Sherlock Holmes was an extraordinary man. He could read the story of a man by the smallest details on their person. He memorized and categorized every single type of ash and he is known at Scotland Yard as the cleverest detective in known history. Yet he could not see the little boy with the scar on his forehead crying when the bomb squad had finally removed the explosives from his chest.
John Watson was an extraordinary man. He served as an army doctor in Afghanistan and after receiving a bullet wound and returning to London, he became the foil to the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. John may not have always been the most intelligent man but, as a doctor, he could see whenever someone was hurting. In this case, the poor boy that'd lost all of his family due to Moriarty's schemes. He was collateral damage. John gave a quick glance to Sherlock, who studied the bombs the police were handling delicately.
"Erm, Sherlock? You see that boy there?" John said, nudging his companion. Sherlock turned and studied the boy.
"Yes. Obviously traumatized due to the bomb situation but not just that… interesting," Sherlock murmured. He stalked towards the miserable boy. Harry looked up at Sherlock.
"You're shaken, but not by the bomb that was strapped to your chest. Something else has happened, but what?" Sherlock said to himself. John huffed and brushed past him.
"Hello. I'm John Watson. What's your name?"
"It's nice to meet you, Harry. Do you know how you got here?" John asked kindly, shaking Harry's hand.
"Some men got into my cupb-I mean, my room, and dragged me here. They placed that bomb on me and told me to read w-what was on the screen or they'd blow me up. I don't know where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are. Do you know them?" Harry said, looking around frightfully. Sherlock frowned and leaned towards Harry.
"Oh yes, we know your Aunt and Uncle. They told us to come get you and bring you home, okay?" said Sherlock, obviously lying.
Harry sharply inhaled but then sank his shoulders in resignation, " 'Kay."
"Interesting. Normally a little boy would want to be with his family after undergoing such a traumatic event, yet you seemed rather calm when you explained the ordeal. However, you tensed up when we mentioned you returning to your house. Ah! I see. Come along, John. Let's go get Harry's family arrested.
"What?" John asked, sharply turning his head at Sherlock.
"There are signs of abuse on his arms and legs. Bruises and marks he subconsciously tries to cover. His glasses have been taped four- no wait, five times in the past six months. He'd also rather face a bomb than his uncle, which says rather a lot. Come on John, even you must see this."
"I- I suppose. But there has to be more evidence right? I mean, sure there's some marks but it'll take more than that to-"
"Oh please, we'll do much better than marks John. Garth!" Sherlock shouted, waving to Lestrade.
"My name is Greg, Sherlock. What do you want? Has this 'Moriarty' sent you another message?" Lestrade said, putting air quotes around the word, "Moriarty".
"No, this is something a little bit different. Harry here is in a bit more trouble than we originally thought," Sherlock explained, waving for Harry to come forward. He meekly approached and waved at the inspector.
"He's the kid who had bombs strapped to his chest, right? What else happened?"
"He has clear signs of abuse on him and I'd like to follow up on that, if you don't mind," Sherlock said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lestrade took a closer look.
"Those marks on his wrists, right? I mean, that could be the case but…" Sherlock made an angry noise.
"Yes obviously that but observe! Look at him and deduct. You're mildly more intelligent than most of the Yard. Think!" Greg gave John a curious glance and in turn, John nodded towards Harry who looked miserable.
"Well, those glasses look pretty worn and snapped in half quite a few times at least. I suppose the clothes also seem worn and definitely too large for him. This could lead to something, Sherlock. I suppose we should head to Mr. Potter's home then?" Greg suggested. Sherlock huffed in frustration.
"Terribly glad you could work that out, Lestrade. You go on ahead, John and I'll follow in a cab," Sherlock motioned to the nearby police car. Without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and marched to the nearby street to flag a cab. John gently squeezed Harry's shoulder.
"Go on then. We're here to help," Harry nodded silently, wiping his heads. His face had gone red from embarrassment.
Harry truly was embarrassed but, he was also flustered, scared, and a range of emotions in the same caliber. Over the past nine years, his family had picked on him and he didn't really have anyone he could call a friend. Ever since he could remember, he'd tried his best to gain the love of his aunt and uncle to no avail. This was the year he'd finally given up trying. Go figure it'd be the same time someone actually paid him any attention. Harry had been frightened of the bombs but he preferred them to any more starvation and neglect. No more cupboards.
The ride to Private Drive was long, tense, and quite. Harry could feel Lestrade's eyes burning into him through the rearview mirror. Harry stared at the back of the passenger seat, hoping he'd finally be free from the Dursleys.
Sherlock stepped out of the cab in front of the pristine looking house. It seemed that small nook of Britain was absolutely perfect. After years of fighting on the battlefield of civilians, police and criminals, Sherlock knew something had to be wrong. There was a crack in the walls of the city and Sherlock was about to break it open.
Vernon Dursley believed himself to be a rather upstanding citizen. He obeyed the laws and respected his betters. He was ambitious and worked for everything he owned. He was very proud of his accomplishments, which included raising a fine son and marrying a lovely woman. Unfortunately, he was also faced with a nasty scar on his life. This scar went by the name of Harry James Potter.
The stupid boy was problematic from the beginning. Poor Petunia was weighed down by her freakish sister but was finally able to break free from that weirdness when she left home. They pretended Petunia's sister didn't exist until she'd gotten herself killed and dumped her freak of a boy on their pristine and perfect doorstep. Vernon worked day and night to try and cover that glaring blemish and for nine years, he'd successfully done so. That night however, a great flood called Sherlock Holmes was about to wash away all he'd worked for in a swift and cold wave.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Vernon opened the door to Sherlock Holmes. Before he could utter a single word, Sherlock sniffed irritably.
"You must be Vernon Dursley. Harry's told me a bit about you," Sherlock sneered. Vernon frowned and turned a dark red.
"W-whatever that fre- boy has told you, I can guarantee he's lying! That nasty boy is nothing but trouble, I tell you!" Vernon wagged his finger in Sherlock's face. Sherlock grinned devilishly.
"Well, that answers a bit. Harry has told me nothing about you, as he was too afraid to. Judging by your overreaction and you only calling him 'boy' and not 'Harry' says that you have virtually no emotional attachment of feelings of sentiment. You should really watch where you aim your fists next time. Well, actually there won't be a next time. Lestrade?" Greg appeared in the doorway next to Sherlock with furious scowl on his face.
"Who in the bloody hell are you?" Vernon demanded.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, the best and only consulting detective in the world. This is Gavin-"
"Right… Greg Lestrade, a detective inspector of Scotland Yard. He's here to send you to prison," Sherlock sneered. Vernon's face changed from purple to white so fast, one might have thought he was a chameleon trying to blend in with the snow.
"Y-you have no proof of these claims, Detective Holmes! You cannot just-"
"Watch me," Greg growled, holding up a warrant they'd gotten before they arrived, "Hands over your head and face the wall, now!"
Sherlock brushed past them and glanced around the entry hall until he saw the cupboard under the stairs. A normal looking cupboard except one thing, it had two locks. There was the normal door handle lock like most doors except this one also had a chain lock. He drifted towards it slowly, his mind racing. No… they couldn't…
"Sherlock, what're you- oh no," Greg stopped, turning pale.
"Oh yes, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered, opening the door.
"You mean this bastard-"
"I'm afraid so," Sherlock said. He peered inside the small cupboard and saw a mattress that looked old and moldy. There was a single lightbulb on a string dangling from the ceiling and Sherlock could count only six different articles of clothing, counting a pair of socks as two.
"Vernon Dursley, you're hereby charged with neglect, child abuse, and whatever else we can stack on that, you bloody disgrace of a human being," Greg snarled, clicking the handcuffs around Vernon's wrists.
"Excellent work, Lestrade. Let's go see about young Harry," Sherlock said, striding out the door.
John was sitting against the car next to Harry and patting his back soothingly. As the men approached, he held a finger to his lips and lightly shushed them before they could say anything that would wake Harry up.
"What happened?" Lestrade whispered watching Harry curiously.
"Well I imagine he fell asleep due to exhaustion. He's had an extremely straining day, especially for a child. We were sitting here and talking about his time here when he dozed off," John said, nodding to Harry.
"Well, I think we're gonna need to get him back to the station to talk with him tomorrow. Do you think you could take him tonight?" Lestrade asked. John nodded and Sherlock huffed.
"Fine. I suppose we could shelter him for night. Let's go, John," Sherlock said, hailing a nearby cab. John picked Harry up gently as to not wake him. Lestrade watched their cab speed away and then turned to Vernon who looked like he was trying very hard to swallow a lemon whole. He face was a dark plum color and he kept muttering under his breath about the freak.
"Alright, let's go, filth."
The next morning, Harry woke up in bed that definitely was not his mattress in his cupboard. Sunlight shined through an unfamiliar window. Harry vaguely remembered dreaming of mad bombers and detectives with long coats. Suddenly, the long-coated man entered the room, looking suspicious of Harry. Harry realized with a start that it was no dream.
"You're the man who arrested my uncle," Harry stated as if trying to convince himself.
"That is somewhat correct. Lestrade made the arrest, I just pointed him out for Scotland Yard," Sherlock replied nonchalantly as if his daily routine involved assisting in the arrest people's relatives.
"And you saved me from being blown up?" Harry asked. He put a hand over his chest where deadly explosives had been the day before. Sherlock nodded quietly. Harry's surroundings suddenly felt surreal, as if he were still asleep. Almost as if responding, he pinched his arm lightly, definitely not a dream.
"Thanks," Harry muttered awkwardly, his cheeks turning a light shade pink. Sherlock nodded. He stared into Harry's eyes, unblinking and intense. Harry wanted to look away from this peculiar man but something drew him in like an invisible fishing line. Sherlock broke the charged silence that had fallen between them.
"Erm… Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, has made some breakfast for us if you wish to join us. After breakfast, Lestrade wants you to come down to the station for the case," Sherlock said, quickly disappearing from the doorway. Harry slowly pulled the warm sheets off of him and noticed a freshly washed set of clothes at the end of his bed. They were a little tight, but a big improvement over the old and worn rags handed down from Dudley, his whale of a cousin. Harry glanced at himself in the mirror and smiled a little. Maybe he wouldn't have to live with the Dursleys after all this was over.