Mischievous

By: Heart of a Slytherin

Sherlock (BBC)/Harry Potter Crossover

Warnings: None really, though please be sure to read the Authoress note at the end of this story.


It was a given that Sherlock would manage to shake his caretaker, as it is a common occurrence. We weren't overly concerned, as the lad always came back home for dinner; it was the one rule he always abided by out of respect for Mummy. But when six o'clock came and went without the boy showing, I already began to feel the beginning of a headache form in the back of my skull. It's getting dark, and it is threatening to snow tonight. If Sherlock is outside, he is extremely vulnerable to the elements and may not be able to find his way back to the house in such bad weather.

It is with a heavy heart that I go to Mummy; she is always fretting about her youngest and most foolish son. Her face is drawn with tiredness, her illness stripping her energy from her more each day. It is in times like this that I hate Sherlock for the emotional toll he forces upon her, though he cannot help himself. He is only a child after all. I quickly round up the able bodied men who work at our estate, and we bundle up into our warmest clothing. As it is winter, the temperature is already below 10 degrees. I group us into packs of three with several groups on the grounds, with my two most loyal men with me. Ensuring that every man was equipped with a cell phone, rope, and a flashlight, we leave the house to begin our hunt.

Joshua, Christopher, and I set out on horseback to cover more ground more quickly. The riding group's task is to check around the edges of the property, about twenty acres from the house on all sides. We all know that I will be loath to return to the house to warm up until Sherlock is found, though after three hours later of searching later, I reluctantly call us all back in to regroup in the foyer of my ancestral home. The blast of warmth from the heating is a wonderful feeling after freezing outside for so long, and I get grateful nods from my tired men. I return their nods with curt one of my own, but my thoughts are not with them. They are on Sherlock, and I feel the first stirrings of panic beginning to engulf me.

The elegant trimmings of the room and the expensive furniture are stark contrasts to the shivering, wet men who struggle out of sopping, freezing clothing to change into fresh clothes that had been waiting for us. I am exhausted, but I do the same. Getting sick will do me no good. The threatening snow had begun to fall within an hour of our search parties setting out, and already it is nearly half a foot deep. My concern grows with each passing minute my little brother is not found, though I hide it well. He was a pain in the arse most times, but he was brilliant. Hopefully, he had recognized the danger of staying outside, and had managed to find (or make) a shelter until he was located.

A quiet knock reaches my ears before the door opens. A group of maids come in with trays of coffee mugs and sandwiches despite the late hour and serve them to us, though I can't stand to stomach anything more than a few sips of the boiling liquid. With them came Mummy; she sees my stoic face and takes a deep breath to steady her emotions. "The neighbors have all been contacted; they are on the lookout for Sherlock. If he is found we will be informed immediately." She paced the room, her face strained with worry.

I speak up, my voice hoarse from the cold wind, "The gardens have been checked, the stables, the woods, and the perimeter of the house. If he's on our property, he's well hidden and either didn't see us, or didn't care that we were looking for him."

"The maids have checked the house, and all known hidden passages and rooms. They haven't been disturbed today." Mummy murmured as she watched me. I knew from others that my face would be dispassionate, blue eyes distant. These were traits that I had inherited from my father, whilst Sherlock had gotten his animation from our mother. We are as different as night and day, our personalities clashing violently when we spend more than an hour in each other's company.

The phone rings, and though I was the furthest person from it, I am the one who picked it up before anyone else could, "Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Mr. Holmes, this is Betty Oliver, from down the road," an old woman's voice tells me, and my mind flashes to when I had attended her husband's funeral nearly three years ago. She was a sweet woman, though getting a little senile in her golden years. "My butler believes he saw a small figure around the edges of our property earlier, but couldn't get close enough before it left. I have my servants searching, but we need more hands to canvas the property. It's just too large for us to do ourselves."

"Thank you Mrs. Oliver, we will be there as soon as possible." I hang up, and turn to the group of people watching me. Though we are all tired, I see my men readying themselves for another cold search and the women fluttering about them, buttoning coats and coaxing them to eat and drink as much as possible. "It is not confirmed, but Sherlock may be on the Oliver's property. We will assist them in searching. Joshua-", before I could issue my orders, Joshua is already nodding and leaving the room, no doubt to get the vehicles ready for all of us. The man always seems to know what I want- which was the reason he has been my right hand for years.

"Mummy, come with us. If Sherlock if found, I'm sure you will be needed. Lads, it's time."

The drive was an agonizing twenty minutes on the icy roads, my nerves almost getting the best of me. I try my best not to fidget, but a knowing look from Mummy informed me that I wasn't as calm as I tried to portray. "It will be alright Mycroft. My youngest is reckless but he has never truly been foolish. I'm sure that if he is outside right now, it is only for a good reason." Mummy said, patting my hand gently. I wasn't one for physical contact but because I knew it would make her feel better, I allowed it.

I can only nod, though I'm not as convinced as she is. I have never been able to have as much faith in the boy, though that may be because we are hardly around each other despite our blood relation. I am fourteen years older than Sherlock, and have been very busy with my career. I am hardly able to return to my family for anything other than an emergency.

Though after hearing that Mummy hasn't been feeling well lately, I nearly had to resort to blackmail to get the two weeks off that I needed off to make sure things were running smoothly. I love Mummy, and I am determined to make her as comfortable as possible while she is unwell. Of course, in the end, a little persuasion was needed but it was hardly difficult. Having powerful connections does help, though they always manage to give me headaches.

We finally arrive, and are ushered into the house by the aging butler in a spotless uniform who has worked on the Oliver's property for more than half of his life. Mrs. Oliver is ready with a hug for Mummy, before turning to me with maps in hand, "These are satellite maps of our property. The areas circled in blue have already been searched and cleared. The red circles are where my men have not searched."

I am grateful, as these will be incredibly helpful. The storm outside has been getting worse and I do not want to spend more time outside than needed. "Thank you. Men, to me."

We all huddle around the maps, and I once again break us up into groups with specific areas to search. Everyone checked to make sure their cell phones were charged, before we headed back out into the snow and ice. If that little brat is found cozy and warm somewhere, I will go against Mummy's wishes and give him a good thrashing. Maybe he would learn a very important lesson- to not go gallivanting off and worrying Mummy unnecessarily.

It takes Joshua and me nearly fifteen minutes of hurried trekking to reach the start of our search area. Shining our flashlights, we begin to call for Sherlock while we check under bushes and up into trees. The snow is falling faster now, and for the umpteenth time I swear under my breath as I stumble over hidden roots and stumps. The darkness would be unnerving to lesser men, but Joshua and I were not prone to scaring, and that proved to be to our advantage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a slight movement just out of my flashlight's reach. Shining my light in the direction, my heart soars unexpectedly when the bright beam of light lands on a huddled boy with long raven hair and a bright blue scarf. I would know that figure anywhere.

Rushing to Sherlock, I fall to my knees in the snow before him, my hands already reaching for him. "Sherlock! Are you alright?!" I ask, though logically I know he is probably suffering from hypothermia and/or frostbite. His head lifts, and my jaw clenches when his pale, empty eyes stare straight through me. His skin is nearly as white as the snow, his lips tinged blue from the cold. I grab for my phone, only to find it gone. Turning my attention to my companion, I find him already speaking quietly into it, requesting assistance and telling Mummy of Sherlock's condition.

I know that when we get him back to the Oliver's, a doctor (or two) would be already in attendance; as with most times, money does get things done faster. I stand, and grabbing my brother, lift him into my arms. His body isn't shivering, an alarming symptom. If his body doesn't have enough energy to try to warm itself, it means his internal organs are shutting down at an alarming rate. He needs medical attention. Now.

Wrapping him up in as many of my jackets that I can afford to give up without it being too detrimental to my own health, I begin to walk back the way we came. It is only then that Sherlock stirs, and he begins to panic, "No! No, no, no!" He tries to yell, but his voice only came out in a cracked whisper. His body suddenly lurched to the side and I barely manage to hold him in my arms. Small fists beat weakly at my shoulders, and I can do nothing but hold his small body closer to mine. "Sherlock, now is not the time! Stop it!" I order, my voice commanding.

The boy doesn't seem to hear me, his head turned to the right while his eyes stared at something. A sudden shout from Joshua pulls me up short, my frustration practically vibrating through me. "WHAT?" I roar with anger. I want Sherlock under the care of a physician immediately!

In a whisper, Sherlock says something unintelligible, before repeating himself slowly, carefully enunciating each word to ensure I can understand him. "I c-can't leave him. I promised, C-Croft." he stuttered, watching me with fear in his baby blue eyes. It is an expression that I have never before witnessed coming from my brother, and now I pray nearly every day since that I never have to see it again. Even to this day, I don't know why I didn't just take Sherlock despite his protests. Instead I followed his and Joshua's gaze.

Standing about twenty feet away is a snow covered well, and I carry Sherlock toward it when he practically begs me to. With every step closer to it, the boy relaxes a bit more in my arms until he is just dead weight. Placing him carefully on the ground, Joshua and I watch as he stumbles to the well and leans over it. "Harry!" he calls as much as his voice allows him to. I take a deep breath, but manage to control myself. If he is hallucinating, things could be worse than I originally thought. "Harry!" he calls again, leaning forward until his top half is hanging over it.

I hurry forward and grab his waist to keep him from falling, just in time to hear a noise from the inside of the well. I still immediately and listen carefully. A rustling and a muffled groan from the darkness of the pit comes to my ears, and grabbing my flashlight, I shine it into the well as Joshua looks into it with his own light shining. A breath explodes from my body as the light falls on the tiny form sprawled at the bottom.

It is a child!

Half covered with snow, the tiny waif stirs and manages to turn its head enough for me to see that it is a boy in much worse condition than my brother. Tattered clothing is clearly frozen stiff, and I know instinctively that even if I got him out, the odds that he would die were exponentially large.

But I couldn't just leave him there. Shoving my flashlight into Joshua's hands, I hurriedly pull Sherlock away from the well despite his protests. I touch his arm, "I'm going to get him out. I promise. Just stay with Joshua for me." Joshua protests, his voice angry, "You don't have the strength! When will you learn when to stop?" I ignore him and my aching body.

I have to give the boy a fighting chance. I have a truly terrible gut feeling that Sherlock would never forgive me if I leave him there, dying alone and miserable. I know I never would.

The well is about twelve feet deep, with slick sides worn down by the elements of nature over the decades. Judging quickly, I quickly see that I can drop to the bottom without falling onto the child if I am careful. Swinging my legs over the edge, I drop. Landing on my feet proves difficult. The bottom of the well is ice, and I slide as my feet touch it. My left knee lurches painfully as it slams into the stone wall, but I do my best to ignore it as I reach down and ever so carefully turn the frozen waif over.

He is probably around Sherlock's age, I suppose, though his body is smaller and much thinner than Sherlock's healthy frame. Dried blood covers his face from an ugly gash on his forehead, but even though it hides his features, dull green eyes watch me carefully. Unlike Sherlock, his body is shuddering from the cold though I can see he is close to death. Pulling my heavy sweater over my head, I somehow manage to get it onto the painfully light boy before taking my scarf off. Crouching, I pick the child up and swing him up over my shoulder. Using my scarf, I quickly tie it around both our bodies to hold him to me. I would need to use the rope to climb out, and both hands would be essential.

The end of a long rope suddenly falls in front of me, and I am grateful that Joshua had grabbed it before we left. Grabbing it, I give it an experimental tug to test its strength. It's sturdy enough. Already I am shivering, but I can hear shouts and noises of men coming in our direction. The others had come to help. I jump, my feet leaving the ground as I begin to scale the rope, my fingers numb and unfeeling as my body begins to shudder as the cold crept though me. It seems like a lifetime before I reach the top, but just as I begin to think that I won't make it, strong arms reach for me and pull me up and out with the child still strapped to me.

Lights flood the area and my eyes burn as they struggle to adjust. My scarf is quickly untied, and Harry is pulled from me. I turn too quickly, and my injured knee abruptly gives out. Crying out in pain, I fall to the ground before the roar of an engine suddenly sounds and my head shoots up to see what caused it.

A rough looking something has been turned on and I see Sherlock already bundled up and on it. I stand with the help of my groundskeeper and I go to the vehicle, sitting on it heavily. A heavy coat falls onto my shoulders and I wearily thank the stranger who gave it to me before casting a weary glance towards my brother. There are recent tear tracks on his face, his eyes red and swollen from the cold. He doesn't look at me, just at the small figure of the boy in Joshua's arms that he had nearly died to stay with because he promised he would.

Never in a million years would I ever have thought my little brother capable of such a thing.

Shouting to the driver of the thing to get moving, I gesture for Joshua to hand the waif to me. Gathering the boy close to my body, I sharply signal for the driver to go when he hesitates. I am worried about Sherlock, but I fear for Harry. He is small and thin, and had probably been outside for entirely too long. It would just be the Holmes damn luck if he were to die. The first thing my brother shows a genuine interest in is a very sick boy, and I know that if the boy died, Sherlock would never be the same.

I can only hope we will get to the doctor in time, for both boys sakes.

-o-

Sitting in an overly large armchair, I stare into the roaring fireplace. The flame jumps and leaps in a strange monotone beat that I can almost hear; my eyes slowly begin to close as my head gets heavier by the minute.

No.

I have to stay awake. Both Sherlock and Harry were being treated by the best doctors in the entire country, though as soon as the snow let up Harry might have to be taken to the hospital.

A few minutes later, after shaking my head yet again in an attempt to keep myself awake, I don't hear one of the Doctors enter the room with Mummy at his heels before he clears his throat and I jump in surprise. I stand and turn towards them, though my left knee has been splinted tightly and it aches something fierce. It was heavily bruised, with a small crack in the kneecap. I did have orders to stay off of it as much as possible until I heal properly, though I can already tell them that that isn't going to happen.

I always did have problems following doctor's orders.

Dr. Davies is a middle aged man, with greying hair and a constant scowl on his face. He has been the private doctor of the Holmes for nearly five years, and has always managed to make me feel like a naughty child whenever I (rarely) injure myself.

The doctor sits heavily on the nearby futon, his body slumping. He has been working on both boys for nearly four hours, trying to stabilize them along with the other doctor, Dr. Umbra. I can see he is tired, but it means nothing to me. He is paid, very well paid, to keep the Holmes family as healthy as possible.

"Sherlock will physically be fine, given a few weeks to recover. He has a mild case of hypothermia, and a bit of frostbite on his fingers and toes, but with careful attention there will be no long term damage," the doctor sighed, his eyebrows heavy as he shifted in his seat.

I slump a bit, my mind repeating his words over and over again in my mind. He's fine. He will be fine. Thank the gods. A weight has been lifted from my chest, and I feel a hundred times better than a mere minute ago. I look at Mummy, a small smile on my face and I see her teary eyes. She is as happy as I am that our youngest family member is relatively unharmed.

My attention returns to the doctor as he takes a deep breath, "Harry on the other hand, if that is truly the boy's name, is not so fortunate. He is in critical condition; severe frostbite, hypothermia, and he has a few broken bones. He does have a concussion, and seemed either unable, or unwilling to speak to myself or anyone else. He kept staring at the door before we got him to sleep. I will be staying up with him through the night to deal with any further complications." He pauses and glances at Mummy, as though unsure if she should be hearing this. "There is no doubt in my mind that the boy is homeless. His clothing is not fit to be even rags, and they were obviously not bought for him. Most of it is either too big, or too small. He also seemed more than a bit surprised that we were bothering to take care of him."

I sit back in my chair.

This complicates things; but it shouldn't be too hard to either find the boy's family or put him in the system. But even as I think this, a picture formed in my mind of a distraught Sherlock repeating over and over 'I promised him, C-Croft. I can't leave him. I promised.' Depending on how things go, perhaps we could keep the lad for a bit-

No.

No, the last thing we need is another out of control youngster like Sherlock causing disruptions and mayhem. If he even lives of course, my mind whispers traitorously to me.

I shake the thought from my mind. We'll take things one small step at a time. At the very least we will search for the boy's family, and then I'll decide on which path to take. First, we had to keep Harry alive and get him better before anything else happens.

I stand with a groan, getting a disapproving look from Dr. Davies, "I'd like to see Sherlock alone, and then the Doctor and I will visit Harry. It's time you retired Mummy; I will wake you if something happens." I say, getting a nod from Mummy before she leaves the room, calling for her personal maid to help ready her for bed. I turn to Dr. Davies and watch him for a long moment and he manages to give himself away unconsciously. His fingers twitch as though he doesn't know what to do with them, while he licks his lips nervously.

"What are you not telling me?" I demand.

He stands also, and pulls something out of his pocket before offering it to me. I take the small necklace and stare at it, incomprehensively for a long moment before my mind comes back to me with a rush. It is a small and very old pendant, pure gold and oval in shape. But that isn't what sets my mind to racing. It's the set of arms portrayed on it. An old engraved picture of two anvils crossed and a Latin motto are clear, though battered.

"We will Survive," I murmur, translating it. A terrible picture forms in my mind of the family this belongs to.

The Potter Family had been as old as the Holmes', but its members had dwindled significantly the past few hundred years until Lord James Potter was the last known heir alive. He had married below his class, to an up and coming young artist Lily Evangeline Evans and they had a son, Harrison Alexander Potter.

The elite class had been angry at James for destroying the family's 'pure' blood with middle class riff-raff like Lily, but the young man hadn't cared. He had been in love and told everyone to mind their own business and to leave his small family alone.

Everything had been going well, though they kept to themselves after their son's birth. Hardly anyone ever saw them out and about; they mainly stayed on their large estate where James managed his business from there.

That is, until two years ago, when a disgruntled employee of the Potters deliberately set the house on ablaze in a fit of rage. Everyone in the building had been killed, burned alive, and not one poor soul had managed to escape. The exits had been blocked off and no one had been able to escape the inferno.

Everyone had been confirmed dead after the remains were DNA tested, except for the Heir to the Potter fortune and lands. The bobbies had been unable to confirm the boy was dead, though it was of a general consensus that he must be.

But he wasn't; because the child is lying in one of the Oliver's many guest bedrooms, dying.

I am suddenly overwhelmed with the repercussions of my younger brother finding him. If he lived, Harry Potter would be one of the most influential, wealthy young men in the country-when he grew up of course. Furthermore, the Potter and Holmes Families were old friends, having a sworn alliance dating back to nearly six centuries ago. My heart beating rapidly in my chest, I clutch the locket to me after dismissing the Doctor with a quick nod.

He is my responsibility now.

I cannot fail him.


Authoress Note:

More than four and a half thousand words, and eight pages later, I wind up with this.

So, what do you think? It's… very different than what I had planned before I started writing it, but after a while my fingers refused to obey my mind. I am honestly unsure on whether or not this is 'complete', since it was an unplanned muse!baby so I am leaving it up to you, my readers. Would you like to see more of this? In who's POV? Shoot me a review so I can get a feel for what you all want. Though to be honest, it probably won't be more than a few chapters (of this length).

*For those of you who are reading Why So Sirius, I have a poll up on my page on Harry's Animagus form in that story. For my HP/Twilight crossover readers, I may create a poll for who you think Leah should Imprint on- Paul and Harry are out of the running, of course.*