf scraped the floor. "I have therefore come to surrender this book to you, sahib."

Malik frowned, but before he could say a word the accompanying guard snapped, "You will address him as Dai."

The cheerful affect of the man faltered a little. "Er, my apologies, Dai. I am not — not fully fluent—"

"No matter." Malik waved the man over to a seat. "Show me."

The man carefully unwrapped the cloth bundle in his arms. Within it rested a book with a leather cover so worn it looked like it could crumble at a sneeze. Despite himself, Malik felt his interest pique. He gestured with his hand, and the man place the book carefully on the desk before him.

Malik grabbed a small silk scarf from a shelf (a gift from an ambitious merchant) and carefully opened the book using it.

"Genesis," the man explained with some eagerness. "The history of the Garden of Eden, as seen in the very first page."

Eden. The name seemed to jolt through Malik, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

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Basim Ibn Ishaq, Modern day, Gen

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Access denied.

Basim curled his fingers very carefully one by one, took a deep breath in and let a soundless breath out. He uncurled his fingers and tapped gently on the keyboard once again.

Access denied.

It was stupid, silly even, to get so enraged by the artificial voice. But its dispassionate tone evoked centuries and lifetimes of hurt within him, all with two simple words.

Access denied, said the self-determined gods, often with a sneering addition of jotun, like it was a slur. Access denied, said the people and officials, the courts and the bridge-keepers. Denied, of the right to exist with his family. Denied, of the right to plead for his son. Denied, of the elixir of immortality, of even the entrance to the knowledge-tree, to his last and only chance to reunite his family amidst a global catastrophe— all thanks to the whims and nightmares of a mad old man who thought himself a god.

And then he was denied of a home built by his own kin, of sustenance in harsh, unforgiving streets, barred from a life of peace and comfort, again due to the circumstances of his birth. No access to knowledge, denied of his right to choose his own path, within and without the shadows—

Basim tapped a little more harshly on the keyboard this time.

Access denied, said the infuriating voice yet again. Two attempts left.

Another deep breath; Basim began to reflect carefully. Rebecca Crane was clearly good at what she did or she would not be as important to the Assassins as she was. They trusted her to be good at what she did, and she, apparently, trusted no one.

And she had good reason for it. Basim remembered what Shaun Hastings had let slip one long, sombre night.

"We had a friend." His voice had been rough with grief. "Lucy. She was killed by one of our own."

Assassin infighting was hardly new to Basim. But there was something about the way Shaun had said it…

"We have never reacted well to traitors," Basim had said, wry and self-aware. He had seen the shot hit home, the way both Shaun and Becs had stiffened.

"Lucy," Basim murmured to himself presently. He had no need to be so quiet; he was alone in the cabin. His mind ran through alphabets and orthographies, settling finally on one of the many machine scripts prevalent in the human world. He typed again, a long jumble of letters and numbers and symbols, all coming together to spell 'Lucy'.

Access granted, the machine droned softly. Welcome, Rebecca.

"And what do you think you're doing, young man?!"

Jacob nearly stumbled — stumbled! — at the sudden loud screech behind him. He turned to see an old-ish woman, grey hair curling under a grimy bonnet, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Just passing by," Jacob said hurriedly, glancing around quickly at the darkening back alley. "Excuse me, madam."

"'Passing by', is it?" The biddy said shrilly. "Passing by the roofs, now, what kind of strange business is that?"

She was blocking his way. Jacob tensed his fingers, briefly beset by the attractive notion of sinking his hidden blade into her wrinkled throat. "Sorry for the ruckus," he muttered, trying to give her his most winning smile. "Now, if you don't mind— "

"I do mind, Mister Toff!" She shrieked. "What on earth were you doing stomping across my ceiling for?!"

He was running out of time. The target would get away.

"Well I won't do it again, lady, move aside." He snapped.

"I'll scream for a copper right now, I will—"

"What's goin' on?" Came a new voice behind her, and Jacob froze.

Oh, shit. He recognised that voice. It was the target himself.

"Ruffians on the rooftop, Mr. Crewes!" The woman screeched, pointing a finger at Jacob. The man turned his suspicious gaze onto him.

"Rooftop, you say?" He muttered, his eyes narrowing, too. Jacob's fingers inched towards the kukri in his belt.

But in the next second a shadow flitted over the target, and the second after that revealed Jacob's dear sister crouched over Mr. Crewes' lifeless body, her hidden blade already in his throat.

Dammit!

The old woman began to scream. Evie straightened up — and was suddenly on the business end of a cocked pistol aimed at her face. Said pistol was held by none other than Madam Cantankerous, her wrinkly face twisted in a paroxysm of fury.

"Bloody assassins—"

This time Jacob was faster, and the old woman never got to finish whatever diatribe she had brewing against the Assassins.

Evie stepped away with an expression of mild disgust as Jacob sheathed his hidden blade and the woman's corpse tumbled down.

"Well, what do you know," Jacob sniffed. "A double event."

"Ugh." Evie wiped her still exposed blade on one of the corpses at their feet.

"Bloody Templars," she grumbled.

"Bloody Templars," Jacob agreed.

They glanced at each other.

"I still win, though," Evie said with a flash of a grin, just as she engaged her grapple.

Jacob's voice was now loud enough to rival the old woman's.

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Basim/Hytham

Summary: Hytham has a question that is finally answered one day in the Constantinople bureau.

Spoilers for The Golden City and AC Mirage: Valley of Memory DLC

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When Hytham received his assignment, it was one of the first questions that popped up in his mind. He almost voiced it, but Mentor Rayhan was forever busy, forever with those worry lines on his brow, even through every smile. And there were more pertinent questions at hand. Questions related to travel and equipment and the final instructions that were a staple before any of his brothers began a new journey with a new mission.

In the end, Hytham figured he'd find the answer himself.

Just a quick note:

By some happy coincidence this fic happened to be the 100th fic in the Bytham tag! I can't believe we've come this far in a little over two years since my bestie and I fell head over heels into this rarepair that only had 8 fics at the time 🥹

Written as a birthday gift for the very lovely @project-zorthania ♥️💜

"Genetic anomaly," Basim whispered. He could barely see his own thumb moving in the dark, but he could feel the slightly sticky, papery skin of the bags under Hytham's eyes. He waited for a moment, then two.

Nothing.

"Your eyes," he continued, ignoring the yawning, aching pit within his heart. "Blue eyes are a recessive gene. If your parents both had brown eyes, you were almost certain to have brown eyes too." He kept his thumb in motion, feeling eyelashes tremble ever so slightly against his skin. "That makes you a statistical miracle." His voice was painfully soft. His vision was painfully clear, now adjusted to the dark. "A genetic miracle."

He felt the words before they came with the gust of limpid air that was Hytham's voice. "Which one?"

Basim paused. "What?"

Cold, clammy fingers curled slow and loose around his wrist. "Which one?" Hytham repeated. The fingers curled just a smidge tighter. "Anomaly? Or miracle?"

Oh, his heart.

"Miracle," Basim wheezed and leaned forward to press his forehead ever so gently against Hytham's. "Without a doubt."

The fingers dropped from his wrist, the forehead leaned away: leaving Basim feeling entirely unmoored and alone in the rickety little bed. The smell of kebabs from the nearby street vendor floated up through the grimy half-open window, and Basim felt a sudden urge to throw up.

"Liar," Hytham's breeze-limp voice said. The one word seemed to echo in the musty room.

Basim only screwed his eyes shut and did not disagree.

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This ficlet is a sneak peak at what Zorthania and I have planned in our Anomaly AU, a canon-divergent series of bytham fics, expanding on the question: "What if Hytham is alive in the modern era too?"