C/O 221B Baker Street, Muggle London (Book 2, Ch. 6)
Sorry for the delay, guys! Real life has been a nasty, nasty thing. I'm still working out some kinks here and there, but at least it's on the upswing. I am employed, and though I don't have a place to live at the moment, progress is being made. This chapter's a short one, but I wanted to post it to give you something for sticking around during the drought. I hope I'll be getting up something longer soon. You're all awesome!
Title: C/O 221B Baker Street, Muggle London
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Prompt: John and Sherlock are forced to adopt a 7-year-old Harry Potter.
Other: written for an anon for the Sherlock kinkmeme. You can find the original prompt and fill of Book 1 here.
Start from Book 1 here.
Previous chapter here.
It was more difficult getting in contact with Theo. Harry thought about it over tea and eventually was forced to relay his messages through Hermione via text. She could then write them out and owl them to Theo, who was completely off the grid of muggle technology. His parents’ address would never be available to muggles, let alone to accept muggle post. It was through Hermione that Harry learned Theo had been writing him as well, and had said some rather unkind things when Harry hadn’t responded. By the embarrassed tone of the replies that Hermione texted him, Harry gathered that it was probably for the best that he hadn’t gotten a hold of his letters. But that was alright; Harry hadn’t taken the radio silence well either, so he could hardly blame Theo.
It was a good thing that John had given in years ago and bought unlimited text plans for the mobiles all around; Harry would have broken the bank easily in the week after he found out about the post interference. Texting Hermione turned out to be the keystone to communicating with his friends, and it was through texting that he bounced theories off of them at all hours of the day and night. Fortunately, nobody in the Baker Street flat was at all surprised to hear intermittent beeps from various mobiles, and though John occasionally cast him remonstrating looks for answering his texts at the table, nobody would ever castigate him seriously for it.
Over Italian one night, John finally asked, “Alright, what is it, then? Out with it.”
Harry looked up, thumbs hovering over the keypad of his mobile. “Sorry?”
“Come on, I know I’m not a deduction machine like you two, but I’m not a complete twat. You’ve got that look on, the one he gets when he’s thinking so hard he’s nearly dancing in his seat,” John said, casting a nod to Sherlock, who merely raised his eyebrows.
“Oh,” said Harry. Sometimes he forgot that although he and Sherlock were the geniuses when it came to facts and figures and footprints, John was the genius when it came to plain and simple people. “Right. Okay. Well, I’ve got a case,”
“Yes,” John smirked, “I sort of gathered.”
Sherlock snorted.
“Do you plan on enlightening us at some point?” he continued.
Harry paused, then typed in a few more letters, hit send, and set his phone down. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and explained. “Somebody’s been -“
“Stopping your post, yes,” Sherlock said drily, picking at his rigatoni with an expression of distaste. He suspected the chefs had ignored his explicit order to find a sauce with no basil.
“Father!” Harry said, disappointed and exasperated. “You promised you wouldn’t deduce my cases unless I asked for help!”
Sherlock paused and looked up, frowning, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t. I’m not deducing who did it, I just deduced what the case was, that’s different.”
“Father…”
“It is different, isn’t it?” Sherlock cast his sharp look to John, searching for one of John’s rules.
“Well,” John sighed, “it would have been better to let him tell it. He’s excited about it. You wouldn’t be happy if Lestrade took over your deduction speeches, would you?”
The sour look that came onto Sherlock’s face was answer enough. He pursed his lips a moment, then turned back to Harry. “I … apologize. Please continue.”
Well, it wasn’t an effusively warm apology, but it was progress that counted. Five years ago, he wouldn’t have gotten the word ‘apologize’ even out of Sherlock’s lips. John decided that was a victory enough and speared a tortellini happily.
“Fine. As I was saying, somebody’s been stopping my post. I haven’t figured out why yet, but I’m making progress on the who. I know it’s somebody in the wizarding world; they’ve only managed to block off the owl post. They’ve got no clue about muggle technology - there’s no problem at all with using texts.”
“Hm. Well, that’s a significant portion of Britain out of the suspect pool, then,” John said with a nod.
“’S what I thought,” agreed Harry, munching on a piece of garlic bread. “Still doesn’t get me too far, though.”
“Perhaps,” added Sherlock slowly, flicking his eyes to John to ensure that he wasn’t overstepping, “you should theorize about motives. What could they hope to gain by stopping your post? How did they hope you would react? That may suggest new leads to investigate.”
“Sound advice,” said John with a nod. Sherlock relaxed fractionally.
“Yeah… yeah. That’s good.”
“Kind of reminds me of this old episode of Doctor Who,” John said with a laugh, and like that, the case melted away to the background again in favor of garlicy chuckles and nostalgic conversations.
That night, Harry lay awake in bed, frowning at his mobile. only possible motives - emotional warfare? concealing information? -HWH
What information do any of us have to conceal that someone else would be aware of? My bet’s on emotional warfare. Harry pondered this for a moment, and an instant later, a second text pinged in. Though I haven’t the slightest why they would want you emotionally vulnerable. It’s a conundrum.
yeah. def a conundrum. -HWH
It seemed, though, that this conundrum would resolve itself. Four days later, while Sherlock moped around downstairs and John ignored him heartily in favor of updating his blog, Harry tidied up his room. There was Aethel’s cage’s self-cleaning charm to refresh, and the bookshelf had to be straightened, and John had told Harry in no-nonsense terms that if he was going to be living at Hogwarts all year, then he was perfectly capable of making his own bed while he was home. The cage was scrubbing itself merrily on his desk while he crawled under the bed and cast dusting charms on the floor.
There was a sharp crack accompanied by the brief smell of ozone that followed apparitions. Harry’s head snapped up, only to crack soundly on the bedframe. He yelped and scooted out from under the bed, clutching the back of his skull with one hand. That was going to leave a knot.
“Oh, dear, is Mr. Harry Potter alright?”
Next chapter here.
Title: C/O 221B Baker Street, Muggle London
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Prompt: John and Sherlock are forced to adopt a 7-year-old Harry Potter.
Other: written for an anon for the Sherlock kinkmeme. You can find the original prompt and fill of Book 1 here.
Start from Book 1 here.
Previous chapter here.
It was more difficult getting in contact with Theo. Harry thought about it over tea and eventually was forced to relay his messages through Hermione via text. She could then write them out and owl them to Theo, who was completely off the grid of muggle technology. His parents’ address would never be available to muggles, let alone to accept muggle post. It was through Hermione that Harry learned Theo had been writing him as well, and had said some rather unkind things when Harry hadn’t responded. By the embarrassed tone of the replies that Hermione texted him, Harry gathered that it was probably for the best that he hadn’t gotten a hold of his letters. But that was alright; Harry hadn’t taken the radio silence well either, so he could hardly blame Theo.
It was a good thing that John had given in years ago and bought unlimited text plans for the mobiles all around; Harry would have broken the bank easily in the week after he found out about the post interference. Texting Hermione turned out to be the keystone to communicating with his friends, and it was through texting that he bounced theories off of them at all hours of the day and night. Fortunately, nobody in the Baker Street flat was at all surprised to hear intermittent beeps from various mobiles, and though John occasionally cast him remonstrating looks for answering his texts at the table, nobody would ever castigate him seriously for it.
Over Italian one night, John finally asked, “Alright, what is it, then? Out with it.”
Harry looked up, thumbs hovering over the keypad of his mobile. “Sorry?”
“Come on, I know I’m not a deduction machine like you two, but I’m not a complete twat. You’ve got that look on, the one he gets when he’s thinking so hard he’s nearly dancing in his seat,” John said, casting a nod to Sherlock, who merely raised his eyebrows.
“Oh,” said Harry. Sometimes he forgot that although he and Sherlock were the geniuses when it came to facts and figures and footprints, John was the genius when it came to plain and simple people. “Right. Okay. Well, I’ve got a case,”
“Yes,” John smirked, “I sort of gathered.”
Sherlock snorted.
“Do you plan on enlightening us at some point?” he continued.
Harry paused, then typed in a few more letters, hit send, and set his phone down. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and explained. “Somebody’s been -“
“Stopping your post, yes,” Sherlock said drily, picking at his rigatoni with an expression of distaste. He suspected the chefs had ignored his explicit order to find a sauce with no basil.
“Father!” Harry said, disappointed and exasperated. “You promised you wouldn’t deduce my cases unless I asked for help!”
Sherlock paused and looked up, frowning, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t. I’m not deducing who did it, I just deduced what the case was, that’s different.”
“Father…”
“It is different, isn’t it?” Sherlock cast his sharp look to John, searching for one of John’s rules.
“Well,” John sighed, “it would have been better to let him tell it. He’s excited about it. You wouldn’t be happy if Lestrade took over your deduction speeches, would you?”
The sour look that came onto Sherlock’s face was answer enough. He pursed his lips a moment, then turned back to Harry. “I … apologize. Please continue.”
Well, it wasn’t an effusively warm apology, but it was progress that counted. Five years ago, he wouldn’t have gotten the word ‘apologize’ even out of Sherlock’s lips. John decided that was a victory enough and speared a tortellini happily.
“Fine. As I was saying, somebody’s been stopping my post. I haven’t figured out why yet, but I’m making progress on the who. I know it’s somebody in the wizarding world; they’ve only managed to block off the owl post. They’ve got no clue about muggle technology - there’s no problem at all with using texts.”
“Hm. Well, that’s a significant portion of Britain out of the suspect pool, then,” John said with a nod.
“’S what I thought,” agreed Harry, munching on a piece of garlic bread. “Still doesn’t get me too far, though.”
“Perhaps,” added Sherlock slowly, flicking his eyes to John to ensure that he wasn’t overstepping, “you should theorize about motives. What could they hope to gain by stopping your post? How did they hope you would react? That may suggest new leads to investigate.”
“Sound advice,” said John with a nod. Sherlock relaxed fractionally.
“Yeah… yeah. That’s good.”
“Kind of reminds me of this old episode of Doctor Who,” John said with a laugh, and like that, the case melted away to the background again in favor of garlicy chuckles and nostalgic conversations.
That night, Harry lay awake in bed, frowning at his mobile. only possible motives - emotional warfare? concealing information? -HWH
What information do any of us have to conceal that someone else would be aware of? My bet’s on emotional warfare. Harry pondered this for a moment, and an instant later, a second text pinged in. Though I haven’t the slightest why they would want you emotionally vulnerable. It’s a conundrum.
yeah. def a conundrum. -HWH
It seemed, though, that this conundrum would resolve itself. Four days later, while Sherlock moped around downstairs and John ignored him heartily in favor of updating his blog, Harry tidied up his room. There was Aethel’s cage’s self-cleaning charm to refresh, and the bookshelf had to be straightened, and John had told Harry in no-nonsense terms that if he was going to be living at Hogwarts all year, then he was perfectly capable of making his own bed while he was home. The cage was scrubbing itself merrily on his desk while he crawled under the bed and cast dusting charms on the floor.
There was a sharp crack accompanied by the brief smell of ozone that followed apparitions. Harry’s head snapped up, only to crack soundly on the bedframe. He yelped and scooted out from under the bed, clutching the back of his skull with one hand. That was going to leave a knot.
“Oh, dear, is Mr. Harry Potter alright?”
Next chapter here.