Archive of Our Own

John Hamish Watson had never, by any stretch of the imagination, had the sort of life that one might consider normal.

He lost the chance at having a normal life the day he followed Mike Stamford into St. Bart's Hospital and met the world's only consulting detective. Except no, that wasn't necessarily true. Normal hadn't been a part of his vocabulary since he was eleven years old, and an old woman in green robes had shown up on the Watsons' doorstep, wanting to talk about John's education; she then turned his mother's favourite tea set into hedgehogs, and all understanding of the word "normal" left John's world.

Come to think of it, he had turned the family dog bright violet before he could even walk. Maybe normal had never been an option for him.

That being said, even after everything he had seen and done in his lifetime, John struggled to grasp the situation he found himself in—and it all started because of the cat.

Well, no, that wasn't technically correct either. It all started when Sherlock burst into his bedroom in the middle of the night, but that happened often enough to be considered practically mundane.

"John, up, now!"

The thunderous slam of his bedroom door against the wall jerked John from a deep sleep, and his fight-or-flight reflexes went into overdrive. Before his eyes were even completely opened, his hand was in the drawer of his bedside table, closing around the grip of his service pistol. He stood and levelled the gun at his attacker before his tired brain made out the familiar towering silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John growled, voice still hoarse from sleep. He clicked the safety back on with one hand while the other rubbed at his eyes. "I could've shot you."

Sherlock scoffed, the sharp exhale dripping with scorn. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Now, up, quickly. Lestrade just texted. They got another."

This news erased the last vestiges of sleep, and John squinted at Sherlock's dark outline. "Another?" he asked faintly.

"Hurry." With that parting word, Sherlock turned and disappeared with an over-dramatic whirl of his coat.

Well, there was nothing for it now. If John didn't hurry up and follow, he'd get left behind—and Sherlock wouldn't think to text him the address so he could follow because it would be hours before he even noticed that John wasn't there. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, after all. So although it was - John glanced at the clock and moaned - half-three in the morning on his first day off in a week, he padded to the wardrobe for a clean jumper.

Once dressed, he tucked his service pistol into his waistband. Then he released the hidden catch at the back of the nightstand drawer and pulled out his other weapon—seven and three-quarter inches, oak with a dragon heartstring core. John traced his fingers fondly over the engraved handle of his wand. He didn't use it much anymore, not since Afghanistan, but he usually kept it with him, especially when going out on a case with Sherlock.

Just in case.

John strapped a wand holster to his forearm, cast a quick Disillusionment charm on it, and then tucked his wand into the holster. Wand concealed, he pulled his sleeve down over the holster. John did one last check, grabbed his phone, and jogged down the stairs just in time to jump into the cab behind Sherlock before it took off.

A half-hour later, the cabbie dropped them off in front of an old townhouse on the east end. The house was made of crumbling brick, and the paint around the window frames was chipping. It didn't look any different from the other homes on the row, apart from the police tape draped across the wrought-iron gate. Before John could take in more than that, Sherlock flounced up the front walk and left John to hurry after him.

"Yes, thank you, Donovan, for your expert opinion," Sherlock was saying as John finally caught up to him in the main hall, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, you've clearly got this handled, then. I don't know why you even called me."

"Neither do I," Donovan muttered dryly, arms folded across her chest.

"Enough." Lestrade stuck his head out of a doorway further down the hall, wearing the expression of an aggrieved parent. Sherlock seemed torn between his eagerness to get to the scene and his desire to verbally tear Donovan apart for her cheek. John solved the problem by stepping past them and heading for the doorway with a friendly, "Hey, Greg." He grinned triumphantly when he heard Sherlock follow with an imperious snort.

The dining room crime scene looked like someone had unleashed a small hurricane. The furniture was overturned and broken, dishes laid in starbursts of shattered china all across the floor, and one window was cracked. A light fixture in the centre of the room hung at an ominous angle, swaying like a pendulum. It looked exactly like the last four crime scenes in the case, right up to the complete lack of a body.

"Victim?" Sherlock asked, already prowling around the room, his mercurial eyes cataloguing every little detail that the rest of them couldn't see.

"Alastair Turnhill," Lestrade said. His fingers twitched over his pocket like he was dying to pull out a cigarette. "Low-level ministry worker, no family in the area, no criminal record. A neighbour next door heard a commotion, said it sounded like a pretty vicious fight, but by the time he got here from his house, the whole place was empty. No body and no suspect, just like the others."

"Exits?" Sherlock asked, crouching to examine a spot on the wall and pulling on a set of violet nitrile gloves.

"Only two doors in and out of the house, front and back. Neighbour came in through the front, and the back was locked from the inside," Lestrade rambled off with the practised measure of someone who had done it hundreds of times before. "No broken windows, all of them locked and undamaged. Just li-"

"Just like the others," Sherlock finished with him. "Was there any mention of a fire?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion, and John wasn't far behind. "No, why?"

"Scorch mark," Sherlock said, tracing a long, delicate finger across a patch of faded wallpaper. "Too far from an outlet to be electrical. It's almost like a hot projectile struck the wall, but if so, then where did the projectile end up?"

"How do you know it's not from before?" Anderson drawled from the doorway that led to the kitchen. "Could've been there ages."

Sherlock stood in a flurry of wool coat, his eyes latching onto Anderson's smug expression with laser-like precision. "Because, Anderson," Sherlock snarled pointedly, "there was one exactly like it on the floor of the previous scene."

"There was?" Lestrade asked in surprise. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It wasn't relevant then," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's appearance at a second scene, though, that makes it interesting."

Curious, John walked around Sherlock and crouched in the spot he'd just vacated. Sure enough, a black streak marred the wall, narrow and angled downward across the dull floral print. It was so smooth and precise that it almost looked intentional. John brushed his fingertips over the mark and felt a strange, electric shudder up his arm. Panic welled in him as he felt the residual energy left in the wall, the faintest trace of what had caused it still hovering within the plaster.

Magic.

How had he missed it? How had he not noticed it before? Now that John was searching, he could feel it; the shimmer in the air, like the buzzy feeling that preceded a heavy thunderstorm. Magic had been cast here—a lot of it and very powerful, at that. He was so far out of touch and had been away from that world for so long that he hadn't even given it a second thought. Auror Pippincrull would be so disappointed in him.

Shaking his head, John used the nearby tipped-over chair to lever himself back to his feet. Sherlock was pacing circles around the room, rattling off deductions at lightning speed, and John forced himself to focus. "...didn't know his attacker, who was clearly much larger or skilled than him. The victim was incapacitated in this room; here, judging by the crush patterns," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely at the cabinet beside him, which had most of its lower shelves broken and its meagre contents spilt across the floor. "But the suspect left something behind. Here."

Everyone looked up interestedly as Sherlock scooped an odd ornament off the top - and only unbroken - shelf. Lestrade and John both moved closer to get a better look at the object, a small copper figurine.

"How do you know it's from the suspect?" Lestrade asked.

"Dust," was Sherlock's one-word answer, not looking up from examining the bottom of the figurine. John and Lestrade had been to enough crime scenes with him to know what that meant, but it seemed not all were up to speed.

"Dust?" Anderson drawled sceptically.

"Yes, Anderson, dust," Sherlock said before Lestrade could step in. John, who didn't like Anderson much more than Sherlock did, didn't bother to stem the inevitable lecture. "Dust: organic particulates carried in the air until settling on a surface due to a combination of static electricity and gravity. Surely, even with your primary school understanding of forensics, you can understand the relevance of dust in determining the length of time that an object has been in one place.

"These few other items are coated in dust, but it's smudged. Moved recently, then. This is corroborated by the faint outlines left on the shelf, shadows of where the objects sat before being relocated. There hasn't been enough time for the dust to cover these exposed spots, so the movement occurred recently. This figurine, however, is entirely devoid of dust and was perched in the dead centre of the shelf, on a spot that is coated in dust particles. Therefore, it's fairly easy to deduce that the other items were moved aside to make a place for this addition at some point in the last forty-eight hours."

"You don't think the victim could've just redecorated?" Lestrade asked curiously. "This definitely came from the killer, then?"

Sherlock nodded, twisting the brass figure in his fingers like a spider binding up its latest catch. "There is no connection between this piece and any others," he said. "The victim is a man of simple means, not prone to decoration or aesthetics. The brief glimpse I had of the sitting room matched with what remains in this room is indicative of that. His furniture is aged and loosely matched, likely accumulated over a length of many years. The few decorative pieces that he owns fit a similar motif."

"Aeronautics," John concluded, his eyes skimming the shelf. "They're all model planes."

The faint quirk of lips and tip of the head he received from Sherlock was a sign of approval, and John fought back the satisfied grin. "Exactly," Sherlock said. "As are the items on the sitting room mantle, the bookshelf in the hall, and the framed prints above the sofa. So, why would a man whose few decorative items pertain to aeroplanes make a place of honour for this troll?"

Sherlock held up the figurine between his finger and thumb, giving John his first proper glimpse of the thing. "It's a gnome," he said in surprise, stepping closer to look at the trinket. It had been decades, but John would recognise the little potato-headed figure anywhere. It took John a minute longer to notice that the room had gone oddly quiet, and when he looked around, he saw that Lestrade, Sherlock, and Anderson were all staring at him with expressions ranging from curiosity to confusion.

"A gnome?" Lestrade asked finally. "Like those little, bearded fellows people put in their gardens?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock cut across before John could think of a way to save himself.

Lestrade shrugged unconcernedly. "I'm just saying, that thing doesn't look much like the ones my in-laws collected."

"It just reminded me of something I saw when I was a kid," John said, pulling on an expression of vague disinterest to hide his hammering heart. Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, and John felt sure the detective could somehow sense his internal panic. "Was from a fairy tale book, I think. That's what the gnomes looked like. I just remember because their heads look like potatoes, you know?"

Lestrade returned to examining the figure with bemused interest, but Sherlock's gaze didn't waver from John's face. "The book, do you remember the title?" he asked.

"Not off the top of my head, sorry," John said. "Like I said, I was a kid."

"If this image came from that particular book, it might be relevant to the case," Sherlock pressed insistently.

"Sorry," John said again. "I'll look into it, see if I can remember. Maybe give Harry a call."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if he could sense the lie in the words, but he didn't press it further. "Very well, if there's nothing more you need from me," he said to Lestrade and tucked the figurine into his coat pocket.

"Oi, that's evidence!" Lestrade said.

"It's also the best clue we have in this case, and I need to examine it more closely," Sherlock replied. "We can go through the motions of you logging it into evidence, but we both know I'll just nick it from there later anyway. I doubt you'd like to waste time on such rigmarole when the killer is still out there and most likely preparing to kill again."

Lestrade exhaled, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine, but be careful with it, would you? Try not to – explode it or something?"

"Of course," Sherlock said with a dramatic eye roll. "Take samples of that scorch mark. See if your incompetent apes in forensics can figure out what caused it." Then he started for the door, leaving John to promise to text Lestrade if they found anything relevant before following.

"This case is becoming more interesting," Sherlock said as he ducked under the police tape. It was a massive sign of consideration that he also bothered to hold it up for John. "Five disappearances with no bodies, and the only clues are a few scorch marks and this odd little trinket. A gnome, you said?"

"It was just a guess," John countered with a shrug. He needn't have wasted his breath because Sherlock was already murmuring to himself, examining the gnome figurine shrewdly as they walked toward the main road. John stuffed his hands into his pockets to fight off the early morning chill, still an hour or so from sunrise.

The case was setting his nerves on end, and he personally couldn't wait to see the end of it. He had no doubt now that the killer was a witch or wizard, and he didn't particularly want Sherlock getting too far into it. John hadn't been a part of that world since Afghanistan, and he didn't appreciate it creeping back in now that he'd finally found something good for himself.

As they reached the corner, movement in his peripherals caught John's attention, and he glanced at the last house on the row. Perched on the low garden wall was a grey tabby cat, its head tilted as it stared back at him. There were distinctive markings on its face – rectangles of darker grey around its eyes – and the sight of them made John stop mid-stride. It couldn't be… The tabby stared back at him calmly, yellow eyes unblinking in the half-light of the nearby lamppost.

"John? John!"

John roused himself to see Sherlock several meters ahead of him on the pavement, glancing back with his brow furrowed. "Oh, right, sorry," John said, jogging to catch up. "Got distracted. Happens when you wake me up in the middle of the bloody night."

"Really, John, the night was already more than half over before I roused you," Sherlock said, but the patronising tone in his voice wasn't as cutting, a sign John interpreted as the Sherlock equivalent of fondness. "Now come along. We can get you a coffee on the way if we must."

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"The other crime scenes, obviously," Sherlock responded. "I'm willing to bet we will find more of those scorch marks, and I need to get my own samples."

"I thought you were having Lestrade's men do that?" John asked in amusement.

Sherlock scoffed. "And trust those buffoons? Really, John, you should know better. And I feel like I've seen a figurine like this before, at one of the other crime scenes. If it turns out that there is one in each scene..."

John grinned, getting swept up into the thrill of the chase. The anxiety of before began to bleed away beneath the familiar feelings of adrenaline and suspense, the tension easing from his muscles as he pushed himself to keep pace with Sherlock's long stride. Still, as they crossed the road, he glanced back over his shoulder.

The grey tabby was still sitting on the garden wall, watching.

John didn't even bother to look up from his laptop when he heard the overly dramatic huff of frustration from the kitchen, too well-used to them by now. There was the sound of Sherlock clattering around, shifting things and roughly moving them across the table, and then the detective appeared in the doorframe. "I need to go to Bart's," he announced, rolling down his shirtsleeves as he strode across the room.

"Oh yeah?" John asked distractedly, frowning as he backspaced the last sentence of his blog.

"Need supplies," Sherlock muttered as he gathered his suit jacket and Belstaff. "Those scorches, the chemical composition is something I've never seen. Can't figure it out." He paused by the door to grab his scarf, wrapping it around his neck with a practised movement. "And there's something on those figurines, something small. Need a better microscope, something stronger."

John finally looked up, his eyes flicking past Sherlock to the row of brass gnome figurines lined up on the edge of the kitchen table. As Sherlock had suspected, they found one at every crime scene, nestled in among the room's other decor. Likewise, they found scorch marks at most scenes, remnants of strong spellwork, although enough time had passed that the magic in the air had dissipated.

"You think Molly can help you figure it out?" John asked curiously as Sherlock bagged the samples into his pockets.

"She has access to chemicals and equipment that I don't have here," Sherlock said, sounding pained to admit that he lacked in anything, even if it was just supplies.

"Right," John said, nodding and returning to his laptop. As he heard Sherlock head for the door, he called after him, "Text me if you find anything." From halfway down the stairs, Sherlock made a loud, dismissive noise. Yeah, he wouldn't be getting any texts. John was half-tempted to follow him, but there was no chance that Sherlock would find anything. Muggle science was impressive, especially in Sherlock's hands, but even it couldn't make sense of magic.

John had only gotten two more sentences typed up in his blog post about their last solved case - The Gilded Glasses , a title John was feeling rather proud of even though Sherlock would undoubtedly gripe - when he was startled by a loud pop! Recognising the sound for what it was, John's hand immediately went to the holster on his right forearm. His laptop clattered to the floor as he bolted upright and pointed his wand at the person who had just Apparated into the sitting room of 221B.

"Good morning, Mr Watson."

John's arm faltered in shock. "Professor McGonagall?"

The elderly woman's thin lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a smile. Although it had been decades since he last saw her, it was astonishing how much she looked the same. The only obvious sign of time was in her hair, the tight knot gone from ashen brown to steel grey. "It's good to see you again, Mr Watson," she said. "Or I suppose you go by Dr Watson now, don't you? I apologise for alarming you, but I had to wait until your - partnerleft."

"It was you, then," John concluded. "The cat from the crime scene." McGonagall nodded. John contemplated for a second and then sighed. "Right, I'll make tea. I have a feeling this is going to be a long story."

John stepped into the kitchen and moved some of Sherlock's experiments - he preferred not to look closer to tell precisely what they were, for his own sanity - out of the way so he could lay out the only set of nice teacups they still owned. The kettle boiled with a quick Heating Charm, and he tucked his wand back up his sleeve. John used the time it took to prepare the tea to gather himself, settling himself into the calm, pragmatic facade developed by a lifetime as a soldier. By the time he carried the tea back into the sitting room, he was compartmentalised enough that the sight of McGonagall, in her deep sapphire robes and pointed hat, sitting in his armchair didn't even phase him. 

McGonagall accepted the tea with a shallow nod. "This is an interesting path you've fallen onto," she said conversationally, her gaze drifting across the various detritus on the mantle as he settled opposite her. "They've kept an eye on you for the last few years. Potter filled me in after I saw you this morning. Investigating Muggle crimes, chasing down murderers." She stirred her tea idly, her eyes panning over him in a move oddly reminiscent of Sherlock. "And here we all thought you had left the Aurors for the quiet life."

John chuckled. "Yes, well, so did I. I meant to, anyway, but my flatmate's a bit mad."

"So I've heard," McGonagall said with a wry twist of her lips. "Mad, but a genius. You aren't worried he'll find out?"

Her gaze darted pointedly to his left shoulder, and John instinctively rolled the injured joint. "You mean that it's not a bullet wound I got in Afghanistan but a curse scar?" McGonagall hummed in agreement. John smirked. "And yet he wonders how the tea gets made every morning."

McGonagall's lips quirked. "Ah, one of those sorts."

"Yeah. Sherlock may be a genius, but you know how Muggles can be. They see what they want to see, and he won't take anything without clear scientific proof first," John said, shrugging. He stared down into his tea for a moment and then said, "You know, I've never known you to be one for small talk and beating around the bush. You're here about the case. What I don't know is why you were there at all. Did you know the victim?"

"No, I was there consulting, like you," McGonagall said, setting aside her teacup and folding her fingers below her chin. "As a favour to Mr Potter. He has a theory the killer might be using Transfiguration and asked if I would investigate should another murder occur."

"Transfiguration?"

McGonagall's lips thinned in a familiar sign of displeasure. "On the bodies of those he killed," she explained.

John choked on his tea, hastily setting the cup down as he struggled to clear his throat. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Once I knew magic was involved, I just assumed he was Apparating away with the bodies."

"The ones here in London aren't the only murders," McGonagall said grimly. "They have been happening all over the United Kingdom for many months. All the same, all wizards and witches attacked in their homes, and yet no bodies have ever been found despite considerable searching."

"So you think he's been Transfiguring his victims so that no one can find them?" John asked. "And then what, taking them home and putting them on the mantle like some perverted coin collection for serial killers?" Sherlock's deductions at the crime scene came back to him. John's gaze drifted past her to the four brass figurines lined up along the edge of the kitchen table, and his stomach dropped. "Or maybe he's leaving them behind as a sign. To mock the people trying to catch him."

"That's what Potter suspected," McGonagall said, "but when I examined the scene, I could find nothing with any traces of Transfiguration magic."

John swallowed hard. "Because it had been taken from the scene before you got there." He went to the table and picked up one of the gnomes. When he turned around, McGonagall had already approached, moving with more speed and grace than a woman her age should have. "We found one of these at each of the scenes, all of them sitting on shelves or mantles where people would see them."

McGonagall plucked the figurine from his hand curiously. "Gnomes," she observed in a voice of calculated indifference. She moved her wand in a complicated gesture above the figurines, and a faint red mist coalesced around the brass figures. The way McGonagall's lips tightened into a hard, white line was all the confirmation he needed.

"Bloody hell," John whispered in horror.

"I need to take these to the Ministry," McGonagall said, drawing a velvet pouch from within her robes. "Potter needs to see these."

"Right, yeah, of course, just-" John drew his wand and, "Geminio." A perfect row of matching gnomes appeared right behind the originals. McGonagall arched an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged unrepentantly. "Sherlock'd throw a strop if they just went missing. He's difficult enough to live with on a good day. Besides, they are technically the property of the Yard, can't have them go missing."

McGonagall picked up the figurine that matched the one in her hand, examining them side-by-side. "You always were particularly gifted at Charms." John fought back a pleased smile as she nestled the figurines into the bag and then tucked it back into the mysterious inner pocket.

"Those people, are you going to be able to - fix them?" asked John uncertainly.

"The spell on them is strong, so it will take some time," she said, her tone slipping back into the one he remembered from lessons. "I will have to do some research. This spell is not one I recognise, but I will find a countercurse."

John nodded tightly, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Right, good. Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"If your partner does happen to discover anything new, send an owl to Potter, would you?" McGonagall said, and when John promised to do so, she nodded. Then she fixed him with a scrutinising look. "It's good to see you still doing something with your life. We were all worried when you left the Aurors. You've got too much raw talent to waste it."

"Thank you, Professor," John said, struggling to control a blush. He was far too old to still flush with pleasure each time a teacher paid him a compliment.

McGonagall nodded. "I expect I'll be seeing you again soon," she said. She then turned on her heel and vanished with a pop.

Late into the evening, Sherlock stormed back into the flat. John, who had been distracted to the point of anxiety all day, glanced up from the crap telly he wasn't actually watching. "Find anything, then?" John asked.

The way Sherlock flung himself dramatically across the sofa was answer enough, and the knot in John's chest loosened ever so slightly. "Those traces are like nothing I've ever seen, John," Sherlock groused emphatically. "Even with the equipment at Bart's, I can't get a proper chemical readout. They don't match any known elements. They appear to give off varying levels of electrical charges, something more than should be left by static. So the cause was certainly some sort of electrical catalyst, yet it left behind absolutely no trace particulates, but that can't be possible."

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he picked up something in Sherlock's tone. "You're loving this, aren't you?"

Sherlock swivelled into a sitting position, staring hard at John over the top of his steepled fingers. "Five locked-room disappearances, with no bodies, no suspects, and no witnesses. No discernible link between the victims, no conclusive evidence left behind, and not a single tangible clue save this." He reached into the pocket of his coat, and John's stomach plummeted; there, between Sherlock's long pale fingers, was a little brass gnome. Oblivious to John's horror, Sherlock beamed manically. "What's not to love?"

"You're a git," John intoned dryly because it was the sort of thing expected of him. At the moment, he was less bothered with Sherlock's questionable love of the macabre and far more concerned with the new problem that had just developed. John had forgotten that Sherlock took one of the gnomes with him to the lab, which meant Sherlock was still holding an original—an original that was meant to have been sent to the Ministry. John needed to find a way to exchange the one Sherlock had, but the hungry look in Sherlock's eyes as he examined the figurine in his palm told John it would be a while before the detective would let it out of his sight.

Sherlock, as usual, paid no attention to John's comment and whirled his way over to his desk, where he started pecking wildly at his laptop. John let his eyes drift back to the telly, but he couldn't focus on the latest episode of Top Gear. Without his permission, his gaze kept cutting over to the gnome perched on the corner of Sherlock's desk. That gnome was a person, some poor murder victim Transfigured beyond recognition. Somehow, that unsettled John far more than any stray body parts in the fridge ever had, which perhaps said more about him than he'd like to analyse at the moment.

John passed another two episodes in his fragmented staring match with the gnome before he finally couldn't take it any longer. He set aside his laptop and was halfway to the door when Sherlock said, "Turning in already?"

"Well, I was woken up before dawn," John reminded him with forced humour. "And I've got a shift at the surgery tomorrow."

"We're on a case," Sherlock complained, frowning.

"It's only a half shift. Besides, there's nothing I can do to help right now, is there?" John pointed out.

Sherlock's lips pursed ever so slightly, the beginnings of a good pout on the horizon. "I think better when you're here to talk to."

John chuckled drily. "Sherlock, you haven't spoken a word for over two hours."

This time, the detective looked genuinely surprised. "Haven't I?"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, John took a steadying breath. "Clearly I wasn't much of a participant in whatever conversation you've been having in your head the last couple hours," he said. Sherlock looked ready to protest again, so John hurried on, "Hamlet can stand in for me if you desperately need someone to talk to."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, scowling. John gestured at the mantle, and Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "You named my skull?" he asked, reproachful. "And you couldn't come up with anything more imaginative than that?"

John grinned and shrugged. "Thought it was clever."

"It's a cliché bordering on offensive," Sherlock rebutted. Still, time had given John a great insight into when Sherlock was actually upset and when he was only being a dramatic git. A sort of weary fondness in Sherlock's complaints softened the barb. "It's also not even correct within the context of the play you reference; the skull was not Hamlet but Yorick."

"Well, call him whatever you like, but the skull's going to have to be your sounding board for the night because, unlike some people in this household, I need to sleep at least once a day," John responded. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock harrumphed loudly and turned back to his laptop, but just as John reached the doorway, he heard a quietly grumbled, "Goodnight, John." John headed up the stairs to his room with a smile on his face.

A smile which was promptly dashed when he opened his bedroom door and saw a silhouette against the window. Alarmed, John hastily shut the door behind him and then threw open the window. The barn owl hopped inside and offered out the envelope in its beak. John slit the envelope and pulled out a short sheaf of parchment, flicking on the bedside lamp to read the emerald ink.

Watson,

Hope this didn't cause a bother, but I didn't know a less obtrusive way to contact you.

I need to talk to you about the case. Could you come by my office tomorrow?

Cheers,

H Potter

John's heart leapt up to hammer in his throat. Something new must've developed if Potter reached out so soon. John grabbed a pen from the nightstand, flipped the parchment over, and wrote "I'll be there - J Watson" on the back before stuffing it into the envelope again.

"Take this back to Harry, would you?" John asked the owl, which was currently preening its feathers. The owl stared up at him momentarily before plucking the envelope from his fingers and fluttering out of the window. John watched its silhouette fade into the night before closing the window and perching on the edge of his bed.

Despite his exhaustion and best efforts, John knew sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.

John had never felt more out of place as he stepped out of the golden lifts into the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement. All around him were waves of witches and wizards in robes of varying colours, while he was wearing battered jeans and a jumper beneath his favoured canvas jacket. He felt the curious gazes at his Muggle clothing and the guest badge pinned to his lapel, but he ignored them and headed for the bullpen beneath a sign that read "Auror Division."

Inside, John's gaze was drawn immediately to a particular cubicle (three back, two left). His old desk had been claimed by a young witch, her flyaway curls pinned to the top of her head with what appeared to be her wand. She was fresh-faced and eager - probably straight from her NEWTs - and almost entirely engulfed by the parchment scrolls spread across her desk. John could remember that feeling, being inexperienced and determined to prove himself to his new colleagues. Of course, in his day, they'd all been riding the high of the war ending and the righteous fury of tracking down the last of the free Death Eaters.

"Watson?"

A deep voice cut into John's reminiscing, and his gaze flicked to the wizard who had just stood from his desk. A soft grin of surprise cut across his face. "Derkins," John greeted the older Auror pleasantly.

"Merlin's pants, it is you," said Derkins, laughing as he gripped John's bicep bracingly. "Haven't seen you in ages. What're you doing back here?"

"Meeting with Potter," John responded. "What about you? I thought you were retiring?"

Derkins puffed and shrugged nonchalantly. "Larissa wanted me to, but I couldn't bear the thought. Swung a bit of a promotion instead. I'm heading the Training Division at the mo', whipping all the recruits into fighting shape. It's a bit more desk work than I like, but it keeps the missus from harping on so," he trailed off with a motion that signified a weary 'what can you do?' "Must say, was a shame to see you go. How's the shoulder?"

"Better," said John, smiling tightly and flexing his hand to relieve the faint tremors. "Never be as good as it was, but I suppose I'm damned lucky, all things considered." He cleared his throat and glanced deliberately at the door in the back of the office. "Anyway, I'm supposed to drop in on Potter, so I'd best-"

"Oh, right, of course. He should be back there. It is truly good to see you, Watson," he said.

"You too," said John, and he grinned sincerely at his former co-worker. He shook Derkins's hand and then wove through the jumble of cubicles. The large door at the back was partially cracked, and a plaque beside it read 'Head Auror H. J. Potter' in blocky letters. John wiped his palms on his jeans and then rapped his knuckles against the wood.

"Come in," was the response, and John pushed the door open to step into the office. It looked much like the last time John had been in there when he submitted his resignation from the Ministry. The contents of the desk and shelves were in categorised disarray but not quite cluttered to the point of being unruly. A battered Sneakascope perched on a pile of books, balanced on its tip and utterly silent. A set of framed photographs hung on the wall, the three Potter children beaming and waving from behind the glass. Harry Potter himself was bent over the desk, his quill scratching across the parchment, and he glanced up shortly at the sound of the door.

"Watson," he said and beckoned him in. "One tick, just finishing." He signed the parchment with a flourish and set his quill aside, then rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Thanks for coming."

"I figured it must be urgent if you were reaching out," said John. "Besides, I needed to bring this." He pulled the fifth brass gnome from his pocket and passed it across the desk. "Sorry, my flatmate had it when McGonagall came by, and I had to nick it back." John thought briefly of Sherlock's look of startled outrage that morning when John had 'accidentally' spilt his tea on the detective's lap and restrained a smile. It had been easy enough to switch out the gnomes while Sherlock was in the other room changing his soiled trousers, and he was none the wiser to John's moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness. "Did she manage to fix them?"

"Yeah, yeah, course," Potter said, gingerly handling the figurine with his fingertips. Clearly, John wasn't the only one put off by the knowledge that it had once been a living person. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. If you wouldn't mind coming with me to St. Mungo's?" When John nodded, Potter stood and pocketed the gnome. He Disapparated with a sharp crack, and John followed a second later.

The foyer of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies was relatively empty in the mid-morning lull, apart from a pair of children who were hiccoughing purple soap bubbles between their exasperated parents and a man in a far corner who was scratching at a bright orange rash on his face. Potter nodded shortly to the receptionist and then set off to the lifts. They rode down in silence, and Potter led the way to a large room off to the side.

John had been in more than enough morgues to recognise one instantly. This one was far wider than any he'd set foot in before, magically extended to accommodate the long row of tables. His eyes scanned down the row of draped white sheets, and he cursed under his breath. "Are they all...?"

"There's eleven in total," Potter said. "Well, twelve with the one you just brought. There might be more we just haven't discovered yet. Five from London, one each from Sheffield, Derbyshire, Hull. Two in Edinburgh, one outside Cardiff. This one," he signalled at the nearest bed, "we only just found yesterday in Manchester. Happened a month ago, but we didn't realise it was one of ours. I've got Bletchley and Gammott combing back through mysterious disappearances across the country to see if we've missed more now that we know what to look for."

"And there's no connection?" asked John, awe-struck. "We don't know why he's doing it?"

Potter grimaced and combed a hand back through his hair. "Well, we've got an idea," he said. He walked over to the nearest body and folded back the white sheet. A middle-aged man lay beneath, grey and cold and slack, but John didn't process any features of his face. His eyes were fixed, instead, to the deep red marks on his chest, and he fought back a wave of nausea.

There, crudely seared into the skin like a cattle brand, was a single word: Mudblood.

"Christ," John breathed, turning his gaze away. "All of them?"

"Every single one," Potter said solemnly. "Not the same place. Some's the arm or leg. The poor one from Derby's got it on her forehead. But they're all marked the same."

"Muggle-borns." John's jaw twitched. "So there's some Pureblood supremacist out there killing and branding Muggle-borns. And then Transfiguring them to hide the bodies, and leaving them on display like a taunt."

"Gnomes," Potter said, touching his pocket where he'd stowed the one John had brought.

"It's 'cause they're pests, I reckon," John fumed. "Gnomes are garden pests, and this nutter thinks he's the bleedin' exterminator come to clear out the problem."

Potter exhaled slowly through his nose. "That's my theory, too."

"We need to find the connection," said John. "There's got to be something more connecting these people than just their blood status, some way that he's tracking them down. As spread out as they are, he's not just picking Muggle-borns at random. If we find that, we can figure out where he'll strike next."

"And we can get ahead of him," Potter nodded. "I'll get my men looking into it, pull up all the records we can find." He surveyed John thoughtfully for a moment. "Your new flatmate is a detective, right?"

John's lips quirked slightly. "As if you don't already know," he said. "McGonagall said you've been keeping tabs on me."

Potter shrugged, unabashed. "It wasn't easy losing one of my best men," he said. "I know why you did it, and I respect your choice, but it's still a shame. I'm starting to think, though, that it might be useful to have a connection with the Muggle police."

"You already have a Muggle counterpart at Scotland Yard," John pointed out. "Harry, I'll help where I can, but Sherlock's a Muggle. And not just an ordinary one, he's a scientist and too damned smart for his own good. The more he looks into this, the more I'm afraid he's going to figure something out."

"There are exceptions to the Statute of Secrecy," said Potter. "Unless you don't want him to know, that is."

"It's not that," said John, wearily rubbing a hand down his face. "It's not like I'm ashamed or something, and I'm not in hiding. It's not just that I'm not sure I want him to know; it's that I'm not sure he could handle it, honestly. He's a scientist like I said. His world has rules and order and explanations, and magic just-"

"Doesn't," Potter finished for him.

John made an aborted gesture of agreement. "I don't know how he'd handle something so far outside of the world he understands, and if he can't accept it, I don't know where that would leave us." He trailed off, leaving the rest of the statement hanging, but his former boss nodded.

"Right, fair enough," he said. "We'll keep this as Muggle as possible for the time being, then." Potter muttered to himself as he grabbed a strip of parchment and quill from the nearby desk, scribbled something down, and then passed the paper along to John. "That's my mobile," he said. "You or your detective mate find out anything else about the case, ring me."

"Ring-?" John glanced down, boggled, at the string of digits on the parchment beneath the heading 'H Potter.' "You have a mobile?"

Potter grinned, digging an older model mobile phone from the pocket of his robes. "My counterpart at the Yard didn't appreciate all the owls. Makes him more comfortable to be able to phone me. Besides, have to admit, they're right convenient sometimes, even if it took a lot of complicated spellwork to make it so the damn thing didn't explode every time I walked into the Ministry."

"Figure that out on your own, did you?" John asked curiously.

"Hardly," Potter admitted with a laugh. "Never had much of a mind for that sort of thing. No, we've got a couple Unspeakables working with Muggle tech, trying to adapt it to the Wizarding World. They've done some really fascinating stuff with computers, as I understand it. This phone's still in testing, but once they've worked out all the issues, we're talking about getting them distributed throughout the Aurors first, then maybe more of the Ministry eventually."

John shook his head. "Blimey, this place has changed a lot since I left."

"Well, if the war taught us anything, it's that distancing ourselves from the Muggle world doesn't end well for any of us," Potter said sagely.

"True enough," John agreed pensively. "Right, well," he gestured with the parchment and then tucked it into his pocket, "I guess I'll be in touch."

John heard the screeching from the front step, and he braced himself before opening the front door of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was coming down the stairs as he entered, and she shook her head when she saw him. "Been at it most the morning," she said, tutting loudly. "Wailing on like that. Mrs Turner's phoned to complain already, but he won't talk to me. In one of his moods again. Maybe you can-?"

"I'll talk to him," John assured her. She nodded and patted his arm before slipping into her flat. This time of the evening, it'd be her 'herbal soothers' and bed. At least that way, if they started a shouting match, it wouldn't bother her. Nothing stopping him now. John trooped up the steps like a man heading into battle - which he very well might be, in this case - and let himself into the flat.

Sherlock stood near the window, violin tucked beneath his chin as he drew the bow sharply across the strings. There was none of the usual elegance and beauty to his playing today; stinging chords and dissonant noises stabbed at John's ears, echoing in the enclosed space. It was the sort of playing he usually reserved for annoying Mycroft out of the flat.

John hung up his coat and cleared his throat loudly. "Bad day?" he asked lightly. Sherlock responded by zipping the bow across the strings, producing a piercing, high note that John felt in his teeth. "Don't reckon you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock abruptly pivoted, pointing his violin bow at John like a sword. "What do they have on you?"

John frowned, nonplussed. "What? Who?"

"It's the only explanation that makes sense with all the facts," Sherlock said decidedly, unceremoniously depositing his violin in his armchair. He set off pacing around the sitting room, a well-worn path he often frequented during tough cases. "You are not the sort of man to be taken by monetary offers, as you demonstrated upon your first encounter with Mycroft. Therefore, the price is not of monetary value but personal. What possession could have such a high value? You are not a man of many possessions, certainly not sentimental trinkets. This implies that the object in question is not a physical object but something you would classify as of higher importance.

"As a doctor and a soldier, surely there is nothing to which you grant higher status than that of human life, but whose? Have they threatened you? No. No, your morality would not allow that. You've already shown yourself to be largely self-sacrificing, it's an implicit part of your character, so it's not your own life that's at stake. Someone you care for, then. That could be any number of people, really, you are so prone to emotional attachments. Family, friends, co-workers, girlfriends, the woman-next-door, that elderly cashier at Tesco you're so fond of. Who is it, John?"

"Sherlock," John said slowly, as he struggled to catch up with the detective's rapid-fire speech, "I've no bloody idea what you're talking about. Who's in trouble?"

Sherlock scoffed darkly. "Don't play the fool, although you are so very good at it. Clearly, someone is manipulating you through some means. Tell me, so we can solve this."

"No one's manipulating me," John said. "Now would you slow down and tell me what you're on about?"

"This!" From his pocket, Sherlock produced a brass figurine. "This is what I'm on about."

John fought to keep his expression neutral, even as his stomach knotted. "Something happen with the case? There's not been another, has there?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed silver as he narrowed them at John for a long, calculated second. "When I examined this figurine yesterday, there were several fingerprints on its surface. Our killer is either a complete imbecile or overly-confident, likely both."

"Well, that's good then, yeah?" John said. "You know who did it?"

"No. The prints had no match in the system. Whoever perpetrated this crime has not had their fingerprints documented anywhere in the UK, and while that narrows down the field slightly, it is hardly enough to base a conclusion. The owner of the prints is irrelevant, however. What is relevant is the fact that when I examined the figurine again this morning, there was not one set of viable prints but two, neither of which matched up to the first set.

"Now the prints are slight and indistinct, hardly enough to make a match from, meaning that the people who left them touched the figurine as little as possible. One set is unfamiliar, although there are callus impressions to indicate the prolonged use of a narrow object. The second set would also be completely unknown to me if it were not for a very distinctive scar that bisects the whorl on the second finger. A scar acquired in this very flat."

John flexed his left hand at his side. He remembered the row that had followed after he cut himself on a shattered beaker Sherlock had left lying about in the kitchen sink. It had required stitches and left the pad of his finger slightly disfigured. His heart beat a painful tattoo against his ribs, and it took considerably more effort than it ought to draw a full breath. This was it, then—this was the moment it all fell apart.

"Clearly, the plan was to substitute a secondary set of figurines for the first, but it was very poorly executed," Sherlock continued, his eyes flashing with a silent challenge. "They are physically suitable replacements, identical cosmetically and in size and weight. But there are minor differences, apart from the fingerprints. Each original figurine had a microscopic scratch in various places, yet these decoys are unblemished. Most tellingly, they have a unique chemical composition. The originals were a unique hybrid of copper and zinc that also contained a strange amalgam of silicon, carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen, a combination that indicated the figurines were comprised of more than just the straightforward brass that makes up these cheap replicas.

"Now, the superficial similarities would be enough to fool an imbecile, but you had to have known that I would not be swayed by such a weak plan. Therefore, I can only assume that you knew you would be caught. More concerning, however, is that you are attempting to sabotage this case. You are a morally sound man, and it would be highly uncharacteristic of you to stand by and allow a murderer to go free, let alone help him. Logically, I can only conclude that it is something you have been forced into and you allowed this ridiculous exchange to happen with the knowledge that you would be discovered. So I ask again, John, who is blackmailing you?"

Under Sherlock's fierce, righteous anger, John was forcibly reminded of the early years of his service, when he had been a young, frightened cadet being berated by commanding officers. He slipped into attention, an unconscious instinct, his heels clicking together and his fisted knuckles pressed against the side of his thighs. His chin was already tipped up to meet his taller friend's gaze, and he flexed his jaw as he sought the right words.

"I'm not being blackmailed," John said, his words slow and calculated.

Sherlock scoffed darkly. "Who are you protecting?"

"Myself!" The word snapped into the air, leaving a stinging silence in its wake. He struggled to loosen some of the tension that had drawn his shoulders toward his ears. He forced his voice back towards normal even while Sherlock continued to stare. "It never occurred to you that I am protecting myself, did it? That I've got secrets of my own you haven't managed to puzzle out? That you're not the only one with a past you aren't ready to share?"

Sherlock's expression was impassive, intense and expectant, but his eyes gave away his thoughts. They narrowed ever so slightly, the furrows at the corners deepened infinitesimally, and his gaze flicked over John again in a frenetic search for clues he had missed. Apparently, the idea never had occurred to him, and somehow, that simultaneously eased and sharpened the ache in John's chest. It was a bittersweet knowledge that Sherlock had so much faith in John to believe he could never do something selfish, tainted by the fact that he'd been lying to his best friend for so long, even if it was only a lie of omission.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, but some of the bite had slipped from his tone, the vaguest hint of uncertainty lingering around the edges. "What secrets could you have that are so dark that you would risk sabotaging a case?"

John let out a weary breath and found that even his ingrained soldier's bearing sagged beneath the weight of the truth.  "I haven't been completely honest with you," he said, dragging a hand down his face and determinedly looking anywhere but at the detective. "About what I know about the case, and about me."

"The gnome," Sherlock concluded unquestioningly.

"That's the least of it," John said dryly, a half-hysterical giggle teasing his lungs at the ridiculousness of it all. He faltered, clasping his hands behind his back as words swirled wildly through his head. There was so much to cover, such a vast world to explain, and John had no idea where to begin. He tried to think back to how the story had been broken to him, but somehow, he didn't feel it would help much. Magic was much easier for an eleven-year-old boy prone to mysterious accidents to accept than for someone as empirical as Sherlock.

"You know I never appreciate time-wasting, John, and I find it particularly tiresome on this occasion," Sherlock barked.

"And I don't appreciate your impatience much either," John shot back on reflex. He exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. Usually, his temper was kept under better control, but stress had frayed his self-restraint. "Look, it's just – I can't think of a good way to say it, so I'm just going to show you."

John had just reached up beneath his right sleeve when a loud pop echoed through the flat. The fighting reflexes that had kept him alive through both a Muggle and Wizarding war flared into life, and John's body reacted without conscious thought. He spun toward the source of the sound and drew his wand in one fluid movement.

A figure stood in the kitchen doorway, but the only feature John noticed about the intruder was the wand pointed at Sherlock's heart.

It had been a long time since Sherlock doubted the input of his own senses. There were years when he had never trusted the visions—so many years when the only times Sherlock bothered to focus on anything outside his mind were when he was inserting a fresh needle into his vein. Those days were long past, though, narcotics replaced with the thrill of the puzzle and adrenaline of the chase. His senses had been honed to precision, and he relied on them to deduce and interpret the world around him.

Yet even his mind could not make sense of the scene currently unfolding in their sitting room.

It played out as if in slow motion, beginning with the sharp crack, like the sound of a backfiring car, in the door to the kitchen. An unknown man stood there, although Sherlock had heard no one enter the building, much less the flat. He was garbed in what could only be described as robes - ceremonial, perhaps? - and wielding a polished wooden stick like a rapier.

At the same moment of the man's arrival, John pivoted with the reflexes of a soldier, and his arm shot out. Even though he knew it was currently in the desk drawer, Sherlock still expected to see the familiar Browning handgun, but instead, John clutched a stick of his own as if it were an adequate weapon. The intruder waved his stick, producing a bright violet light that propelled itself towards Sherlock. John also directed his stick at Sherlock and half-screamed, "Protego!"

The air shimmered ever so slightly around Sherlock, and the violet projectile ricocheted away, causing something on the mantle to shatter. While this happened, the intruder turned his stick on John, whose back was turned, and yelled, "Stupefy." A red blast struck John between the shoulder blades before he could defend himself. The look of panicked resignation on John's face slid away as his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed in a heap.

"Flipendo." Sherlock had turned toward the desk to retrieve John's gun, but a gust of wind collided with his chest, sending him tumbling backwards over the coffee table. He hit his head on the arm of his chair on the way down, blinking away spots of white as he rolled onto his back. "Petrificus Totalus." Against his bidding, every muscle in Sherlock's body suddenly went taut, arms snapping to his sides and legs locking until he was straight as a board on the carpet. Sherlock couldn't move a finger, couldn't even unclench his jaw. All he could do was stare up as the intruder came to stand over him.

The man towered over him, glaring down with dark eyes full of disgust. "Muggle filth," he snarled. He swiped his stick, and a streak of purple flames cracked against Sherlock's chest. The pain was agonising, like a metal pipe swung against his ribs, but the power holding Sherlock's body in place wouldn't let him react. The intruder repeated this several times until Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as every breath ached. "You and your Mudblood friend have stuck your noses where they don't belong for the last time."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, desperately wanting to look over and check on John, but he couldn't move his head. The intruder walked around the coffee table, and Sherlock could barely follow him in his peripheral vision. The man crouched, and when he stood, he had an arm around John's chest, holding the unconscious soldier against his body. He pointed his stick at Sherlock, a sinister grin curling his lips.

"Sectumsempra." With an elaborate wave of the stick in Sherlock's direction, it felt like an invisible knife had been dragged roughly across his skin, carving a harsh pattern over his chest and up the side of his neck. He could smell the blood as it welled up in the wounds, soaking his shirt and dripping onto the rug, but Sherlock didn't look away as the man disappeared with John in the space of a blink.

"Enervate."

John's brain struggled to catch up as he was yanked forcibly out of the darkness. The soldier's instincts kicked in, and he made himself focus on the immediate situation. He was sitting up, tied arm and leg to a chair in a dark, stone room. His forearm holster was empty - missing, actually - and there was no familiar press of the handgun in the small of his back. Disarmed, then. He seemed uninjured apart from his left shoulder, which was throbbing like it hadn't in ages. He was also not alone, and everything came back to him as his gaze settled on the wand pointed at his chest.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"Your kind disgusts me," the other man said as if John hadn't spoken. "Thieves and imposters, the lot of you."

"What have you done with Sherlock?" John repeated forcefully.

The man glared at the interruption. "Your Muggle pet? I dealt with him. He'll be dead by now."

Something cold and hard settled in John's gut, and even as a blinding rage and fear built up in him, a dark, dangerous smirk dashed across his lips. "Wrong answer," he growled. "See, I just wanted to see you arrested for what you'd done, but now? Now I'm gonna see you suffer and-"

"Crucio!"

The pain was instantaneous and overwhelming. Thousands of knives were prying his muscles apart, microscopic layer of fascia by layer, all at once. His body tried to seize, wanting to flail and recoil from the pain, but the ropes kept him upright in the chair. It was far from the first time John had been hit with the Cruciatus Curse, but experience did nothing to soften the agony. He could do little more than squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to end.

It wasn't until the pain stopped – just as abruptly as it had begun – that John realised the ringing in his ears had been his own yells. His wrists burned, rubbed raw from struggling against the ropes. He tasted blood—he'd bit the inside of his cheek. John leant over and spit onto the stone floor, ignoring the dribble it left on his chin.

"No, John Watson," the man said, pressing his wand tip under John's chin and forcing him to look up, "you are the one who is going to suffer."

John sneered. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that, you elitist bastard."

"Langlock." John fought against his gag reflex as his tongue adhered itself to the roof of his mouth with a sharp tug. Voice lodged in his throat, he settled for glowering heatedly up at his captor.

"Your kind don't belong in our society," the man said, lips curled maliciously. "I always thought all the blood status propaganda was wrong. When You-Know-Who came for your lot, I fought for you. This," he gestured at a long, knotty scar that marred the olive skin of his jaw, "was what I got for my efforts.

"My work at the Ministry has been devoted to studying the cause of your kind. Combining Muggle sciences with what we know about blood status to figure out where your kind comes from. I was helping you. And this is what I got for it!"

The man made a furious noise and brandished his wand in John's face, sending his head snapping back. "My family is Pure; Pureblooded wizards all the way back to the Middle Ages. There hasn't been a member of the Whitehawk line who wasn't a wizard. And then my son…" His voice broke with rage, his face paled, and he started again. "And then my son turns out to be a Squib. Centuries of pure magical blood, and my boy loses his birthright to one of you freaks."

John's eyes widened as he finally understood. The man – Whitehawk – seemed to take this as an admission of guilt because his eyes glinted. "You see what you've done?" he snarled. "Mutations like you are the reason that my son will suffer. Do you know what his life will be like? He will have no place in our world; no purpose or marketable skills. People like you have stolen magic from those who deserve it, like my boy. After all I've done to help your people, this is what I get in return.

"No, your kind will suffer for what they've done. And you – you are the worst of them all. You have this ability, this gift, and you choose to ignore it. To throw away all that you've been given – that you've stolen – and go back to being a Muggle like it means nothing to you. Stealing it away with no regard for the lives you ruin in the process. You will suffer. You will pay."

Whitehawk's eyes had taken on a dark, wild glow that John had only ever seen once before: when he'd woken up strapped into a Semtex vest with a mocking smirk looming over him. He felt no less afraid now than he had that night at the swimming pool, but, just like he had with Moriarty, John lifted his chin and didn't let his fear show.

Whitehawk raised his wand to eye level, smiling sickeningly. "Flagrante cacumen." The tip of his wand glowed red-white, and the air above shimmered with heat. John guessed what was coming before it happened, but nothing could prepare him for when the wand point touched his forearm. Despite all his intentions of stoicism, he couldn't help it; John screamed.

When the world started darkening at the edges, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. Off to one side, his mind was running a stream of calculations – the surface area of injuries by depth by proximity to veins and arteries to equal approximate seconds until unconsciousness and eventual exsanguination – but he ignored them. Instead, he focused on his visual short-term memory and replayed the confrontation.

The whole event had taken only a grand total of seventy-three seconds to unfold. Strings of deductions and explanations ran through Sherlock's mind like lines of code, and he scrambled to piece them together into a conceivable whole. No matter what he tried, there were always bugs and glitches that did not comply with the rest of the parts. In the end, there was really only one conclusion that worked with all of the evidence. It still did not feel like an answer at all.

A sharp pop jerked Sherlock's attention back to the present, and he forced his eyes to focus on the door to the flat just as a new man stumbled in. Like John and their attacker had, the newcomer held a stick at the ready, scanning the room for signs of danger. When he spotted Sherlock on the ground, he cursed and dropped to his knees beside him.

"Finite Incantatem," he said, and the invisible force holding Sherlock's body vanished. A strangled groan broke out of Sherlock's throat as he immediately lifted a hand to the gash on his neck. Blood was pouring from the wound, already thick in his collar and pooling on the carpet below him.

"Just hold still," the new man said, and then he was tracing the path of the cut in the air with his stick, murmuring under his breath.

"John," Sherlock hissed out through the pain as his skin burnt and ached. Trying to draw in a deeper breath reminded him that his ribs had been battered—at least fractured, if not broken. Still, he knew that the amount of blood he'd already lost meant he wasn't long left, and if this man was an ally, then Sherlock would point him toward the person who could still be saved. "He took...John," he growled. "Go...find...John."

"We'll get him," the other man said firmly. "But hold still so I can fix this." And the man returned his attention to moving the stick above Sherlock's chest. It wasn't easy to make sense of the man's hushed voice, but the words sounded like some sort of bastardised Latin. Sherlock focused on taking slow, shallow breaths as he surveyed the man bent over him.

He was around Sherlock's age, although something in his green eyes made him look older and worn. His dark hair was dishevelled, and round-framed glasses had slid down his nose. Black robes hung haphazardly from his shoulders, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed on odd details: a smudge of ink on his fingers, a dusting of crumbs on the right lapel, the single downy feather clinging to the hem of his sleeve.

Letting out a heavy breath, the man sat back on his heels. The itching in Sherlock's skin dissipated, and he touched the side of his neck. Blood was drying against his skin, but the gashes were gone, unblemished as if there had never been an injury. Sherlock sat up and tore his shirt open, sliding a hand down his chest. Under the layer of blood, the only sign of the wound that had caused it was a narrow red keloid. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the world suddenly pitched to the side, and he moaned.

"Easy," the other man said, and the hands gripping his shoulder made Sherlock realise it wasn't the world that had tilted but him. "You lost a lot of blood."

Sherlock glanced sideways at the other man. He had no idea who this man was, but he seemed to have the same strange abilities as John and his captor. Whoever this man was, he knew what was going on more than Sherlock did, much as it pained him to admit. "He took John," the detective said. "We were attacked, by a man who I suspect is behind a string of recent disappearances in London. John was taken."

The other man cursed, dragging his free hand back through his hair. As he did, Sherlock spotted a peculiar scar on his forehead, a thin, jagged line that looked like a child's interpretation of lightning. "I was afraid of this," the man said. "I shouldn't have gotten Watson involved. If I hadn't gotten here when I did, you…"

"You're having the flat watched," Sherlock guessed.

"Taboo charm, on the sly," said the man, distractedly, as he looked around the room again. "Set it up yesterday after McGonagall told me. I knew Watson wouldn't appreciate it, but I was afraid you might become targets once you got involved in the case." He paused and glanced at Sherlock curiously. "He told you then?"

Sherlock frowned. "You are referring to whatever secret he is keeping that is interfering with my case," he said. "No, he didn't have the chance, but I've been able to deduce a general idea given the circumstances. John, along with you and our attacker, are all possessed of some ability to influence and affect matter through the use of your little sticks and words that sound largely Latin in origin. It is, I believe, what is commonly referred to in children's literature and folklore as magic."

The man stared briefly at Sherlock, looking vaguely dumbfounded, then huffed a soft laugh. "Merlin's beard, I think Watson may have underestimated you, Mr Holmes."

"People generally do, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary," Sherlock said dryly.

"Yeah, well he wasn't so sure you'd be able to accept the idea of magic," the man said.

"When you have eliminated all other options, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true," Sherlock said. "It was the only solution that made sense with all of the evidence given."

"Right." The man nodded and stowed his stick away beneath his robes. "Well then, er, oh, I'm Harry Potter, by the way. I'm a -"

"Old soldier colleague of John's," Sherlock deduced. Potter raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You refer to John by his surname, but your tone carries a familiarity that suggests closeness. His friends and co-workers from the surgery all refer to him as John, or occasionally Dr Watson. The only ones who call him purely by his surname are his military companions, as is their protocol. You have the bearing of a soldier, although the length of your hair suggests you've not been on active duty recently. It was an easy deduction. Now may we discard the pleasantries and focus on the fact that John has been abducted by a serial killer?"

The other man – Harry Potter – blinked at him for a second and then nodded. "Right."

Sherlock contemplated getting up to pace, but he still felt weak and shaky, so he settled for folding his legs so he could lean his elbows on his knees. "Now that I know about the – magic – there are parts of the scenes that make more sense," he mused aloud. "I assume that is what caused the scorch marks and general destruction. And the lack of bodies, presumably because the attacker disappears them out with himself. In that case, some of them - not all of them, surely, not after so long - but some of them may still be alive if we can-"

"They aren't," Potter cut in grimly.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply, eyes snapping to him with laser focus. "How do you know?"

Potter sighed, dragging a hand back through his hair again. "The gnomes," he said. "The little figurines from the scenes. Those are the bodies. It was a complicated Transfiguration spell, took us ages to figure out that was what was happening. I only thought of it because I've seen something similar once, a long time ago. Transfigured a body into a bone and buried it." Potter grimaced and added, "Also, the five from London aren't the only ones."

"Tell me everything."

Despite the severity of the situation, Harry couldn't help but be fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. The detective was currently pacing in front of the fireplace, one hand on the mantle to keep his balance since his legs kept shaking beneath him. When Harry had tried to object – the man had lost a lot of blood, after all, he really ought to be lying down – Holmes argued that the movement helped him focus. He still looked a sight, with his blood-soaked shirt half-open to reveal a bruised and bloodstained chest, and his hair was wild from constant fussing, but he seemed entirely oblivious of his own condition.

It took almost twenty minutes to recount the entirety of the case. Even afterwards, Holmes continued to press him for further information, drawing connections from infinitesimal details Harry wouldn't have thought to look for. His brain moved through data at a rate that would put even Hermione to shame (not that Harry would say so aloud, of course; he didn't want to be hexed). Holmes managed to accept everything Harry had told him about the case with no complaint, even though his pinched expression betrayed his internal conflict, and now he was talking his way through it all.

"He broke his pattern," Holmes said emphatically, drawing Harry's focus back. "This man kills his victims inside their homes, yet he abducted John. Why? He could easily have killed him. I was unarmed and posed no threat, and you've said the spell he cast on John would have rendered him unconscious. By all rights, John and I should both be dead now. So why aren't we?"

"You almost were," Harry reminded him. "If I hadn't gotten here when I did… And even then, if I weren't so familiar with that spell he used, you would be. I think we can assume he meant for you to die."

"Implying that John is the one he really wanted," Holmes said. If Harry didn't know that attempted murder was par for the course around Baker Street, he would've assumed Holmes' lack of concern on the subject hinted at shock. "So there's something about John that makes him different from the other victims. He took John for a reason, and he might still be alive if we can find him."

Harry nodded, following the line of thought. "And if we can figure out what makes John special, it'll give us a better idea of who targeted him."

Holmes abruptly growled, clawing his hands through his hair and dropping heavily onto the arm of the leather armchair. "I can't work like this!" he snarled. "I'm working from insufficient data. I don't know enough about this world and what variables are relevant to the situation, and there isn't time."

"So walk me through it," Harry said. He sat down opposite Holmes, holding his gaze to force the detective's focus. "I know this world, maybe I'll get something from it that you missed. Watson told me you've got a great memory, so tell me every single detail you can remember from when the man attacked you."

Holmes' jaw clenched, but his eyes showed a bright, determined glint. "He appeared there," he said, standing and moving to the kitchen doorway, "with a dull popping noise."

"Apparition," Harry supplied instinctively, and the detective acknowledged him with the vaguest twitch of his head. During his explanation of the case, Holmes' frustration with the unfamiliar language was apparent, and Harry tried to offer the correct wording when he could. Although he didn't say anything, he could tell Holmes appreciated it.

"His wand was drawn, at the ready. He fired at me first. I didn't hear the word used, but the spell was violet. John turned his wand on me as well. Protego; a spell of protection, presumably, judging by the effect and the Latin root. While John's back was turned, the intruder struck John with the spell you said would have incapacitated him."

"So the guy knew the best way to take you both out," Harry interpreted. "John was the immediate threat. He knew attacking you would divert John's attention, leaving him vulnerable. Which means he also knew John's instinct would be to protect you before himself, so he knows something about John's character."

Holmes continued, "Once John was unconscious, he attacked me again. I was immobilised and struck seven times. He stood over me; a clear display of power, aggression, and superiority. He called me Muggle filth, and referred to John as Mudblood-"

"Nasty term for Muggle-borns."

"-and then he grabbed John." Holmes moved around the coffee table and knelt. When he stood again, he clutched a wand – John's, Harry realised, dropped when he'd been Stupefied - with a look of rapt fascination and concern.

"And that's when he left?" Harry pressed.

Holmes blinked and then nodded. "He carved me up and then vanished with John," he said. Harry didn't fail to notice that Holmes tucked John's wand into his jacket. "He said nothing more."

"Okay, then what did he look like?" Harry said, changing tracks. "Distinctive clothing or features?"

"Average height, middle-aged, dark-featured," Holmes said. "Darker than the typical Anglo-Saxon, with a brow and nasal structure common in the Mediterranean. Italian or Greek, most likely. He wore black robes, heavier weave than yours, with violet and silver threading along the hems. High-collared. A large, silver brooch on the left side, shaped like a bird of prey – falcon or eagle, perhaps – encircled by runes in a language I did not recognise. Expensive shoes. Heavy ring on his right hand, broad and circular-"

"Wait." Harry stood as something in the description resonated with him, a cold knot settling in his gut. A bird brooch… "Did he have a scar on his jaw? Thick one all down the right side?" Holmes' widened eyes answered for him, and Harry cursed.

"You know who it is," Holmes concluded.

"Adrian Whitehawk," Harry said. "He works at the Ministry - an Unspeakable. I've met him a few times. He's part of a team doing research into Muggles. I don't know all the details, but they've been looking into what causes witches and wizards to be born into Muggle families."

"And that would give him access to names of Muggle-borns to target, yes?" Holmes asked. Harry nodded; he couldn't be sure, but he assumed they had lists of subjects for their study. "Good, then let's go get him."

Harry frowned. "You're not coming, Mr Holmes. You're injured, you nearly died. And you're a Muggle. No, you're staying here." Turning away, Harry conjured his Patronus. The silver stag, glowing softly in the middle of the sitting room, looked up at him expectantly. "All available to Adrian Whitehawk's manor. He's the Gnome Killer. Bring a Healer." He dismissed the Patronus with a flick of his wand, and the stag cantered off through the windows into the growing dusk.

When Harry turned back to the detective, Holmes pushed off the twin desks in the corner, pale face set. Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. He couldn't imagine how it must feel for the detective, being in so far over his head and unable to help. Harry knew if it had been his best friends in danger… "I'll get him back," Harry promised. "Don't worry." And then he turned on his heel.

The sudden grip on his bicep upset Harry's balance, and his muscles protested at the sudden tug. His heart leapt into his throat, but he was already mid-Apparition, and nothing could be done. When the pressure subsided and his feet were again on solid ground, he felt a body stumble against him and scrambled to stay standing.

"You bloody, stubborn git," Harry muttered fiercely, checking the other man for injuries. His own arm ached, and the muscle felt strained in the worst way, but it was survivable. Holmes, however, was looking a bit green and leaning hard to one side. It wasn't hard to see why; the right leg of his trousers was shredded, and beneath it, his calf and foot were mutilated in large gouges.

"Have you got a death wish?" Harry asked incredulously as he checked to ensure that there was nothing worse wrong with Holmes. The detective ignored him, breathing slowly through his nose to steady himself. Harry shook his head and crouched to examine the injured leg. "You're damned lucky," he said and then cast a quick sealing spell. The gouges weren't bleeding yet, but it was better to be safe. Then Harry wrapped a strong numbing charm over Holmes' calf, a dull bluish glow tinting the skin.

"That's the best I can do for now," Harry said, straightening up to meet the taller man's gaze. Holmes looked better, the lines in his face loosened with the pain gone. "I'm no Healer, and fixing Splinching was never part of my training, but that'll hold for a bit. You really need to go to the hospital-" Holmes narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Harry continued, "but clearly you have no sense of self-preservation, so let's go then. But I take the lead."

Harry Summoned a sturdy branch from the nearest tree and gave it a critical look before passing it along to Holmes. Holmes glanced down at his numbed leg, the foot twisted at a slightly unnatural angle, before he accepted the branch with a nod. The two of them exchanged determined looks and then set off up the drive.

The manor house, a towering Gothic structure, loomed dark and hulking in the centre of the property. Off to one side of the drive, a glittering fountain sat, a mermaid figure—the beautiful sort from paintings and not the real, mottle-skinned kind he'd met at Hogwarts—letting out a steady stream of water from the tip of its trident. Harry gestured for Holmes to stay behind him and approached the front door.

The large, ebony door was locked, but a quick tap of "Alohomora" made the bolt retract and set Harry's nerves on edge. In his experience, when it was that easy to get through the door, there was usually a trap on the other side. Harry glanced at Holmes; he couldn't take any chances with the detective's safety. Thinking longingly of his old Invisibility Cloak, neatly folded in his desk drawer at the Ministry, he settled for the next best thing.

"I'm going to cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on you," Harry whispered. "It'll keep you from being seen." When Holmes jerked his head in acquiescence, Harry touched his wand to the top of the taller man's head and watched as his features blurred and faded. Holmes shuddered and stared down at his hand in surprise as the ground became visible through his skin.

Harry cast the same spell on himself and then looked up to see Holmes' face barely visible as a ripple in the darkness. "Keep behind me," Harry hissed, "and keep quiet. I don't know what we're walking into." Without waiting for an agreement, Harry pushed open the door to the house, raising his wand defensively.

A cavernous, unlit foyer sat innocently on the other side, the moonlight giving Harry only the vaguest impressions of polished marble and wood, drapery and an elaborate chandelier. Harry dug a Knut from his pocket and threw it into the middle of the room. In a flash, the chandelier bars whipped out and spiralled around the coin, holding it fast in the air. "Impedimenta," Harry said, pointing his wand at the writhing bars of gold. The chandelier froze, limbs moving sluggishly like they were trying to force their way through molasses.

Wand still raised, Harry stepped into the room. A flicker of movement drew his gaze, and he looked over just in time to see a figure disappearing from the frame of a large portrait. Harry cursed under his breath; there went the element of surprise. "Homenum Revelio." Two faint, white glimmers appeared in his vision, down and to the right, and his heart leapt. There was someone in the house.

Holmes limped close behind him, the improvised crutch making a dull thunkon the gleaming floor, as Harry crossed to the doors to the right of the main entrance. It took three tries before he found one that opened onto a downward staircase. Harry only made it two steps down when a sudden, anguished scream echoed up the stones. He had to throw out an arm to catch Holmes as the detective made to shove around him, eyes wild.

When Holmes tried to break free, Harry hissed under his breath, "I will not hesitate to Stupefy you and leave you here if you can't follow orders. " Holmes made a discontented noise but stepped back, and Harry turned his attention back to the stairwell. The scream—hoarse and strangled—stopped after another second, and Harry pushed on.

When the screaming picked up again, a few steps later, Harry's knuckles whitened around his wand. As much as they hurt to listen to, they were reassuring, too, because they meant that Watson was still alive. It also meant their cover hadn't been ruined yet because surely Whitehawk would've disappeared if he knew they were coming.

Harry took a bracing breath and then jogged down the last few steps into the room.

"Expelliarmus!"

The out-of-place spell dragged John back into the moment, and he struggled to lift his head. His muscles ached so much that the effort made his vision swim. Even still, John could make out Whitehawk standing before him and an indistinct figure materialising at the foot of the staircase.

"Did you really think I would let someone just walk into my house without my knowing?" Whitehawk asked with a sarcastic laugh. "Avabella warned me the moment the front door opened." He nodded his head toward something behind John, and although he was curious, twisting his head around to see would require more work than he was capable of at the moment.

"It's over, Whitehawk." John started, forcing his eyes to focus. It was Harry Potter, his empty hands held out to the side in a sign of surrender. "The Aurors are already on their way."

"And they will find you both dead, and I'll be long gone," Whitehawk responded. His wand turned back toward John, and he hissed, "Astringio." John gasped as a sudden pressure wrapped around his chest, squeezing inward and forcing the air from his lungs. His tongue, still glued to the roof of his mouth, only made it all worse. "I'm sorry, Potter, I truly am. I don't have anything against you, but you just had to get involved. I'm only trying to get rid of the Mudblood thieves. You're just in the way, now."

Harry took a step forward, but Whitehawk said, "Incarcerous," and coils of rope blossomed into life, winding themselves around Harry from head to toe. He overbalanced, barely managing to twist enough to land on his side instead of his face. A grunt of pain caught behind the length of rope gagging him.

The crushing pressure around John's chest grew progressively worse with each passing second, his ribs groaning as they curved inward. John stopped being able to draw breaths, gulping in tiny bursts of air that did nothing to help the light-headedness. His heart pounded frantically in his ears, and he didn't notice that Whitehawk had started talking again until the wand tip dug into the underside of his chin and forced his head up.

"It's time to finish this," Whitehawk snarled in his face.

A flicker at the corner of his darkening vision caught John's attention, the vaguest shadow on the wall opposite that he almost dismissed as a trick of his oxygen-deprived brain. Even as two of his ribs snapped beneath the persistent compression, he smirked and gave a determined nod.

"My thoughts precisely," a deep voice rumbled from the foot of the stairs. Before Whitehawk could react, an explosion of sound echoed painfully off the stones and masked the sound of several more of John's ribs snapping. A shriek of pain coupled with the damp thwump of a body hitting the ground, but John couldn't see through the mix of black and white spots crowding his vision.

"John!" The hand that grasped his face was familiar; long, narrow fingers curved around his jaw, damp with perspiration. John wanted to answer, but his tongue was still stuck, so he couldn't manage more than a breathless moan. Immediately after, another rib splintered, and he wheezed sharply as it tore at something inside his chest.

"Fix him!" Sherlock shouted angrily, the hand disappearing from John's cheek. There was a high-pitched scream, but the pressure didn't stop. Liquid clogged his throat and blocked out the last air John had managed to drag in. "Stop this!" Sherlock's voice was piercing, and John thought he must be hallucinating the note of terror.

Another gunshot split the air, and suddenly, the pressure disappeared from around John's chest. He retched out a mouthful of warm, syrupy blood, slumping forward to spit it out and try to suck in breaths. Each movement made John's broken ribs sear with pain, and somehow, his inhales didn't feel like they were bringing air into his body. The years of medical study flashed two quick words through the back of his mind: perforated lung.

"John? John!" A hand was back on his face, another grasping at the ropes that had fallen away from his wrists. John didn't even have it in him to recoil as fingers brushed over the line of swollen burns on his forearm. "Stay awake, John."

John blinked several times slowly and finally made out the swirls of blue, grey, and green wreathed in bleached white before him—Sherlock's eyes. "Y'r 'live," John garbled through the blood still thick in his mouth. He thought he was smiling, but he couldn't be sure.

"Of course I am," Sherlock replied with a weak attempt at his general condescension. He glanced back at something behind him. "Do something!"

There were more words he wanted to say, so many things John could feel crashing over each other in waves inside his head, but he couldn't manage the air. He didn't have time, had never had enough time. The most he managed was a choked, "Sher… m'sorr…" before the darkness swept in and dragged him away from the sound of his name.

For some reason, the smell brought a wave of nostalgia. John couldn't place it – something clean, natural, and vaguely electric – but it was comforting in its own way. He felt distant from his body and was content to exist at this peaceful halfway point for some time.

Except something nagged at the back of his mind, telling John this was wrong. He had vague impressions of danger and fear, things in places they shouldn't be, and someone was in trouble. Not him, but someone else. Someone important.

He couldn't be sure how long it took, but John slowly dragged himself back to the surface. He gradually became more aware of his body, although he didn't have much control over it as far as he could tell. The numb sensation dissipated into a prickly feeling like when your foot fell asleep. Everything, including his eyelids, was cumbersome and uncooperative.

Flashes of memory started coming back—the golden gnomes; a cat on a garden wall; Sherlock's eyes narrowed accusingly; spells flashing across the sitting room; a dark, stone room and coarse ropes; burning, pain, screams, pressure. John gasped in a breath, relieved to feel his lungs expand with the motion. He took several grateful breaths that slowed his heartbeat down again.

It required more effort than he felt it should have, but John pried his eyes open. He didn't recognise the dimly lit room, but it still gave off a feeling of familiarity. Little globes of pale light gleamed against the white walls, bathing everything in a soft, ghostly glow. John lay beneath a woven blanket, the sort of mass-produced thing he'd seen hundreds of times.

That explained the familiarity: he was in a hospital.

In the corner of his vision, John could just make out a heap of dark curls on the blanket by his hip and something in his chest unknotted. "Sherl-?" John's voice was hoarse and practically non-existent as it hissed out of him, vanishing into the night air. He swallowed and tried again, shifting his arm slightly to nudge the curls with his fingertips. "Sherlock?"

The head snapped up suddenly, and it took them both a second to focus their eyes in the dim light. Sherlock looked more ruffled than usual, the way he generally looked when he crashed at the end of a tough case. His face was deathly pale, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes, and he was dressed in a white cotton shirt that somehow made him look ridiculously young and innocent.

"John?" Sherlock rubbed his palms over his face, and his eyes widened when he met John's gaze. "John, you're awake."

"You're alive," John responded because he remembered the fear and cold, righteous fury he felt when Whitehawk told him Sherlock was dead.

"Considering your state, I think you can be forgiven for stating the obvious," Sherlock said, and John caught the faintest twitch of lips that betrayed affection. Then his expression sobered. "How are you feeling? I was assured you would not be uncomfortable, but you suffered nine broken ribs and a perforated lung, among your other injuries, so I find myself suspicious as to how that is possible. Of course, I admit that I am largely unaware of the capabilities of medicine in this world."

John nodded distractedly, his mind already drifting back toward sleep now that he knew the danger had passed before the reality of Sherlock's statement caught up to him. His eyes flicked to the floating orbs of light, and he made the connection to the faint hum in the air. They were in St. Mungo's, a wizarding hospital, after being abducted by a wizard before John got the chance to tell Sherlock that John was a wizard himself.

Sherlock leaned his elbows on the edge of the mattress, his fingers steepled as he stared at John with that unwavering, mercurial gaze. "You know," John murmured.

"Again with stating the obvious. It was rather hard to miss, all things considered," Sherlock replied. "I won't pretend to understand the entirety of things yet, but your friend Potter provided answers where he could. He even lent me a few books that I read while you were asleep, they were quite informative. It isn't much, but it is a start."

"Right." John took a moment to digest this information, not quite sure he was actually awake and that this wasn't all some strange dream.

"You expected me to be incapable of comprehending this," said Sherlock. John shot him a look that plainly expressed it was precisely what he thought, and Sherlock's mouth slanted again. "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains-"

"Must be true, yeah," John finished, having heard it before. "I guess I just never considered that you wouldn't see this as impossible." They lapsed into another silence. Sherlock was the one to look away this time, his eyes drifting down to his fingertips. John cleared his throat uncertainly. "I should have told you."

"You are entitled to your privacy," Sherlock said slowly. Considering this came from the man who had barged in on John in any number of private situations, John couldn't stop the ironic smirk. "However," Sherlock continued, and some of the natural bite returned to his words as he met John's eyes again, "the information that you withheld impeded our case and directly affected my ability to solve it. That is unacceptable."

John fought the instinct to cringe at the rebuke in Sherlock's voice. He could handle abuse hurled at him from countless superiors in the military or angry bosses, but the sharp disappointment in Sherlock's tone cut through him like a knife. He lifted his chin and said, "I understand."

Sherlock's eyes, bright, liquid silver in the light, scoured over John's face in an almost comfortingly familiar gesture. Apparently satisfied with whatever he deduced, Sherlock nodded. "Good. Now get your rest."

"Just like that?" asked John, surprised.

"You are hardly fit for a lengthy conversation. Your eyes are struggling to track, and the strain on your ocular muscles is going to give you a headache shortly, which will only lower your ability to focus. Now that your previously accelerated heart rate is dropping back into normal resting levels, it is unlikely that you will be conscious for much longer." John glanced down, not even having realised that Sherlock's fingers were resting on the pulse point in his wrist. "I've been assured that you will be fit to return home in the morning, but until then, you should rest. You're the one constantly badgering me about the benefits of sleep, after all."

Home. Something in John's stomach seized. "I wasn't sure you'd still want me there after all this."

A dangerous grin flashed across Sherlock's face. "Of course. Where would I be without my blogger?"

Even as John huffed a laugh, he felt Sherlock's grip tighten around his wrist and John's tension uncoiled. The danger was over, and they would recover. As long as they were both still in 221B, everything else could wait another day.

The pale stone buildings rolled past as John leant his forehead against the window of the cab carrying them to Baker Street. It was hardly noon, but the day had already been exhausting. The back of the cab was quiet, John lost in idle thoughts while Sherlock hammered away at his phone, but it felt comfortable. Companionable.

It felt like nothing at all had changed, even though everything had.

Potter had arrived at St. Mungo's first thing in the morning to debrief them. They both gave their statements, and Harry had informed them that with Whitehawk's death, the case could officially close. A search of Whitehawk's research had yielded a list of Muggle-borns employed by the Ministry—the record he used to select his targets. The victim's bodies were being returned to their next-of-kin, and Whitehawk's family and research partners had been cleared. It was finally over.

Before he left, Harry had also given John a stack of forms that would have 221B Baker Street officially listed as the residence of a magical family. It meant magic could be performed there, even in front of Sherlock, without getting angry owls from the Ministry. The detective had shown interest at the idea, even if he'd said nothing as he added the rolls of parchment to the little sack of their personal belongings.

In fact, Sherlock had been remarkably quiet all morning, or at least quiet for him. Oh, he'd been only too happy to elaborate on every detail he'd deduced about the case for Harry. He'd whinged and complained incessantly while the Healer had checked him over, and he'd thrown a good, proper fit when they'd forced another Blood-Replenishing Potion on him. The poor Healing staff were only too happy to see the backs of them, and John couldn't rightly blame them.

Yet all morning, Sherlock hadn't badgered them with a single question about magic, and that part was a bit unusual. John couldn't be sure whether it was lingering shock or some strange attempt at tact on the detective's part, but either way, it was making John edgy. He could handle Sherlock being an arse, that he was used to, but this was weird.

The cab turned a corner sharply, and John grunted as his shoulder bounced against the door. He was still achy and tender, but he considered it a small price to pay with the condition he'd been in when he'd arrived at the hospital. John was damned lucky just to be alive. As it was, he would be back to normal in just a few days, except for his arm.

John picked at the bandage left visible by his hospital-issued shirt. The Healers had done what they could, but curse scars were notoriously difficult to heal, as the starburst pattern on his shoulder always reminded him. They would be nothing but faint white lines, but John's forearm would forever bear the slur burnt onto him.

Just like the thin, jagged ribbon that wound unsteadily across Sherlock's torso and up the right side of his neck. John glanced sideways at him, eyes following the wavering curl that blossomed from the collar of his shirt and ended just below his ear. In the end, they'd both gotten off lucky, really.

"You're so terribly maudlin sometimes," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. John raised a questioning eyebrow. "Really, you're the only person I know who actually becomes depressed when deprived of tea." John turned back to the window, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction, but he was sure the detective knew he was smiling anyway.

The cab deposited them at Baker Street, and John gathered their bag before paying the driver. When he turned back, Sherlock had already let himself into the flat. John almost smiled; at least some things never changed. The sound of violin music filled the air before John even reached the top of the stairs.

John dropped the bag on the coffee table and glanced across at Sherlock, who had taken up his customary spot by the window with his violin tucked under his chin. For a moment, John's eyes lingered on the missing area rug and the darkened stain in the wood – Potter said he'd done what he could, but some things couldn't be erased. They'd need a new rug to cover that spot before Mrs Hudson noticed it.

John shook himself. "I'm gonna make a cuppa. Want one?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Sherlock gave no sign that he'd heard, but John was used to being ignored. He set the kettle to boil and prepared several slices of toast. There was something weirdly comforting about moving around the kitchen with Sherlock playing in the background, and it felt like the last of John's unease faded away with it.

"Tea's ready," John announced when he reentered the sitting room, balancing the dishes. He settled down into his chair and watched Sherlock over the top of his mug. The song was familiar; it was one John had heard him play before, usually at night, but not one he knew the name of. It must've been one of his compositions that he'd written while working on a case.

If he was playing a composition, that meant he had a lot on his mind. "Sherlock," John said, loud but steady, "are we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock's fingering faltered, and he lowered the bow. "Is there something you need to say?"

"No, but I know you do," John replied. "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, despite what you think. I know a thing or two about you. I can tell when you're obsessing about something."

The silence dragged out for a moment, and then Sherlock set his violin down in its case. He climbed over the back of his chair, picking at the plate of toast John had put on the side table, and finally looked up at him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze catalogued details, and John sipped his tea without comment.

"When we first met," Sherlock said finally, and John nodded him on, "and I deduced you, you told me that the only detail I'd gotten wrong was your sibling's gender. How much did I actually get wrong?"

"Nothing," John said, frowning. "You had it all right, except the bit about Harry."

"Your sister or your boss?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer the rhetorical question. "He told me that you used to work for him. You're telling me it changes nothing?"

And that's when John saw it—the flicker that dashed across Sherlock's expression. For the first time, perhaps in his entire life, Sherlock doubted his deductions. Worst of all, it was John's fault. "I'm serious, Sherlock," he said firmly. "This doesn't change anything. I worked for Harry for a while, but I'm a soldier, too. It's sort of a long story."

Sherlock's steepled fingers pressed to his lips, and he stared expectantly in a way John took as permission to continue. He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea before elaborating.

"See, around the time I was finishing secondary school, there was a dark wizard gaining power in our world. Voldemort. He was a wizarding supremacist, so the more powerful and the more followers he got, the more dangerous it was for Muggle-borns like me. His people tended to target not just Muggle-borns but their families, too, so I figured it was best to make myself scarce for a bit. I traded being a Healer for going to Muggle medical school instead.

"Well, right as I was finishing up, Voldemort sort of took over. He had people in the Ministry, and they were enacting all kinds of laws that allowed Muggle-borns to be hunted down. I got tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, and I wanted to distance myself from my family to keep them out of the Death Eaters' – that's what Voldemort's followers called themselves – their sights. The military seemed like as good a place as any to hide out, so I enlisted."

"You joined the military to avoid a war?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

John huffed a wry laugh. "In a way, yeah, I guess I did," he agreed. "Not the best plan, I admit. But somehow, just getting shot at seemed a lot safer than being targeted by Dark wizards. Some of those Death Eaters, well – Whitehawk was a kitten in comparison. I'd been on the wrong end of an Unforgivable Curse before. Bullets were the kinder option.

"Course, in the end, it didn't do any good either."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Your parents?"

"They weren't even targeted for being the parents of a Muggle-born," John said scornfully. "Just for being Muggles. It was a sport for the Death Eaters, seeing how much destruction they could cause without being caught. Muggles never noticed anything because who would believe it was magic that caused these freak accidents? Collapsed bridges, levelled towns, unexplainable diseases. You might've seen some of them; they cropped up on the news now and then.

"The way I understand it, a group of Death Eaters set a block of houses on fire. They Stunned anyone who tried to escape, left them to burn alive. Seventeen people died that night, including my parents. The only reason my sister survived was because she was in Dublin, passed out at some bar with her friends. The only time I've ever been grateful for her drinking." John huffed a wry, humourless noise. "Officially, it was ruled an unfortunate accident caused by some faulty wiring and an unusually dry summer, but I think she's always suspected it was something to do with me."

"She isn't like you." It wasn't a question, and John didn't waste his breath answering. "This is what prompted you to join the magical law enforcement?"

"I wasn't able to right away, of course," John said. "Ministry was still being run by Death Eaters then. But I started helping where I could, around my military training. The idea caught on, and a whole lot of Muggle-borns and even Half-bloods enlisted because it got them a free ticket out of England, under the radar of the Death Eaters. It was hardly a perfect solution, but it was an alternative to camping out in the wilderness, hiding from the Snatchers, like some did. It kept us going until the Battle of Hogwarts."

John paused, rubbing the back of his neck, and glanced across at Sherlock. "I don't know what all Potter told you. Did he mention-"

"It was in one of the books," Sherlock interrupted with a nod. "I understand the general idea."

"I thought it might've been." John nodded. "I found out through the Wireless. Some old dorm mates of mine ran this underground radio channel with information about the war, the sort of stuff Voldemort's crowd didn't want getting out. Listened to it every night I could with a few of the other wizards in my post. When we found out Harry had gone back to Hogwarts, we knew the time had come. It was a hell of a trip, Apparating ourselves all the way back there.

"That battle was–" John grimaced, images he'd long tried to forget spiralling through his head in a wave of colours. "Magic or Muggle, there's nothing glorious about wars. I saw a lot of good people die in the castle we'd seen as a sanctuary growing up. I still wonder sometimes, maybe if I'd stuck with my Healer training instead of hiding out in the Muggle world, if maybe there were more lives I could've saved that day."

"You won the war."

"Yeah, we did," John said, shaking himself out of the memories. "And after that, it all turned to making things right again. That's when I took the job with the Aurors. It was a hectic time, and we tripled our numbers to try and round up all of the escaped Death Eaters we could. So many of them had gotten away with it the first time, but the Minister wasn't taking those chances again. It felt good to be doing something productive like that."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's shoulder, and he knew what question would come next. "Afghanistan?"

"Came after things died down at the Ministry," John explained. "Once things had settled, I told them I wanted to return to my military position. It had started as a way to escape, but I'd found I enjoyed it. Things had started getting bad in the Middle East, and I wanted to do my part. The Aurors' office was overstaffed at that point anyway, so they didn't put up much of a fight.

"I had put in more than a decade in the military when the Auror's office contacted me. The International Wizarding Defence Agency - it's a bit like a Wizarding Interpol - had been tracking a group using the unrest in the Middle East as a cover for their activities. They were launching a task force to deal with them, and they wanted me for it because I was familiar with the area. Our Ministry has a lot of pull when they want, and the minute I agreed, they had it cleared through my superiors.

"The task force was an adventure. There were agents from four countries, and although they were all law enforcement, none had experience in a war zone. It was up to me to lead them and keep them safe. The plan itself was straightforward enough, but I had never seen an operation like those Dark wizards had set up. They were merging magic and Muggle tech in ways people had never dreamt before. Still, it really almost went off without a hitch."

"Except you were injured," Sherlock concluded.

John rolled his shoulder, phantom spikes of pain firing through the muscle as he thought about it. "Like I said, it was combinations we'd never imagined possible. Enchanted objects, explosives laced with potions. Two of the others got injured too, but I've been told I got it worst. If it hadn't been for Murray, I might not have made it."

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "You were injured in a way that left you incapable of continuing your career in the military? How is that possible? Just yesterday I saw you healed from something that should have killed you."

"Magic can fix a lot of things, but there are still some things it can't do," John said. "Especially when it comes to Dark magic. The curse caused a lot of nerve damage in my wand arm. It took a while to get most of the function back, even with magic, and I don't have the strength or speed I used to. I was a liability."

At this, Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Anyone who thinks you are anything but an attribute in a dangerous situation is an idiot." John fought a pleased smile, fidgeting with a biscuit to avoid the detective's unrelenting stare. "Potter told me he wanted you to stay on."

"I couldn't, not with how much my reflexes slowed in my wand arm," John said, shaking his head. "You saw how quick that duel with Whitehawk went down. Every second of time you lose is another spell coming at you or your team. I wasn't going to run that risk. Besides," he glanced up at Sherlock and grinned, "I've found a new job, and I think I'm going to stick with that. God knows what would happen to you if I weren't here."

Sherlock smirked back. "You do have skills that have proven to be quite useful," he said, and from him, that was glowing praise. "Particularly now that I have been made aware of your other abilities. Think of the uses!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," John said, struggling to control his laughter. "Statute of Secrecy. I can't use magic out in public."

The detective pouted. "Well, perhaps not publicly, but covertly," he said. "A quick spell when Anderson is being particularly obtuse?" John didn't even try to fight back the wave of giggles at Sherlock's hopeful expression. Sherlock beamed triumphantly, recognising the concession, and immediately leapt into plans.

And as John relaxed back into his chair and fielded the endless stream of questions from his best friend, he felt at peace. It appeared that the game – which he had been so sure would end with the reveal of his secret – was only just beginning.