Those Who Dance with Death
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 4
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sherlock and John had not talked about the case in many months. But the unspoken truth remained that there was a third person living at 221B: the ghost of Amelia Bones, whose name, though unsaid, still haunted the flat and refused to leave.
It had been quietly driving Sherlock mad. And John was sick of it. Even worse than normal, Sherlock had been acting like a petulant child for the better part of three months now. Very few cases piqued his interest, everything was boring, and the holes in their living room wall were increasing from Sherlock’s incessant need to play target practice with the stupid yellow smiley face. He was at least thankful that Sherlock hadn’t yet turned to his drugs to take the edge off, but the worry nagged at John that that method of diversion would soon be rounding the corner to rear its ugly head. All the while, John kept working to pay their bills, since Sherlock was a fat load of help at doing that.
And just before noon on August 1st, John found himself waiting for the number 36 to be called at the deli so he could pick up his sandwich before rushing off to yet another shift at Bart’s. Even though he felt more tired than death itself, John was thankful to at least have some excuse to escape the flat, but mostly Sherlock.
“36!”, the rough voice of the deli worker pulled John from his foggy state, his hopes rising at the prospect of getting some food.
But there was no sandwich on the counter, instead there was a small white envelope. John’s hopes of food were immediately dashed. He looked with utter disdain at the envelope before him, and then to the deli worker. The portly man shrugged without care, and gestured behind John before resuming his work.
There was a short list of people in John’s world who would pull dramatic shenanigans like this, and he wasn’t looking forward to having a conversation with any one of them. John tore open the envelope resentfully and read the enclosed note:
Althea’s at the door. We need to talk.
Sure enough, as he turned to the entrance, Althea was waiting right by the door. Barely sparing a glance from her mobile device, she waved at John with her usual dainty little wave that reeked of condescension.
“Great,” John huffed under his breath. Looks like he had a date with Mycroft.
.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.
“Did you lose your phone, Mycroft?” John quipped as he slid into the backseat of the car opposite Mycroft. He was met with Mycroft’s customary quirk of the eyebrow.
“Just trying to figure out why you never seem to be able to give me a ring whenever you need to have a chat.”
Mycroft offered no response.
That was odd.
“Althea…” Mycroft suddenly turned his attention to his assistant who was entering the car. He raised his right hand ever so slightly in her direction. This stopped Althea in her tracks, so much so that she even stopped texting on her mobile device. However, understanding Mycroft’s meaning, she backed out of the car with a curt little nod, and shut the door.
Mycroft took it upon himself to lock the door behind her.
There was a heavy silence as Mycroft sat back in his seat, and tried to choose his words with a deliberate amount of care, “There are… There has been…”
Mycroft sighed, his frustration growing, “I will be honest with you, John, because I hope you will be honest with me. I’m not entirely sure how to begin this conversation.”
Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to look John in the eye. He fiddled with the hilt of his umbrella.
“Sherlock. He’s still fixated on the Amelia Bones’ case, isn’t he. Please be honest with me, John.”
John distinctly noticed how Mycroft wasn’t asking a question.
So John chose to be honest, “He doesn’t say it, but yes.”
Mycroft nodded, his gaze shifted, “I did warn him.”
John didn’t ask who ‘him’ was, but he had a feeling it wasn’t Sherlock.
“Is this…. Is Moriarty involved?”
Mycroft was immediately confused, “What? No.” He brushed off the mention of the internationally renowned criminal as if John has suggested they catch a film together at the cinema.
“I can’t tell you too much, for security reasons, of course.” Mycroft continued, “But I can tell you this: things, terrible things, have been happening for a while now, and they have set into motion a powerful movement, the jurisdiction of which is unfortunately well beyond even my control, John. If you want what’s best for Sherlock, then you should listen to my advice.”
“Which is?”
Mycroft stared John dead in the eye, “Pack your things. Take Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. And get on the first train out to anywhere in the countryside.”
John laughed. Mycroft didn’t.
“…You’re serious?”
Mycroft began fiddling again with his umbrella, and John rather suspected that Mycroft was unaware that John spotted it, “Really, it would be safer if you left the country, but I know the success rate of that actually happening is closer to nil than any other figure.”
“Mycroft, it can’t be that—”
“Think, John.” Mycroft snapped, shutting John off, “Really think, and tell me that you haven’t been blissfully living your life without seeing the signs of what’s been happening in the past year.”
As much as John hated it admit it, Mycroft was probably right. The frankly alarming amount of disappearances, the amount of disasters that had been written off in the news as “freak incidents”… he (and quite frankly everyone else) had just brushed them off as what they had been called: just incidents. Certainly John had never entertained the thought that they might have all been related. That, or he just didn’t want to believe it.
“Amelia Bones was just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Precisely.”
Mycroft’s voice was tired. John just noticed Mycroft looked a touch paler than he normally did.
“Are…?” John cut himself off mid-question, and shifted tactics, “Does Sherlock know?”
Mycroft replied, “I’m sure he’s suspected something for months. Not anything specific, but the patterns are hard to deny. He’s just been waiting, apparently quite impatiently, for the moment when the flood gates will crack.”
Mycroft’s stare said it all — that crack was about to happen. It was why they were having this conversation here and now.
“How bad will it be?” John braced himself for Mycroft’s response.
He shrugged, almost noncommittal, “If Sherlock were to listen to my advice, and take to the countryside… it might be even be noticeable at all. However…”
Mycroft couldn’t stop from rolling his eyes, “Sherlock has never listened to me. And out of his own predetermined stubbornness, he will continue to not listen to me—” he had stopped himself in mid-sentence, some foreign emotion taking over him. John let him have a few moments to gather his thoughts.
Mycroft continued, recomposed, “So, yes, it will be bad. Because I know Sherlock. We both know Sherlock. And he will throw himself headfirst into this….” Mycroft suddenly looked at John with a glare that could have cut through glass.
“Sherlock will view this as a game, just like he always has. but this is far from a game. A war has been brewing, and that war is coming here to roost. War is your world, John. Not Sherlock’s.”
An ugly silence settled with the weight of Mycroft’s words between the two men.
Mycroft forced a smile on his face. His eyes were desperate as he continued to speak, “This is your area of expertise, Dr. Watson. So please… do what you can to take care of my brother. Come what may.”
The knock at the car window interrupted their conversation. It was Althea.
She was allowed entry, and, after assurance from Mycroft that it was fine to do so in front of John, whispered some news to Mycroft as discretely as she could. Even with the attempts at secrecy and discretion, John could have sworn he heard the name “Potter” whispered. John immediately directed his attention to catch Mycroft’s reaction. His expression was stone-faced as he dismissed Althea and pulled out his mobile.
They spent a few minutes together in silence: Mycroft was engrossed in his phone, clearly something big was happening to pull his attention completely away.
John broke the silence, “It’s Harry Potter, isn’t it?”
Mycroft was right about something: that John knew Sherlock Holmes. And Mycroft wasn’t terribly different from his brother. So John saw the less-than-momentary pause in Mycroft’s texting, and the involuntary twitch in his jaw — signs that most who did not know the Holmes brothers would have missed entirely. But those signs were confirmation enough for John.
“That’s another name that Sherlock has been fascinated with,” he offered up, in an attempt to tease more information out of Mycroft.
Mycroft pulled himself away from his phone, “I just asked for your assistance in making sure my brother doesn’t run head-first into trouble. Do you think placing a target on his head will help with that?”
John had worried that he might get such a response from Mycroft, “Is Potter an asset then?”
Mycroft adopted his normal smug grin, “There is no asset by that name. The boy is cursed. The less Sherlock knows of Potter, the better. For both of their sakes.”
Mycroft’s attention suddenly was arrested once more by a notification from his phone. It was followed by a pronounced and heavy pause in Mycroft’s world. It bled into the greater world around him.
“And so it begins,” Mycroft muttered to no one in particular.
John wanted to ask, but also didn’t want to ask as to what Mycroft had learned. So instead he sat in the silence, ruminating on the gravity of the situation that Mycroft had only just barely clued him into.
Mycroft tapped on the car window. Althea answered.
“It’s done,” Mycroft casually tucked his phone into his coat pocket, his gaze exceptionally vacant, “I think I need some air. Althea, let’s walk.”
Mycroft grabbed his umbrella, and exited the car. On almost a second or third thought, Mycroft turned his attention back to John, “The driver will take you to St Bartholomew’s.”
And the car door shut, leaving John alone.
John felt the driver pulling the car into the street, and after a few minutes he realized one detail that had been bugging him about the last part of their conversation: Mycroft had let slip that Harry Potter was just a boy.
.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.
John moved through his work in familiar motions: nothing required too much of his attention, and frankly nothing today would be getting his full and undivided attention. He couldn’t shake the feeling of uneasiness that had lingered with him since his conversation with Mycroft. John was used to Mycroft delivering grave warnings. He was used to Mycroft nagging Sherlock to not stick his nose in dangerous situations. But John wasn’t used to Mycroft asking for help, and from John of all people. It wasn’t a common occurrence, and the few occasions in which it did happen, terrible things tended to follow in that request’s wake. So the implications of this chat with Mycroft didn’t sit well with John.
Eventually, John excused himself to get some fresh air and try to clear his mind. Perching in one of the smoker’s spots at one of Bart’s many side entrances, he desperately tried to quiet his mind. Sadly, to no avail.
John had been on edge lately as it was, and Mycroft’s delightful visit was doing nothing to ease that sense of worry. He had chalked it up to the soldier’s burden — never being able to let go of that feeling of being ready for battle at a moment’s notice. But now, it wasn’t just John. Mycroft was worried too. That was never a good sign.
His phone dinged, and John let out a breath he just realized he was holding. He rubbed his eyes to try and bring himself back to the present moment, and dug out his phone.
Ah. It was a message from Molly Hooper. A reminder about their meeting in ten minutes at the mortuary of St Bart’s. John had flat out forgotten about it, and was immediately thankful that he had the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time.
It wasn’t often that Molly Hooper requested for Sherlock and John to come visit her — rather, it was usually the opposite with them showing up unannounced to the mortuary, on Sherlock’s insistence (always), and bombarding her with various and often ludicrous requests connected to whatever case they were working at the moment. So when she had told John to bring Sherlock to St. Bart’s this evening at seven o’clock for a surprise, John desperately hoped that Sherlock would treat this as a serious matter.
Which…John had a sinking suspicion that Sherlock was not planning to do. He sent the man a brief message.
(18:45:03) Where are you?
Sherlock didn’t answer. Annoyance bloomed inside John. He texted again.
(18:48:37) You’re supposed to be here at Barts? We’re meeting Molly in about ten minutes?
John tapped his fingers impatiently on the banister, staring at his phone, waiting for those little dots to pop up —
John stopped tapping. Someone was watching him. He just knew.
He immediately tore his focus from his phone, and scanned the surrounding area. There were plenty of people about of course, this being the central London: tourists gawking, hospital staff coming and going, locals and business-folk milling around… but one person caught John’s attention. He was loitering in front of the department store that was never open, slightly off to John’s right. And he was staring dead at John. John immediately noticed the unusual attire the man wore: a long billowing dark grey cloak. It was quite similar to the cloak at —
John’s phone dinged. John’s attention flicked instinctively to see the new message.
(18:49:03) Indisposed. Check your bag. Return items to Dr. Hooper. - SH
He looked back up to find the cloaked man. The man had vanished. John’s phone dinged once more.
(18:50:10) Apologies to Dr. Hooper. - SH
.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.
The blank stare on Dr. Molly Hooper’s face hid a pure volcanic rage. “What do you mean, he’s ‘indisposed’?” Her tone sounded level, but John knew it was full of fury.
“He did apologize —”
“Oh did he?! So it’s all just fine then?”
They were standing in the mortuary of St. Bart’s. Molly had paused mid-process of pulling out the tray of a body storage locker. Even though the thought of dead corpses would make normal people uncomfortable, John was far more uncomfortable with the piercing glare of Molly Hooper’s eyes pinning him down where he stood.
John couldn’t offer any suitable response. If he had almost forgotten about the meeting entirely himself, then of course he knew he’d have to face the music of Sherlock brushing it off entirely. John could only think to offer up the evidence bag that Sherlock had indicated was in his knapsack.
She slammed the body locker door closed, “I was supposed to have that back last week.” Molly snatched the bag and raced to the door connecting to the laboratory.
The best apology John could muster up was a shrug which he knew Molly barely saw as she passed him., “Sorry, Molly — you know how Sherlock gets.”
She hastily checked the contents as she breezed through the swinging doors. Satisfied with the condition of the returned items, she let out a stifled exhale of relief. John saw her shoulders sag just a little. “It’s a miracle the new supervisor didn’t notice,” she brushed her hair away from her face as she hurried to put the bagaway, “They’ve had these administrative folks up and down the whole hospital lately, I’ve had to lie every which way to get them to not take this body away, and they’ve been checking everything…”
John had noticed the suits too. Under the guise of an “internal review”, they had been poking their noses in every which department with their checklists, and questions. If John was a gambling man, he would bet money that there had been a shakeup in upper-level management that had yet to be made public, but John was not a gambling man, nor did he care about administrative affairs or motives. But what he did care about was his friend Molly, and he was realizing that he and Sherlock could have gotten Molly in real trouble with that missing evidence bag. He was really feeling like such an ass.
“Again, apologies for —”
“No no no.” Molly slammed the evidencedrawer shut with far more force than necessary, “Don’t apologize for him. He’s a fully grown adult, he should be the one here explaining himself. He should be here making the apologies. Not you.”
John had nothing to say. She was right. He pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he was tired.
“Long day?” Molly’s tone had softened a little.
John nodded, “Long few months.”
He left the rest of it unsaid — Sherlock’s erratic moods, Mycroft’s helicoptering, barely scraping by, his abysmal romantic life, on top of the rest of the normal stresses of everyday life…
Oh he had just missed what Molly had said. John snapped out of his thoughts, “Hm? Sorry?”
“I said, have you eaten?”
John laughed. He just remembered he hadn’t picked up his order from the deli after his chat with Mycroft.
Molly quirked an eyebrow in confusion, and John composed himself, “Um… no. I haven’t. But I should. I’ll check by that store, they’re never open, but the cafe next to it usually is —”
“Sit,” Molly interrupted him, she was already halfway to one of the lab’s many refrigerators, “If you don’t take better care of yourself, it’ll be you in that cold locker over there instead of Mr. Doe.”
John obliged, but still gave her a piece of his mind, “I’m not the one who needs the lecture, it’s Sherlock that —”
A bagged sandwich plopped onto the table before him.
“Eat it. I at least had breakfast today — I’d bet money you haven’t.”
John chuckled to himself; she was right. “Thanks, you’re a saint.”
Molly sat herself down at the table, and John got to work unwrapping the gifted lunch. Chancing a glance at the forensic pathologist, it broke John’s heart to see that the fuming anger that had seconds before been coursing through Molly had completely dissipated. Instead, she looked defeated. Empty.
He held the cold sandwich in an awkward moment of silence, “Are you alright, Molly?”
She shrugged, “I don’t know… it’s just…”. Molly Hooper laughed, but it was a tired and small laugh. She rubbed her brow in frustration, “I just wanted to surprise him. Sherlock. With a new case.” She gestured over to the door back to the mortuary, “I really thought it would get him out of his funk. But if he can’t be bothered…”
Well now John really felt like a twat for having forgotten about this meeting.
It was severely bad timing that his phone went off in that moment. Immediately John shoved it in his pocket and cut the ringtone short. “Well… I’m sure that if Sherlock had known that’s what you wanted to share with him, he would have been here.” He tried his best to boost her morale.
She offered a small smile, recognizing the attempt, “Yeah, well that kind of goes against the point of a surprise now, doesn’t it?”
They sat in a moment’s pause. Then Molly heaved herself back up on her feet, “It really is exhausting isn’t it? Trying to be a friend of Sherlock’s? Do you think he knows how exhausting he is?”
Before John could answer, his phone went off again. The ringtone echoed off the cold sterile walls of the mortuary. Damn this bloody phone and this bloody git —
“Molly, I’m really sorry —”
“Just go.” She waved him off, not even looking at him as she pushed through the doors back into the mortuary.
After John gathered his things, he glanced through the windows of the mortuary doors: even from this distance, he could see Molly with her back to him, wipe at her eyes ever so briefly. She then shook her head, almost as if to wake herself up, and then opened up the same locker door that she had slammed shut earlier. Back to work.
As he left, John made a mental note that he was going to kill Sherlock. Or at the very least, give him a piece of his mind.
.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
It was hours later, well into the night, and Sherlock was walking quite briskly through the streets and alleys of central London. John was trying his damndest to keep pace with him while giving him a piece of his mind, “She was sobloodyangry at you, and quite honestly she had every right to be. Howmanytimes has she asked us for a favor?”
“She doesn’t ask us for favors.”
“Exactly. So the LEAST you could do is show some respect to Molly and show up when she asks you to.”
“But I was busy.” Sherlock made to shift around a corner when —
“Doing what?!!” John stopped Sherlock in the street, demanding an answer.
Sherlock’s face flashed with a sudden and comically perplexed expression — almost the personification of a computer shouting “does not compute” manifested into a human face. He blinked several times, recalibrating due to John’s sudden disturbance to his physical and mental paths with the sudden disturbance, “… Running various laboratory tests on the samples of the mud residue left at Lestrade’s crime scene that matched certain areas in Central London where the same biological conditions of said sample could have been met within a 500 meter radius of Leicester Square Station.”
John couldn’t hold back the bitter sarcasm from overwhelming his tone, “Oh! So preparing for the whole bloody wild goose chase we’ve been on for the past three hours??”
It was true that they had been running around to various parts near Tottenham Court Road and Charing Cross with nothing to show for it. Sherlock had been oddly calm throughout the whole marathon. John, however, had far surpassed his limit.
Sherlock blinked in response, and John was annoyed to admit that the knew the response Sherlock was saying without saying: “Progress is progress.” Sherlock was trying to write off this wasted evening as a fruitful one where they had crossed off false leads, rather than admitting it for what it was: a bust of a search.
So John decided to put his foot down. Now.
“Alright Sherlock.” John braced his stance, “We’re done with this goose chase tonight. And here’s what we’re going to do. First thing tomorrow? We’re going straight down to St. Bart’s together, and you’re apologizing to Doctor Molly Hooper for being an insensitive and selfish twat. In person and to her face.”
“I have—”
John could feel his blood rate skyrocket, “Guess what?! Whatever you have? It’s cancelled. Doctor’s orders. Right. Second. You will comb through 221B and make it absolutely certain that there isn’t a shred of evidence that should have been returned to Dr. Molly Hooper. There’s a whole bunch of suits running around poking their noses in places they don’t normally, and she could be in a whole lot of trouble all thanks to you if you’re still holding onto anything you’ve badgered her into giving you. You can attend to this tomorrow morning AFTER you’re done groveling at Molly’s feet. And finally, Sherlock, you might not be well acquainted with it, but many of us experience this sensation called hunger. And I, for one, am dangerously hungry at this moment. Since you are dependent on me for your taxi funds — we are stopping to eat right now at the first place I see!”
“Fine. There?” Sherlock nodded at an establishment which could accurately be described as a small and shabby-looking cafe.
There was a silence that fell for a moment as John had to make a crucial decision — that between his hunger or his pride. His hunger, sadly, won out.
“Fine.” John spat out vehemently. Food was food, but he hated letting Sherlock off the hook so easy.
A doorbell coughed out a pathetic ring as they walked into the diner, and John immediately regretted his hasty choice of this dining establishment. The red Formica-toppedtables all seemed to be coated with a layer of grease that hadn’t been touched in quite some time. The sole staff of one waitress and one chef drooped idly behind the counter and in the small kitchen behind due to the complete lack of activity. Even for close to midnight in the middle of downtown London, there wasn’t a single customer in the place.
Regardless, the choice was made, and so John chose a table at whim. He got over the furnishings rather quickly (he had seen and eaten at worse places), and plopped himself down into a seat, his tired legs grateful for the reprieve.Sherlock, however, eased down into his chair with an obvious hint of disdain for the place. John was too spent to care about being embarrassed by his friend’s lack of social graces.
A few moments later, the tired waitress shuffled over to their table, chewing quite noisily on some over-chewed gum. John placed his order of scrambled eggs on toast, Sherlock as usual ordered nothing, and the two sat in silence. Silence that was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone buzzing. Several times.
When John’s food arrived, Sherlock’s phone went off for the twelfth time.
John raised his eyebrow as he prepared to dig in, “You going to get that?”
“No need.” Sherlock ignored the device.
Sherlock had the rare moment of grace to allow John to eat for a few minutes before: “There’s something else bothering you.”
“Hmm?” John was too focused on his meal.
“Besides this business with Dr. Hooper. There’s something else.”
Why yes, I had the most lovely chat with your brother today about the possibility of an incoming war, the specifics of which I’m quite frankly in the dark about. The thought immediately ran through John’s mind with a savage and instinctual bite. And no sooner had the thought been thought, John knew the gig was up. As much as he could protest and deny, Sherlock would either dig around until he found the truth, or resort to other means to curb his boredom. And John was more worried about the latter becoming an actual problem to handle.
“I…” John sighed, “Mycroft.” He looked at Sherlock, expecting that simple response to be enough of an answer.
And it was indeed.
Sherlock had gone stock still.
“He’s been worried about recent events, and certain trends, and he was cryptic about everything of course. But he just wanted to talk, and make sure you were alright… especially given your history with —”
“It’s the Amelia Bones case.” Sherlock’s lip twitched, “He’s seen the patterns too. I knew it. It always comes back to that case.”
John had just wanted to eat his food in peace. He had just wanted to forget about everything that had happened today for ten minutes. And apparently, he thought bitterly, that wasn’t going to happen.
“Why is that the case that Mycroft is obsessed with?” Sherlock barreled on, “It has nothing to do with any government policy, but why is he exerting all of his power to hinder any potential progress on this case? And why did he want to talk to you about it?”
John’s eyes went wide at the hilarious hypocrisy he had just heard about Sherlock thinking Mycroft was the one obsessing over the Bones case, but he bit back his comments. He stabbed his fork violently into the eggs on his plate, “We didn’t talk about the case —”
“But why did he want to talk to you?”
Because you’re dancing around a landmine of a situation that even I don’t know the specifics of, and he asked me to protect your life, you idiot.
“Sherlock,” John could feel the last little bit of his patience fading away, as much as he tried to hold onto it, “It’s…the case is closed. You need to move on.”
Sherlock looked John dead in the eyes, something was different about his look, “But the conclusion is wrong.”
“You might think so, but it’s been over a year — ”
Sherlock’s stare intensified, “Just because a case is closed doesn’t mean the conclusion is wrong.”
John had had enough. For the twentieth time today. He slammed his fist on the diner table and exploded, “Sherlock for god’s sake would you shut the fuck up about that goddamned case??”
An ugly pause dirtied the air, like ash snow from a fire.
“Sorry,” John waved to the waitress, newly startled by the outburst, “sorry…”
The bell of the front door coughed once more and some new patrons entered. It gave John an excuse to break eye contact from Sherlock without needing to explain himself. Seeing it was just a teenage couple, John mentally rolled his eyes at himself. Of course the universe wouldn’t bail him out of escaping this moment with Sherlock. John chanced a look at Sherlock; he merely looked confused.
Sherlock held his gaze, unflinching, “But it is wrong. You know it’s wrong, too.”
It almost sounded like he was pleading.
John met his friend’s intensity in silence: still and stone-faced. Just as he had been trained to do with the army. He remembered Mycroft’s warning…
“…Sherlock will view this as a game, just like he always has. but this is far from a game. A war has been brewing, and that war is coming here to roost…”
Sherlock shifted his gaze from John with a great deal of effort, and, if John was reading him correctly, almost appeared disappointed.
“Honestly, John, I thought we had moved past the point of hiding things from each other,” he huffed.
“I… hmph.” John hated everything about this conversation. He settled himself, and stared squarely at Sherlock, “Look. You’re right. The answer to that case might be wrong. But that doesn’t mean you need to keep digging around to figure it out.”
Sherlock was inscrutable, but attentive, “Is that what my brother made you agree to say in your chat today?”
John didn’t have the energy to protest, “It just might be a case that’s best left alone. Solved correctly or no. Mycroft might actually be right about this.”
Sherlock chose to be silent.
John took a deep breath. He hated being forced into this position — he hated being the bad guy, being the responsible one of the two, “… Tell me, honestly, why has this case really been on your mind all this time?”
A still vacant Sherlock responded, bitterness laced in his tone, “It’s the case I failed to solve, isn’t it?”
The bell rang again as some more customers entered, some construction workers, but John barely paid them any mind — he was quite taken aback by Sherlock’s comment.
He even more surprised that Sherlock decided to elaborate, “There’s always an answer. Every problem has a solution. But this case… if I couldn’t solve it… the answer must be beyond the boundaries of logic. But I’ve never known nothing that went beyond those boundaries before,” Sherlock looked to John, the ghost of desperation in his eyes, “So what does Mycroft know that I don’t?”
John truly had no answer, “I don’t know, Sherlock. I really don’t know.”
And Mycroft’s voice echoed in John’s mind again, “Please… do what you can to protect my brother. Come what may.”
Shit. John felt like shit. He allowed the frustration he’d been holding at bay to overtake him, and seething, stared down at his nearly finished eggs and toast. He wasn’t even remotely hungry anymore. In fact, he was bordering on nauseous.
“Hmm.”
John glanced up to see Sherlock staring over his shoulder at the booths behind John. “What?”
“Don’t look behind you,” Sherlock’s voice was only just audible, but John got the message — do not attract any attention.
The hairs on John Watson’s neck stood up. The nausea vanished. His hand quietly and swiftly fell below the table, ghosting over the holster where he stored his pistol. But he paid heed to Sherlock’s warning and did not look behind him. Instead, John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s.
“What do you see?” he whispered.
“A couple. Two teenagers.”
John’s blood ran cold. It had to be the same couple he saw enter a few minutes ago, “What about them?”
Sherlock kept his volume low, but John could see his eyes were working a thousand miles a minute, “Usually their hormones take control of any ounce of logic they may or may not possess, thus normally capable of blowing situations completely out of proportion, however…”
John kept perfectly still, watching Sherlock’s eyes take in the scene before him…
….
One female: bushy brown hair, hands are shaking [most likely from adrenaline - she’s in a nervous state], shaking enough that she hasn’t dared to touch her [drink, coffee, small, but not too small, frothy milk] cappuccino yet. Uncomfortable sitting with her back to the door, keeps attempting to look over her shoulder to monitor the only entrance, and is obvious in her attempts.
One male: distractingly red hair, eyes worried but unfocused, face extremely pale, detests his drink (same as hers, determined from the amount of foam present in the drink… she must have ordered for the both of them), and glancing towards the large empty space on the booth cushion between him and the female…
“These two — they’re terrified. Everything about their paranoid behavior suggests they’re either on the run or going into hiding. But from what?”
And in the instant that followed, both men noticed two different things — each alarming in their own way.
Sherlock saw the air in between these two teenagers… shift? Like something… or someone was there. Hiding.
John caught the faintest of movement at the counter from the two men who were placing an order: they were reaching in their coats for something, at the same time. John knew. Guns.
Chaos erupted.
A bright flash of light exploded from the men at the counter and flew at the booth occupants; the ginger haired boy launched himself at the girl and pulled her just out of the way of the lights’ paths, hurling them both towards the floor.
The tiled wall exploded behind the teens with the force equivalent to a small bomb.
John’s instincts from his time in war immediately kicked in; hekicked down the table next to them, creating a makeshift barricade. Sherlock dove behind it while John pulled out his pistol, clicking the safety. Someone, a male voice, shouted something that neither of the two recognized as English.Lights were flashing all sorts of unnatural colors, explosions followed soon after… or maybe they preceded the lights? It was too hard to tell.
Another noise, louder than the first, boomed throughout the diner — the force wave that followed nearly toppled Sherlock and John.
“What the bloody hell is going on?!” John roared over the noise.
Various people were crying out, multiple thuds sounded as something (or was it someone? multiple people?) hit the floor — shrill screams and a flash of blue fabric whipped by as John and Sherlock saw the poor waitress from earlier running as fast as she could for the front door, screaming bloody murder. Just before she grabbed the door handle, a flash of red light ricocheted off the floor and hit her square in the back.
She fell silent. Her body crumpled, and she collapsed, unmoving.
Time slowed.
And both Sherlock and John shared the same thought at what had just transpired: Impossible.
Sherlock’s world was violently imploding in his mind. What he had just seen was physically impossible... ACTUALLY… PHYSICALLY impossible… it wasn’t a laser… it was a light… and a light cannot bring down a full grown human adult….and render them unconscious. … But Sherlock could not repudiate the evidence that he had just seen with his own eyes… So what if this light was a means to enact a result? Rather that it was a conduit of power through which an intent was given —
In this split second of thought, Sherlock halted: he had just intrinsically labelled that light as a source of power. Sherlock’s mind was on fire… if this… THIS was that spec of knowledge that had been residing just beyond the realm of logic….
The softest whisper escaped from Sherlock’s lips, completely unheard and lost in the chaos of the moment: “Magic?”
Another thought flashed through Sherlock’s mind…. What if this wasn’t all that this power…this magic could do?
He had to see what was happening. He had to know more.
Sherlock caught a quick look around the table; the redhead had fallen on the floor completely bound in black twine (considering a red bolt of light had just rendered a woman frozen and unconscious, Sherlock wasn’t even about to question how a man he had seen completely mobile not 30 seconds prior was now expertly tied up on the floor), the bushy haired woman and another (new?) young man with jet-black hair were engaged in this strange new light battle with the two construction workers. Sherlock knew that what he was seeing sounded ridiculous, was ridiculous, but it was what was happening…
Sherlock was so engrossed in the scene before him, that he failed to notice that he had caught the dark-haired construction worker’s attention.
“SHERLOCK!”John’s yell brought him back to the present moment. Sherlock saw the man. The man’s stick was glowing with a light; it was aimed at him. Sherlock pulled himself back behind the table just in time to miss the green flash of light that whizzedby his head and exploded into the tiled floor about five feet away.
Sherlock’s heart was racing from the close shave. His vision blurred for a few seconds. He gasped, and tried to steady his breathing — but the heat of that burst of energy… of magic!?… remained hot against his cheek. It was a lingering reminder of what might have been had he not ducked out of the way just in time.
John saw red.
He inhaled — and exhaled, steadying his mind. Johne then inhaled once more, turned, and rose above the cover of the table. He found his first target: the construction worker who had fired that green bolt of light at Sherlock. John solidified his aim— exhaled halfway — then pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The man fell to the ground, dead.
“Bloody hell!”
John took the same careful aim at the other attacker — who in the time intervening was raising his wand at John. The attacker failed to do anything though before John fired off his own brand of magic. BANG! His target fell immediately after impact: dead.
There was a breath of awkward silence before…
“Gunshots?!”
John looked up and noticed, for the first time, the presence of a boy with perplexingly messy black hair and round glasses. He had the most peculiar scar on his forehead in the shape of a lightening bolt.
The four of them were frozen, each of them like deers caught in beams of headlights, trying to assess the level of danger that the other party posed, if any. No weapons were raised, but all were out and at the ready.
“What’s going on —?” the redhead bound on the floor rolled around —
John immediately targeted the redhead out of instinct.
The bushy-haired girl aimed her wand right at John. John responded immediately, and aimed his gun at her. She squeaked in fear, and the boy with black hair had his wand immediately aimed at John. Sizing up the two, John changed his aim for the boy’s heart. The girl hesitated for just a second, and then changed her aim towards Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw.
“Drop your weapons.” John’s voice fell naturally into the cold authoritative tone he had perfected during his military service. He didn’t take his eyes off his target.
The boy with dark hair didn’t flinch. “I don’t think so.”
“Harry, they just helped us!” the nervous young woman chimed in.
“Harry…” Sherlock murmured.
Could this actually be… the Harry Potter?
John’s target remained steady on Harry’s heart, even though his own was racing a thousand miles a minute.
“Oi, Hermione? Some help, please?” the bound red-headed boy on the floor called out.
The girl, Hermione, hesitated for a second, weighing the options before her, before turning her wand and full attention towards her friend on the floor. “D-Diffindo.”
It was as if someone had sliced a knife through his binds — but there was no one there to do the act. The word “magic” kept springing up uncomfortably in Sherlock’s mind.
Shooting one more look at the two strangers, Hermione, decided that her colleague needed more attention than they did, and went to assist him in removing his bonds. She put her wand away.
“Hermione — !”
“If they wanted to kill us, he would have shot already.” she cut her colleague off, pulling the last of his bindings away, “Guns are fasters than spells, Ron, especially if it’s a soldier shooting.”
“How did you know he was a soldier?” Sherlock asked. John knew this was a test, and, even in this situation, he still pitied the poor kid that he was testing.
Hermione regarded Sherlock with a rather scrutinizing look as she stood up, “What?”
“You heard me.” Sherlock stepped towards Hermione. Harry did not like that. Neither did her red-haired friend, Ron. He was very quickly on his feet.
“Stop right there, mate.” Ron pointed his wand at Sherlock, (with a note of hesitation… Sherlock noticed) .
“Don’t you even think about it.” John chimed in, reminding Ron that his gun was still locked onto Harry as his primary target.
Hermione took a second for the situation to settle and then continued, “The men he shot are dead. The level of experience that it takes to kill with a single shot is immense. I can’t think of any other occupation that would involve the level of training required to achieve that level of experience other than a soldier.”
“Domestic law enforcement, perhaps?” Sherlock countered.
“Not with that level of accuracy. He’s too good.”
If they weren’t in the middle of an extremely tense standoff, John would have thanked her for her compliments.
“Fair. But what kind of soldier?”
“Well, if I am to get that specific, then I would believe him to be a doctor for the military.” Hermione took the momentary silence from Sherlock as a sign to continue. “He knew exactly where to shoot to kill those men. No question that that would be part of any basic combat training, but with two shots they were both dead. That implies an accuracy in the mechanical aspect of firing a weapon and an intricate knowledge of anatomy to know exactly at what part of the body to hit to ensure immediate and certain death. The fact he was able to do this successfully twice in a row also suggests that he has quite some experience doing this sort of… thing.”
“You are quite right, miss, thank you very much. I think she just showed you up.” John beamed at Sherlock, not bothering to hide the pride that had fully crept into his tone.
“What are you even getting at?” Harry asked, staring at Sherlock as if he were some sort of alien.
John was enjoying himself far too much considering the circumstances, “Don’t worry, he’s always this annoying.”
“Shut up, John.”
“Oi!” Ron waved his wand about in frustration, (he’s been feeling about the stick for any fractures, minor or severe, before using the stick… a force of habit… Sherlock noted), “Harry, we don’t have time — we’ve got to go, now — ”
“But what about them?” Harry nodded over to Sherlock and John, “We can’t just leave them —”
Ron shrugged, “Wipe their memories. It’s the safest way.”
Immediately, alarms went off in John’s head, “Wait, sorry, what?!”
“No, wait,” Hermione protested, her wand back out, sensing trouble, “They could help us — ”
Ron steamrolled over Hermione’s objections, “No. We don’t even know who they are, and we can’t have them telling anyone they saw us here.”
John attempted to diffuse the situation, “How about we all put our weapons down and — ”
Ron ignored him, “Hermione, you’ve got to do it — ”
John diverted his gun’s aim to Ron, “I wouldn’t do it if I were you — ”
“Ronald! You cannot be serious — ”
“Ron’s right,” Harry interjected, “What if they’re Death Eaters? They could be posing as muggles…”
“That is absolutely ludicrous, Harry, and you know that! Why would they kill two of their own just to prove a point with us??”
“Fine! If you won’t do it, Hermione, then I will.” Ron aimed his wand directly at Sherlock.
John reinforced his aim at Ron, “Stand down! Now!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh, please.”
Sherlock punched Ron in the face before anyone else could think to react.
In a matter of seconds, Sherlock caught the wand Ron dropped in shock from the punch. Taking advantage of everyone’s momentary state of shock, he changed targets and wrenchedHermione’s wand from her hand, then twisting her right arm behind her back and aiming both of the recently acquired wands right at her throat.
“Drop your wand, Harry.” Sherlock’s voice was stone-cold.
“Let her go!” Harry’s wand was right back on Sherlock; John’s gun was immediately aimed right back at Harry.
“Only if you drop your wand.” Sherlock remained unfazed.
“Not happening — ”
Sherlock spoke anyway, “You value your friends far more than yourself, you would never want to put them in any danger which is why you continually resent yourself for allowing them to accompany you on whatever task, journey, escape, flight, predicament that you have found yourself in now. You’re on the run. You have no where to go. No parents to turn to. No family. These two, however, are your family. Or you consider them as much. You would never be able to live with yourself if something happened to either one of them. Because it would be all your fault if it did. And that will happen if you do not lower your weapon.” He jabbed the two wands further into Hermione’s neck for emphasis; Hermione couldn’t help but let out another squeak of fear.
Harry’s confidence was faltering. Ron who was nursing his nose now was also watching Sherlock in shock, “But… but you’re just…”
“How do you know I’m not a Muggle? You said so yourself, I could be a Death Eater. I could be anyone. How do you know whether or not I am capable of harming her right now? I know far more than you think I do. Don’t try to play any sort of mind tricks with me, Harry Potter. I will win.”
Harry was now nervous, and Sherlock could see it. The boy took stock of his surroundings, and was weighing his very limited options. Sherlock waited. He was so close….
“Now, I won’t say it again. Drop your wand.” Sherlock repeated.
And with that, Harry begrudgingly obeyed. Raising his hands in surrender, he slowly lowered his wand and placed it on the ground, John’s gun trained on him the whole time.
“Over here, please.” John piped up.
Harry kicked his wand over in John’s direction, and John snatched it up, his eyes never leaving his gun’s target.
“Right, then. Thank you.” Sherlock was exuberant.
Sherlock immediately released Hermione, spinning the girl around to see if he had caused any bruising to her neck from the pressure of the wands. “Are you alright? Is your arm fine?”
She was shaken, for sure, but seemed otherwise fine, “Y-yes… I’m fine…” she confirmed.
“Good. Sorry about that. John, if you could do me the favor of picking up those other men’s wands, then I think you can put your gun away for now.”
John quirked his eyebrow, but did as Sherlock asked, “You sure?”
“They’re just kids, John. They won’t be much trouble without those wands.” Sherlock held out his hand to receive the wands John was handing over to him.
“And what do you think you’ll be needing those for, mate?” Ron shot off, defensively.
“Proper leverage.” Sherlock smirked, “Except you can have yours back.” He handed Hermione one of the wands.
This incensed Ron, “How come she gets hers?”
“Because she has more sense than the both of you combined.” Sherlock quipped back.
Hermione hesitated, “Um… mine’s actually that one. The one with the vines wrapped around?”
“Oh. Apologies.” Sherlock picked out the correct wand and handed it to her. “Here. Now, I have questions for you three, and would prefer not to be disturbed, so please make this area secure, however you see fit. And I’ll give you two your wands back when I see fit.” And with that, Sherlock helped himself to a seat to one of the few chairs that was still standing in the cafe.
Hermione didn’t even bother with a retort, or asking how he knew she wouldn’t orchestrate their escape now that she had her wand. The pieces were beginning to come together, and even if Harry and Ron didn’t know it, she was realizing just who they were all dealing with.
“Harry,” she took charge, “You stay away from the windows. I’ll take care of securing the location, and… and I’ll take care of the waitress’ memories too.”
Harry didn’t much like the situation, but it was what it was for now, “Right. Ron, help me with these two. Let’s see who we’re dealing with.” They knelt down at the bodies of their attackers and began maneuvering them onto their backs.
“Wait, hold on —” John rushed over to the boys,
“Shit!” Harry pulled his hands back on instinct, the body of the dark-haired attacker plopping clumsily onto its back. He had forgotten that gunshots had killed these two. Not spells. He had startled himself at the feeling of this man’s blood on his hands. “Ron, b-be careful.”
John sighed, guess there was no point in trying to preserve this crime scene. He caught sight of the collapsed waitress by the front door, and rushed over to check on her.
“I’ve seen this man before,” Harry said to Ron, while wiping the dead man’s blood from his hands, “he was there the night Dumbledore —”
“It’s Dolohov.” Ron interrupted, “I remember his wanted posters from back when he escaped Azkaban. I think this other one here is Thorfinn Rowle. We should see if they have anything useful on them.” He began digging through his pockets.
“Do you kids have some sort of revival… spell?” John called over from the front door. He couldn’t believe he was asking about spells. “The waitress is unconscious, but otherwise she appears to be fine.”
Hermione had just reached the front door, right next to John, “We’ll take care of her later, don’t worry.” And she resumed waving around her wand in small deliberate movements, surely casting a variety of spells that John had no clue as to what they did.
“Um… alright…” he was feeling quite useless in this scenario. And he was both impressed and surprised that Sherlock was waiting this long to ask questions. “Hey, you —” he made his way over to Ron, “Lemme look at your nose there, I’m a doctor —”
Ron rejected the offer, “I don’t think so mate.”
“He really is a doctor.” Sherlock chimed in from his chair.
“Well you might know him,” Ron snapped, “but I bloody well don’t. I’m fine.”
Hermione had finished securing the cafe, apparently, for she was right at Ron’s side with a handful of napkins, “Here. This will help with the bleeding. Once I can get to my books, then we’ll see about healing your nose later...”
The adrenaline rush was beginning to subside, and John thought Sherlock’s idea of having a seat sounded like quite a good idea. His head was racing with snapshots of memories of the past few minutes. Dear lord, what had they gotten themselves into this time?
Sherlock’s voice brought John back to the present, “Right, then — ”
“Who are you?” Harry asked, still suspicious of these two men.
Sherlock huffed, “We have more pressing matters to discuss —”
“He’s Sherlock Holmes.” Hermione whispered, her eyes alight with clear admiration.
Sherlock was getting pretty damn annoyed with being recognized by seemingly every single magical person.
“Yes. Hello. Anyway — ”
“I’m sorry, who?” Ron interrupted.
“Consulting detective. Muggle. Oh mygod!” Hermione was spiraling deep down into the fangirl state. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you, I feel like such a fool. It must have been the deerstalker. Although you really must only wear that for… your… cases —” it was at this point that Hermione became visibly and uncharacteristically quite nervous. Her face beamed the brightest red.
“Hermione? Memory charm? On the waitress? Please?” Ron pointedly snapped her out of her fangirling.
“Oh… right… sorry, I’ll get right on that.” She fumbled with her wand a bit, and shuffled over to the woman by the door.
Harry’s focus was still on Sherlock,“So you are a Muggle?”
Sherlock threw a slightly offended look at Harry, “Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” Harry looked like he had a lot more he wanted to say, “Thought you really were a Death Eater for a moment there.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, recalling his recent history, “You’re not the first one to think that.”
John finally found his way into the conversation, “Hello. John here. And I’m sorry, can someone explain to me what a ‘muggle’ is?”
“Non-magic folk — oh, it’s no use hiding it from them any longer! They’ll figure it out anyway whether we tell them or not!” Hermione shot down both Ron and Harry’s pitiful attempts to object. “Now if you’re done searching them, could you go check for any food we can take with us? Please?”
She threw a small handbag at Ron before turning to start work on this memory charm. He was clearly annoyed, but he did as she asked and moved to the counter. Harry, rather, kept his attention on Sherlock and John.
Sherlock pressed on, “Several months ago, I took a case involving a Miss Amelia Bones.”
“The Muggles were in on that case?”
“Of course they were, Ronald, it created shockwaves throughout the whole of Muggle London.” Hermione quipped, still focused on the memory charm she was performing.
John could have sworn that he heard Ron mutter something snarky about him not knowing he needed to be paying attention to muggle news under his breath as he continued to stock food into the tiny handbag of theirs. John wasn’t quite sure what the physics were of that bag… but Ron was putting quite a lot in there that arguably should not fit.
John, he reminded himself,it’s probably magic. He let the issue of the bag go.
Sherlock furrowed his brow, “So you knew her?”
Hermione nodded, finished with her charm, “Well of course, we knew of her. She was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic…”
“And you have a separate government for those with magic?”
“Yes.” Hermione confirmed, to Harry and Ron’s aghast looks.
Sherlock turned to John, “Why didn’t Mycroft tell me any of this?” he pouted.
John shrugged, “Probably because he couldn’t.”
“That never stops him.”
“Probably because he didn’t want to.”
“Git.”
Sherlock whipped out one of the wands, and observed it. He saw Harry tense up even more out of the corner of his eye.
“Ah, this must be yours then?”
Sherlock didn’t need an answer from Harry to know that he was right. He turned his attention back to Harry’s wand. It was slightly shorter than the Bones’ stick, the color however was darker, and there was slightly more ornementation on Harry’s. Sherlock paused. In all of the chaos, he couldn’t remember whether he had felt that same spark of electricity that he had with stick found at the scene of Amelia Bones… He immediately brought himself back to the topic at hand.
“I was right? Wands?”
Ron snorted. Hermione threw a severe look at him.
Harry kept his eyes on Sherlock. “Yes.”
Sherlock continued to study Harry’s wand, “When we found Amelia Bones, there was no discernible cause of death that would indicate a gun, strangulation, natural cause, or any other sort of normal murder. I’m assuming that there are curses that can cause instant death?”
There was an uncomfortable, yet known, silence that settled amongst the kids. Both Ron and Hermione seemingly deferred to Harry to respond. Sherlock was about to ask about this response when —
“Yes. There is such a curse. You managed to just miss it earlier tonight.”
Sherlock remembered.
John calling out his name — the searing heat that had burned his skin — the explosion of the floor tile a few feet away — the sickly shade of green that had consumed that light….
Sherlock didn’t want to admit it, but this Harry Potter was looking at him with a familiarity that only those who had danced with death many times had known before. He rarely saw that look in so young a man.
“Well, that’s enough for now,” Sherlock rose from his seat.
John started, “What? Enough for now?”
“Yes,” Sherlock adjusted his coat, popping the collar for good measure with his token insufferably smug grin, “I’m sure we’ll be able to ask more questions over tea at Baker Street.”
Harry quirked his head in confusion, “I’m sorry, what?”
Sherlock sighed in impatience, “You need a place to go. I’m offering my flat.”
“Sherlock — ” John interjected.
He rolled his eyes, “Sorry, our flat.” he spat out the words, correcting himself for consideration’s sake was still a new concept to his brain.
Hermione looked to Harry, eyes brimming with an eagerness to accept the offer. Harry was clearly still skeptical, “But —”
“John won’t mind.”
Now John found himself standing too, “Wait just a minute — ”
“They can take the living space.” Sherlock interjected before John could think to finish his rebuttal. “I trust you won’t do that memory charm thing on John and I?” He offered the boys their wands.
“Sure, mate.” Ron took his wand, “I’m rubbish at them anyway” he muttered under his breath, turning his attention back to Harry.
Harry didn’t say anything at first, but also didn’t immediately throw any curse at Sherlock upon taking his wand. Sherlock would consider that as a bargain accepted.
Harry regarded the two men for a moment more, “We’ll be fine on our own. Thanks anyway.”
Sherlock saw Hermione’s shoulders slump a little, the eager light leaving her eyes. Ron looked away, attempting to busy himself by checking Rowle’s pockets for a knowingly fruitless second time.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “You’re being illogically noble. That seems to be common for you, your friends aren’t surprised by your clearly stupid refusal. Why?”
“I can’t put you two in that position.”
“Of what?”
Harry squinted his eyes in disbelief — this guy really had no clue…“… in the position of harboring fugitives.”
John couldn’t believe what he just heard, “Fugitives?”
Harry pressed on, “If he finds out that you’re hiding us, he will kill you. No question. I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now; I can’t have anything else happen to those who try to protect me —”
“What is this man’s name?”
Harry didn’t respond.
“This is the same man that murdered Amelia Bones in a room locked from the inside, and now I ask you again to tell me his name.”
“What does it matter to you anyway? If you’re lucky, you’ll never need to know it.”
Sherlock was getting frustrated, “If you won’t let us help you then let me help Susan Bones. What is the name —?”
“She already knows.” Harry shut Sherlock down, finishing his business rifling through Dolohov’s clothes and scant belongings, “And honestly, I don’t think you care a lick about Susan’s feelings on the whole matter. I rather think it’s your own pride driving you further into her tragedy. And if you can’t get your need to be right under control, then you’re going to find yourself in a situation and you’ll get yourself killed. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
Sherlock bit back a scathing comment as he had to immediately remind himself he was not talking to Mycroft. This kid — Harry — spoke to Sherlock in a way that provoked him only like Mycroft had before.
There was more… far more to learn about him, Sherlock figured.
Harry smirked ruefully,“You’ve heard that already from someone else. I’d listen to them if I were you.” And with that, he turned to Ron and Hermione, “We should have left ages ago, come on guys.”
The trio finished gathering up their things, Hermione throwing back a look filled with an apology. Sherlock wasn’t done yet — he wasn’t going to let this elusive Harry Potter slip away from him so easily.
“Tom Riddle.”
The trio froze. John could have sworn the temperature of the room had fallen a few degrees by the mention of that name.
“From Little Hangleton,” Sherlock continued, barely suppressing his growing sense of triumph, “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
That name got Harry to turn back around to Sherlock. It was almost as if he was staring at this man for a third time with fresh eyes — if he wasn’t just a muggle, if he wasn’t a Death Eater… what the bloody hell was this man? How could he possibly know about Tom Riddle? Had wizards just been that careless in concealing information? Or was this man just that bloody determined?
Harry’s reaction was confirmation enough. Sherlock couldn’t stop his knowing grin from spreading — his hunger for the truth sparkling in his eyes, “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s him. Even after all this time.”
“Harry — ” Ron put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. But he looked just as worried and suspicious as Harry was.
Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Harry’s,“If your plans change: 221B Baker Street.”
Harry gave a brief nod, only in meaning a curt farewell to two of the strangest Muggles he thought he had ever met.
The trio, after checking their surroundings outside and casting a quick spell on the waitress, left the cafe and scurried off into an alleyway that Sherlock knew resulted in a dead-end. Thus, the dumbfounded John and electrifiedSherlock were left with the waking waitress in the wreckage of the diner as the sirens and the flashes of red and blue lights descended on the diner.
.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.