Too Close to Holmes
A/N: Warning: This fic contains references to all kinds of nasty stuff. We're talking child abuse, drug use, self harm, eating disorders... don't look if you don't wanna say
Disclaimer: Do you really think I'm Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss, or Arthur Conan Doyle, or anyone else who actually owns Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes? If I was, I wouldn't be sat at home freaking over my unemployment!
Chapter 1 – Tell Lestrade I'm Going to Kill Him
The call came at nine o'clock at night, just moments after Dr John Watson returned to 221b Baker Street, loaded down with Tesco bags.
"You could help with this, you know!" He glared at Sherlock, rolling his eyes as he walked past the detective and into the kitchen.
"I know." The detective replied, not even looking up from his book. "Too busy."
"Busy?" John repeated, gaping incredulously at the detective. "You're reading Harry Potter, Sherlock. Reading a children's book is not what I'd call busy!"
"You told me to read it." Sherlock said. "Although it's painfully obvious what's going on."
John sighed, standing up straight after putting the new bottle of bleach under the sink. "Go on then. Impress me."
"Well." Sherlock told him, waving the book at his flatmate. "It's clearly Professor Quirrell trying to steal the stone. He was at Diagon Alley the day the bank was broken into."
"So were lots of people."
"Yes." Sherlock confirmed. "But there was no reference to him wearing an odd-smelling turban during his first encounter with Harry. Therefore, something went wrong, and somehow the turban is magical, or possessed, or hiding something. He's being watched after his failure to steal the stone. Harry and Ron encountered Quirrell outside the third floor corridor, where the stone is no doubt hidden. He was the one to inform the school of the troll. He's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, no doubt he'd know all about dark creatures like that. My bet is that he let the troll in to create a diversion. And I'm certain he was the one cursing Harry's broom. Hermione knocked him over, breaking his eye contact, on the way to set fire to Snape. Now Snape, what about Snape? He certainly seems more the type. But no. He obviously has some kind of dark history. Dumbledore would never allow him into the school unless he could be absolutely certain that he is trustworthy. Clearly he's working for Dumbledore, trying to redeem himself, by protecting Harry and stop Quirrell getting the stone, and that's how he injured his leg. Trying to stop Quirrell getting past the dog. And his hatred of Harry? Probably a childhood grudge against his father. Not to mention the fact that he was in love with Harry's mother."
John gaped. "How can you possibly know all that?" He asked, walking up to Sherlock and glancing over his shoulder at the page. "You're only up to chapter twelve! How do you even know it is the stone?"
"Please." Sherlock said dismissively, rolling his eyes. "We were told right at the beginning that Flamel was the only maker of the Philosopher's Stone. Not to mention the title of the book. 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'. Obvious, really."
John's mouth fell open, and, as Sherlock's phone began to ring, he found himself still lost for words as he watched the detective stand up to answer it.
"Donovan?" Sherlock asked, switching the phone onto loudspeaker and placing it carefully on the table while he searched for his scarf, looking confused. "You never call me."
"Whatever." Donovan snapped, clearly agitated at having to call Sherlock. "Listen, Freak, we have a case we need your bloody help with."
"I see." Sherlock said, smirking. "And why hasn't Lestrade called me himself?"
"No idea." Donovan said. "It's the fourth recent case like this with no leads. And we think it's linked with similar unsolved cases stretching back twenty-five years. If it's not linked it's a very good copy"
"Murder?" Sherlock asked, pulling his coat on.
"No." Donovan said. There was a brief hesitation, and John could hear the sound of crying in the background. "Child abuse."
"Child abuse?" Sherlock repeated, standing up straight, his coat hanging forgotten in his hand. "Tell me more."
"'Tell me more'?" Donovan repeated, sounding disgusted. "Even you couldn't get off on a case like this."
"Sally, shut up!" Sherlock snapped. "Just tell me what's happened."
"Eleven year old boy." Donovan told him. "Found in a garage not far from his school. He'd been raped, and the number 23 carved into his back. He's been abused over more than a year, but won't tell us who his abuser is."
"Can't." Sherlock corrected, shaking his head and pulling his coat on. "He can't say who his abuser is because he doesn't know. Are you still at the scene?"
"Yeah." Donovan said. "What d'you mean he doesn't know who his abuser is? He was abused for a year."
"Doesn't matter." Sherlock said, grabbing the phone off the table. "We're on our way. Just text me the address and tell Lestrade I'm going to kill him."