"You see but you do not observe, the distinction is clear."
-A Scandal in Bohemia
Harry woke slowly, which was odd, seeing as he was usually woken by his aunt who instantly pulled him out of the cupboard under the stairs and brought him to the kitchen to make breakfast. Harry's stomach grumbled softly at the thought of food and he scowled at it.
Last night though, his uncle Vernon, a beefy, overweight man, had accused him of stealing his wallet, and had thrown Harry into the cupboard, shouting that his punishment was three days in the cupboard, no food, no water, no light and no fresh air.
Therefore, that meant Harry could sleep in.
He sat up slowly, aware that he'd hit his head quite harshly last night, and massaged the spot. Sharp pain shot through his head, making his eyes tear up and making him feel slightly dizzy. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting out, aware that his 'family', was, quite possibly eating their breakfast.
As the pain slowly ebbed away, he leaned forward, and quietly tried the door. He wasn't surprised that it was locked. Vernon had recently installed a new lock, after realising that Harry could pick them. With a frown, Harry leaned backwards into his 'bed' which really, wasn't more than a tattered yoga mat, a thin blanket, and a pillow stuffed with tea-towels.
There wasn't a sound coming from the entire house. It wasn't night, or early morning - Harry would have heard the snores (from Vernon, and his cousin Dudley) reverberating through the entire house. It wasn't anytime in the afternoon either, seeing as the sun set in the west, and the only window in the hallway in front of Harry's cupboard faced the east... and there was light shining into it under the door. Therefore it was probably sometime between nine to twelve - meaning that no one was home.
Vernon was working, Dudley was at daycare, and Petunia was either in the shops, or hanging out with her girlfriends. With a small smile of satisfaction, Harry pulled out two paperclips from his extra pair of socks (which he'd managed to steal from the washing machine) and started working on picking the lock. This one was more complicated - waaay more complicated... evidently Vernon had caught onto the fact that Harry could pick locks... and wanted to prevent it.
Harry personally though, thought of it as good practice.
After a few minutes of concentrated tinkering, there was a loud click, and Harry swiftly moved onto the next lock. As the last lock clicked open, the door swung open, letting a gush of fresh oxygen hit Harry's face.
He inhaled deeply, relishing it and knowing that, soon, he'd have to lock himself back in, so as not to get his punishment prolonged by Vernon. He clambered out of the cupboard with difficulty - at the young age of nine, he was starting to get a little too big for it. He'd always been tall - taller than Dudley anyhow... but now the cupboard was just too small for him.
With a small yawn, he stumbled his way to the kitchen which was almost clinically clean, and made himself a banana sandwich. Just as he was about to pour himself a cup of milk, the doorbell rang.
Once... then twice... then trice.
There were several different types of doorbell ringing - there was lazy ringing, or sometimes the simply bored ringing (usually a takeaway-delivery man)... sometimes even aggressive ringing. This was... somewhere between precise and impatient - someone who was used to doing this daily.
Harry paused, unsure whether or not to open the door. It definitively wasn't one of the neighbours... it just didn't sound like them. This sounded more like... business. Harry laid down his half eaten sandwich on a plate, and made his way back down the hallway.
The person rang once more - those three precise rings, and Harry frowned... was it worth the risk? Would the person then tell his aunt and uncle?
"Meh, I gotta live sometime." Harry finally muttered under his breath, and opened the door.
Sherlock had been running around Privet Drive for the past two hours, trying to find out any substantial information about the murder which had occurred a night ago, in front of the local pub.
The whole street seemed to be part of some local mafia community - none of them had seemed willing at all to volunteer information. Or... perhaps, it was his brash sort of behaviour which scared people away. Where was John when he needed him?
After he'd married Mary, John had almost stopped doing any cases with him at all. It was as if the safety of his wife was more important to him. Rolling his eyes at the sentiment all of the ducks around him seemed to be intent on displaying, Sherlock wandered down to Privet Drive number 5.
The curtains of the house were drawn, and the blinds in the upper floors were shut and if the lawn hadn't been so neatly cut, Sherlock would have thought that the house was abandoned. As he approached, he noticed one of the curtains closest to the door move a little, as if a person had just been peeking out.
His thoughts were confirmed when the door opened before he even had the chance to ring the doorbell.
The woman standing there was old. Her back was horribly hunched, contributing to her unappealing features, and making her look much smaller than she really was. Her face was worn, and her eyes a dull watery blue - yet somehow sharp. She had probably been stalking everyone and everything on that street for several years. Emphasis on the several.
"You're here about the murder, right?" She said in a hushed whisper as if afraid anyone was going to overhear her. Sherlock frowned at her odd behaviour but nodded.
"Are you with the police?" She asked frightfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out the ID he'd managed to pick pocket off Lestrade. The old hag squinted at the ID, and Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that the new badges didn't have photographs.
"Yes, my name is Detective Inspector George Lestrade."
The woman squinted at the at the ID again and looked up at Sherlock as if judging him, then she lowered her eyes again, staring at the small plastic card.
"Says here you're name is Gregory Lestrade." She said, sounding slightly suspicious as she leaned back and looked at him, head to toe as if wondering whether he could actually be a police officer. Sherlock glanced at the ID - she was right - before stuffing it into his coat. He'd always thought Lestrade's name had been Gavin... Apparently not.
Clearing his throat, he spoke, "Well, my friends call me George."
The woman regarded him a little less suspiciously, and smiled thinly, reminding Sherlock of a teacher. Then after a moment of silence between the two, in which neither party knew what to say, she finally clapped her hands together and gestured at something behind Sherlock - probably one of the houses.
"I'm not really the one to go to about gossip - I just spend my days playing bingo. You might want to ask Petunia Dursley - number four - she's the gossip queen around here." After another pause, she added, in a whisper, "She might be meeting with the little gossip club - but if she's not, then she's in the backyard using her long neck to peek into her neighbours's gardens."
Sherlock noted absently that the old hags facial expression had transformed into that of disgust and he wondered briefly whether this... 'Petunia Dursley' really was that bad.
"Nevertheless, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the neighbourhood?" Sherlock asked, feeling slightly impatient. Times like these were reminders why he had friends like John who would conduct interviews with people... He just couldn't stand them. At all.
The woman furtively glanced left and right in an exaggerated sort of way, as if expecting someone to be hiding in her immaculate garden. She then continued in the same whisper she had spoken in earlier, "Actually - the Dursley's nephew was doing the gardening in my garden a few days back," She said slowly, eyes wide as if expecting Sherlock to think this was an outstanding piece of information, "And a tall, old man - with an incredibly long white beard - dressed in... can you believe it - Robes! In Summer! Anyway, he stared at him - at Harry - the nephew for about ten minutes... and then he simply disappeared! Poof! And he was gone!" Her voice had become increasingly louder with each word she spoke and suddenly she was almost shouting into Sherlock's face - spittle flying everywhere.
Sherlock winced slightly and stepped back slightly.
"Very well, thank you... Mrs," He glanced at the doorbell which had her name printed out on top, "Jenkings... I ought to go and check on Mrs. Dursley. Goodbye." The woman smiled thinly at him again and slammed the door shut.
Ruffling his hair, Sherlock backed down the garden, crossed the street, walked up the immaculate garden of number 4, and knocked on the door.
The door swung open slowly and Harry slowly raised his eyes as he felt a shadow fall upon him. A tall man stood in front of him - well, his height was sort of average - but his long dark trench coat and upturned collar seemed to contribute to his height. Nevertheless, Harry had the feeling that this man's simply dominating and and slightly excessively lean body could tower over the tallest of men.
He had high sharp cheekbones and a very angular facial structure. His eyes were almond shaped and the light grey colour of his iris' made him seem colder than he was.
His hair was a dark mop of curls which fell messily into his face - reminding Harry slightly of his own hair. His hands were large and his fingers long - the hands of a musician. A violinist? He did seem to be one - well, he looked like one.
His clothes were good quality, probably expensive too. His features were aristocratic though, and Harry almost instantly concluded that he came from old money - perhaps a noble?
And when he spoke - his voice was a deep baritone - with an evident posh accent which confirmed Harry's earlier theory.
"Petunia Dursley?" He asked, looking down at Harry with something akin to curiosity. Harry frowned - wondering how he could possibly be interesting to anyone.
"Unless I have an extremely long neck and a tendency to speak in a shrill voice - I don't think I am her."
Then man's serious countenance didn't change - but Harry thought he saw a flicker of amusement behind the steely eyes. The man glanced behind Harry - actually - his eyes seemed to be constantly glancing about in an investigative manner and he seemed not to notice this as if it was a routine-like thing. Was he some sort of investigator? He wasn't wearing a police-uniform, and the coat, which flapped in the wind as if it was weightless obviously didn't have any guns in it.
"Are you investigating the murder?" Harry finally asked, causing the man's attention to flash back down at him. The man nodded and pulled an ID from his coat pocket - his hand moving slightly clumsily... Wouldn't a policeman, or an investigator, have mastered the art to swiftly remove an ID from a pocket?
"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He said, holding up the card. Harry didn't even bother to glance down at it, instead opting to stare back up at him.
"Nope," Harry said popping the 'p', "I don't think you are."
The man - who had identified himself as 'Lestrade' - frowned, and kneeled down to Harry's level, eyes intense.
"Curious..." He whispered, and stuffed the ID back into his pocket, "And how, Mr Potter, did you know?"
Harry was about to answer, his mouth opening already, when he noticed that the man had said his name. Narrowing his eyes, he spoke again, "How did you know my name?"
The man smirked - he seemed to be used to knowing more than other people. He gestured at the collar of Harry's shirt - or rather a shirt Dudley had decided wasn't good enough for him. It was a little big - and the marine blue colour had dulled up a little, but Harry couldn't see how it could tell someone what his name was. The man rolled his eyes impatiently and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"One of the curses of going to school - or daycare - or even having siblings is the fact that you have to put your name on everything. The back of your collar has H. Potter written on it. The most common name starting with H, is Harry - therefore, leading me to the conclusion that your name is Harry Potter. Your last name is different to your family's name - which is Dursley, therefore you are their nephew." He paused, taking in Harry's wide-eyed expression with amusement, and slight apprehension. "And... How do you know my name isn't Lestrade? Perhaps it is."
Harry scrunched up his nose, wondering if a man such as him would belittle him for stating his own observations... deductions. Yeah, deductions sounded right.
"Er... You're clumsy with an ID - not like a police officer would be... And you don't really look like a Lestrade." Harry finished with a meek grimace, and glanced up quickly only to see the man giving him a slightly appraising stare.
"It's a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." He said, in the type of 'I'm-quoting-someone' voice teachers often used. Harry blushed slightly in embarrassment.
Then, to his surprise, a hand appeared in front of his face and slightly nervously, Harry took it. Glancing up, he noticed the man's cupids bow tilt up a little on either side.
"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,"
Idkw but I kept writing 'dark white eyes' as a synonym to grey eyes.
Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter/prologue... Leave a review if you want me to continue this story. XD
Thanks for reading! And happy new year!