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holmesticeTitle: Five Times John Was In St. Mungo’s (And One Time He Wasn’t)
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raina_at
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: gen-ish (hints of S/J)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~7000
Warnings: Uh. A bit of war trauma, I guess?
Summary: HP AU of ASiP. John’s an Auror invalidated from the war, and the quiet life of a Healer at St. Mungo’s just isn’t enough. He can’t think of a way out, though, until a consulting detective named Sherlock barges into his life.
Notes: Hi there, raina_at! *waves* This fic was crazy hard to write, and I’m not really sure how it was created in the first place. I think it went something like, AU! Boarding school! Hogwarts is a boarding school! Therefore, Harry Potter AU! …or something like that. John’s pretty awesome all on his own in ASiP, and I tried to carry that over into this fic. It’s not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you like it anyway! ^^
Five Times John Was In St. Mungo’s (And One Time He Wasn’t)
1. Spell Damage Floor: Ward #21
The fact that he woke up at all was rather surprising, really. The last thing John could remember before he woke up in St. Mungo’s was a great big bolt of blue light coming towards him and drilling straight into his shoulder. And then pain, lots of it, until he somewhat mercifully lost consciousness.
The War’s over. John should know; he’s been in the thick of it and has a deep scar on his shoulder that even the Healers couldn’t fix. That doesn’t stop the nightmares, apparently, and the fact that he can’t seem to walk straight even on his perfectly healthy (yet not) leg.
It could be worse, he supposes. He’s not an Auror anymore, but at least he’s got his extensive medical training to fall back on. When Mike Stamford offers him a job as a Healer, John takes it even though he’s never been that fond of pure healing. Potions and Plant Poisoning isn’t really his thing, but he’ll get by. It’s quiet in the wards, not like Spell Damage; it’s almost…peaceful. Maybe peaceful is exactly what he needs to shake the ghosts away.
(It’s not.)
2. Potions and Plants Poisoning Floor: Office
When Lestrade, his old captain in the Aurors, Floos him for a favor, John doesn’t hesitate. “We need to move somebody to a private ward,” Lestrade says through the fireplace. “No visitors. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” John says, somewhat bemused. “Top-secret patient?”
“Top-secret enough that we’ll give him a pseudonym for your records,” Lestrade answers grimly.
Something tightens in John’s chest. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to shake off the feeling. “Right,” John says. “How about the classics? I like John Doe.”
“You would,” Lestrade says, sounding amused. “No, but seriously, John, no visitors. We’re trying to keep all this under wraps for now.”
“Should I be expecting any to kick down my door?”
Lestrade makes a face. “There’s one,” he says reluctantly. “Tall, skinny, unhealthily pale, and also, just a tiny bit obsessed. You can’t mistake him for anyone else. Name of Sherlock. Try to keep him out. He’ll do anything to see our Mr. Doe. Don’t fall for it if he cries; it’s all show.”
“Sherlock,” John says, scribbling something down. “All right, I’ll keep an eye out.” He pauses. “Do I want to know why he’ll be hunting John Doe down? He’s not a Death Eater, is he?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I hope not. We’re chasing a case,” Lestrade sighs. “Sherlock thinks he can help. Well, to be honest, he probably could, but…” Lestrade waves an hand vaguely. “Just don’t let him in. I’m trying to cut down the number of potential felonies he commits.”
“He sounds like an interesting man,” John notes.
“He’s interesting all right,” Lestrade says. “If he shows up, distract him. He gets rowdy enough, Owl me and I’ll Apparate in.”
John snorts, and the knot in his chest tightens further. “I think I can handle one angry civilian by myself, Lestrade.”
“Most angry civilians, yeah,” Lestrade says. He looks at John, who forces his best fake smile. “Look, it’s nothing on you, John, but I have problems with him, too. Every damn day.”
“Right,” John says. “I know. I’ll see you later?”
“See you,” Lestrade says, and there’s a pop as he vanishes from the fireplace. John sits at his desk for a moment, trying to still the sudden tremor in his left hand. He takes a deep breath, then another, but the knot in his chest doesn’t go away.
((()))
Potions and Plant Poisioning is one of the quieter floors in St. Mungo’s, and John’s is perhaps quieter than most. That’s the reason why the commotion surprises him as as much as it does, and old instinct accounts for the quick-fired, “Silencio!” that shuts the stranger up. “Sarah,” John says, addressing his fellow Healer. “What’s going on?”
“Intruder on the grounds, John,” she says grimly. He notices that her hand is clenched tightly around her own wand, which is surprising since Sarah usually goes unruffled by all but the most dire circumstances. “This man wants to interrogate our John Doe.”
The stranger rolls his eyes and makes what would’ve been a dismissing snort if not for the silencing charm. John frowns and takes a closer look at him. The man’s tall, almost irritatingly so, with a dark mop of curls and waxy pale skin. “Ah,” John says slowly, realization dawning. “You’d be Sherlock, then. Lestrade warned me about you.”
“Lestrade mentioned him?” Sarah says with a frown. “What does he have to do with this man breaking into P&PP?”
“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock breaks in suddenly, and John startles a little at realizing that his charm’s been broken so fast. “He’s out there chasing his own tail and acting like a complete child by not letting me talk to the patient.”
“Right, like you’ve got room to talk,” John mutters. “I’ll handle this, Sarah,” he adds as he moves to block Sherlock’s entrance into the room. Sarah gives them a wary look but heads off. “We’ve given him enough Dreamless Sleep to knock out a thestral,” John says to Sherlock. “Whatever it is you want, you’re going to have to wait.”
Sherlock gives him a thoroughly disdainful look. “I don’t need him conscious, I just need to see him.”
“What, are you a relative?” John says, crossing his arms. “Lestrade said that I’d have a job trying to stop you, and clearly he was right.”
“Is Lestrade your keeper?” Sherlock says scathingly. John doesn’t rise to the bait as he grips Sherlock’s arm and pulls him away from the door. “He is, isn’t he? Or he was your captain, at least. You’re a former Auror invalidated from the last War, most likely the result of a curse that left you with a psychosomatic limp in your leg. Can’t run anymore, and more importantly, your spell hand isn’t steady enough that they’ll trust your wand on a battlefield. You’re in Potions and Plant Poisoning because it doesn’t require decent spellwork, but to be honest your potions work is nothing to write home about either.” As John stops to stare at him, Sherlock gives him a razor-thin smile. “More importantly, you want to let me in to see the patient because you’re curious. You’re curious about who he is, who I am, and now, what I can do.”
John works his jaw for a moment before finally saying, “Lestrade didn’t tell me you could do that.”
“Oh? And what did Lestrade say?”
“That you were obsessed,” John says honestly. “And that you’d do anything to see the patient. So far you’ve both insulted me and tried to appeal to my curiosity.”
“Is it working?”
John pauses. Sherlock looks almost hopeful, and John has to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “No,” John says decisively. “Even if Lestrade wasn’t—or hadn’t been—my keeper, I’m still a Healer and part of my job is to keep patients from being disturbed.”
“You don’t even want to be a Healer,” Sherlock mutters. “You specialized in healing at the academy because you thought it’d be useful, but St. Mungo’s is boring you out of your mind.”
John takes a deep breath and acknowledges the truth in the words. Finally, he says, “That’s true. How did you know that, by the way?”
“Know what?” And damned if Sherlock isn’t giving him an almost sly, sideways glance. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Right,” John says, drawing the word out. “Well, then. Give me two good reasons why I shouldn’t throw you out right now.”
“Because it might save lives,” Sherlock says, and he’s suddenly up close in John’s face and looking positively manic. “Lestrade and his merry men are off chasing their own tails and completely missing the werewolf under their noses. People are going to die, do you understand me?”
“And only you can save them?” John says dryly.
Sherlock pauses, and like a switch, the maniacal look vanishes. “Yes,” he says. “Hmm. That didn’t work. Was it because Lestrade warned you, or do you have some heretofore unknown talent for Leglimancy?”
“I’ll keep you guessing,” John says.
“Well, what I said is mostly true,” Sherlock says, “although it was a bit more theatrical than strictly required. I need to see Coulson.”
“Not today you don’t,” John says as he grips Sherlock’s arm and steers him away from the door. He takes a deep breath and says casually, “And what do you think happened to Coulson, anyway? What’s so important?”
Sherlock casts him a sidelong, almost sly, glance. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” John says lightly. As a moment goes by, he says, “Tell me how you knew all those things about me.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock says, and yes, he’s definitely toying with John now. “By the way, you’re changing the subject and it’s not very subtle.”
“And I’ll change it again,” John replies. “Who are you? For all I know, you could be a Death Eater out to revive You-Know-Who. Lestrade said that you weren’t, but he didn’t sound very certain. I know your name, but that’s it. So. Out with it. Who are you and what do you want?”
Sherlock crosses his arms, and for all his height, he gives off an air suspiciously similar to that of a petulant child. “The Death Eaters were imbeciles,” he says finally. “I’ll thank you not to insult me by calling me by that name. And as to your question, I’m the world’s only consulting detective.”
John digests this. “I didn’t even know those even existed,” he says.
“Yes, well, there’s a lot you don’t know,” Sherlock says dismissively. “When the Aurors are out of their depth—frequently, it seems, if you and Lestrade are examples—then they come to me.”
“Last time I checked, the Aurors don’t consult amateurs,” John says, crossing his arms. “And Lestrade asked me to keep you away. That doesn’t sound like he’s consulting you at all.”
Sherlock looks him up and down. John meets those gray eyes defiantly, refusing to give in. “Since Lestrade knows you well-enough to ask a favor of you, that means that you’ve had a long acquaintance with him, either here at St. Mungo’s or in the Aurors. From your quick reactions, not to mention your military posture, I’m going to go with Auror. Former Auror. Why did you leave? Because of injury that caused amongst other things, a bad leg. The way you stand now, though, indicates that you’ve forgotten about it, which means that it’s clearly psychosomatic. You’re in Potions and Plant Poisoning because of shoddy spellwork. The Aurors, for all their failings, try to maintain a certain degree of competency, but the way I could break easily through your Silencio charm indicates that you’re not as good at wandwork as you once were. Your left hand was trembling slightly when you lowered your wand, so accuracy would be a question as well. From the look on your face when you saw the commotion I caused, it was positively the most exciting thing to happen to you all day. Ergo, you’re a former Auror who’s bored, curious, and also incompetent.” He takes a breath. “But you were right about one thing.”
John blinks. “I was?”
“The Aurors don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock says.
John inhales and lets the breath out carefully. He waits for his thoughts to reorder themselves into something coherent, but it takes a bit longer than expected. “That’s fantastic,” he says finally. “Absolutely extraordinary.”
“So you’ll let me in?” Sherlock says, sounding hopeful.
John laughs. “No,” he says, but he can’t help smiling a little at Sherlock’s persistance. “But,” he adds as Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, “you can have a cup of tea, if you like.”
Sherlock looks taken aback. “What?”
“I haven’t poisoned it, promise,” John says cheerfully. “Besides, I’m clearly incompetent, remember?”
“This isn’t the time for tea,” Sherlock says, and John grins at the lost look on his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s always time for tea, Sherlock,” John says. “I’d call you by your last name, but I don’t know it. All right, so here’s how it’s going to go. We’ll go to my office, I’ll pour us both some tea, and you can either decide to drink it or go back to wherever you came from. Once there, you can then decide whether to plead your case before Lestrade or just leave well enough alone, but somehow I don’t think you’ll do that. Either way, though, you’re not getting to Coulson today.”
Sherlock’s jaw works for a minute. Finally, he says, “Holmes.”
“Pardon?”
“Sherlock Holmes. But call me Sherlock.”
“John Watson,” John says, offering a hand. Sherlock shakes it. “My office is just around the corner.”
“I won’t be staying for tea, thanks all the same,” Sherlock says. “Places to go, Lestrade to bother.”
“You’re not going to let Coulson go peacefully to his grave, are you,” John says, amused. “So I’ll be seeing you again? Soon, I expect. You’re not the type to let go, evidently.”
Sherlock regards him for a moment before sweeping away, his robes flapping in a truly melodramatic motion. “Neither are you,” he calls out. “You’ll be seeing me again,” he adds, and then disappears from the hall.
3. Potions and Plant Poisoning Floor: Ward #9
He doesn’t see Sherlock later that day, nor the next day, nor the day after that. John looks at Coulson once or twice, trying to figure out if he can deduce something from the man’s unconscious state, but all he can tell is that the man poisoned himself with dittany. And even that was because of diagnostic spells, not pure reasoning.
Sherlock finally shows up three days after their initial meeting, this time with a very harrassed-looking Lestrade in tow. “He’s all yours,” Lestrade snaps as the two of them enter P&PP. “Now go and make yourself useful.”
Sherlock looks like a kid on Christmas day, and John’s wave to him goes unnoticed as Sherlock barrels into Coulson’s ward. Lestrade leans against the doorway, looking incredibly cross, and John wavers for a moment before going to wait by him. “You all right there?” he asks.
“He’s a child,” Lestrade grumbles, glaring at Sherlock’s back. “A great big childish prat who’s entirely too smart for his own good.”
John looks up at the great big childish prat, who, despite being less than ten feet away, doesn’t seem to have heard. “Ah,” John says diplomatically. “Bad day, then?”
“Don’t you know it,” Lestrade grumbles. “He’s been at me for the past few days. Just won’t let up. And on top of all that, there’s work, and—well.”
“A matter of national security, is it?” John asks, trying to sound casual.
Lestrade gives him a sideways look. “Something like that,” he says, though there’s a note of apology in his voice. “Sorry, John.”
“No problem,” John says, trying not to let the rejection show. “I’m surprised that you gave up so quickly,” he says. It’s a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but Lestrade, if he realizes it, doesn’t let it show. “Anderson used to have to whine for a week to get you to change his assignment.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell Anderson this, but Sherlock’s a bit better at using what he has,” Lestrade says wryly. “And more importantly, getting to what he doesn’t have.”
“Anderson’s an idiot, and if he hasn’t realized that already then it’s no use pounding it into his head,” Sherlock calls crisply from across the room. “Lestrade, you don’t need to stay, I know you’ve got your own tail to chase in circles.”
“Charming as ever, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. He looks at John. “I do have to go, though. Needs must and all. Potter’s holding a meeting in thirty minutes about the…ah…incident.” He looks apologetic again, and John feels something hot and tight squirm in his chest. “Get him to Owl me with his findings, will you?”
“Will do,” John manages.
He doesn’t watch Lestrade leave, because it feels too much like seeing the entire first half of his life walk away with him. Instead, he turns his attention to Sherlock, who’s still busy muttering over the corpse like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. John leans against the wall and watches as Sherlock leans over and begins inspecting every minute detail, from the bruises on his face to the hair on his arms. No doubt he’s finding a whole lot more than John can.
(On second thought, though, John’s not entirely sure that’s a gift.)
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks when Sherlock finally raises his head and sucks in a deep breath like he’s rising up from underwater.
“What?” Sherlock asks, his eyes refocusing on John. “Oh. Right. Lestrade’s an idiot.”
“That seems to be your standard opinion of the world in general,” John tells him dryly.
“That would be because the world is populated by idiots,” Sherlock tells him. “I need to Owl Lestrade. Right now. He’s got it all wrong as per usual. I’m surprised his nose didn’t trip him over the smell of aconite. He needs to—”
“You can use my owl,” John offers. Sherlock whirls to face him, and John raises an eyebrow at the almost manic look on his face. “My office is close by, and anyway, Healers’ owls are a grade above what you’ll find at the Owlery downstairs.”
Sherlock pauses. “Oh,” he says after visibly gathering himself. “I’ll do that.” He heads for the door and makes it all the way out into the hallway before turning around, the question clear on his face. John has to laugh a little as he takes the lead, directing Sherlock to his office.
Gladstone, John’s owl, seems wary of Sherlock, but he calms down when John feeds him a treat. Sherlock grabs a quill from John’s desk and scribbles down something on a piece of parchment. “Here,” he says, handing John the scrap of folded parchment. John looks at it for a moment—it seems awfully thin for something that could inspire such madness—and ties it to Gladstone’s leg. The owl hoots softly before taking wing and flying out the window.
“So I suppose you’ve saved the world?” John asks as Gladstone disappears from sight. “Must be hard work, doing whatever it is you do.” He pauses. “Is this what you do all day? Collect cryptic hints?”
Sherlock looks at him. “Those ‘hints’ are possibly the only things keeping your clueless Auror friends from tripping over their own robes,” he says acerbically.
“And you’re quite the charmer,” John says. “At least you’re using your powers for good. Will you be featured in The Daily Prophet? ‘Concerned Citizen Saves Innocents’?”
“I’m hardly concerned,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m curious. Much like you, only more intellectually so.” He gives that thin smile again, and then waves a hand. “You’re curious about the case. Don’t need to be me to tell that.”
“Does that ego of yours ever get any bigger?” John asks, crossing his arms. “Mind you, it might be well-deserved, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.”
Sherlock eyes him for a moment. “Have you ever tangled with a werewolf?” he asks abruptly.
John blinks at the non sequitur. “What werewolf? There were no werewolf bite marks. The poor man overdosed from dittany poisoning, hence why he’s in Potions and Plants Poisoning.”
“You missed the tell-tale wolfsbane scars on his wrists,” Sherlock tells him with no little smugness. “Almost invisible unless you know what you’re looking for, but no one gets away from brewing such a tricky potion without at least a few burn marks. That’s one of the minor hazards of selling black-market Wolfsbane, though. Idiot.”
“Wolfsbane?” John echoes. “Lestrade’s chasing a werewolf?”
“Some of Fenrir’s old friends,” Sherlock says, toying with the quill. He eyes John for a moment. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”
He doesn’t sound smug anymore, just speculative. John takes a deep breath and stares at the walls of his office—his crowded, comfy office with a sleeping bag squashed in the corner. “I’m not about to run out and tell the Prophet,” he says after a moment. “And if there are werewolves, I’m sure Lestrade and the patrol can handle it.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock says. He eases himself into a chair, blue eyes fixed intently on John. “You’re wasted in Potions and Plant Poisoining.”
“I thought I was just barely competent enough,” John returns, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer to that, and John makes a point of returning his steady gaze. Finally, Sherlock’s eyes flicker away to take in the room, and John winces slightly at what he knows Sherlock’s seeing. He’s been sleeping in his office for the past few weeks. He’s got a flat, but it feels empty enough that he doesn’t feel any inclination to stay there. “It’s a bit of a mess,” he allows as Sherlock’s gaze returns to him after a leisurely inspection of his office. “I don’t usually get visitors, though.”
“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks abruptly.
John blinks. It comes out of nowhere, but John’s beginning to sense a pattern to Sherlock’s randomness. “It’s a Muggle instrument,” he says cautiously. “I’ve listened to it once or twice. It’s nice.”
“My parents insisted that my brother and I study the Muggle arts,” Sherlock says. “Something about peaceful coexistence. If the Muggles knew what we really were, though, they’d no doubt try to exterminate us. They wouldn’t have much success, but they’d try anyway. It’s only natural.”
“That’s a pessimistic view to take of things,” John says slowly. “Any particular reason bringing this on?”
“The Muggle police are calling them the Thames River murders,” Sherlock says almost absently. “Every full moon for the past couple of months, a body has been deposited near the banks of the Thames. Our friend Coulson was deposited a week before schedule, and the Aurors picked him up before the Muggles did. Interesting, isn’t it? The Muggle police are baffled.”
John swallows. “They’re often at a loss when it comes to magical crimes,” he says carefully. “Wait. So does that mean we can expect another body in a week?”
“Well, more like four days, since Lestrade took so long to let me see Coulson,” Sherlock says, staring off into space. “Whoever this killer is, though, he’s rather sneakier than your usual full-moon predator. Probably due to the illegal potion he’s been acquiring to help him keep his mind in control. His supplier hasn’t been completely honest concerning the Wolfsbane, though, and there were probably a few detrimental side effects. When our little friend tried to pay him a visit and convince him of the error of his ways, Coulson poisoned himself in a rather unsuccessful attempt to commit suicide.”
“But without Wolfsbane—tainted as it is—”
“London’s going to have a bit of problem in four days,” Sherlock says almost cheerfully, and John raises an eyebrow at his tone. Sherlock leans forward, eyes alight. “The Muggles don’t have a clue, naturally, as to what’s really going on. The Aurors, I’m afraid to say, fare little better.”
“And I suppose you’re just two steps away from stopping them,” John says.
Sherlock pauses. “Well, maybe three,” he says after a moment. “I’ll get there, though.” He stands up abruptly. “After all, we can’t wait for the Aurors to do everything for us.”
“Of course not,” John murmurs.
“But of course, you’re not an Auror, so I suppose I can’t insult a professional pride that no longer exists,” Sherlock says delicately. “You’re needed right where you are, Healer Watson.”
John takes a moment to gather his thoughts, looking at Sherlock with a perfectly blank expression. All right, the words deeper than they really should—after all, John is a Healer now, isn’t he? It’s a good profession, nothing to be ashamed of. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself against the desk, noting absently that his left hand is shaking slightly. “That’s right,” he says finally. “Very busy.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock laces his fingers together, staring off into the distance. John takes another deep breath and carefully smooths his fingers flat out on the surface of the desk. There’s a prolonged moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.
“You weren’t completely incompetent, were you.”
John’s head jerks up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.. “Excuse me?” he says, and if his voice is a little sharper than usual, well, it’s not entirely unexpected.
“As an Auror,” Sherlock says. “I assume they had at least a few basic standards to live up to.”
John takes a deep breath before replying. “Before I got blasted?” he says slowly. “I was…good. Very good.”
“But you’re a Healer now,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed. “And Potions and Plant Poisoning must seem like paradise after the madness You-Know-Who caused.”
“It’s very peaceful, yes,” John says automatically.
“So you’ve seen enough for a lifetime,” Sherlock says. “I expect that you’ve had quite enough.”
“Far too much. Of course,” John says. He swallows hard. There’s a moment of silence, and then—
“Would you like to see more?” Sherlock asks.
“God, yes,” John breathes, and they’re out the door.
4. Potions and Plant Poisoning: Lounge
“Well, at least you’ve finally left St. Mungo’s. I mean, dedication to the job is one thing, but you were stagnating a bit, John.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“I mean it. You look better. Needed some color in your skin. Anyway, it’s not like you missed anything, unless you count the witch who was puking purple phlegm earlier. Bit of a nasty mess, that one. Oh, and your friend Lestrade dropped by.”
“Really? I didn’t expect him for a while. Did he leave a message for me?”
“Well, he wanted to know where you were. I thought you were in your office, but good on you, you finally got out! And for two whole days. Speaking of which, you are kind of a mess. Scourgify!”
“Mmph!”
“That’s better. At least the entrails are off your…wait. Entrails?”
“Ah. It’s a long story.”
“Clearly. What were you doing?”
“You know that man you wanted to hex a couple days ago?”
“I want to hex a lot of people, John. Common sense and my healer’s oath dictate that I don’t. Who in particular are we talking about?”
“Sherlock. Tall, pale bloke, curly black hair—”
“The one who kept trying to barge into Ward Six? What were you doing with him?”
“Ah…running, mostly.”
“And you picked up the entrails from…?”
“Those were an accident. We went to this seedy little Muggle apartment and, ah, it got a bit messy. It was interesting, though.”
“The entrails?”
“No! Well…it was interesting to watch him work.”
“Dear god, John, have you befriended a serial killer? We really don’t need another You-Know-Who floating around.”
“Ah, hell, I’m going about this all wrong, aren’t I? No. There’s…hmm. Lestrade and the others are trying to chase someone down, and so is Sherlock. Sherlock just might be a bit faster, though.”
“You still haven’t explained where the entrails come from.”
“Don’t worry, the Aurors on it. We might have done some minor vandalism, but, ah…”
“…”
“I did try to clean up afterwards?”
“Do I want to know what you were up to?”
“Nothing illegal, Sarah, I promise. I’m even on time for work!”
“Actually, you’re late by two minutes. Won’t hold it against you, though. It’s good to see you less mopey, John, even if what you’re doing does sound rather…odd? Are you sure this Sherlock isn’t a secret You-Know-Who wanna-be?”
“Actually, he thinks that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were amateurs. Not terribly reassuring, I know.”
“Ha bloody ha. I’m surprised he didn’t take them all down single-handedly if that’s the case. John, are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“…No.”
“…”
“That’s probably the best bit, though.”
“Are you two about to save the world or something?”
“Well, maybe not the world, but a good bit of it.”
“What does he do exactly, this Sherlock? He’s not an Auror, is he?”
“No, I think he’d find being an Auror boring. He’s a consulting detective. No, I’ve no real what idea what that means, but like I said, it involves quite a bit of running about.”
“Well, if it got you out for some fresh air…just don’t do anything illegal, all right? I’d hate to have to bail you from Azkaban. So does that mean you’re going to actually use your flat in Diagon Alley now instead of camping out here all the time?”
“Haven’t gone quite that far, Sarah. Actually, I’m thinking about dropping the lease entirely.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, I hardly ever use it, you know?”
“But you might! And now that you’re actually getting out more, who knows, you might want someplace to kip besides St. Mungo’s. Your office isn’t really that big, John.”
“I’m well aware. It’s just…”
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
“Nothing, Sarah.”
“Hmm.”
“Really.”
“You’re a terrible liar, John, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Sherlock might have mentioned it once or twice last night. Am I really that bad?”
“Don’t ever go into politics.”
“Ta, Sarah.”
“Don’t ask if you can’t handle it, John. Anyway. Today’s your turn to man the apparate-in clinic.”
“Oh, my favorite. I just love getting vomit all over my robes.”
“Today’s your lucky day.”
“Clearly. I’ll see you later, Sarah.”
“See you, John.”
((()))
“Next time, it’s two rat spleens, not mice,” John tells the unfortunate man in front of him. “There’s a difference.” The man looks back at him indignantly and seems to want to protest the integrity of his potion-making skills, but the fact that his teeth seemed to have been glued together prevent him. John writes down instructions for the antidote and sends him on his way.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. The apparate-in clinic is easy, for the most part, but it can also be mindnumbingly boring. Sometimes, he wonders how half the patients managed to pass Potions 101 in primary school without burning their own eyebrows off. After yesterday’s escapade with Sherlock, it all seems even more lackluster than usual. John takes a deep breath and steels himself before pulling the next chart from his inbox. “Bruce Partington,” he reads. “Come on in.”
Partington is a tall wizard dressed in diminutive brown robes, and he seats himself in the chair with the air of a man who’s not used to having to wait in a line. “That won’t be necessary,” he says as John reaches for his wand to begin diagnostics. “If you’ll excuse the overkill, Healer…”
The man flicks his wand once. The door to the room slides closed, and the shades draw themselves together with an almost apologetic swish. John’s heart starts beating at double pace as adrenaline floods his veins, instincts left from old wars and old trauma. He takes a deep breath and looks at the man, who looks back at him with a calm smile. “You know,” John spits out tersely after a moment, “if you wanted to attack me, St. Mungo’s is possibly one of the worst places you could do it in.” He reaches for his wand and grips it—not tightly, but ready to bring it up in a split-second’s notice.
“On the contrary,” Partington says. “I’m not here to attack you, but if I were…well, that’s a different story entirely.” He pauses and then leans back. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m listening,” John says warily. “Not that I’ve got any choice, it seems.”
“What were you doing yesterday night, Healer Watson?”
John keeps his face blank even as his fingers tighten slightly around his wand. “And that matters to you how?”
“What happens to Sherlock Holmes is naturally a matter of my concern,” Partington says smoothly. “It’s interesting that he’s taking you into his confidence, Healer. Running around London together, in the dark of the night? There’s the moon to guide you, but we all know that does funny things to people, doesn’t it?”
John takes in a deep breath, allowing none of his questions to show. Finally, he says, “Isn’t that interesting.”
“You’re doing quite well for yourself, John Watson,” the man says, looking idly up at the ceiling. “Former Auror, invalidated from the war. Muggleborn, yet you managed to conceal your lineage well enough to pass during the times of Umbridge. Well done. Perhaps you’re not quite as bad a liar as previously speculated—”
“I’m a half-blood,” John says sharply.
Partington pauses. “Of course you are,” he says mildly. “My mistake. Of course. Not that it matter, does it? Wizarding Britain is more open these days than ever.”
John stands up. He’s giving too much away, he thinks, but his heart is pounding hard in his chest, urging him towards action. He lifts his wand slightly, not enough to be a threat, but enough to warn. “What do you want?” he asks.
“Information on Holmes,” Partington says. He stands up as well, and it’s slightly more effective as he has more height on him. John meets his gaze squarely, determined not to be intimidated. “I’d like to recompense you for your trouble, of course. A Healer’s wage only goes so far, doesn’t it?”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” John says, keeping his voice firm, polite, and absolutely bland. “We’ve only just met, and I’m sure I couldn’t help you at all, Partington.” He says the name with perhaps a bit more acid than usual, but there’s a sudden burning certainty that Partington is definitely not this man’s real name. And whoever he is, whatever his business is, John wants nothing to do with it.
“You’re very loyal to someone you’ve just met,” Partington observes with that mild, infuriating smile on his face. “Sherlock doesn’t make friends easily.”
“I see,” John says, struggling to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “It’s been interesting to meet you, Partington.”
Partington laughs softly, and John stiffens. “I think you’ll find more interesting things than I if you hang around Sherlock Holmes long enough.” He inclines his head. “That is what you’re hoping for, isn’t it, Healer Watson?” He pauses as if waiting for an answer.
John refuses to give him one. The man taps his wand once on the table. It’s an idle motion and seemingly nothing occurs, but John braces himself nonetheless. “Tsk,” Partington says. “I can see that I’m not welcome.” He taps his wand again. John nearly hexes him, but stops himself at the last moment as the only thing to happen is that the curtains fly open. “I’ll be on my way, then,” Partington says. “One piece of advice, Healer—if he asks you, you should say yes.”
“Excuse me?” John says flatly.
“A Healer’s office is incredibly small, and you won’t use your flat because you think it’s too empty,” Partington says calmly. “Sharing a flat with someone else, though, would change the situation markedly.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” John says, ice creeping up his spine. “And how the hell do you know so much about me, anyway?”
Partington smiles. “Good day, Healer,” he says. He turns in a swirl of robes much in the same melodramatic fashion as Sherlock and heads out the door, leaving John standing in dazed silence.
5. Spell Damage Floor: Lobby
John watches absently through the window of the consultation room as the parahealer flutters around Sherlock, checking his vitals and draping a big orange blanket over him. John can see Sherlock shape his lips around the words, “I’m fine,” but he doesn’t move to take the blanket off. Lestrade walks over to talk quietly to Sherlock, and there’s a moment in which Sherlock looks up at John before quickly looking away. John keeps his expression neutral, his wand clasped loosely between two fingers. It’s warm in his hand, the polished oak steady in his grasp, with no trace left of the Avada Kedavra he’d cast.
(He was an Auror. Retired or not, he’s still got some tricks up his sleeve.)
Lestrade sighs, clearly irritated, and pushes open the door. John looks up at him. “How is he?” he asks.
“Annoying as ever,” Lestrade says. “And he was right, which is the more infuriating bit, because he’ll think that running after werewolves is a safe way to spend a full moon night now.”
“It was a fluke?” John offers. “I’m sure almost dying taught him the error of his ways.”
“I don’t think anything short of actual death could teach Sherlock Holmes to slow down every once in a while,” Lestrade says dryly.
“Getting bitten?”
“He’d probably just find it fascinating,” Lestrade sighs. He gives John a sideways look. “Is this going to become habit, then?”
“What?” John asks.
“You hanging around waiting for Sherlock,” Lestrade says, gesturing. “God knows he could use someone to keep him out of danger, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“I don’t know,” John admits. “Probably. Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a crazy thing,” Lestrade says, “but then again, I think you’ve been slightly crazy since you left the Aurors. This is a not-so-surprising extension, if I’m going to be absolutely honest.” He rubs a hand across his face.
“Cheers, Lestrade.”
“It’s true.” Lestrade looks through the window at Sherlock. “I’ve got to go. We’ve got a body to clean. No more werewolf attacks, though, that’s a bright side.” He smiles a little sardonically. “Wizarding Britain can sleep safe once more.”
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” John says, amused.
“Yes, well, it means I can finally get a good night’s sleep,” Lestrade says tiredly. “I’ve been running ragged these past few days. Going to file my report, sign off on the case, and go to bed.” He waves a hand at John. “I’ll see you. Try not to get yourself killed, will you? And Sherlock, too. He’s an irritating git, but he doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Thanks for the concern,” John says. Lestrade salutes him lazily and heads off down the hall, soon disappearing from sight. John leans back against the wall, waiting for Sherlock to come out. It doesn’t take long—the man must have been waiting for Lestrade to leave. John keeps his expression steady as Sherlock pushes open the door and comes out into the hallway, but Sherlock probably can read it all anyway—mostly exasperation, but damned if he doesn’t feel a little indulgent of the man. “So,” John says. “Next time, try not to bait a werewolf during the full moon, yeah? Especially not one of Fenrir’s former friends.”
“Did you erase the Priori Incantatem?” Sherlock says quietly, his lips barely moving. “They probably won’t prosecute, but it’s good to be careful, just in case.”
John freezes for a moment, the blood rushing in his ears. Sherlock looks back at him, his gaze far too knowing. John sucks in a deep breath, searching Sherlock’s face—there’s no trace of accusation, just perhaps a hint of concern. “Yes,” John says finally. “I got rid of it, don’t worry.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says, and John relaxes at the sound. Sherlock unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders and shakes it out meditatively. “You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime,” he announces. “It might come in handy.”
“Hell, no,” John says quickly. He can just imagine the havoc Sherlock could wreak if he knew how to overcome Priori Incantatem. “For emergencies only, Sherlock. Today was one. What the hell were you thinking, anyway, playing chicken with a werewolf?”
Sherlock looks sulky. “The pseudo-Wolfsbane was a challenge,” he says, waving the blanket about for emphasis. “He wasn’t completely animalistic, but nor was he completely human. I wanted to see if I could beat him.”
“You idiot,” John says, meaning the words whole-heartedly. “You stupid, bloody idiot. Is this why you chase after crimes? For the adrenaline rush?”
Sherlock huffs. “No.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. I wasn’t worried, though. Knew you’d come charging around.”
“And you figured that how?” John asks, exasperated.
“Well, it’s been, what, a week since I first met you? And since then, you’ve run around half of London with me. I calculated that you most likely would come for me once you figured out how to track the blood.”
“And if I hadn’t? Or if I hadn’t gotten there in time?”
“You were an Auror. I’m sure that you remembered a thing or two.” Sherlock looks at him and hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Good job, by the way,” he says finally.
John looks back. That’s as close as Sherlock will ever get to thank you, he thinks with mildly resigned amusement. “Try not to make a regular habit of doing stupid things,” John says. He holds his hand out for the blanket, and Sherlock drops it into his hold as if relieved to be rid of it. “I can’t be around all the time, you know.”
Sherlock looks at him sharply. “Of course not,” he says after a moment. “You’re busy, no doubt. Being a Healer must occupy a lot of your time.”
“It’s a job,” John says, caution flaring up at the sudden change of Sherlock’s tone. “Are we really going to start this up again?”
“Well, you certainly live your occupation twenty-four seven, if your office is any indication,” Sherlock says. “Was this week an abnormality for you?”
John shrugs. “I don’t usually run around London like a madman, if that’s what you mean. As for living in my office, well, I don’t like my flat,” he says. “Thinking about giving it up, actually.”
“Are you now?” Sherlock says. “I’ve been thinking about moving into a different one, myself. The one I have now just isn’t sustainable.”
“You mean in terms of rent?” John asks, surprised.
“I mean in terms of able to live in it,” Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s my brother’s, but I think it’s about time I stopped having to rely on him for every little thing. He’s been making ominous noises lately, and I know not to stay where I’m not welcome.” He pauses. “I know a place. The rent’s a bit high, but I should be able to afford it with a flatmate.”
John opens his mouth and closes it again slowly. “Play the violin, do you?” he says finally.
“Constantly,” Sherlock says unapologetically. “Especially when I’m thinking. I’m very good at it, though.” He looks at John. “It would be a convenient arrangement for both of us.”
“Both of us?” John says, unable to hide the smile from his tone.
Sherlock looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t be shy, John. Next Thursday. The address is 221B Baker Street; it’s not terribly far from Diagon Alley. Interested?”
If he asks you, you should say yes.
He needs to find out who Partington is, John thinks, and decide whether or not whether to be amused or annoyed at the fact that the man’s advice seems strangely prophetic. There’s a lot of things he needs to sort out, especially the fact that he’s been following this man around for the past couple days, killed a werewolf for him, has no real idea who he is, and yet—
“Oh, hell with it,” John says. “I’ll be there.”
+1. 221B Baker Street
John works in Potions and Plants Poisoning. He’s used to strange ingredients in odd places, and to odd ailments at odd times of the day. Sherlock’s not the easiest flatmate to live with, but they manage surprisingly well. Sherlock’s penchant for playing the violin is annoying in the middle of the night, but during the rare evenings they’re home, John welcomes the lyrical strains.
Most of the time, though, they’re up and about all over London, usually with an exasperated Lestrade at their heels. They’re not all quite as dramatic as the first case, but it’s enough to still the tremors in John’s hand and keep the knot of jealousy away. That’s not to say that it’s all roses, of course. When not working a case (or during particularly twisty ones), Sherlock can descend into bouts of melancholy and petulance that last for days, but John’s faced down Death Eaters before. An overgrown temper tantrum is nothing in comparison.
221B Baker Street isn’t big like his Diagon Alley flat, but it’s comfortable in a way that the latter could never mimic. They should be sharing the space equally, more or less, but John soon finds that Sherlock, like a cat, has a knack of stretching out to fill all the available space.
(And it’s not just 221B, but also John’s head as well. Not that he minds, of course.)
(It’s much better than the silence.)
Recipient:
raina_atAuthor: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: gen-ish (hints of S/J)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~7000
Warnings: Uh. A bit of war trauma, I guess?
Summary: HP AU of ASiP. John’s an Auror invalidated from the war, and the quiet life of a Healer at St. Mungo’s just isn’t enough. He can’t think of a way out, though, until a consulting detective named Sherlock barges into his life.
Notes: Hi there, raina_at! *waves* This fic was crazy hard to write, and I’m not really sure how it was created in the first place. I think it went something like, AU! Boarding school! Hogwarts is a boarding school! Therefore, Harry Potter AU! …or something like that. John’s pretty awesome all on his own in ASiP, and I tried to carry that over into this fic. It’s not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you like it anyway! ^^
1. Spell Damage Floor: Ward #21
The fact that he woke up at all was rather surprising, really. The last thing John could remember before he woke up in St. Mungo’s was a great big bolt of blue light coming towards him and drilling straight into his shoulder. And then pain, lots of it, until he somewhat mercifully lost consciousness.
The War’s over. John should know; he’s been in the thick of it and has a deep scar on his shoulder that even the Healers couldn’t fix. That doesn’t stop the nightmares, apparently, and the fact that he can’t seem to walk straight even on his perfectly healthy (yet not) leg.
It could be worse, he supposes. He’s not an Auror anymore, but at least he’s got his extensive medical training to fall back on. When Mike Stamford offers him a job as a Healer, John takes it even though he’s never been that fond of pure healing. Potions and Plant Poisoning isn’t really his thing, but he’ll get by. It’s quiet in the wards, not like Spell Damage; it’s almost…peaceful. Maybe peaceful is exactly what he needs to shake the ghosts away.
(It’s not.)
2. Potions and Plants Poisoning Floor: Office
When Lestrade, his old captain in the Aurors, Floos him for a favor, John doesn’t hesitate. “We need to move somebody to a private ward,” Lestrade says through the fireplace. “No visitors. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” John says, somewhat bemused. “Top-secret patient?”
“Top-secret enough that we’ll give him a pseudonym for your records,” Lestrade answers grimly.
Something tightens in John’s chest. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to shake off the feeling. “Right,” John says. “How about the classics? I like John Doe.”
“You would,” Lestrade says, sounding amused. “No, but seriously, John, no visitors. We’re trying to keep all this under wraps for now.”
“Should I be expecting any to kick down my door?”
Lestrade makes a face. “There’s one,” he says reluctantly. “Tall, skinny, unhealthily pale, and also, just a tiny bit obsessed. You can’t mistake him for anyone else. Name of Sherlock. Try to keep him out. He’ll do anything to see our Mr. Doe. Don’t fall for it if he cries; it’s all show.”
“Sherlock,” John says, scribbling something down. “All right, I’ll keep an eye out.” He pauses. “Do I want to know why he’ll be hunting John Doe down? He’s not a Death Eater, is he?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I hope not. We’re chasing a case,” Lestrade sighs. “Sherlock thinks he can help. Well, to be honest, he probably could, but…” Lestrade waves an hand vaguely. “Just don’t let him in. I’m trying to cut down the number of potential felonies he commits.”
“He sounds like an interesting man,” John notes.
“He’s interesting all right,” Lestrade says. “If he shows up, distract him. He gets rowdy enough, Owl me and I’ll Apparate in.”
John snorts, and the knot in his chest tightens further. “I think I can handle one angry civilian by myself, Lestrade.”
“Most angry civilians, yeah,” Lestrade says. He looks at John, who forces his best fake smile. “Look, it’s nothing on you, John, but I have problems with him, too. Every damn day.”
“Right,” John says. “I know. I’ll see you later?”
“See you,” Lestrade says, and there’s a pop as he vanishes from the fireplace. John sits at his desk for a moment, trying to still the sudden tremor in his left hand. He takes a deep breath, then another, but the knot in his chest doesn’t go away.
((()))
Potions and Plant Poisioning is one of the quieter floors in St. Mungo’s, and John’s is perhaps quieter than most. That’s the reason why the commotion surprises him as as much as it does, and old instinct accounts for the quick-fired, “Silencio!” that shuts the stranger up. “Sarah,” John says, addressing his fellow Healer. “What’s going on?”
“Intruder on the grounds, John,” she says grimly. He notices that her hand is clenched tightly around her own wand, which is surprising since Sarah usually goes unruffled by all but the most dire circumstances. “This man wants to interrogate our John Doe.”
The stranger rolls his eyes and makes what would’ve been a dismissing snort if not for the silencing charm. John frowns and takes a closer look at him. The man’s tall, almost irritatingly so, with a dark mop of curls and waxy pale skin. “Ah,” John says slowly, realization dawning. “You’d be Sherlock, then. Lestrade warned me about you.”
“Lestrade mentioned him?” Sarah says with a frown. “What does he have to do with this man breaking into P&PP?”
“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock breaks in suddenly, and John startles a little at realizing that his charm’s been broken so fast. “He’s out there chasing his own tail and acting like a complete child by not letting me talk to the patient.”
“Right, like you’ve got room to talk,” John mutters. “I’ll handle this, Sarah,” he adds as he moves to block Sherlock’s entrance into the room. Sarah gives them a wary look but heads off. “We’ve given him enough Dreamless Sleep to knock out a thestral,” John says to Sherlock. “Whatever it is you want, you’re going to have to wait.”
Sherlock gives him a thoroughly disdainful look. “I don’t need him conscious, I just need to see him.”
“What, are you a relative?” John says, crossing his arms. “Lestrade said that I’d have a job trying to stop you, and clearly he was right.”
“Is Lestrade your keeper?” Sherlock says scathingly. John doesn’t rise to the bait as he grips Sherlock’s arm and pulls him away from the door. “He is, isn’t he? Or he was your captain, at least. You’re a former Auror invalidated from the last War, most likely the result of a curse that left you with a psychosomatic limp in your leg. Can’t run anymore, and more importantly, your spell hand isn’t steady enough that they’ll trust your wand on a battlefield. You’re in Potions and Plant Poisoning because it doesn’t require decent spellwork, but to be honest your potions work is nothing to write home about either.” As John stops to stare at him, Sherlock gives him a razor-thin smile. “More importantly, you want to let me in to see the patient because you’re curious. You’re curious about who he is, who I am, and now, what I can do.”
John works his jaw for a moment before finally saying, “Lestrade didn’t tell me you could do that.”
“Oh? And what did Lestrade say?”
“That you were obsessed,” John says honestly. “And that you’d do anything to see the patient. So far you’ve both insulted me and tried to appeal to my curiosity.”
“Is it working?”
John pauses. Sherlock looks almost hopeful, and John has to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “No,” John says decisively. “Even if Lestrade wasn’t—or hadn’t been—my keeper, I’m still a Healer and part of my job is to keep patients from being disturbed.”
“You don’t even want to be a Healer,” Sherlock mutters. “You specialized in healing at the academy because you thought it’d be useful, but St. Mungo’s is boring you out of your mind.”
John takes a deep breath and acknowledges the truth in the words. Finally, he says, “That’s true. How did you know that, by the way?”
“Know what?” And damned if Sherlock isn’t giving him an almost sly, sideways glance. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Right,” John says, drawing the word out. “Well, then. Give me two good reasons why I shouldn’t throw you out right now.”
“Because it might save lives,” Sherlock says, and he’s suddenly up close in John’s face and looking positively manic. “Lestrade and his merry men are off chasing their own tails and completely missing the werewolf under their noses. People are going to die, do you understand me?”
“And only you can save them?” John says dryly.
Sherlock pauses, and like a switch, the maniacal look vanishes. “Yes,” he says. “Hmm. That didn’t work. Was it because Lestrade warned you, or do you have some heretofore unknown talent for Leglimancy?”
“I’ll keep you guessing,” John says.
“Well, what I said is mostly true,” Sherlock says, “although it was a bit more theatrical than strictly required. I need to see Coulson.”
“Not today you don’t,” John says as he grips Sherlock’s arm and steers him away from the door. He takes a deep breath and says casually, “And what do you think happened to Coulson, anyway? What’s so important?”
Sherlock casts him a sidelong, almost sly, glance. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” John says lightly. As a moment goes by, he says, “Tell me how you knew all those things about me.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock says, and yes, he’s definitely toying with John now. “By the way, you’re changing the subject and it’s not very subtle.”
“And I’ll change it again,” John replies. “Who are you? For all I know, you could be a Death Eater out to revive You-Know-Who. Lestrade said that you weren’t, but he didn’t sound very certain. I know your name, but that’s it. So. Out with it. Who are you and what do you want?”
Sherlock crosses his arms, and for all his height, he gives off an air suspiciously similar to that of a petulant child. “The Death Eaters were imbeciles,” he says finally. “I’ll thank you not to insult me by calling me by that name. And as to your question, I’m the world’s only consulting detective.”
John digests this. “I didn’t even know those even existed,” he says.
“Yes, well, there’s a lot you don’t know,” Sherlock says dismissively. “When the Aurors are out of their depth—frequently, it seems, if you and Lestrade are examples—then they come to me.”
“Last time I checked, the Aurors don’t consult amateurs,” John says, crossing his arms. “And Lestrade asked me to keep you away. That doesn’t sound like he’s consulting you at all.”
Sherlock looks him up and down. John meets those gray eyes defiantly, refusing to give in. “Since Lestrade knows you well-enough to ask a favor of you, that means that you’ve had a long acquaintance with him, either here at St. Mungo’s or in the Aurors. From your quick reactions, not to mention your military posture, I’m going to go with Auror. Former Auror. Why did you leave? Because of injury that caused amongst other things, a bad leg. The way you stand now, though, indicates that you’ve forgotten about it, which means that it’s clearly psychosomatic. You’re in Potions and Plant Poisoning because of shoddy spellwork. The Aurors, for all their failings, try to maintain a certain degree of competency, but the way I could break easily through your Silencio charm indicates that you’re not as good at wandwork as you once were. Your left hand was trembling slightly when you lowered your wand, so accuracy would be a question as well. From the look on your face when you saw the commotion I caused, it was positively the most exciting thing to happen to you all day. Ergo, you’re a former Auror who’s bored, curious, and also incompetent.” He takes a breath. “But you were right about one thing.”
John blinks. “I was?”
“The Aurors don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock says.
John inhales and lets the breath out carefully. He waits for his thoughts to reorder themselves into something coherent, but it takes a bit longer than expected. “That’s fantastic,” he says finally. “Absolutely extraordinary.”
“So you’ll let me in?” Sherlock says, sounding hopeful.
John laughs. “No,” he says, but he can’t help smiling a little at Sherlock’s persistance. “But,” he adds as Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, “you can have a cup of tea, if you like.”
Sherlock looks taken aback. “What?”
“I haven’t poisoned it, promise,” John says cheerfully. “Besides, I’m clearly incompetent, remember?”
“This isn’t the time for tea,” Sherlock says, and John grins at the lost look on his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s always time for tea, Sherlock,” John says. “I’d call you by your last name, but I don’t know it. All right, so here’s how it’s going to go. We’ll go to my office, I’ll pour us both some tea, and you can either decide to drink it or go back to wherever you came from. Once there, you can then decide whether to plead your case before Lestrade or just leave well enough alone, but somehow I don’t think you’ll do that. Either way, though, you’re not getting to Coulson today.”
Sherlock’s jaw works for a minute. Finally, he says, “Holmes.”
“Pardon?”
“Sherlock Holmes. But call me Sherlock.”
“John Watson,” John says, offering a hand. Sherlock shakes it. “My office is just around the corner.”
“I won’t be staying for tea, thanks all the same,” Sherlock says. “Places to go, Lestrade to bother.”
“You’re not going to let Coulson go peacefully to his grave, are you,” John says, amused. “So I’ll be seeing you again? Soon, I expect. You’re not the type to let go, evidently.”
Sherlock regards him for a moment before sweeping away, his robes flapping in a truly melodramatic motion. “Neither are you,” he calls out. “You’ll be seeing me again,” he adds, and then disappears from the hall.
3. Potions and Plant Poisoning Floor: Ward #9
He doesn’t see Sherlock later that day, nor the next day, nor the day after that. John looks at Coulson once or twice, trying to figure out if he can deduce something from the man’s unconscious state, but all he can tell is that the man poisoned himself with dittany. And even that was because of diagnostic spells, not pure reasoning.
Sherlock finally shows up three days after their initial meeting, this time with a very harrassed-looking Lestrade in tow. “He’s all yours,” Lestrade snaps as the two of them enter P&PP. “Now go and make yourself useful.”
Sherlock looks like a kid on Christmas day, and John’s wave to him goes unnoticed as Sherlock barrels into Coulson’s ward. Lestrade leans against the doorway, looking incredibly cross, and John wavers for a moment before going to wait by him. “You all right there?” he asks.
“He’s a child,” Lestrade grumbles, glaring at Sherlock’s back. “A great big childish prat who’s entirely too smart for his own good.”
John looks up at the great big childish prat, who, despite being less than ten feet away, doesn’t seem to have heard. “Ah,” John says diplomatically. “Bad day, then?”
“Don’t you know it,” Lestrade grumbles. “He’s been at me for the past few days. Just won’t let up. And on top of all that, there’s work, and—well.”
“A matter of national security, is it?” John asks, trying to sound casual.
Lestrade gives him a sideways look. “Something like that,” he says, though there’s a note of apology in his voice. “Sorry, John.”
“No problem,” John says, trying not to let the rejection show. “I’m surprised that you gave up so quickly,” he says. It’s a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but Lestrade, if he realizes it, doesn’t let it show. “Anderson used to have to whine for a week to get you to change his assignment.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell Anderson this, but Sherlock’s a bit better at using what he has,” Lestrade says wryly. “And more importantly, getting to what he doesn’t have.”
“Anderson’s an idiot, and if he hasn’t realized that already then it’s no use pounding it into his head,” Sherlock calls crisply from across the room. “Lestrade, you don’t need to stay, I know you’ve got your own tail to chase in circles.”
“Charming as ever, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. He looks at John. “I do have to go, though. Needs must and all. Potter’s holding a meeting in thirty minutes about the…ah…incident.” He looks apologetic again, and John feels something hot and tight squirm in his chest. “Get him to Owl me with his findings, will you?”
“Will do,” John manages.
He doesn’t watch Lestrade leave, because it feels too much like seeing the entire first half of his life walk away with him. Instead, he turns his attention to Sherlock, who’s still busy muttering over the corpse like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. John leans against the wall and watches as Sherlock leans over and begins inspecting every minute detail, from the bruises on his face to the hair on his arms. No doubt he’s finding a whole lot more than John can.
(On second thought, though, John’s not entirely sure that’s a gift.)
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks when Sherlock finally raises his head and sucks in a deep breath like he’s rising up from underwater.
“What?” Sherlock asks, his eyes refocusing on John. “Oh. Right. Lestrade’s an idiot.”
“That seems to be your standard opinion of the world in general,” John tells him dryly.
“That would be because the world is populated by idiots,” Sherlock tells him. “I need to Owl Lestrade. Right now. He’s got it all wrong as per usual. I’m surprised his nose didn’t trip him over the smell of aconite. He needs to—”
“You can use my owl,” John offers. Sherlock whirls to face him, and John raises an eyebrow at the almost manic look on his face. “My office is close by, and anyway, Healers’ owls are a grade above what you’ll find at the Owlery downstairs.”
Sherlock pauses. “Oh,” he says after visibly gathering himself. “I’ll do that.” He heads for the door and makes it all the way out into the hallway before turning around, the question clear on his face. John has to laugh a little as he takes the lead, directing Sherlock to his office.
Gladstone, John’s owl, seems wary of Sherlock, but he calms down when John feeds him a treat. Sherlock grabs a quill from John’s desk and scribbles down something on a piece of parchment. “Here,” he says, handing John the scrap of folded parchment. John looks at it for a moment—it seems awfully thin for something that could inspire such madness—and ties it to Gladstone’s leg. The owl hoots softly before taking wing and flying out the window.
“So I suppose you’ve saved the world?” John asks as Gladstone disappears from sight. “Must be hard work, doing whatever it is you do.” He pauses. “Is this what you do all day? Collect cryptic hints?”
Sherlock looks at him. “Those ‘hints’ are possibly the only things keeping your clueless Auror friends from tripping over their own robes,” he says acerbically.
“And you’re quite the charmer,” John says. “At least you’re using your powers for good. Will you be featured in The Daily Prophet? ‘Concerned Citizen Saves Innocents’?”
“I’m hardly concerned,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m curious. Much like you, only more intellectually so.” He gives that thin smile again, and then waves a hand. “You’re curious about the case. Don’t need to be me to tell that.”
“Does that ego of yours ever get any bigger?” John asks, crossing his arms. “Mind you, it might be well-deserved, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.”
Sherlock eyes him for a moment. “Have you ever tangled with a werewolf?” he asks abruptly.
John blinks at the non sequitur. “What werewolf? There were no werewolf bite marks. The poor man overdosed from dittany poisoning, hence why he’s in Potions and Plants Poisoning.”
“You missed the tell-tale wolfsbane scars on his wrists,” Sherlock tells him with no little smugness. “Almost invisible unless you know what you’re looking for, but no one gets away from brewing such a tricky potion without at least a few burn marks. That’s one of the minor hazards of selling black-market Wolfsbane, though. Idiot.”
“Wolfsbane?” John echoes. “Lestrade’s chasing a werewolf?”
“Some of Fenrir’s old friends,” Sherlock says, toying with the quill. He eyes John for a moment. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”
He doesn’t sound smug anymore, just speculative. John takes a deep breath and stares at the walls of his office—his crowded, comfy office with a sleeping bag squashed in the corner. “I’m not about to run out and tell the Prophet,” he says after a moment. “And if there are werewolves, I’m sure Lestrade and the patrol can handle it.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock says. He eases himself into a chair, blue eyes fixed intently on John. “You’re wasted in Potions and Plant Poisoining.”
“I thought I was just barely competent enough,” John returns, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer to that, and John makes a point of returning his steady gaze. Finally, Sherlock’s eyes flicker away to take in the room, and John winces slightly at what he knows Sherlock’s seeing. He’s been sleeping in his office for the past few weeks. He’s got a flat, but it feels empty enough that he doesn’t feel any inclination to stay there. “It’s a bit of a mess,” he allows as Sherlock’s gaze returns to him after a leisurely inspection of his office. “I don’t usually get visitors, though.”
“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks abruptly.
John blinks. It comes out of nowhere, but John’s beginning to sense a pattern to Sherlock’s randomness. “It’s a Muggle instrument,” he says cautiously. “I’ve listened to it once or twice. It’s nice.”
“My parents insisted that my brother and I study the Muggle arts,” Sherlock says. “Something about peaceful coexistence. If the Muggles knew what we really were, though, they’d no doubt try to exterminate us. They wouldn’t have much success, but they’d try anyway. It’s only natural.”
“That’s a pessimistic view to take of things,” John says slowly. “Any particular reason bringing this on?”
“The Muggle police are calling them the Thames River murders,” Sherlock says almost absently. “Every full moon for the past couple of months, a body has been deposited near the banks of the Thames. Our friend Coulson was deposited a week before schedule, and the Aurors picked him up before the Muggles did. Interesting, isn’t it? The Muggle police are baffled.”
John swallows. “They’re often at a loss when it comes to magical crimes,” he says carefully. “Wait. So does that mean we can expect another body in a week?”
“Well, more like four days, since Lestrade took so long to let me see Coulson,” Sherlock says, staring off into space. “Whoever this killer is, though, he’s rather sneakier than your usual full-moon predator. Probably due to the illegal potion he’s been acquiring to help him keep his mind in control. His supplier hasn’t been completely honest concerning the Wolfsbane, though, and there were probably a few detrimental side effects. When our little friend tried to pay him a visit and convince him of the error of his ways, Coulson poisoned himself in a rather unsuccessful attempt to commit suicide.”
“But without Wolfsbane—tainted as it is—”
“London’s going to have a bit of problem in four days,” Sherlock says almost cheerfully, and John raises an eyebrow at his tone. Sherlock leans forward, eyes alight. “The Muggles don’t have a clue, naturally, as to what’s really going on. The Aurors, I’m afraid to say, fare little better.”
“And I suppose you’re just two steps away from stopping them,” John says.
Sherlock pauses. “Well, maybe three,” he says after a moment. “I’ll get there, though.” He stands up abruptly. “After all, we can’t wait for the Aurors to do everything for us.”
“Of course not,” John murmurs.
“But of course, you’re not an Auror, so I suppose I can’t insult a professional pride that no longer exists,” Sherlock says delicately. “You’re needed right where you are, Healer Watson.”
John takes a moment to gather his thoughts, looking at Sherlock with a perfectly blank expression. All right, the words deeper than they really should—after all, John is a Healer now, isn’t he? It’s a good profession, nothing to be ashamed of. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself against the desk, noting absently that his left hand is shaking slightly. “That’s right,” he says finally. “Very busy.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock laces his fingers together, staring off into the distance. John takes another deep breath and carefully smooths his fingers flat out on the surface of the desk. There’s a prolonged moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.
“You weren’t completely incompetent, were you.”
John’s head jerks up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.. “Excuse me?” he says, and if his voice is a little sharper than usual, well, it’s not entirely unexpected.
“As an Auror,” Sherlock says. “I assume they had at least a few basic standards to live up to.”
John takes a deep breath before replying. “Before I got blasted?” he says slowly. “I was…good. Very good.”
“But you’re a Healer now,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed. “And Potions and Plant Poisoning must seem like paradise after the madness You-Know-Who caused.”
“It’s very peaceful, yes,” John says automatically.
“So you’ve seen enough for a lifetime,” Sherlock says. “I expect that you’ve had quite enough.”
“Far too much. Of course,” John says. He swallows hard. There’s a moment of silence, and then—
“Would you like to see more?” Sherlock asks.
“God, yes,” John breathes, and they’re out the door.
4. Potions and Plant Poisoning: Lounge
“Well, at least you’ve finally left St. Mungo’s. I mean, dedication to the job is one thing, but you were stagnating a bit, John.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“I mean it. You look better. Needed some color in your skin. Anyway, it’s not like you missed anything, unless you count the witch who was puking purple phlegm earlier. Bit of a nasty mess, that one. Oh, and your friend Lestrade dropped by.”
“Really? I didn’t expect him for a while. Did he leave a message for me?”
“Well, he wanted to know where you were. I thought you were in your office, but good on you, you finally got out! And for two whole days. Speaking of which, you are kind of a mess. Scourgify!”
“Mmph!”
“That’s better. At least the entrails are off your…wait. Entrails?”
“Ah. It’s a long story.”
“Clearly. What were you doing?”
“You know that man you wanted to hex a couple days ago?”
“I want to hex a lot of people, John. Common sense and my healer’s oath dictate that I don’t. Who in particular are we talking about?”
“Sherlock. Tall, pale bloke, curly black hair—”
“The one who kept trying to barge into Ward Six? What were you doing with him?”
“Ah…running, mostly.”
“And you picked up the entrails from…?”
“Those were an accident. We went to this seedy little Muggle apartment and, ah, it got a bit messy. It was interesting, though.”
“The entrails?”
“No! Well…it was interesting to watch him work.”
“Dear god, John, have you befriended a serial killer? We really don’t need another You-Know-Who floating around.”
“Ah, hell, I’m going about this all wrong, aren’t I? No. There’s…hmm. Lestrade and the others are trying to chase someone down, and so is Sherlock. Sherlock just might be a bit faster, though.”
“You still haven’t explained where the entrails come from.”
“Don’t worry, the Aurors on it. We might have done some minor vandalism, but, ah…”
“…”
“I did try to clean up afterwards?”
“Do I want to know what you were up to?”
“Nothing illegal, Sarah, I promise. I’m even on time for work!”
“Actually, you’re late by two minutes. Won’t hold it against you, though. It’s good to see you less mopey, John, even if what you’re doing does sound rather…odd? Are you sure this Sherlock isn’t a secret You-Know-Who wanna-be?”
“Actually, he thinks that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were amateurs. Not terribly reassuring, I know.”
“Ha bloody ha. I’m surprised he didn’t take them all down single-handedly if that’s the case. John, are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“…No.”
“…”
“That’s probably the best bit, though.”
“Are you two about to save the world or something?”
“Well, maybe not the world, but a good bit of it.”
“What does he do exactly, this Sherlock? He’s not an Auror, is he?”
“No, I think he’d find being an Auror boring. He’s a consulting detective. No, I’ve no real what idea what that means, but like I said, it involves quite a bit of running about.”
“Well, if it got you out for some fresh air…just don’t do anything illegal, all right? I’d hate to have to bail you from Azkaban. So does that mean you’re going to actually use your flat in Diagon Alley now instead of camping out here all the time?”
“Haven’t gone quite that far, Sarah. Actually, I’m thinking about dropping the lease entirely.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, I hardly ever use it, you know?”
“But you might! And now that you’re actually getting out more, who knows, you might want someplace to kip besides St. Mungo’s. Your office isn’t really that big, John.”
“I’m well aware. It’s just…”
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
“Nothing, Sarah.”
“Hmm.”
“Really.”
“You’re a terrible liar, John, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Sherlock might have mentioned it once or twice last night. Am I really that bad?”
“Don’t ever go into politics.”
“Ta, Sarah.”
“Don’t ask if you can’t handle it, John. Anyway. Today’s your turn to man the apparate-in clinic.”
“Oh, my favorite. I just love getting vomit all over my robes.”
“Today’s your lucky day.”
“Clearly. I’ll see you later, Sarah.”
“See you, John.”
((()))
“Next time, it’s two rat spleens, not mice,” John tells the unfortunate man in front of him. “There’s a difference.” The man looks back at him indignantly and seems to want to protest the integrity of his potion-making skills, but the fact that his teeth seemed to have been glued together prevent him. John writes down instructions for the antidote and sends him on his way.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. The apparate-in clinic is easy, for the most part, but it can also be mindnumbingly boring. Sometimes, he wonders how half the patients managed to pass Potions 101 in primary school without burning their own eyebrows off. After yesterday’s escapade with Sherlock, it all seems even more lackluster than usual. John takes a deep breath and steels himself before pulling the next chart from his inbox. “Bruce Partington,” he reads. “Come on in.”
Partington is a tall wizard dressed in diminutive brown robes, and he seats himself in the chair with the air of a man who’s not used to having to wait in a line. “That won’t be necessary,” he says as John reaches for his wand to begin diagnostics. “If you’ll excuse the overkill, Healer…”
The man flicks his wand once. The door to the room slides closed, and the shades draw themselves together with an almost apologetic swish. John’s heart starts beating at double pace as adrenaline floods his veins, instincts left from old wars and old trauma. He takes a deep breath and looks at the man, who looks back at him with a calm smile. “You know,” John spits out tersely after a moment, “if you wanted to attack me, St. Mungo’s is possibly one of the worst places you could do it in.” He reaches for his wand and grips it—not tightly, but ready to bring it up in a split-second’s notice.
“On the contrary,” Partington says. “I’m not here to attack you, but if I were…well, that’s a different story entirely.” He pauses and then leans back. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m listening,” John says warily. “Not that I’ve got any choice, it seems.”
“What were you doing yesterday night, Healer Watson?”
John keeps his face blank even as his fingers tighten slightly around his wand. “And that matters to you how?”
“What happens to Sherlock Holmes is naturally a matter of my concern,” Partington says smoothly. “It’s interesting that he’s taking you into his confidence, Healer. Running around London together, in the dark of the night? There’s the moon to guide you, but we all know that does funny things to people, doesn’t it?”
John takes in a deep breath, allowing none of his questions to show. Finally, he says, “Isn’t that interesting.”
“You’re doing quite well for yourself, John Watson,” the man says, looking idly up at the ceiling. “Former Auror, invalidated from the war. Muggleborn, yet you managed to conceal your lineage well enough to pass during the times of Umbridge. Well done. Perhaps you’re not quite as bad a liar as previously speculated—”
“I’m a half-blood,” John says sharply.
Partington pauses. “Of course you are,” he says mildly. “My mistake. Of course. Not that it matter, does it? Wizarding Britain is more open these days than ever.”
John stands up. He’s giving too much away, he thinks, but his heart is pounding hard in his chest, urging him towards action. He lifts his wand slightly, not enough to be a threat, but enough to warn. “What do you want?” he asks.
“Information on Holmes,” Partington says. He stands up as well, and it’s slightly more effective as he has more height on him. John meets his gaze squarely, determined not to be intimidated. “I’d like to recompense you for your trouble, of course. A Healer’s wage only goes so far, doesn’t it?”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” John says, keeping his voice firm, polite, and absolutely bland. “We’ve only just met, and I’m sure I couldn’t help you at all, Partington.” He says the name with perhaps a bit more acid than usual, but there’s a sudden burning certainty that Partington is definitely not this man’s real name. And whoever he is, whatever his business is, John wants nothing to do with it.
“You’re very loyal to someone you’ve just met,” Partington observes with that mild, infuriating smile on his face. “Sherlock doesn’t make friends easily.”
“I see,” John says, struggling to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “It’s been interesting to meet you, Partington.”
Partington laughs softly, and John stiffens. “I think you’ll find more interesting things than I if you hang around Sherlock Holmes long enough.” He inclines his head. “That is what you’re hoping for, isn’t it, Healer Watson?” He pauses as if waiting for an answer.
John refuses to give him one. The man taps his wand once on the table. It’s an idle motion and seemingly nothing occurs, but John braces himself nonetheless. “Tsk,” Partington says. “I can see that I’m not welcome.” He taps his wand again. John nearly hexes him, but stops himself at the last moment as the only thing to happen is that the curtains fly open. “I’ll be on my way, then,” Partington says. “One piece of advice, Healer—if he asks you, you should say yes.”
“Excuse me?” John says flatly.
“A Healer’s office is incredibly small, and you won’t use your flat because you think it’s too empty,” Partington says calmly. “Sharing a flat with someone else, though, would change the situation markedly.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” John says, ice creeping up his spine. “And how the hell do you know so much about me, anyway?”
Partington smiles. “Good day, Healer,” he says. He turns in a swirl of robes much in the same melodramatic fashion as Sherlock and heads out the door, leaving John standing in dazed silence.
5. Spell Damage Floor: Lobby
John watches absently through the window of the consultation room as the parahealer flutters around Sherlock, checking his vitals and draping a big orange blanket over him. John can see Sherlock shape his lips around the words, “I’m fine,” but he doesn’t move to take the blanket off. Lestrade walks over to talk quietly to Sherlock, and there’s a moment in which Sherlock looks up at John before quickly looking away. John keeps his expression neutral, his wand clasped loosely between two fingers. It’s warm in his hand, the polished oak steady in his grasp, with no trace left of the Avada Kedavra he’d cast.
(He was an Auror. Retired or not, he’s still got some tricks up his sleeve.)
Lestrade sighs, clearly irritated, and pushes open the door. John looks up at him. “How is he?” he asks.
“Annoying as ever,” Lestrade says. “And he was right, which is the more infuriating bit, because he’ll think that running after werewolves is a safe way to spend a full moon night now.”
“It was a fluke?” John offers. “I’m sure almost dying taught him the error of his ways.”
“I don’t think anything short of actual death could teach Sherlock Holmes to slow down every once in a while,” Lestrade says dryly.
“Getting bitten?”
“He’d probably just find it fascinating,” Lestrade sighs. He gives John a sideways look. “Is this going to become habit, then?”
“What?” John asks.
“You hanging around waiting for Sherlock,” Lestrade says, gesturing. “God knows he could use someone to keep him out of danger, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“I don’t know,” John admits. “Probably. Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a crazy thing,” Lestrade says, “but then again, I think you’ve been slightly crazy since you left the Aurors. This is a not-so-surprising extension, if I’m going to be absolutely honest.” He rubs a hand across his face.
“Cheers, Lestrade.”
“It’s true.” Lestrade looks through the window at Sherlock. “I’ve got to go. We’ve got a body to clean. No more werewolf attacks, though, that’s a bright side.” He smiles a little sardonically. “Wizarding Britain can sleep safe once more.”
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” John says, amused.
“Yes, well, it means I can finally get a good night’s sleep,” Lestrade says tiredly. “I’ve been running ragged these past few days. Going to file my report, sign off on the case, and go to bed.” He waves a hand at John. “I’ll see you. Try not to get yourself killed, will you? And Sherlock, too. He’s an irritating git, but he doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Thanks for the concern,” John says. Lestrade salutes him lazily and heads off down the hall, soon disappearing from sight. John leans back against the wall, waiting for Sherlock to come out. It doesn’t take long—the man must have been waiting for Lestrade to leave. John keeps his expression steady as Sherlock pushes open the door and comes out into the hallway, but Sherlock probably can read it all anyway—mostly exasperation, but damned if he doesn’t feel a little indulgent of the man. “So,” John says. “Next time, try not to bait a werewolf during the full moon, yeah? Especially not one of Fenrir’s former friends.”
“Did you erase the Priori Incantatem?” Sherlock says quietly, his lips barely moving. “They probably won’t prosecute, but it’s good to be careful, just in case.”
John freezes for a moment, the blood rushing in his ears. Sherlock looks back at him, his gaze far too knowing. John sucks in a deep breath, searching Sherlock’s face—there’s no trace of accusation, just perhaps a hint of concern. “Yes,” John says finally. “I got rid of it, don’t worry.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says, and John relaxes at the sound. Sherlock unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders and shakes it out meditatively. “You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime,” he announces. “It might come in handy.”
“Hell, no,” John says quickly. He can just imagine the havoc Sherlock could wreak if he knew how to overcome Priori Incantatem. “For emergencies only, Sherlock. Today was one. What the hell were you thinking, anyway, playing chicken with a werewolf?”
Sherlock looks sulky. “The pseudo-Wolfsbane was a challenge,” he says, waving the blanket about for emphasis. “He wasn’t completely animalistic, but nor was he completely human. I wanted to see if I could beat him.”
“You idiot,” John says, meaning the words whole-heartedly. “You stupid, bloody idiot. Is this why you chase after crimes? For the adrenaline rush?”
Sherlock huffs. “No.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. I wasn’t worried, though. Knew you’d come charging around.”
“And you figured that how?” John asks, exasperated.
“Well, it’s been, what, a week since I first met you? And since then, you’ve run around half of London with me. I calculated that you most likely would come for me once you figured out how to track the blood.”
“And if I hadn’t? Or if I hadn’t gotten there in time?”
“You were an Auror. I’m sure that you remembered a thing or two.” Sherlock looks at him and hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Good job, by the way,” he says finally.
John looks back. That’s as close as Sherlock will ever get to thank you, he thinks with mildly resigned amusement. “Try not to make a regular habit of doing stupid things,” John says. He holds his hand out for the blanket, and Sherlock drops it into his hold as if relieved to be rid of it. “I can’t be around all the time, you know.”
Sherlock looks at him sharply. “Of course not,” he says after a moment. “You’re busy, no doubt. Being a Healer must occupy a lot of your time.”
“It’s a job,” John says, caution flaring up at the sudden change of Sherlock’s tone. “Are we really going to start this up again?”
“Well, you certainly live your occupation twenty-four seven, if your office is any indication,” Sherlock says. “Was this week an abnormality for you?”
John shrugs. “I don’t usually run around London like a madman, if that’s what you mean. As for living in my office, well, I don’t like my flat,” he says. “Thinking about giving it up, actually.”
“Are you now?” Sherlock says. “I’ve been thinking about moving into a different one, myself. The one I have now just isn’t sustainable.”
“You mean in terms of rent?” John asks, surprised.
“I mean in terms of able to live in it,” Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s my brother’s, but I think it’s about time I stopped having to rely on him for every little thing. He’s been making ominous noises lately, and I know not to stay where I’m not welcome.” He pauses. “I know a place. The rent’s a bit high, but I should be able to afford it with a flatmate.”
John opens his mouth and closes it again slowly. “Play the violin, do you?” he says finally.
“Constantly,” Sherlock says unapologetically. “Especially when I’m thinking. I’m very good at it, though.” He looks at John. “It would be a convenient arrangement for both of us.”
“Both of us?” John says, unable to hide the smile from his tone.
Sherlock looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t be shy, John. Next Thursday. The address is 221B Baker Street; it’s not terribly far from Diagon Alley. Interested?”
If he asks you, you should say yes.
He needs to find out who Partington is, John thinks, and decide whether or not whether to be amused or annoyed at the fact that the man’s advice seems strangely prophetic. There’s a lot of things he needs to sort out, especially the fact that he’s been following this man around for the past couple days, killed a werewolf for him, has no real idea who he is, and yet—
“Oh, hell with it,” John says. “I’ll be there.”
+1. 221B Baker Street
John works in Potions and Plants Poisoning. He’s used to strange ingredients in odd places, and to odd ailments at odd times of the day. Sherlock’s not the easiest flatmate to live with, but they manage surprisingly well. Sherlock’s penchant for playing the violin is annoying in the middle of the night, but during the rare evenings they’re home, John welcomes the lyrical strains.
Most of the time, though, they’re up and about all over London, usually with an exasperated Lestrade at their heels. They’re not all quite as dramatic as the first case, but it’s enough to still the tremors in John’s hand and keep the knot of jealousy away. That’s not to say that it’s all roses, of course. When not working a case (or during particularly twisty ones), Sherlock can descend into bouts of melancholy and petulance that last for days, but John’s faced down Death Eaters before. An overgrown temper tantrum is nothing in comparison.
221B Baker Street isn’t big like his Diagon Alley flat, but it’s comfortable in a way that the latter could never mimic. They should be sharing the space equally, more or less, but John soon finds that Sherlock, like a cat, has a knack of stretching out to fill all the available space.
(And it’s not just 221B, but also John’s head as well. Not that he minds, of course.)
(It’s much better than the silence.)
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Date: 2011-12-16 11:09 am (UTC)Nice going-- good interweaving of the two canons.
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Date: 2012-01-01 01:59 am (UTC)