FIC: A Spell of Deduction (6/?)
Title: A Spell of Deduction
Author: WinterofourDiscontent and lareinenoire
Beta/Britpick by rosamund
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock pre-slash
Rating: If you’ve seen the BBC!Sherlock and read Harry Potter, you’re old enough to read this.
Word count: 2000 for this part, 12000 overall, more to come
Warnings: canon-typical violence
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter verse is property of JK Rowling, long may she write, and Arthur Conan Doyle created the original Sherlock Holmes, while Gatiss and the BBC are responsible for the most recent incarnation. We own nothing and make no profits.
Summary: Newly returned from fighting Death Eaters in the Middle East, Healer John Watson gets a new flatmate and discovers he’s exchanged one battleground for another in postwar London
Chapter One
Chapter Five
Chapter Six at AO3 or below this
There were few advantages to having spent one’s formative years in the chaos of one war only to see the same war reignite fifteen years later, but Mycroft liked to think it had given him a much-needed sense of perspective. This had been particularly true in Slytherin House, always the first suspected and last exonerated.
In the wake of the first Wizarding War it had taken an inordinate amount of time for Mycroft to convince his colleagues in the Ministry that he was neither a Death Eater in training nor under Imperius. By the time Voldemort returned after the utter catastrophe that was the Triwizard Tournament, however, he was merely interrogated alongside every other Ministry employee. Of course, that may well have been due to the fact that the Department of International Cooperation would have fallen apart without him.
Mycroft never hesitated to take credit where it was due.
He looked at the portfolio on the desk in front of him and sighed. On the front was a label in his own inimitably precise handwriting. Operation Siegfried.
And now his brother was involved. This was going to be a great bloody mess.
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
See attached parchment for the dates. I’ve got the Märchenpolizei breathing down my neck now too. Whatever you’re doing, do it faster.
G. Lestrade
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
Legally, that is.
G. Lestrade
***
They had Apparated to one of the parts of London where row after row of indistinguishable white doorways stood side by side. Just past what had once been the entrance to a stable (Sherlock muttered something under his breath to the dragon on the knocker) they emerged into a shabby but good-sized square, one of the many pockets of Wizarding London tucked away throughout Muggle London like raisins in a currant bun. A fountain in the middle featured some sort of angry-looking creature with water jets sluggishly spraying out of arrow wounds in its sides.
“Is that supposed to be the...?”
“Questing beast, yes.” Sherlock sighed, though whether it was at John’s question or as an opinion on the quality of the sculpture, John couldn’t tell.
“But they don’t...”
“No.”
“And the eyes are all...”
“Quite.”
“You’d think the artist had never seen one,” John said, shaking his head.
“Less talking, more housebreaking.”
“Right,” John said, back in soldier mode.
Where gardens were concerned, wizards were as bad as Muggles (and often worse, considering some of the truly creative things John had seen growing up. He still had nightmares about a neighbour’s moving topiary). The access road behind the row of houses was bordered on each side by fences of uneven size and effectiveness. John couldn’t help but be grateful when Sherlock pointed to a house with a pathetic excuse for a fence before he recalled that he was in fact engaged in breaking the law.
He briefly considered asking Sherlock to remind him exactly why they needed to search the victim’s flat now as opposed to some civilized hour. Not that he was likely to have an answer, let alone a satisfactory one. That much he had already figured out about Sherlock. Then again, they weren’t hurting anyone, breaking into a dead woman’s house, and John was beginning to think the only chance the victim had of any justice at all was going to be Sherlock sussing it out.
And that’s why he was here. For justice. Definitely not because he felt more alive than he had in ages, roaming around London in the dark trying not to get arrested.
Sherlock was tugging on the ivy that draped the back wall of this section of the terraced houses before he signalled to John. “Our destination is on the first floor, second window from the left.” He pointed upward and John saw a window practically choked with ivy. “You see the signs of neglect,” Sherlock said. “Not just the ivy, but--”
He stopped. “I need to get a better look at the window.”
“But what?”
Sherlock had already shoved his wand back in his sleeve and was reaching for a fingerhold on the ivy.
“Oh, for the love of...” John said, swishing and flicking his still-lit wand at Sherlock, who began slowly levitating up the wall. “Stay still, I’m not about to catch you if you fall.”
“I don’t need--”
“Shut up, keep your hands still,” John ordered. “I can manage a basic levitation, thank you very much.”
Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, but allowed himself to be lifted to the height of the window. Casting Lumos, he peered at the window, the window frame, the bricks around the frame, the ivy, and Merlin-knew-what-else. John resisted the urge to call out--a great lot of good Muffliato would do then.
Standing in a stranger’s garden at night, one hand gripping his cane and the other his wand as he held his flatmate more than ten feet off the ground, it occurred to John that, like as not, this was not what his therapist had meant when she’d suggested he find some new hobbies.
Then again, he’d always been rubbish at darts.
“Let me down, John, I’m done here.”
The minute Sherlock’s feet were back on the ground, he was moving again, leaving John to limp quickly after him towards the building entrance. “The Aurors have, as usual, managed to miss everything of importance here. Alohomora.”
The last bit was directed at a back door, which obediently swung open. There was no crime scene tape visible; the Aurors must have given up on getting any further information out of the flat. They very quietly made their way up the stairs, John a few steps behind.
There was still more than a hint of decomposition in the dusty air, and John tried very hard not to think about the pictures of the body he’d seen earlier. Sherlock, of course, had no such compunctions, practically throwing himself around the flat in an effort to see everything.
“John, lie on the floor.”
“What?”
“You saw the pictures. I need you to recreate the pose they found her in.”
“I repeat, what?”
“I detest repetition. Just...” Sherlock wiggled his fingers, “...lie on the floor and approximate where the corpse was found.”
There were so many objections John had to this idea that he could hardly decide which one to air first.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock added, “I’ll correct you if you get it wrong.”
“That is a great relief.”
The thing was, though...the thing was...why not do it? If he objected to breaking the law, he shouldn’t have come tonight. If he objected to Sherlock ordering him about, he’d already had opportunities to say no. He certainly wasn’t squeamish; he was a doctor, for God’s sake. If he minded being embarrassed, well, the only person who would see was Sherlock. If he was worried about the discomfort, well, he was a soldier.
If he was going to balk at, well, anything, this was a stupid point to pick, just because it felt more than a bit silly.
Fuck it, he thought, in for a knut...as he eased himself onto the floor, Sherlock suggesting adjustments all the while.
“Head a bit more to the right, John, that’s it.”
“Alright, how long am I going to be stuck here?” From the sheer amount of dust, he guessed she hadn’t been much for cleaning even before she’d died.
“I’ll let you know when you can get up,” Sherlock said, slowly circling him.
John sneezed, then sneezed again. “Glad she didn’t have cats.” The awkward angle of his head meant the only thing in his immediate line of sight was now the even inkier blackness of the space underneath a loveseat. “Wait, bring the light back over? I think I see something down here.”
Sherlock dropped to his knees next to John’s chest and shone his wand under the furniture.
“See? Against the wall there.”
The object Sherlock retrieved was covered in a substantial layer of dust. John sat up as Sherlock began flipping through the glossy pages, only to bump his head against the tabletop, causing a stack of saucers to cascade onto the floor. His eyes met Sherlock’s in panic. Muffliato was designed specifically for voices, not sounds.
As if in response to his thought, a cry of “Hubert! Hubert!” could be heard from the flat below. John jumped to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his head for more immediate concerns, namely how on earth they were supposed to get out.
“The roof,” muttered Sherlock. “The neighbours are downstairs and unlikely to be quick about it.” Stuffing the book into his pocket, he bolted across the tiny flat to the door, John at his heels.
As Sherlock had predicted, the neighbours were indeed downstairs and, from the looks of them, unlikely to catch up at anything beyond a glacial pace. Still, discretion being the better part of valour, John bounded after Sherlock, who was taking the stairs at least two at a time if not three. They emerged into a sea of Victorian slate rooftops, a strange miniature city of gables and towers and cupolas thrown together with no rhyme or reason. Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and John squeezed his eyes shut just in time.
When he opened them again, he wasn’t the slightest bit nauseous. They were standing on the pavement in front of 221B and the moment his eyes met Sherlock’s, John found himself dissolving into peals of laughter. “Oh, God. Oh, my God.”
“It was hardly a miracle,” Sherlock remarked between chuckles. “I could have told you the leg was psychosomatic.”
“Psycho---wait, are we talking about the same thing?”
Sherlock looked down, and John followed his line of sight to his own right leg. The leg he’d just run up multiple flights of stairs with. The leg that hadn’t pained him the entire time he’d done so.
“You... I... Bloody hell. I left my cane at that flat.”
And clearly he was insane, clearly they were both completely insane, because that set them off laughing again.
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Pursuing lead in Germany, need access to records of Universität Halle-Wittenberg and personal finances of the late Professor von Eschenbach. Tell Märchenpolizei I am acting on your behalf.
SH
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
Why on earth would I authorize that?
G. Lestrade
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Will trade authorization for your badge.
SH
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
You great bloody git.
See attached parchment.
G. Lestrade
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Include authorization for Healer John H. Watson as well.
SH
Author: WinterofourDiscontent and lareinenoire
Beta/Britpick by rosamund
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock pre-slash
Rating: If you’ve seen the BBC!Sherlock and read Harry Potter, you’re old enough to read this.
Word count: 2000 for this part, 12000 overall, more to come
Warnings: canon-typical violence
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter verse is property of JK Rowling, long may she write, and Arthur Conan Doyle created the original Sherlock Holmes, while Gatiss and the BBC are responsible for the most recent incarnation. We own nothing and make no profits.
Summary: Newly returned from fighting Death Eaters in the Middle East, Healer John Watson gets a new flatmate and discovers he’s exchanged one battleground for another in postwar London
Chapter One
Chapter Five
Chapter Six at AO3 or below this
There were few advantages to having spent one’s formative years in the chaos of one war only to see the same war reignite fifteen years later, but Mycroft liked to think it had given him a much-needed sense of perspective. This had been particularly true in Slytherin House, always the first suspected and last exonerated.
In the wake of the first Wizarding War it had taken an inordinate amount of time for Mycroft to convince his colleagues in the Ministry that he was neither a Death Eater in training nor under Imperius. By the time Voldemort returned after the utter catastrophe that was the Triwizard Tournament, however, he was merely interrogated alongside every other Ministry employee. Of course, that may well have been due to the fact that the Department of International Cooperation would have fallen apart without him.
Mycroft never hesitated to take credit where it was due.
He looked at the portfolio on the desk in front of him and sighed. On the front was a label in his own inimitably precise handwriting. Operation Siegfried.
And now his brother was involved. This was going to be a great bloody mess.
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
See attached parchment for the dates. I’ve got the Märchenpolizei breathing down my neck now too. Whatever you’re doing, do it faster.
G. Lestrade
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
Legally, that is.
G. Lestrade
***
They had Apparated to one of the parts of London where row after row of indistinguishable white doorways stood side by side. Just past what had once been the entrance to a stable (Sherlock muttered something under his breath to the dragon on the knocker) they emerged into a shabby but good-sized square, one of the many pockets of Wizarding London tucked away throughout Muggle London like raisins in a currant bun. A fountain in the middle featured some sort of angry-looking creature with water jets sluggishly spraying out of arrow wounds in its sides.
“Is that supposed to be the...?”
“Questing beast, yes.” Sherlock sighed, though whether it was at John’s question or as an opinion on the quality of the sculpture, John couldn’t tell.
“But they don’t...”
“No.”
“And the eyes are all...”
“Quite.”
“You’d think the artist had never seen one,” John said, shaking his head.
“Less talking, more housebreaking.”
“Right,” John said, back in soldier mode.
Where gardens were concerned, wizards were as bad as Muggles (and often worse, considering some of the truly creative things John had seen growing up. He still had nightmares about a neighbour’s moving topiary). The access road behind the row of houses was bordered on each side by fences of uneven size and effectiveness. John couldn’t help but be grateful when Sherlock pointed to a house with a pathetic excuse for a fence before he recalled that he was in fact engaged in breaking the law.
He briefly considered asking Sherlock to remind him exactly why they needed to search the victim’s flat now as opposed to some civilized hour. Not that he was likely to have an answer, let alone a satisfactory one. That much he had already figured out about Sherlock. Then again, they weren’t hurting anyone, breaking into a dead woman’s house, and John was beginning to think the only chance the victim had of any justice at all was going to be Sherlock sussing it out.
And that’s why he was here. For justice. Definitely not because he felt more alive than he had in ages, roaming around London in the dark trying not to get arrested.
Sherlock was tugging on the ivy that draped the back wall of this section of the terraced houses before he signalled to John. “Our destination is on the first floor, second window from the left.” He pointed upward and John saw a window practically choked with ivy. “You see the signs of neglect,” Sherlock said. “Not just the ivy, but--”
He stopped. “I need to get a better look at the window.”
“But what?”
Sherlock had already shoved his wand back in his sleeve and was reaching for a fingerhold on the ivy.
“Oh, for the love of...” John said, swishing and flicking his still-lit wand at Sherlock, who began slowly levitating up the wall. “Stay still, I’m not about to catch you if you fall.”
“I don’t need--”
“Shut up, keep your hands still,” John ordered. “I can manage a basic levitation, thank you very much.”
Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, but allowed himself to be lifted to the height of the window. Casting Lumos, he peered at the window, the window frame, the bricks around the frame, the ivy, and Merlin-knew-what-else. John resisted the urge to call out--a great lot of good Muffliato would do then.
Standing in a stranger’s garden at night, one hand gripping his cane and the other his wand as he held his flatmate more than ten feet off the ground, it occurred to John that, like as not, this was not what his therapist had meant when she’d suggested he find some new hobbies.
Then again, he’d always been rubbish at darts.
“Let me down, John, I’m done here.”
The minute Sherlock’s feet were back on the ground, he was moving again, leaving John to limp quickly after him towards the building entrance. “The Aurors have, as usual, managed to miss everything of importance here. Alohomora.”
The last bit was directed at a back door, which obediently swung open. There was no crime scene tape visible; the Aurors must have given up on getting any further information out of the flat. They very quietly made their way up the stairs, John a few steps behind.
There was still more than a hint of decomposition in the dusty air, and John tried very hard not to think about the pictures of the body he’d seen earlier. Sherlock, of course, had no such compunctions, practically throwing himself around the flat in an effort to see everything.
“John, lie on the floor.”
“What?”
“You saw the pictures. I need you to recreate the pose they found her in.”
“I repeat, what?”
“I detest repetition. Just...” Sherlock wiggled his fingers, “...lie on the floor and approximate where the corpse was found.”
There were so many objections John had to this idea that he could hardly decide which one to air first.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock added, “I’ll correct you if you get it wrong.”
“That is a great relief.”
The thing was, though...the thing was...why not do it? If he objected to breaking the law, he shouldn’t have come tonight. If he objected to Sherlock ordering him about, he’d already had opportunities to say no. He certainly wasn’t squeamish; he was a doctor, for God’s sake. If he minded being embarrassed, well, the only person who would see was Sherlock. If he was worried about the discomfort, well, he was a soldier.
If he was going to balk at, well, anything, this was a stupid point to pick, just because it felt more than a bit silly.
Fuck it, he thought, in for a knut...as he eased himself onto the floor, Sherlock suggesting adjustments all the while.
“Head a bit more to the right, John, that’s it.”
“Alright, how long am I going to be stuck here?” From the sheer amount of dust, he guessed she hadn’t been much for cleaning even before she’d died.
“I’ll let you know when you can get up,” Sherlock said, slowly circling him.
John sneezed, then sneezed again. “Glad she didn’t have cats.” The awkward angle of his head meant the only thing in his immediate line of sight was now the even inkier blackness of the space underneath a loveseat. “Wait, bring the light back over? I think I see something down here.”
Sherlock dropped to his knees next to John’s chest and shone his wand under the furniture.
“See? Against the wall there.”
The object Sherlock retrieved was covered in a substantial layer of dust. John sat up as Sherlock began flipping through the glossy pages, only to bump his head against the tabletop, causing a stack of saucers to cascade onto the floor. His eyes met Sherlock’s in panic. Muffliato was designed specifically for voices, not sounds.
As if in response to his thought, a cry of “Hubert! Hubert!” could be heard from the flat below. John jumped to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his head for more immediate concerns, namely how on earth they were supposed to get out.
“The roof,” muttered Sherlock. “The neighbours are downstairs and unlikely to be quick about it.” Stuffing the book into his pocket, he bolted across the tiny flat to the door, John at his heels.
As Sherlock had predicted, the neighbours were indeed downstairs and, from the looks of them, unlikely to catch up at anything beyond a glacial pace. Still, discretion being the better part of valour, John bounded after Sherlock, who was taking the stairs at least two at a time if not three. They emerged into a sea of Victorian slate rooftops, a strange miniature city of gables and towers and cupolas thrown together with no rhyme or reason. Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and John squeezed his eyes shut just in time.
When he opened them again, he wasn’t the slightest bit nauseous. They were standing on the pavement in front of 221B and the moment his eyes met Sherlock’s, John found himself dissolving into peals of laughter. “Oh, God. Oh, my God.”
“It was hardly a miracle,” Sherlock remarked between chuckles. “I could have told you the leg was psychosomatic.”
“Psycho---wait, are we talking about the same thing?”
Sherlock looked down, and John followed his line of sight to his own right leg. The leg he’d just run up multiple flights of stairs with. The leg that hadn’t pained him the entire time he’d done so.
“You... I... Bloody hell. I left my cane at that flat.”
And clearly he was insane, clearly they were both completely insane, because that set them off laughing again.
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Pursuing lead in Germany, need access to records of Universität Halle-Wittenberg and personal finances of the late Professor von Eschenbach. Tell Märchenpolizei I am acting on your behalf.
SH
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
Why on earth would I authorize that?
G. Lestrade
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Will trade authorization for your badge.
SH
***
S. Holmes
221 B Baker Street
London, England
You great bloody git.
See attached parchment.
G. Lestrade
***
G. Lestrade
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
London, England
Include authorization for Healer John H. Watson as well.
SH