Hello! I'm so sorry about late chapter updateness! I've made this one extra long and hopefully awesome for you!
I can't believe it's been a year since I started this! Time certainly goes fast - I wish I was farther with my story than this. But you know - real life is real and all that.
I hope this chapter does ok. The writing was sporadic, and the characters do a lot of thinking. I'm not sure if I mentioned before, but it's more of a character-driven story than a plot-driven one. I like taking apart how I think the characters think.
It's also more compliant to the HP plotline, but jumped forward into Sherlock time. The cases covered in the episodes of Sherlock will most likely not be covered in this fic (we've already seen them, I'm not going to transcribe whole scenes from the show) but I may include some references to other Sherlock Holmes cases, and I will reference the events in the show. There's just no definite Sherlock timeline.
Disclaimers: I don't own anything recognized! Harry Potter and Sherlock do not belong to me.
Warnings: ...almost swearing? Overthinking characters? Stupid errors due to it being 1Am over here?
I hope you enjoy this - so many words! I'm super tired - stayed up late to finish that last bit, just for you guys. Tell me your thoughts!
John and Harry had finally declared the kitchen to be 'safe' and had retired to the living room, content to sit and stare at the mess Sherlock had made. In the back of his mind, John knew they should go get Harry some things, or perhaps do some shopping, but the kitchen had taken more energy (both mental and physical!) than he had anticipated. So it was that he turned on the telly to watch day-time shows with his new ward.
Harry seemed quite enthralled with the variety of channels, which made John suspect that he was never allowed to choose for himself. He flickered rapidly between soap operas (the type Mrs. Hudson always watched), reality talk shows (the type John regretted ever introducing Sherlock to), the news (the Black murderer was still on the loose), and BBC programs. The boy quickly dismissed both the soaps and the talk shows (thank Lord for that!) and lingered only briefly on the news, frowning at the picture of the deranged-looking man. He soon flipped the channel, and they watched fifteen minutes of Antique Roadshow before looking guiltily at each other and refusing to admit that they had enjoyed the program. After that Harry selected a nature documentary and left it on. Mrs. Hudson came by with sandwiches, tea, and biscuits for them. She kept adamantly stating that she was not their housekeeper, she just thought Harry may be tired from all his hard work. John knew a ploy to fatten someone up when he saw it; the dear old lady tried it on Sherlock and himself all the time. Sadly, it more often than not worked for John a little too well.
Harry had coaxed Hedwig to his shoulder and was feeding her bits of biscuits while munching on a sandwich. She really was a beautiful bird, John mused, and extraordinarily well-behaved. Except when she was around Sherlock, of course, but he didn't blame her. Anyone would forget to behave around Sherlock. The man was just exasperating. See how he had gotten out of cleaning by going off on a wild goose chase to Surrey – and taking Wolf with him! How did he plan to get to Surrey with that monster along? John decided he'd rather not know.
Speak of the devil... John heard the click of the front door and heavy, uneven steps on the landing. He was back. Joy.
Sherlock and Wolfgang burst into the room, looking decidedly more rumpled than when they had started out. They were, however, grinning widely. It was most disconcerting, as Sherlock's teeth flashed in an almost feral way, and Wolfgang looked as if he were about to attack something. They weren't angry, however, they were quite delighted. It was a terrifying sight, and John and Harry were frozen on the couch, at a loss for what to do.
"Harry!" Sherlock called, beaming, "I have just returned from Privet Drive! Number Four, to be exact."
Privet what? John thought, before looking at Harry, who had turned white. Ah, it must be his old address. Sherlock certainly works quickly.
"Hang on," John said slowly to an almost buoyant Sherlock, "didn't you say he was from Surrey? How on Earth did you get out there with that?" he gestured at the huge dog. Cabs would never take on such a fare, and the train lines had a strict 'no pets' policy. They also kept an eye out for Sherlock whenever they could; the harpooned pig thing had made him a bit infamous on the Underground.
Sherlock actually looked a bit sheepish. He coughed slightly, and looked away, not meeting John's eyes.
"I may have enlisted the use of a government vehicle through not entirely scrupulous means," he said, waving his hand vaguely.
John thought about that while Harry grinned at Sherlock's obvious embarrassment. He wouldn't be embarrassed over a lack of morals, so it had to be... he grinned.
"You asked Myrcroft, didn't you?" he laughed.
"I issued an ultimatum!" Sherlock protested. "I most certainly did not ask him for help," he said scathingly. John grinned at Harry, who beamed broadly back.
"Sure, Sherlock. Only it sounds a lot like you asked your older brother for a lift out to Surrey, is all," he said lightly.
"I did not," Sherlock said very firmly, "and that is besides the point! Harry, my inspection of Privet Drive has left me to draw the conclusion that you were not entirely truthful about your situation there," he said, eyeing Harry carefully.
John also looked at the boy. He seemed distinctly nervous about something. Harry licked his lips, his eyes shifting about, before asking, "what do you mean?"
This seemed to set Sherlock off. With the utter indignation he always adopted when people were being obtuse, he started listing things. Things John wasn't quite sure he was prepared to believe.
"On entering the house, it was immediately apparent to me that there was more traffic around a certain cupboard than what is the norm in most households. Further inspection showed that, until some two or three years ago, the cupboard under the stairs had been inhabited by a small human – namely, a child. The imprint on the ... sleeping mat ... was far too thin to have belonged to your rather corpulent cousin, so unless there was another child being kept in the Dursley household, I must conjecture that it was your bedroom," Sherlock said all this in a biting drawl, almost daring Harry to deny the statements. John was horrified, and Harry flinched, unbalancing Hedwig and making her flutter her wings about his head. Harry refused to make eye contact with anyone, but his fists clenched into the couch and he said lowly,
"It's not my room anymore. Doesn't matter anymore."
John's heart almost broke at the expression on Harry's face. There was sullen defiance and petulance, but behind that there was hurt. His averted eyes were shadowed with pain and memories, and John just wanted to gather the boy into his arms. Or whip out his Browning on his bastard relatives. Wolfgang apparently was thinking the same thing, but the large dog acted on his impulse. He leapt lightly onto the couch beside Harry, and snuffled into the teen's side, growling in a low rumble that was at once protective and comforting. John saw Sherlock gaze at the dog for a moment before he continued.
"We may have a difference of opinion on what 'matters'," Sherlock said in a slightly condescending tone, "however the room you inhabited for the past two summers can be described as barely adequate." Here, Harry looked as he were about to protest, but Sherlock cut him off by addressing John. "John, what is the general opinion of several deadbolts and a catflap on the bedroom door of a child?"
John gaped at the consulting detective, while Harry looked mortified. He finally found his voice, and said hoarsely, "bit not good."
Sherlock looked smug. It wasn't entirely appropriate for the situation, but then, neither was Sherlock. For any situation.
"You see, Harry?" Sherlock demanded, "your living arrangements were barely adequate, and your relatives absolutely deplorable for having been inflicted upon you for so many years." He gave a decisive nod to the teenager, who still looked stunned and a bit defensive. John took pity on him.
"I think what Sherlock means to say is that we're sad that you had to deal with that, but we're happy that you're here now, with us," he said gently. He looked at Sherlock, who was still smiling in a rather fixed, predatory way, and decided to ask what that was all about. "Sherlock, why on earth are you smiling about all this? It's a bit 'not good' to come back all happy over finding out about," he paused, trying to phrase it delicately for Harry's sake, "this sort of thing." He frowned slightly, but Sherlock only grinned wider.
"Dudley Dursley is quite obese," Sherlock said, and Harry and John looked at each other incredulously. What in the world did that have to do with anything? They could only sit and listen, though, as Sherlock went on. "There could be countless things in that household detrimental to the poor child's health. A school nurse has undoubtedly voiced concerns to the parents. If I happend to imply in certain areas that a surprise examination from a health inspector would not go amiss, it can only be for the good. And I can't control whether or not the health inspector is predisposed or trained to look for evidence of something... more."
John was aware of a vague feeling of horror that Sherlock would so blatantly manipulate the system – hell, even involve himself with the system! - before he saw the humour in it. Harry just looked shocked, then guardedly amused.
"You're sending a health inspector to Aunt Petunia?" he asked, his voice taking on an incredulous glee. "Will the neighbours know?" Sherlock merely grinned his tight grin and Wolf chuffed in a way that almost sounded like laughter. John paused – weird. He sighed and looked more closely at Sherlock. To get any inspector over to Harry's relatives' house, Sherlock would have had to get Mycroft to pull some strings. Sherlock hated involving Mycroft in anything, so why wasn't he pouting more? (No matter how much Sherlock denied it, he had an alarming habit of pouting over things).
"Sherlock," John said slowly, and Sherlock froze. "You're a bit too happy considering how much you had to deal with your brother today. What else did you do?" Sherlock actually looked a bit nervous, yet gleeful, as if he wasn't sure how John would react.
"Well," he said slowly, "I wouldn't wish to be so inconsiderate as to waste the health inspector's time. That house is entirely too sanitary. It's most unnatural. So I many have helped. Slightly." He finished speaking, looking, oddly enough, at Harry for approval. Harry stared back with the slight flickers of comprehension sparking in his eyes. John understood as well.
"You sabotaged their house, didn't you?" he accused the consulting detective. Sherlock made a face, and Harry grinned.
"Only the kitchen," Sherlock clarified. John gave him a skeptical look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't have time for anything else, the authorities showed up around then," he said exasperatedly.
John groaned while Harry tried to stifle his laughter. He was so not dealing with it if Sherlock was brought into a suburban court case. He'd let Mycroft take care of it. He supposed he should be happy, though – at least Sherlock had been able to mess around a kitchen other than their own ...
Seeing that the atmosphere had turned distinctly lighter, John was unsure as to whether or not he should pursue Sherlock's investigation into Harry's situation. Sherlock himself started to draw some papers out of his overcoat, when they all heard the street door opening downstairs.
Sherlock cocked his head, listening, then snorted. Harry looked anxiously at John, who smiled reassuringly at him.
There was a brief knock at the door, and a man walked in without waiting for a reply.
"Sherlock, I have some files here if you could look over them, we're in a bit of a ... spot ..." John looked at Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade as he trailed off, looking at the child sitting in Sherlock Holmes' living room in utter amazement. Sherlock smiled that creepy, tight smile once more.
"Lestrade!" he boomed, and the DI flinched, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You haven't met Harry yet, have you? Harry, this man is Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade was gaping, looking from Sherlock to Harry to John then back again. Sherlock continued, looking only at Harry now. "Lestrade, this young man is Harry Potter," there was a pause, and John saw Sherlock building up the tension just because he bloody felt like it. He waited for Sherlock to say it. "He is our new ward."
As one, John and Lestrade took a deep breath, and performed an action that they would later deny was a face-palm.
Gregory Lestrade had come to accept a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes. He had known him for around five years (God, had it only been that long?) and he thought he had seen everything. He put up with the complaints of his team (most notably Sally and Anderson), he dealt with all the paperwork that was involved by 'letting' a civilian in on his crime scenes. He suffered through blistering remonstrations, petty insults, and awkward moments of social ignorance simply because the man was brilliant. He was amazing at what he did, and even though Sgt. Donovan may call him a 'Freak', Sherlock had always come through for Lestrade, and he never asked for anything. He didn't ask for money, or recognition, he just expected to be consulted when it came to 'interesting' cases.
Some people might accuse Greg of using Sherlock to further his own career, but as far as he could tell, theirs was a twisted symbiotic relationship. Sherlock benefited in the area of having dead bodies to look at and 'idiots' to ridicule (Greg supposed that, to Sherlock, it was a benefit) and Greg's team was able to clear up cases that would have baffled the other Inspectors at New Scotland Yard. Greg didn't lie to himself – there was absolutely no way that anyone but Sherlock (or perhaps his extremely frightening older brother) could solve some of the cases Greg had been landed with. If Greg's team had had to deal with them alone, the cases would have eventually gone cold, and would have been sent to join the depressing number of cold cases that New Scotland Yard had stockpiled. Greg often toyed with giving Sherlock a massive pile of them for Christmas or something, but he wasn't sure if his security clearance would cover that.
It was almost aggravating how easily Sherlock was able to pick out the details that his highly-trained and experienced team had missed. And he was never apologetic, or understanding with how they hadn't seen that because the lady's coat collar was wet, she was obviously on a trip from Cardiff, and had been carrying out multiple affairs, pink luggage in tow. Honestly. He just got all condescending and in-your-face about it all.
Since John had come along, he was slightly better, though. John was able to remind him of certain social norms that Sherlock apparently thought of as ridiculous, and he had managed to get some weight on the skinny detective somehow. Greg suspected that it was a tag-team effort made by Mrs. Hudson and John. Greg was also no longer worried whenever Sherlock went haring off after a lead in the middle of an investigation. Sherlock wasn't a trained combatant, but John was ex-military, and he stuck to Sherlock like glue. It was really a relief, because he had figured it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock ended up dead or seriously injured, and then the full, cold displeasure of Mycroft Holmes would fall directly upon Detective Inspector Lestrade.
It would ruin him.
So it was that he was sure that Sherlock would never be in a situation where it could cause surprise. Raised eyebrows, sure. Disgust and horror, definitely. But this...?
Who in their right mind would place a child with Sherlock Holmes?
When he had walked in the door, he had barely glanced around the now-familiar flat. He had had a terrible time of it – New Scotland Yard was all over the Black Escape, as they were calling it, but there were absolutely no leads. This was mainly because there just wasn't any information on the guy. There were no personal records, no trial transcripts, no listed family – nothing! His team wasn't even in this department, but so many teams had tried, and failed to figure out where the man was that they had dragged in Greg's team into the mix. In desperation, Greg had decided to take the files to Sherlock. Maybe he could see something where there was nothing. God knew that he had done it enough times before.
However, seeing the young boy firmly ensconced on a couch in Baker Street had almost driven the Black Escape from his mind. The boy was obviously comfortable, and John seemed to be aware of him, so he didn't think Sherlock was doing some sort of experiment. John wouldn't allow that. Was it a case? The kid, on closer inspection, was actually pretty roughed up, but he seemed to feel secure in Sherlock and John's presence. If anything, the kid looked nervous because Greg was there. Thinking about it, it smarted of some sort of child-related crime. He glanced desperately at Sherlock, John, and the kid, trying to pull a Sherlock and figure out what the bloody hell was going on. And why was there a fecking dog in the flat? Did Mrs. Hudson know? And was that an owl?
When Sherlock, far too smugly, the bastard, finally got around to introducing the kid, Lestrade could only drop his face into his hand in despair. A ward. Sherlock was responsible for a child. The world would end tomorrow, he just knew it. Oh, sure, John was there – but giving a man like Sherlock access to the mind of a kid was almost inhumane. To be clear, Greg didn't think that Sherlock would ever deliberately harm a child. He might claim the status of sociopath, but really, he was a stand-up bloke. In his own way. But he could be totally, obliviously cruel at times, and Greg didn't think that it would help a child with issues as large as this one must have.
He decided to put it on the back burner for now. He knew what Sherlock wanted – he wanted a confrontation about the guardianship, a chance to verbally spar with Greg. Greg would inevitably lose, and the kid would probably be traumatized. No, Greg decided, he'd ask John about it later. Right now he had to focus on the Black Escape, and try to solve it before an actual murder happened and his team was really needed.
He sat down wearily, and dropped the file onto the coffee table.
"Sherlock," he said, "I can't deal with this right now. We've got a murderer on the loose, and all of us have been pulled off our regular jobs to find him. There's nothing though. Look over these files, please, I don't care if you think they're boring. This needs to be solved, soon, alright?"
He glanced between Sherlock and John, and was relieved when he saw the spark of interest in his eyes. The thought that the case would be dismissed as 'boring' had driven him mad on the way here. He sat back, content to watch as Sherlock reached for the file. He glanced briefly at Harry, before shaking his head. Not now. Later, once this mess is sorted, he promised himself.
Sirius was uneasy. Something about that file had his hackles rising, but he tried to suppress it so as not to alarm Harry.
Sherlock opened the file, glanced over it briefly, then caught eyes with Harry, then John. Slowly, he said,
"This is the file for Sirius Black, the escaped ... convict." It was all Sirius could do not to whimper in horror. He thought that they had forgotten about him after Mycroft Holmes left, and now this stupid muggle was bringing him up again!
Lestrade nodded tiredly.
"We've got nothing on him," he said. "There's no records, no family, no motive. I can't even pin down the exact crime he committed, but it was a murder of almost a dozen people. It's all very hush-hush, and there's nothing to go on," the man explained in exasperation.
"No, I don't suppose there would be," Sherlock mused. The tone of his voice seemed to irritate Lestrade, who stood up abruptly.
"Well, if it's going to be like that, just look over it and text me if you find anything. I haven't got time for you to sit around and be insulting. John, good seeing you, we'll catch up once this mess is sorted, yeah?" With a final nod, and a handshake with John, Lestrade left, sparing a contemplative glance at Harry.
Once the door shut, Sherlock started feverishly flipping through the file, muttering to himself. Sirius waited with dread growing in his heart. Sherlock, the bastard, would have more of a chance at figuring out the deception than most wizards he knew. He only hoped that he could somehow discover Sirius' innocence – otherwise things would get very ugly in 221 B. Alternately, Sherlock could reach no conclusion – like Lestrade said, there wasn't much muggle information on Sirius Black. As a pureblood wizard, he had no papers in the muggle world.
Suddenly, Sherlock sprang up, and started collecting things from around the flat. Mostly Harry's things, Sirius noted, but he didn't do anything, for Harry was just watching the man with wide, enthralled eyes.
Finally, the hurricane that was Sherlock stopped, and sat before the accumulated 'data'. He pressed his hands together, almost as though he were praying, and drew a deep breath.
"Britain has been informed of a dangerous serial killer breaking out of a top secret penitentiary," he began, voice even as he explained. Sirius thought that John looked slightly shocked, but then he saw that Sherlock was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. Ah. He wanted Harry to follow along. Well, that would make it easier for Sirius and John.
"It was claimed that he murdered twelve people, but there are no records of such a murder done by said man. There are no documents, no records of a trial. The whole thing screams of cover-up, and the police know it, but nobody is saying anything. The man is reported to be mad, armed, and very dangerous, and it is advised that no one approach him. There is a special mention in the file that New Scotland Yard is not to engage him in any way. His goals are unclear, as are his motivations. So far, mundane," Sherlock said, nodding at the file Lestrade had given him.
"Moving on," he continued, "we address the magical. Mycroft informed us that Harry Potter's legal guardian was unable to care for him due to his twelve year incarceration. He has recently broken out of a confidential penitentiary that not even Mycroft has the access to. Mycroft also informed us of a possible goal – the eradication of the Potter line. We may infer from this that the murderer, Sirius Black, and Harry's errant guardian, are one and the same," the consulting detective said with a smirk.
Sirius was frozen. He was really doing it. The bastard was doing it. He glanced up at Harry, and saw shock on his features, and an odd, despairing expression. Sirius looked away. The damn man was still talking – couldn't he just be done?
"Looking at his mugshot," Sherlock went on, "he does look rather insane," here Sirius bristled imperceptibly, "but it is hardly the classical mugshot that Britain has standardized. It has been edited in some way." Sherlock waved the still photograph of Sirius vaguely, and Sirius could see that it was a doctored magical photograph. Sherlock whipped out a small lens, and looked closely at the photograph.
"The photograph itself is most singular," he declared, "or, it would have been before we met Harry." Harry and John looked up, puzzled. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The pixellation of police photographs is very different from this one. It is almost impossible to get a totally defined photograph. However, the pixellation of this man is incredibly life-like – something that I have only encountered when viewing the magical photographs that Harry possesses."
Sirius was stunned. He would never have thought that wizards could be found out from their bloody pictures. Well, frozen ones. The ones that moved, obviously, that's how Harry was 'outed'. Whatever. This was sickeningly fascinating. And the man was still going!
"In fact, on closer inspection of Harry's photographs," here Sherlock started delicately flipping through the album, which caused Harry to shift slightly. Sirius thought he knew where he was going with this, he was going to...
"We find that, in the image of Mr and Mrs. Potter's wedding, a man looking remarkably similar to the escaped 'convict' is standing in the place of the Best Man," Sherlock declared, his eyes gleaming.
Yes, Sirius thought, he went there. Harry was looking horrified. 'Best Man' he mouthed silently, green eyes wide and full of betrayal. Sherlock didn't seem to see this, as he was going full steam ahead with his deductions.
"It is therefor obvious," Sherlock said, "that Sirius Black is a wizarding criminal that has been deemed a danger to mundane citizens as well. This is most-likely due to the twelve people he allegedly murdered, that no one can find records of. There is not even a date as to when his crime was committed. How then, can we deduce what the crime was?" The question was obviously rhetorical, as he just kept talking, pulling out a piece of parchment from the pile on the little table.
"I have here a letter addressed to one Petunia Dursley, dated 1st November, the day after Harry was orphaned." Sirius saw John wince at Sherlock's blunt statement of Harry's parents' deaths, and he felt highly indignant over how insensitive the berk was being. Sherlock didn't notice anything, though. Typical.
"In this letter, it explains that Harry must reside with his mother's sister, as his legal guardian, his Godfather, will be incarcerated for his crimes, which were left undescribed. It also illustrates that another close family friend is not an option, as has been classified as a dangerous creature. My, my, Harry, the company you should keep!" Sherlock said with a wry grin, before looking up and seeing John's glare. He paused.
"Not good?" he asked, eyeing Harry's pale face.
"Very not good!" John spat, getting up to sit beside Harry, pulling the teen to his side. Sherlock nodded in apology, then went on, tapping away now on his phone.
"From this time reference, we can search for any deaths, explained or unexplained, that occurred after October 31st of that year. And here we are," he exclaimed with far too much glee considering he had found out about twelve dead people, "twelve dead in gas explosion. Damage sustained to sewer system, written off as an accident. No other mass deaths around that time, though there are singular incidents of unexplained murders in the months leading up to it. Interesting that the letter is dated before the explosion occured..." He seemed to pause, thinking over what he had said, and Sirius took the opportunity to think back on those last few months of the war.
There was the fear, the loss of trust, the desperation. The utter terror that they all felt, the dread of not seeing your loved ones the next day. Then, for him, there was the soul-crushing realization that his best friend was dead, and so was Voldemort, and he couldn't even be happy about it because James and Lily were dead. And he hadn't been happy at any point after than, for he had gone off after Peter, and been framed, then tossed into Azkaban. No, Sirius hadn't been happy in a very long time.
Sherlock began speaking again.
"It can be said that the magical government credited the deaths to Sirius Black, and incarcerated him. There are no records of a trial, so we cannot say whether he was truly found guilty. We have no knowledge on how the magical legal system works." This Sherlock said with a frown – he seemed rather annoyed that he didn't have access to all the pertinent data, as he said.
"The man has now broken out, but why now? Why not at some point over the last twelve years? Simple. There was a trigger. There was newfound purpose. What was it? Wanting to get rid of the Potter family? That would allude to hate, so, no. Hate is a paralytic. Love is a far more powerful motivator, so it was most likely love, or some protective instinct that drove the man to escape where before he was content to rot in a gaol. Which begs the question, what does he love? There are no records of family, so we may not rule them out, but the one connection we do have is his Godson. Where does that leave us?" Here he looked at Harry and John, who stared blankly back at him. Sherlock sighed.
"It leaves us with a desperate wizard, alone and presumably weak from his stint in magical prison. The only known link we have is his Godson, our ward, Harry. How to find a wizard that does not want to be found? Look for what others may miss. Through good fortune, I believe I have sufficient data to make a deduction," Sherlock said with certainty.
Oh, Merlin, no, Sirius thought. Please, he just wanted to stay with Harry. He needed to be with the boy, especially now. Could Sherlock figure out his last defence, his great deception? Most likely. If he ran now, it would be suspect. He waited in resignation, curled into Harry's lap like an oversized cat.
John was looking at Sherlock in exasperation, clearly impatient to get to the bottom of this. Harry was just wide eyed and frazzled from the information overload, but he seemed to be keeping up.
Sherlock reached forward and plucked up the last item on the table. A transfiguration text. Damn, he's done it, thought Sirius.
"In this text," Sherlock said slowly, "it does not go into detail on the technique, but there is a reference to wizards who may change their shape into that of an animal. They are called animagi," Sherlock informed them, looking at Harry. The boy blinked, and then said slowly,
"My transfiguration Professor turns into a cat." Sherlock nodded pensively.
"Sirius Black," he said in a drawl, tasting the name as he spoke it. "John, are you familiar with the constellation Canis Major?" he inquired idly.
Bugger, Sirius thought.
John looked at Sherlock incredulously. "Sherlock," he said, "until a few months ago you weren't aware that the earth went around the sun. What's with the astrology trivia?"
Sherlock huffed a bit. "It's Astronomy, John, and it's in Harry's textbooks, so I have not deleted the information, trivial as it may be."
John scoffed. "Trivial? Tell that to the restored painting," he muttered. Sirius felt that there was a story there, but he was far too anxious to be curious. Sherlock sighed with impatience.
"The point is, John, that in the constellation Canis Major, there is the star Alpha Canis Majoris, the brightest star in the sky. More commonly named Sirius, the Dog Star," Sherlock informed the inhabitants of the room. A dawning comprehension was growing in both Harry and John's eyes, and Sirius hated seeing it.
Sherlock wasn't done yet, though.
"There is also the name Black, to consider," he said. "Now, what is familiar about a black dog?" he asked in an almost innocent voice.
There was a silence in the room. It was heavy, and uncomfortable, and no one wanted to deal with it. Sherlock, of course ignored it, and asked, as if inquiring after the weather,
"So, Mr. Black, please do tell if I am in error." The blue eyes weren't looking at him, but Sirius could feel the weight of the question. What could he do? He could remain silent, and possibly be turned over for verification. He could make a break for it, and never see Harry again. He could... but no, that would be insane. Would Sherlock and John listen to him, hear him out? Perhaps. They didn't seem to jump to conclusions like wizards were wont to do.
Sirius had never been accused of being sane.
Shifting suddenly into his human form, he sat beside Harry on the couch. John let out a startled yell, and his hand made an abortive motion towards his hip. Harry was staring at Sirius in horror and awe – even Hedwig was bristling her feathers for a fight. Sherlock was wearing a triumphant smirk, gazing at Sirius smugly.
Sirius licked his dry lips, and tried to find his voice.
"Actually," he said hoarsely, his voice rough from not being used in so many months – years? "The form is determined more by our personalities," he explained, looking at Sherlock with as steady a gaze as he could manage.
Sherlock's icy blue eyes flickered over Sirius's haggard state, taking everything in.
"Always something," he murmured with an annoyed sigh.
AN: So! Reviews? Please tell me what you think! I loved all the feedback from your last reviews, and they do inspire me for some of the filler writing. I've had Sherlock deducing Sirius planned out for a while, he just needed a few more pieces. I know that there are some gaping holes, but please, can we just accept that I'm combining the genius of Sherlock with the awesomeness of magic, and some sense is going to slip through the cracks? Enjoy it for what it's worth - I'm not being paid to make this airtight :D I'm actually not being paid. But I still like doing this!
I know I didn't go very far into how Harry was really treated, but I've decided that the guys are going to be delicate about it. It's been dealt with (handed to Mycroft) so they can work through the truth when Harry is ready to. Sorry for the lack of Harry POV - I'll get around to it, but the guys are a bit more easy to write from. John and Sirius are great mediums for the story, so I may use them more than Harry or Sherlock. It was fun writing Lestrade, though. I got a bit rambly with him, but don't judge. He's been dragged away from his normal job to look for someone with no information. He's running on very little sleep, gallons of bad office coffee, and he's had his nicotine patch on for too long. And then he went to talk to Sherlock. Cut the guy some slack!
I'll try to get another chapter out, but it's going to be tough writing a Sirius/Sherlock/John confrontation (get your mind out of the gutter, whoever saw that format and thought threesome! Romance is a long way off!). Please try to be as patient and wonderful as you have been.
I'm also trying to get new chapters out for my other fics - I actually planned on writing for my Avengers crossover, but Sherlock suddenly called to me, and I just had to answer.
Life is hectic. Teaching a lot of classes, writing a lot of curriculum, taking Thai classes, doing Impossible Thai Yoga... So bear with me. If I've been too subtle, reviews make my life! They brighten my sunny Thai days, so throw a review junkie a bone, if you have time. I love you all, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!