A/N I have no excuse for the insane amount of time between chapters. I will say, however, that I seriously struggled with writing Sherlock's point of view! I hope he didn't come off as too much out of character. As always, please review and let me know how I did!

A Holmes and a Dursley

Sherlock Holmes stared down at the report compiled by his brother, rubbing a hand across his mouth as he considered the information revealed. What was perhaps just as interesting as what it revealed, however, was what it did not.

There were holes in his son's past that intrigued Sherlock - not only because they were a mystery he would enjoy unraveling, but because his brother had not investigated such simple parts of his life.

In most aspects, Mycroft had compiled a report on Harry's life that would rival any intelligence organization. His son attended an exclusive boarding school - the same that his mother and stepfather had attended before him. His stepfather's family had a history of sending their children to the school, actually, going back several generations. Harry even played the same sport that his stepfather had played before him - perhaps in an attempt to feel closer to the man he had believed was his father?

But what was the school's name? It was located in Scotland - but where? This sport that his son played - what was it called? What position did he play in the sport? None of this information was included.

His son did well in school, and was the top of his class in Defense. This information was all well and good, but Mycroft had failed to include information regarding any of Harry's other classes. The school itself was geared toward gifted students - how, exactly, were they gifted? How had Harry's stepfather and several generations of his family been allowed into a 'gifted' school, year after year?

This lack of such important, and even basic information - it wasn't like Mycroft. He was meticulous in all other things; why had he omitted such information from a report now? Had the report come from anybody else, Sherlock may have overlooked it; he even might have expected such incompetence. But not from his brother.

Sherlock had done some digging on his own, and his son's school records from his primary school had been less than stellar - nowhere had he ever seen proof that Harry belonged in a school for gifted students. If his acceptance was not based on his academic standing, then what, exactly, had it been based upon?

Interviews conducted in the neighborhood of Privet Drive, where Harry had lived for nearly his entire life, had proven enlightening. That, at least, had proven worth his time, even if his earlier investigation had given him naught but more questions.

Harry had been a quiet child, often keeping to himself. There were rumors, perpetuated by his family, that he attended a reform school - a school which he had been hard pressed to find any proof actually existed. Many of the family's neighbors had been confused by this rumor, though they had heard it more than once. Petunia Dursley was quick to slander the boy whenever he was brought up in her presence, apparently. None could remember an instance where the boy had knowingly done harm to another, however, instead mentioning his quiet and introspective nature, and how hard working he had been.

He had worked in the garden of not only the Dursley household, but also several other families in the neighborhood. He never asked for a break, nor anything in return; all one had to do was approach Petunia Dursley, and for a small fee she was more than welcome to send her nephew in their direction for any housework that needed to be done - with a warning against leaving the boy near any valuables, of course, lest they discover them missing at a later date.

He was handy in the kitchen, as well - more than once a neighbor had witnessed him cooking meals for his family, or preparing tea for guests under Petunia's watchful gaze. He never complained, never raised his voice, and never asked for anything in return. Courteous and well behaved, it was actually quite easy to forget he was there.

Quiet, courteous, unassuming, hard working. All good qualities, Sherlock supposed. But none of the neighbors had been willing to speak ill of the Dursley family directly. The list of his son's chores had grown with every neighbor he had spoken to - a list far too long for one child to undertake on his own, especially when it became clear that he worked nearly every waking moment that was not spent in school. Far too much for a child, all the neighbors seemed to agree, but Petunia obviously knew what she was doing; the boy needed discipline, and Petunia knew what she was doing. They kept repeating that same phrase over and over again, as though they had memorized it over the years.

Almost as though they had been programmed into saying it.

Sherlock had not shared any of this with Mycroft, however. His brother was housing the boy at the moment, but Sherlock didn't trust Mycroft not to use such information for his own ends; already, Sherlock knew Mycroft was having far too much of an influence on his son, and he wasn't certain he liked it.

Sherlock remembered his own childhood with his brother all too well - Mycroft's carefully chosen words to get the most intense reaction they could out of other people, Sherlock included. Mycroft had been different from other children, to an extreme that far surpassed Sherlock's own struggles connecting to his peers. This had never bothered Mycroft, however, and he had often used his peers as guinea pigs in an effort to understand human nature.

Harry, though - Harry was different. Though his group of friends was small, he did form such relationships, which was a sight better than either his uncle or his father had ever managed to do in their own youths.

Unlike his brother, Sherlock could understand the appeal of forming close relationships, particularly friendships. Though romantic entanglements still eluded Sherlock, as an outside observer he could even, to a certain extent, understand their pull . . . even if he, himself, did not require such an individual.

His son was far more "normal" than either Mycroft or Sherlock had ever been, however. More like his mother, Sherlock supposed. How would he fare under Mycroft's tutelage? Sherlock knew his brother would not be overt in his manipulations - it wasn't in Mycroft's nature to do so. It would ruin the validity of his findings, and Mycroft was nothing if not meticulous in his 'experiments'.

But Sherlock could not be concerned with the emotional stability of his son at the moment - he was forced to look at the bigger picture, even if John didn't understand that.

John Watson was many things, but he was often short sighted - too preoccupied with the people in a case, without the ability to look beyond them and see the bigger picture. This was a failing that Sherlock had never allowed himself to fall prey to, but one which many others had allowed themselves to wallow in.

There were questions which needed answers - but so far, all he had found were more questions.

Petunia Dursley, for example. His attempts at opening a dialogue had been rebuffed the moment he had mentioned Harry's name; her polite demeanor had quickly turned not only cold, but Sherlock had detected more than a hint of paranoia as she had demanded he vacate the premises immediately, lest the neighbors suspect something was amiss.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Petunia had demanded, eyes casting left and right fearfully. Sherlock had said nothing, simply quirked an eyebrow at the assumption. Though he was not certain who this "they" she was referring to were, he was more than willing to impersonate them if it meant that he would receive more information regarding his son.

"I want you off my property this instant!" There was a panicked note to Petunia's voice as she said this, her hands fluttering uselessly about as she spoke. Now, Petunia Dursley was not the sort of woman who normally did anything without carefully thinking it through first ... with the exception of her often sporadic outbursts where her nephew was concerned.

And Sherlock Holmes had observed enough of the woman before him, both from this brief contact and the stories he had become privy to during the course of his investigation, to know this was about Petunia Dursley.

"Madam, would you kindly shut your trap." There was no fire behind Sherlock's words, only the exasperation of one forced into contact with one so obviously below their own social class.

In Sherlock's not so humble opinion, there were not many who would find themselves capable of withstanding the shrill voice of Petunia Dursley - and he had never been accused of being particularly patient or placating.

Petunia's mouth had closed with an audible snap, her eyes going wide. Not accustomed to being put in her place, then. This was her kingdom, and here she ruled supreme - Sherlock could see that even with his limited view of the inside of the house.

One could almost believe the woman lived here alone, if not for the pictures that adorned the room. How much, if any, control did her husband sustain within this house? Very little, from what he had observed in these first few moments.

This was Petunia's domain, and she ruled it absolute.

"Mr. Potter was placed in your care following the death of his mother." Sherlock stated as he moved further into the house, gaze raking over the pictures above the mantle - of which Harry was conspicuously absent. His eyes quickly returned to Petunia, however, one dark eyebrow raised in accompaniment of his statement.

Though she was clearly unsettled, Petunia was doing her best not to show it - with anybody less observant, she might have even been successful. "That's right - one of your lot left him on our doorstep. Never so much as a by-your-leave, not a word of contact for ten years. Do you have any idea what it is like to hear about your sister's death by way of a letter attached to a squalling baby?"

Sherlock allowed the woman to rant, his eyes wandering over the house around him - and the utter lack of any sign that his son had made his home here.

"Your nephew has been missing for several days, yet you have made no move to alert the authorities." Sherlock interrupted Petunia mid-sentence, causing the woman to blink at him owlishly. She had been going on about some fault of the boy's - his inability to appreciate all that she and her husband had given him, or some such idiocy. Sherlock filed the observation away for later perusal, more interested in hearing her response to his statement at the moment.

"The boy is always taking off, leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces. Off with those delinquents he calls his friends, I'm sure." Petunia crossed her arms over her chest - a clearly defensive measure against what she found to be ungrounded accusations from the man before her.

Why does he look so familiar? Petunia knew she had seen him before, though she couldn't quite seem to place his face. It wasn't until he moved to stand in front of the television that she saw it.

Sherlock Holmes. Petunia Dursley had seen him, of course - who hadn't? It wasn't every day a man came back from the dead, after all. Even if she hadn't followed his career before, it seemed the entire world was, now. It was impossible to turn on the telly without hearing his name.

Sherlock's face remained expressionless, his hands clasped behind his back as he continued to watch Petunia.

Unable to stand the silence, Petunia gave a small sound of annoyance. "Certainly not something someone of your ... status should be worried about,, of course. The boy will turn up eventually - he always does." The last bit was said with more than a small amount of annoyance - Petunia would have been more than happy if her nephew never turned up again, to tell the truth.

So this woman had heard of him. How quaint. A lesser man would have sneered at the idea of such a woman being familiar with his name, let alone believing that she could fathom what he might want, or need. But Sherlock was not such a man. The idea of individuals knowing his name, following his deeds and hanging on his every word - it simply didn't affect him. Should it? Others might find some pride in that - that their accomplishments had such a far-reaching effect. But not Sherlock Holmes.

Put quite simply, Sherlock would have been more than happy to have the rest of the world bugger off, and leave him to his investigations.

But then again, having a recognizable face had proven to be an asset at times - especially with such small-minded individuals such as Petunia Dursley.

"This is a common occurrence, then." Sherlock's inflection was flat, but Petunia continued ona s though he had spoken a question. "Of course!"

"And yet you have never reported him missing. Not in this instance, nor any before it. For such a common occurrence, this showed a particular brand of negligence.

Let us be honest with one another, Mrs. Dursley. Your nephew's disappearance was a blessing in this home. It was encouraged." As Sherlock spoke, he noticed the woman's eyes dart toward the cupboard under the stairs. Time and again, Sherlock noticed her gaze shifting there - and Sherlock knew there was reason.

There was always a reason.

"The boy is a delinquent. A miscreant. He is uncontrollable! Why do you care, anyway? Got himself into a spot of trouble, has he?" There was a smug look on Petunia's face as she asked, as though all her beliefs regarding the boy were not being justified.

Sherlock merely gave a thin-lipped smile as he began walking toward the cupboard in question, and he knew immediately that he had been correct in his assumptions when Petunia moved as though to intercept him.

Sherlock's strides were longer, however, and he pressed a hand against the cupboard when he reached it, angling his body so that he could face Petunia Dursley.

"Abusers always have a reason, I suppose. Rules. Tell me, what rules did Harry have?"

It was something in the way he spoke in the past tense that raised alarm bells in Petunia's mind. "What happened to the boy?"

"Did you know, you haven't used his name once? In all the time we have been speaking of Harry, you have yet to refer to him by his name. Why is that, Mrs. Dursley?"

But now, Petunia Dursley was silent, her beady eyes wide as she took a step back from Sherlock, though he had yet to make a movement of his own. Those eyes showed the fear of a woman who knew, suddenly, that something terrible had happened.

Sherlock was aware of what that fear was - aware of the assumptions Petunia Dursley was taking from his words. She was not frightened for the boy - only at what consequences she might face.

"Tell me, Mrs. Dursley, what will I find when I open this door? What frightens you so much?" For she was frightened - even now, her eyes continued to dart between Sherlock's face and the door of the cupboard he stood before.

"Nothing. It's just a cupboard." Petunia insisted, but even she knew that her voice sounded far from convincing.

Sherlock jerked hard with his hand, and the cupboard swung upon easily, revealing a small crawl space within. It was littered with dust and cobwebs, a crib mattress spread on the floor amidst the dirt and grime. A ratty blanket covered part of the mattress, a handful of child's drawing adorning the walls, broken army men littering what little of the floor remained.

Petunia drew in a sharp breath, though Sherlock had little doubt that it had nothing to do with the contents of the cupboard.

His own eyes darkening with anger, Sherlock swung his gaze back to Petunia Dursley. "DId you ever see him as a child, Mrs. Dursley? As a human being? Or was he hated, reviled even, from the moment he entered your home?"

"You have no right to speak to me like this!" Ah, anger. Sherlock had wondered how she might finally react to his incessant questions - and, as always, he had been right on the money.

Sherlock made no response to her outburst, however, instead reaching down to pick up one of the small army men, broken and even burned in places, the plastic melted ever so slightly around the face. It was old damage, and the figurine itself appeared to be dusty - it had remained unused for quite some time.

Not the boy's room any longer, then - though it certainly had been at one point. The childish drawing proclaiming it to be 'Harry's Room' was silent testimony to that fact.

Drawing himself up to his full height once again, Sherlock cast a glance down at the figurine held gently between his fingers. He spared it only a momentary glance, however, before he cast his gaze up the nearby stairs. He said nothing to the only other occupant of the house, instead brushing past her and taking the steps two at a time, his long legs forcing Mrs. Dursley to hurry up after him, her shrill voice demanding he stop.

5 doors were arrayed before him, but it was to one in particular that he turned his gaze almost immediately. The others were rather innocuous, plain wooden doors with nothing to distinguish them. The final door, however, was something to behold; the wood warped and twisted, catflap near the ground, sturdy locks on the outside of the door. This was a door meant to keep something - or someone - locked in.

It was a prison.

Turning swiftly, he gripped Mrs. Dursley's thin, bony arms in one strong hand as he hauled her up the last step. Her demands were cut off mid sentence, a squawk of protest taking their place.

Sherlock dragged her to the door, forcing her to face it. "Just what were you attempting to keep locked away, Petunia?" He used her given name, now, fully aware that she would find it inappropriate - that she would take offense to the liberties he was taking, just as she took offense to being manhandled.

"You don't know what he's capable of! Him, and the rest of those freaks! We feared for our lives ... we had to keep him locked away from normal people!"

Sherlock sneered as her protests reached a near hysterical state.

Typical.