A Snake Among Sheep
A PotterLock Story
Right After the Great Game…
John has never seen Sherlock's left forearm.
It was a funny thing to hide, John thought as he stared out the window of the cab. Sherlock cared little for social taboos such as nudity, as the doctor had found out over the last few months. But even when John had found his roommate lay out naked on the couch last week, the "world's only consulting detective" had kept his left arm firmly wedged in between the sides.
The army doctor was jolted from his thoughts as the cab jerked to a stop. Sherlock briskly exited the car and John paid the cabbie before racing after the detective into St. Bart's. The moment Moriarty had left the pool room with the snipers following him, John had called Donavan about the bomb-vest. The officer had arrived with the bomb squad in tow and she'd reluctantly told them that Lestrade wished to speak with them.
John hurried down the hall so he could keep up with Sherlock's long strides. The two quietly left the morgue and went into the emergency care, which was where Donavan said Lestrade was. They spotted the Detective Inspector standing outside one of the rooms, looking in at the patient.
John's eyes widened when he spotted the occupant of the sterile room. It was a little boy, lying exhausted on the large, white hospital bed. The child seemed to be only 4 years old and looked as if a strong wind would blow him over. "Is that…?"
"The boy strapped to the bomb? Yeah," Greg replied. John glanced at Sherlock to see his friend staring at the boy, eyes narrowed as if trying to figure him out. "We found the lad covered in blood in a luxury suite of a hotel in the middle of London. It's been determined that the blood belonged to 3 people, 2 men and 1 woman; we think that it's from his family."
"Poor kid." John whispered.
Sherlock scoffed. "I doubt the child will share your sentiments, John. Use your eyes. Look at the small stature, the pale skin, the bones jutting out. This child's been starved and neglected at the least; more likely, he's been abused most of his life."
Greg nodded. "Yeah. The doctor's already been in the see him. The abuse seems to have lasted for the past 5 years and we've found multipule signs of physical abuse, including whipping marks, burns on his hands, and a weird scar on his head."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed further. "Scar?"
"Yeah, in the shape of a lightning bolt, of all things."
Sherlock didn't visibly change, but John saw his demeanor change into something far more emotional than the doctor was used to seeing. The consulting detective hesitated in his next words. "You're…going to find that his name is Harry James Potter, born July 31st, 2004."
Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "You know him?"
"Of him," Sherlock replied. He pulled them both into the room with the still-sleeping child. He locked the door, then strode across the room to shut the blinds of the window.
"Sherlock, what the blazes are you doing?" Greg sighed, far too used to the detective's antics.
The man in question began to pace in front of the bed. "You have to know that what I'm about to tell you, John, is extremely illegal. If I get caught…"
"Sherlock…" John didn't know what to say to that.
The self-proclaimed sociopath huffed out a sigh from his nose. "Five years ago…a terrorist disappeared. He was subtle and no one knew that the attacks were the work of terrorism. Most people would compare his ideals to those similar to Hitler, in that he wanted his perceived "perfect humans" to be the ruling race."
John shuddered. "Wait," Lestrade interrupted. "Wasn't there a mass of natural disasters 5 years ago?"
Sherlock glared. "What? Don't you know a certain group of people skilled enough to make terrorism look like natural disasters for the normal people, Lestrade?" John instantly thought of Mycroft and his people, but didn't think that was what Sherlock was hinting at.
Greg stared in open shock. "How did you know that?"
The detective smirked. "You just confirmed it." He grew serious again. "All of the terrorist's followers have the same tattoo branded into their skin, all in the same place."
John's eyebrows lowered in thought. How did Sherlock know this?
The detective, John's closest friend, stopped pacing and turned to face him. "It looks like this," was all the warning John had before Sherlock yanked up his left sleeve.
Burned into his skin was an image in black. It was a gothic skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.
And it was moving.
A/N: This story will be continued in my senior year and is NOT up for adoption.
Merry Christmas, Foxy-chan.