# Industrial Estate – Brixton – 10:47 PM
The dumpster behind Lauriston Gardens was less a receptacle and more a living organism—an ecosystem where leftover curry fought with decomposing vegetables for dominance while a particularly aggressive strain of fish-and-chips had clearly established itself as apex predator. The stench alone could have been weaponized by the Ministry of Defence, classified under "chemical warfare," and deployed against enemy positions with devastating effectiveness.
Sherlock Holmes surfaced from it like a consulting detective phoenix rising from industrial-strength bin juice, one hand triumphantly clutching a violently pink suitcase that looked as though it had wandered away from a runway show and gotten lost somewhere between Prada and Primark. His hair, usually curated chaos held in place by pure force of will and expensive product, had tipped into anarchic rebellion that would have made punk rockers weep with envy. His coat bore smears of substances that could probably be carbon-dated back to the Mesozoic era, and his shirt had acquired a particularly artistic splatter pattern that Jackson Pollock would have envied.
He dropped to the pavement with theatrical precision, straightening with an expression of radiant discovery that would have put archaeologists finding lost civilizations to shame. The pink suitcase caught the streetlight like a beacon of terrible fashion choices.
"Perfect," he breathed, gazing at the suitcase as though it were the Rosetta Stone wrapped in neon drag and personally delivered by the gods of detection. "Pink. Expensive. Monogrammed—'J.W.' in gold leaf, no less, applied with the kind of precision that screams 'look at me, I'm important.' Italian leather, probably Bottega Veneta, though the craftsmanship suggests a knock-off from Milan's less reputable districts where they cut corners on the stitching. Precisely the thing our killer never wanted found, the one piece of evidence that links all four murders together in a neat little bow." He gave a little self-satisfied smile that could have powered half of London and probably violated several laws about excessive smugness. "And yet—here it is. In my hands. As always. Because criminals, no matter how clever they think they are, always make one crucial mistake: they underestimate the dedication of someone willing to dive headfirst into London's finest organic waste management."
He crouched with the fluid grace of a predator, fingers twitching toward the lock like a pianist approaching a Steinway or a safecracker approaching their masterpiece, when his phone vibrated with a ferocity that suggested either a catastrophic emergency, the outbreak of World War Three, or possibly a drunk text from Mycroft attempting poetry again—an occurrence which represented its own special category of natural disaster.
The screen flashed: Sirius Black calling.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, disappearing almost entirely beneath his disheveled fringe. "Oh, that's deliciously unexpected. And perfectly timed, as always." He swiped to answer with a theatrical flourish that would have made West End actors jealous. "Sirius. Whatever existential crisis has driven you to contact me at this particularly ungodly hour, I trust it involves genuine urgency and not another of your melodramatic episodes about James's old motorcycle making suspicious grinding noises or your ongoing feud with the neighbor's cat. I've just retrieved the linchpin of a quadruple murder investigation from what can only be described as London's most aromatic crime scene—and believe me, that's saying something given the competition."
On the other end, Sirius's voice came through tight, clipped, and carrying the distinct flavor of someone precisely one millimeter from panic but refusing to surrender even an ounce of his considerable dignity. The voice was deep, rough around the edges like whiskey aged in defiance of proper brewing techniques—all barely controlled intensity wrapped in a veneer of casual sophistication.
"Cut the theatrics, Holmes. Save the performance for someone who's impressed by it." The words came out fast, urgent. "We need you. Now. Harry's—there's been what the medical professionals are diplomatically calling 'a development' and what I'm personally calling 'the thing that's going to give me a heart attack before I'm forty.' A medical situation that's got Andromeda pacing holes in my Persian rugs—the expensive ones I inherited from my dear departed mother, God rest her miserable soul. We're at Grimmauld with half of St. Mungo's finest looking bewildered and muttering about unprecedented complications. Bring that terrifyingly analytical brain of yours, and preferably some of that legendary Holmes family composure. We're sailing in completely uncharted waters here, and the current crew is starting to panic."
Sherlock froze for precisely half a second—a lifetime in Sherlock Holmes terms—his mind immediately cataloguing implications, cross-referencing medical terminology, and calculating threat assessments with the speed of a supercomputer having an anxiety attack. Andromeda Tonks. St. Mungo's finest healer, called in exclusively for anything more complicated than dragon pox, chronic lycanthropy, or the occasional case of magical measles. Family. Medical. Urgent. Harry. The triumvirate of words that could make even Sherlock Holmes recalculate his priorities and abandon quadruple homicides without a second thought.
He straightened abruptly, the pink suitcase dangling absurdly at his side like the world's least subtle handbag accessory or evidence in a particularly surreal court case.
"Define 'serious,' Sirius. And be specific—your tendency toward dramatic hyperbole makes it difficult to assess actual threat levels." His tone had sharpened to surgical precision, cutting through his usual performative disdain like a scalpel through tissue. "Are we discussing a case of accidental magic gone slightly awry—singed eyebrows, temporary color changes, perhaps a minor case of spontaneous levitation—or are we venturing into territory that requires me to actually pretend I have emotions and possibly express concern in front of other people?"
Sirius exhaled, and you could practically hear the sound of him running a hand through that perpetually untamed hair while probably staring at a wall and questioning every life choice that had led to this moment. "Serious enough that we've spent the better part of today at Mungo's watching various specialists scratch their heads, mutter about 'unprecedented magical development patterns,' and exchange the kind of worried looks that medical professionals reserve for cases they've never seen before and hope they'll never see again. Not immediate life-or-death, thank Merlin and all his associated saints, but—let's call it strategically destabilizing to everyone's peace of mind and general psychological wellbeing."
Sherlock's mind was already calculating distances, traffic patterns, optimal routes through London's labyrinthine street system, and the probability of finding a cab driver willing to break several traffic laws for the right financial incentive. "I'll be there in twenty minutes, assuming London's transportation infrastructure doesn't collapse from pure spite and the usual Saturday night chaos. Did you call Mycroft?"
"Hell no," Sirius said with immediate and absolute vehemence that could have registered on seismic equipment. "Wanted your assessment first, before we unleash the governmental juggernaut. Your brother tends to respond to family medical news like it's a declaration of war against the British Empire, complete with strategic planning and probable mobilization of emergency services."
Sherlock gave a short, derisive laugh that could have stripped paint off nearby buildings. "Overreact? Sirius, calling what Mycroft does 'overreacting' is like calling the Pacific Ocean 'slightly damp.' Mycroft is an avalanche disguised as a civil servant with delusions of governmental adequacy and a pathological need to control every variable within a fifty-mile radius. He hears Harry's stubbed his toe and suddenly we've got MI6 deploying black ops to monitor playground swings, conducting background checks on suspicious-looking puddles, and installing surveillance equipment in ice cream vans." He strode toward the street, arm already outstretched to flag down whatever unfortunate cab might cross his path. "Quite right to wait, though knowing Mycroft and his network of informants, he's probably already detected an anomaly in his surveillance grid and is currently mobilizing a task force while composing a strongly worded memo about proper emergency protocols."
There was a pause on the line, filled with the sound of London traffic and what might have been Sirius taking a steadying breath, and when he spoke again, his voice dipped into that particular brand of dry humor he wielded like a weapon despite the underlying tension crackling through every syllable. "Good to know I'm occasionally capable of making decisions that don't result in complete catastrophe, governmental intervention, and front-page newspaper coverage."
"Occasionally," Sherlock allowed with mock magnanimity, his tone suggesting this was a remarkable achievement worthy of scientific study. "Your success rate hovers somewhere between a broken clock and a weather forecast—technically correct twice a day, but utterly unreliable for any practical planning purposes." A cab screeched to a halt with the sort of dramatic timing that suggested either cosmic intervention or the driver's instinctive fear of the tall, imposing figure waving a pink suitcase like a deranged fashion blogger having a very public breakdown in the middle of Brixton.
Sherlock slid inside with fluid efficiency, immediately commandeering the space like a general taking control of a battlefield. "Grimmauld Place," he barked at the driver, "and I'll double your fare if you make it in fifteen minutes without adding to London's casualty statistics or attracting the attention of traffic enforcement." He set the suitcase beside him like evidence in a particularly lurid trial, then returned to the phone. "Sirius—put the kettle on. If I've abandoned a quadruple murder investigation featuring what appears to be a particularly creative serial killer with questionable taste in luggage and an apparent obsession with the color pink, I expect tea strong enough to restart a dead man's cardiovascular system and possibly raise the recently deceased."
"Typical," Sirius muttered, but there was relief carefully hidden under the exasperation, like armor disguised as casual wear. "Our ten-year-old's in the middle of what may or may not be an unprecedented magical medical mystery that's got the entire healing community baffled and speaking in hushed whispers, and you're concerned about optimal caffeine delivery systems."
Sherlock leaned back against the worn leather seat, fingers already forming their habitual steeple while his mind raced through diagnostic possibilities, magical theory, and the seventeen different ways this situation could escalate beyond anyone's control. "If you want me functioning at peak analytical efficiency, you'll provide optimal fuel for the machine. You wouldn't send a soldier into battle without ammunition, would you? You wouldn't ask a pianist to perform Carnegie Hall without properly tuned instruments? You wouldn't expect a Formula One driver to win races with substandard petrol?" His eyes closed for a moment as the cab accelerated into London's perpetually chaotic traffic. "Tea is my ammunition, my tuning fork, my high-octane fuel. It's the difference between functioning brilliance and barely competent adequacy."
"We get it," Sirius interrupted with audible eye-rolling. "You're insufferably particular about beverages and prone to extended metaphors. Moving on to more pressing matters."
"Don't be sentimental when practicality will serve better," Sherlock continued, ignoring the interruption with practiced ease born of years dealing with people who didn't appreciate his perfectly reasonable requirements. "Sentiment clouds judgment, introduces unnecessary variables, and generally makes everything more complicated than it needs to be. Practicality solves problems efficiently and without drama."
The line went quiet for a moment, filled only with the distant sounds of a house in crisis—footsteps, muffled voices, the occasional clatter of medical equipment—and when Sirius spoke again, his voice carried a weight that made even Sherlock Holmes pause his mental calculations and pay complete attention. "And if this turns out to be more than a kettle and your magnificent brain can fix?" The question cracked slightly at the edges, betraying just how unsteady the usually unflappable Sirius Black really was beneath all that carefully maintained composure.
Sherlock opened his eyes, and something cold and utterly focused settled into his expression—the look that had made hardened criminals confess their deepest secrets, murderers weep with remorse, and government officials reconsider their life choices. "Then I solve it anyway. Because that's what I do, Sirius. That's what I've always done, what I was born to do, what I excel at above all other human activities. There are always more murders to unravel, always more puzzles to dissect with surgical precision, always more criminals to catch and mysteries to solve. London produces them with depressing regularity, like a factory manufacturing human misery and intellectual challenges." His voice dropped, becoming something more honest, more raw, stripped of its usual performative arrogance. "But there's only one Harry Potter in the entire world. And he is—" Sherlock's mouth twisted as though the words physically resisted being spoken, fighting against years of emotional conditioning and social awkwardness, "—the most important case I've ever taken. The only case that actually matters beyond academic interest or professional satisfaction."
On the other end, Sirius let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like gratitude wrapped in his trademark sarcasm and carefully controlled relief. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You almost sounded human just then. Should I be concerned about your mental state or calling for medical assistance?"
"Don't tell anyone," Sherlock snapped with renewed vigor, his voice returning to its normal register of controlled superiority, "or I'll solve your next mystery by having you committed to a psychiatric facility. Permanently. With very thorough paperwork."
"There's the charming sociopath we all know and tolerate," Sirius said, and actually laughed—short, sharp, but genuine. "See you in twenty. Try not to get arrested between here and there."
Sherlock hung up and settled back, mind already racing through possibilities, diagnoses, magical anomalies, and the seventeen different ways this could all go spectacularly wrong while he sat helplessly in London traffic. The cab tore on through the night, carrying London's greatest consulting detective and a violently pink piece of evidence toward a crisis that, for once, had absolutely nothing to do with corpses in bins and everything to do with keeping one small, impossibly important boy safe.
Outside, London blurred past in streaks of light and shadow, but Sherlock saw none of it. He was already at Grimmauld Place, already analyzing symptoms he hadn't seen, already solving a mystery he didn't yet understand, already preparing for the most important case of his career.
Because that's what he did. And this time, failure wasn't just unacceptable—it was literally unthinkable.
---
# Angelo's Restaurant – 10:52 PM
The restaurant was the sort of place where the menus didn't have prices, which was John's first warning sign that he was severely, catastrophically out of his depth and possibly about to spend his entire month's pension on a single meal. His second was the maître d', who had looked at his battered jumper and serviceable Marks & Spencer jacket as if someone had just smuggled livestock through the front door and was attempting to seat it at table six next to the visiting dignitaries. The third warning should have been the fact that he'd been invited here by a complete stranger who somehow knew not only his mobile number but probably his shoe size and preferred breakfast cereal, but John had been curious enough—or possibly foolish enough—to show up anyway.
Now he sat across from a man who wasn't physically impressive in any conventional sense that would make him stand out in a crowd or intimidate anyone in a dark alley. Average height, slightly soft around the middle in the way of career civil servants who spent their days behind desks, the kind of man you wouldn't notice in a crowd unless he specifically wanted you to—which, John was beginning to suspect, was entirely the point. Pale, unremarkable features that could have belonged to any mid-level bureaucrat in Whitehall, the sort of face that appeared on government ID cards and was immediately forgotten. And yet, somehow, he dominated the room with the quiet, understated authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, without argument, and certainly without delay. Ministers probably got flustered around him and started apologizing for things they hadn't done. Diplomats likely checked their ties twice and wondered if their handshakes were firm enough. John just tried not to fidget with the unnecessarily elaborate cutlery that probably cost more than his monthly rent.
"More wine?" the man asked smoothly, indicating John's conspicuously untouched glass with a gesture so refined it could have been choreographed by the Royal Ballet and performed at Covent Garden. His tone was polite, urbane, perfectly calibrated with just enough manufactured warmth to conceal the steel underneath—like velvet wrapped around a blade, or honey poured over arsenic.
"I'm fine, thanks," John said, a little too briskly, in exactly the same way he'd declined morphine in field hospitals when he needed to stay sharp and alert for incoming casualties. He wasn't fine—not even close to fine. He was sitting in an overpriced theatre of culinary pretension, surrounded by the sort of people who probably had trust funds and summer homes, eating food he couldn't pronounce and definitely couldn't afford, with a man whose pale, calculating eyes catalogued every twitch and hesitation like a zoologist studying a particularly fascinating specimen that might bite if provoked. "Look, I should probably start with the obvious question here, shouldn't I? Why exactly am I here? Because this doesn't feel like a social call, and I'm fairly certain we've never actually met before tonight."
The man smiled in a way that revealed precisely nothing—the diplomatic equivalent of a blank wall painted beige for maximum blandness. "Dr. Watson, we have what you might call mutual interests. Overlapping concerns, one could say." He paused delicately, as though choosing his words from an extensive mental catalogue organized alphabetically by potential political ramifications. "Your new domestic arrangements, for instance. Your recent relocation to Baker Street. Your flatmate is—well, let's not be unnecessarily coy about it—he's quite remarkable. Extraordinary, in fact. But I imagine that 'remarkable' can be a somewhat exhausting quality when experienced in close quarters on a daily basis, particularly for someone with your background and temperament."
John frowned, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine like a spider with particularly cold feet. "You know Sherlock? How exactly do you know Sherlock? Are you police? Government? Some sort of academic colleague?"
A flicker of what might have been amusement—or possibly indigestion—crossed the man's features. "One might say we're acquainted through professional circles. Overlapping spheres of influence, you might call it. His brilliance is absolutely undeniable—quite possibly the cleverest man in London, perhaps even the entire country, possibly the continent. But brilliance without proper oversight, without appropriate supervision and guidance, can be—shall we say—somewhat problematic. Dangerous, even, to himself and to others in his immediate vicinity."
John leaned forward slightly, jaw tightening with the automatic defensiveness he'd developed for anyone who dared criticize his army mates, his patients, or apparently his new flatmate. "Dangerous how, exactly? Because that's quite an accusation to make about someone you've never properly met."
"Unsupervised chemical experiments conducted in residential areas without proper safety protocols or regard for neighboring properties. Casual disregard for both law enforcement procedures and basic legal boundaries that most citizens consider inviolable. Cultivating friendships—if one can call them that—with individuals the Metropolitan Police keep on file under 'approach with extreme caution' and 'avoid at all costs unless absolutely necessary.'" The man's tone remained conversational, almost academically bored, as if he were discussing the weather or the cricket scores rather than character assassination. "Left entirely unchecked, entirely unsupervised, Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes could do considerable damage to both himself and the general public. Collateral damage, one might call it."
John snorted, the sound sharp enough to make nearby diners glance over with the sort of disapproving looks usually reserved for people who answer their phones in libraries. "Right. Well, yes, he's a bloody pain in the arse most of the time, I'll definitely give you that. Plays violin at three in the morning like he's auditioning for the London Symphony, keeps what I'm fairly certain are body parts in the fridge next to the milk, has the social skills of a particularly antisocial hedgehog, and apparently thinks normal human conversation is some sort of elaborate torture technique. But he also solves crimes that nobody else can solve—crimes that would otherwise go completely unsolved while the perpetrators walk free. Helps people who've got absolutely nowhere else to turn, people the system has failed or forgotten. Results matter, don't they? Actually helping people has to count for something."
"Oh, they absolutely do matter," the man agreed with silky smoothness that made John immediately suspicious. "Results are tremendously important, which is precisely why certain interested parties—parties with the public interest at heart—would find regular, detailed updates on his activities extremely valuable. For the greater good, you understand. For public safety." He steepled his fingers with practiced precision, like a pianist preparing for a particularly challenging piece. "And you, Dr. Watson, are uniquely positioned to provide such information. Military training, natural discretion developed through years of handling classified information, medical expertise that allows you to assess situations accurately, and a demonstrated capacity for detailed observation under pressure. You're quite literally the perfect witness. The perfect... correspondent, one might say."
John's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits that would have made his commanding officers in Afghanistan take a step back and reconsider their orders. "You want me to spy on him."
"Such an unnecessarily ugly word," the man sighed with the air of someone genuinely pained by crude terminology and poor word choice. "Think of it more as... protective oversight. Concerned monitoring. A public service, really, performed by a patriotic citizen concerned with community safety. And naturally, you would be compensated for your time and discretion. Quite generously, in fact. Far more generously than your current pension arrangements, I'm sure."
With theatrical precision that would have impressed West End stage managers, he slid a thick manila envelope across the pristine white tablecloth, positioning it exactly between them like evidence in a particularly civilized courtroom or a peace offering in a diplomatic negotiation. "Five thousand pounds. A gesture of good faith, you might say. A sign of serious intent. With considerably more available on a monthly basis, of course, paid discreetly through entirely legitimate channels that won't attract any unwanted attention from tax authorities. All you would need to do is keep certain interested parties appropriately informed about Mr. Holmes's activities, associations, and general behavior patterns."
John stared at the envelope as though it might spontaneously combust and take half the restaurant with it in a blazing inferno of moral compromise. "You actually think I'd betray him for money? Just like that? After everything he's—" He caught himself. "You think I'm that sort of person?"
"I think," the man said softly, leaning forward just enough to make the conversation feel suddenly intimate and vaguely threatening, like being cornered by a particularly polite predator, "that you're an intelligent man who understands that sometimes personal loyalty must be carefully weighed against broader public safety considerations. Individual friendship versus the greater good. Sherlock Holmes isn't entirely... stable, Dr. Watson. Surely you've noticed that by now."
John's grip on his fork tightened until his knuckles went white and the metal started to bend slightly under the pressure. "He's not unstable. He's eccentric. There's a significant difference between the two, and if you can't see that, then maybe you're not as clever as you think you are."
"Potato, potahto," the man murmured with infuriating dismissiveness, as if John's distinction was meaningless semantic quibbling.
John's voice dropped to the low, dangerous register he'd used with subordinates who were about to do something catastrophically stupid that would get everyone killed. "No. Absolutely not. He's my friend. And I don't betray my friends for money or politics or any other bloody reason."
"After less than twenty-four hours of cohabitation?" The man's pale eyebrows rose with what appeared to be genuine amusement mixed with professional curiosity. "My word, Dr. Watson, you do form rather intense attachments quite quickly, don't you? That's... interesting from a psychological perspective."
John bristled like an offended cat whose territory had been invaded. "That's—that's none of your bloody business, is it? My personal relationships and how quickly I form them are not subject to your analysis."
"On the contrary, I'm afraid it's entirely my business when it affects national security concerns." The man leaned closer, his tone remaining conversational, almost academic, which somehow made the words infinitely more menacing than if he'd shouted. "Your therapist believes you're suffering from chronic post-traumatic stress disorder. Clinical depression. Significant difficulty adjusting to civilian life after your military service ended so abruptly. Survivor's guilt, possibly. Feelings of worthlessness and disconnection from normal society."
John's stomach dropped like a stone down a very deep, very cold well. "How the hell do you know about my therapy sessions? Those are confidential medical records, protected by—"
"She's wrong, by the way," the man interrupted with the casual confidence of someone delivering weather reports or cricket scores. "Quite thoroughly, completely wrong, in fact. You're not broken, Dr. Watson. You're not damaged goods or a tragic casualty of modern warfare. You're simply... bored out of your mind. Terminally, desperately bored. Civilian life doesn't suit you in the slightest—it's like asking a racehorse to pull a milk cart. You miss Afghanistan desperately—not the horror of it, not the death and destruction and constant fear, but the clarity it provided. The adrenaline, the immediate consequences, the crystal-clear sense that your actions mattered in measurable, life-and-death ways. What's really killing you isn't trauma—it's the crushing, soul-destroying realization that absolutely nothing meaningful is happening in your life."
John froze completely, every carefully constructed defensive wall stripped away in a single, brutally accurate sentence. He hated how precisely correct it was, hated how this stranger could see through him so easily when his own therapist couldn't, hated the truth of it more than anything.
The man's smile was thin and absolutely merciless, like a surgeon's scalpel cutting through pretense. "Sherlock Holmes gives you exactly what you've been desperately craving without even realizing it was what you needed. Risk. Real stakes. The intoxicating sense that your life has meaning again, that you matter, that the things you do have consequences that extend beyond paying bills and buying groceries. He's quite literally dragged you back from the edge of complete psychological collapse—saved your life, in fact, though neither of you would ever phrase it that way. But without proper oversight, without someone ensuring he doesn't go too far or drag you into something you can't handle, he's just as likely to drag you over a cliff. I'm offering you a way to keep all that delicious excitement and meaning while simultaneously serving the greater good and ensuring both your safety and his."
John found his voice, though it came out rougher and more shaken than he'd intended. "And if I say no? What happens then?"
The man sipped his wine with the unhurried calm of someone discussing holiday plans rather than making veiled threats. "Then you'll continue living dangerously close to the sun with absolutely no safety net whatsoever, no backup, no support system beyond your own admittedly impressive but limited resources. And eventually, inevitably, you'll fly too close to that sun and get burned. You, or him, or quite possibly both of you together in some spectacular fashion that makes headlines and destroys lives."
The man's phone buzzed with the kind of urgent, insistent vibration that suggested either international crisis, family emergency, or both simultaneously. He glanced down, pale eyes flicking across the screen with practiced efficiency, and for the first time all evening his perfectly controlled expression cracked—sliding from polite menace into something more immediate, more genuinely human, more concerned.
"My sincere apologies, Dr. Watson," he said, rising smoothly and collecting an umbrella that John hadn't noticed him carrying with all the dignity of a ship's captain maintaining order during an evacuation. "Our fascinating little conversation will have to be postponed indefinitely, I'm afraid. Family emergency of the most pressing sort."
John blinked in genuine confusion, his brain struggling to process this sudden shift. Family emergency? This from a man who had just spent the better part of twenty minutes trying to recruit him as a government informant with all the emotional investment of someone ordering coffee? "Right... well, if you've got to go, then I suppose—"
"Yes, I really must," the man interrupted briskly, already mentally three steps ahead and probably composing contingency plans. "Oh, and I should probably mention in the interest of full disclosure and professional courtesy that I'm Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother."
John's jaw dropped so far it nearly collided with the tablecloth. "I'm sorry—what did you just say?"
"Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother." Mycroft gave a small, self-satisfied smile, as if this were such an obvious detail that he'd simply forgotten to mention it earlier, like noting that the sky was blue or that water was wet. "Older, considerably cleverer—though he'd dispute that assessment—and infinitely more responsible in matters of public safety and social cooperation. Think of him as Sherlock, but with better grooming habits, functional social skills, and a working understanding of appropriate boundaries."
John stared, his brain grinding to a complete halt as he tried to reconcile this revelation with everything that had just happened, everything he thought he knew about his flatmate and the evening's events. "Sherlock has a brother? The same Sherlock who thinks small talk is a form of elaborate psychological torture and considers normal human emotion to be a design flaw?"
"Yes," Mycroft replied with the patient, slightly condescending tone of someone explaining basic mathematics to a particularly dim child. "I do hope you're not about to have some sort of psychological breakdown, Dr. Watson. That would be rather inconvenient given current circumstances and the urgent nature of my family emergency. My nephew requires immediate medical attention."
John shook his head like a dog trying to clear water from its ears after an unexpected swim. "Your nephew?"
"Harry Potter," Mycroft replied crisply, producing his coat from thin air with the kind of efficiency that suggested years of practice in rapid departures from awkward situations. "I believe you've met him—charming boy, exceptionally bright, brilliant in fact, though he tries to hide it behind normal ten-year-old behavior. Currently experiencing what the medical professionals are diplomatically terming 'a complication of the magical variety' which has everyone rather concerned."
"Of the—" John paused, certain he'd misheard or possibly suffered some sort of minor stroke. "I'm sorry, did you just say magical variety?"
"Yes," Mycroft's tone suggested John had just asked whether gravity was still functioning properly.
John let out a short, incredulous laugh that bordered on hysteria and probably violated several restaurant etiquette rules. "You can't just—you can't just casually drop magic into a conversation like it's a bloody side order of chips. That's not how normal conversations work between normal, sane people in the real world."
"On the contrary," Mycroft said serenely, already striding toward the exit with purposeful efficiency that made other diners instinctively step out of his way, "that's precisely how my conversations work. Normal is a rather flexible concept when one moves in the circles I frequent, don't you think? Now—would you care to accompany me? Your medical expertise and your rapidly growing proximity to Sherlock make you ideally suited for this particular consultation. Besides, I suspect you'll find this more interesting than anything civilian London has offered you recently."
John hesitated, glaring at the envelope still sitting accusingly on the white tablecloth like evidence of his own moral flexibility. "Wait just a minute here. Five minutes ago you were trying to recruit me to spy on Sherlock for the bloody government, and now you're casually inviting me along for a family medical emergency involving magic? How does that work exactly?"
Mycroft paused only long enough to glance over his shoulder with mild amusement dancing in his pale eyes like sunlight on water. "I was testing your character, of course. One can hardly entrust the safety and wellbeing of one's nephew to someone who can be bought off with what amounts to pocket change and vague promises of patriotic service. Your indignant refusal was both gratifying and entirely predictable—Sherlock's judgment in character assessment remains impeccable, as always."
"You manipulative—" John spluttered, then gave up entirely and pushed his chair back with more force than strictly necessary, making a sound that caused several nearby diners to look up from their undoubtedly expensive meals. "Fine. Right. But I'm not taking that bloody envelope."
"Excellent decision," Mycroft said with genuine satisfaction that seemed completely authentic for the first time all evening. "It would have been rather awkward if you had, given that it would have been entirely inappropriate and possibly illegal. The money isn't real, by the way—excellent quality forgeries, but worthless as actual currency."
John grabbed his coat and followed him outside, where a sleek black car waited with the sort of supernatural punctuality that suggested it had been circling the block for precisely the right amount of time, burning taxpayer-funded petrol while monitoring the situation. The rear door opened automatically with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing an interior more luxurious than anything John had experienced during his entire military career, including the time he'd been accidentally upgraded to first class on a transport flight.
He slid into the leather seat beside Mycroft, still scowling with righteous indignation and trying to process the evening's revelations. "So let me get this straight, because I want to make sure I understand the situation correctly. What sort of medical condition requires input from both a consulting detective and his army doctor flatmate?"
"The sort," Mycroft replied smoothly, fastening his seatbelt with infuriating calm while simultaneously checking his phone for updates, "that involves a magical signature fundamentally altered by exposure to extremely dark magic during early infancy, combined with ongoing developmental complications that have the entire magical medical establishment completely baffled and speaking in worried whispers."
John stared at him with the expression of a man whose worldview was being systematically dismantled by a polite government official. "Right. Of course. Because that's a perfectly reasonable sentence that makes complete sense in the context of normal human experience."
Mycroft's smile was razor-thin and probably legally classified as a weapon. "Dr. Watson, you've been cohabitating with Sherlock Holmes for exactly twenty-four hours. You currently have a severed human head residing in your refrigerator, positioned between the milk and what I believe are the remains of last week's takeaway. And this—this is where you decide to draw the line and declare reality unreasonable?"
John opened his mouth, then closed it again, conceding the point with visible reluctance. "That's... that's science. Weird, disturbing, possibly illegal science, but still science. Not bloody magic."
"Science, magic—largely a matter of semantics and cultural perspective," Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. "The important point is that my nephew may require both your considerable diagnostic expertise and the sort of deductive brilliance that only Sherlock can provide. And you—" he fixed John with a look sharp enough to cut glass "—are already proving remarkably effective at keeping my brother both alive and functional."
John blinked, genuinely thrown by the faintest edge of sincerity creeping into Mycroft's voice. "You really think that highly of me?"
"No," Mycroft replied with brutal honesty. "But I think extraordinarily highly of Sherlock's judgment in matters of personal safety and survival. And he seems to have developed an almost unprecedented level of trust in you. Which, believe me, Dr. Watson, is a statistical anomaly worth exploiting to its fullest extent."
John opened his mouth to respond, closed it again, then settled for glaring out at the passing London streets. "You're absolutely unbelievable."
"So I'm frequently told," Mycroft replied with obvious satisfaction. "Usually by people in positions of considerable political authority."
As the car pulled smoothly away from Angelo's, John leaned back against the impossibly comfortable seat and rubbed his face with both hands. Magic. Secret nephews. Sherlock with a government official for a brother. He'd thought moving to Baker Street meant violin practice at ungodly hours and the occasional brush with serial killers. Not... whatever this was turning into.
Still, he admitted to himself as he glanced back at the envelope left conspicuously behind on the restaurant table, it was already the most genuinely alive he'd felt in years.
"Magic," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Bloody hell."
"Language, Dr. Watson," Mycroft murmured without looking up from his phone. "We're about to meet a ten-year-old."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!