C/O 221B Baker Street, Muggle London (Book 2, Ch. 3)
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.
Hermione had promised. Harry was not generally as trusting of a child as many first-year students. He had seen people smile out of one face and then turn around to kill with another. He knew that there was evil in the world, and that it would do anything to get what it wanted, and the truth was the first thing to be cast aside. But his dad had taught him that it was okay to be wary of strangers and of people who could hurt you or people you suspected were up to no good, by deductions, gut instinct, or otherwise, but that it was not okay to distrust your friends. So when Hermione promised to write, he believed her. Ron had promised the same when they left Hogwarts, as had Theo.
Aethel never bore any letters out of the ordinary. There was a report, once, of his exam scores - he’d passed with flying colors - and that was it. Harry let her out in the evening so she could stretch her wings, but she always returned with empty claws. He’d written letters, three or four to each of his friends, but nothing came in response. After that, he’d run out of things to say. There were only so many letters he could write before he had to stop himself from writing, ‘Why won’t you write back? I miss you. You promised.’ He never quite allowed himself to pen that. He wouldn’t be that pathetic. But it was hard, seeing the kitchen window latched tightly shut.
Tagging along with Sherlock helped. It always gave him a boost of confidence when he gave Anderson a headache from solving the case based on the one piece of evidence that Anderson had declared completely useless. John took up teaching Harry how to sew up tears in his clothing. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as a crime scene, but it was tedious and involved much more skill than Harry had previously thought, and he couldn’t deny the practicality of it. Especially not when John took the time to explain a few extracurricular stitches, ones that Harry might be able to use one day to sew stitches on a wound rather than a rip in his sleeve. But there were only so many ripped pieces of clothing in the flat, and John wouldn’t allow anyone to go tearing up clothing just to let Harry sew it back up, so Harry was left to his own devices again.
Fortunately, the end of July rolled around eventually and Harry turned twelve. There was a marvelous little party in 221B. It was a small crowd, just the three of them plus Mrs. Hudson, but that was how they had always celebrated birthdays, and so that was perfect. John hung up a banner over the windows that read “Happy 12th Birthday, Harry!” and ordered a cake from the baker’s down the road, Harry’s favorite chocolate buttercream.
The tradition was that on Harry’s birthday, everyone would wear pajamas around the flat all day. It had started when Harry turned 8, his first birthday at Baker Street, and Sherlock had refused to change out of his pajamas-and-bathrobe ensemble. Now it was simply what everyone did. They crowded around the little kitchen table to watch Harry blow out the candles, then the whole lot migrated into the living room to push presents into his arms.
“Go on, then, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, bundled up in a very cozy-looking floral bathrobe.
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped open her present and pulled out an old-fashioned slingshot, the sort that he’d only seen in movies. He held it up and stretched the drawback mechanism a few times experimentally. “Interesting,” he said slowly.
“Now, don’t get into too much trouble with that,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“I won’t,” Harry promised. It was an easy promise to make, because she’d said ‘too much trouble,’ not no trouble at all. And ‘too much’ was entirely subjective, wasn’t it? “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Just what he needs, another way to annoy the faculty,” he sighed. “Thanks,” he said, smiling nonetheless at Mrs. Hudson.
John and Sherlock had apparently gone together on their present to Harry, as the box was impressively large and bore signs of John’s patient and neat gift-wrapping. The note was signed ‘love John and Sherlock’ despite the fact that the entire thing was written in John’s handwriting.
The wrapping fell away to reveal a gorgeous miniature trunk, all varnished cherry wood with tooled leather straps and brass locking mechanisms. There was a little handle attached for easy carrying, too, and Harry let his fingers roam across the surface, drinking in the different textures of the materials.
Sherlock, ever blunt, snorted. “The present’s inside.”
Harry looked up with surprise. There was more? Still, he took the key that was tied to the note and unlocked the latches. And sure enough, Sherlock was right. As beautiful as the box was, the real glory of the present was inside. The box was lined in soft brown suede, compartmentalized into little sections and holders for all of its contents. It was utterly stuffed with a veritable miniature potions storeroom. There was a brand-new collapsible brass cauldron, held into place with another leather strap. A new set of knives and tools were arranged along the top of the box, each fitting complacently into its own pocket. Rows of tiny bottles and boxes of ingredients, essences, and powders marched along, nestled tightly into the suede. There was even a shuttered chamber in which Harry could store his potions textbooks, his quills, and his inkpots.
For a few minutes, he was completely unable to form a reply at all, let alone thank them. Fortunately, his awed expression seemed to be enough. John chuckled and ruffled his hair. “You’re welcome,” he said with a smile. “We know how much you’ve enjoyed Potions class, so we wanted to help you along.”
“Proper science requires proper equipment,” said Sherlock with a brusque nod.
“Thank you, Dad, Father - it’s amazing!”
“Don’t thank us,” John countered. “Just keep doing well in school.”
“I will! I can’t wait to use it!” He leaned across the table to hug both John and Sherlock in turn, then Mrs. Hudson, as well. Everyone seemed pleased that he enjoyed his presents, and soon enough, they were all having a second round of birthday cake.
Harry carried his potions box and slingshot back to his room at the end of the night, carefully setting them on his desk. They were coming with him to Hogwarts, no question about it. The potions box would be invaluable in Potions class next year, that was for sure. The sheer quality of the instruments would be a huge step up from his old Diagon Alley basic first-year tools. And the slingshot had so much potential for practical use; he was sure Ron would get a kick out of it, too -
There Harry’s thoughts trailed off. Then again, Ron might not get a kick out of it. Ron didn’t seem to care enough to spend five minutes writing a letter.
But that was fine, wasn’t it? He could do alright without his old school friends. After all, Sherlock didn’t really have any friends at all until he met John, and look how that turned out for him. Maybe this just meant that he was supposed to concentrate on his work at Hogwarts instead of wasting time with people who didn’t seem to bother wasting their time with him.
He told himself that it was flawlessly logical and empirical, but it didn’t quite erase the sick feeling he had in the pit of his stomach as he laid on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
An insistent tap on his bedroom window distracted him from his maudlin thoughts. He rolled his head to peer at the window, where Aethel’s head appeared. She disappeared momentarily, though, before the crest of the top of her head fluttered against the windowpane and vanished again. Harry frowned and went over, only to find Aethel bobbing up and down in the wind, struggling to carry a package that looked like it weighed about ten owls. It was long and cylindrical, wrapped in unobtrusive brown paper. He pushed the window open and grabbed hold of the package, pulling it inside. Aethel, relieved and weak from the trip, flapped in and settled on his headboard with an unhappy hoot.
“Sorry, Aethel. If I’d known this was coming, I would have sent reinforcements.”
She eyed him for a moment before deciding that this was worth far too much energy and folding her eyes shut. Harry, hefting up the heavy package, couldn’t blame her. He threw it onto the bed. A small slip of paper was affixed to the end of it, and he tugged it off curiously.
Harry, it read simply,
I hope your 12th birthday finds you well. I suggest that you don’t inform Sherlock of this birthday present. John might be interested, though, if you choose to tell him. Regardless, take care of this. Enclosed is a Ministry Permit for its use within the borders of the United Kingdom. Show it to any aurors who stop you and you will be allowed on your way.
If you find yourself at a loss to manage it, wand taps and verbal commands would be a fruitful course.
Mycroft Holmes
A permit? Whatever Mycroft had sent was otherwise illegal within the country, then.
Fantastic!
Harry tore open the paper with enthusiasm, and a beautiful Persian carpet rolled out. It settled onto his bed, and he stared at it. No - it couldn’t be. Could it? Mycroft wouldn’t dare send him a flying carpet; they’d been banned in Britain for over half a century. Then again, he shouldn’t put anything past Mycroft. As soon as the man got an idea into his head, nothing would stop him, neither human powers nor laws.
It looked ordinary enough. It had a delicate white fringe on opposite ends where it had been woven, and its fibers were thick and dense, plush where Harry ran his hand wonderingly across it. The design was beautiful, and he traced its patterns with his index finger. It was mostly scarlet, a brilliant hue that was warm and deep, threaded through with twining gold, emerald, and tawny shades. There was an old oriental rug in the living room, but it was nothing like this. It was old and worn down from Sherlock’s pacing and years of chemical spills. This rug was like a jewel.
Licking his lips, he drew his wand out and tapped it lightly against the rug. “…Up?” he asked, and it wasn’t much of a command, more of a question. But the rug trembled a moment, then raised itself smoothly off of the surface of Harry’s quilt. It hovered there, a few inches above the fabric.
“… Whoah,” was all he managed at first. Then he pressed a hand down onto the rug. Instead of sinking, the rug held, supporting his hand no matter how hard he pushed. He clambered onto the bed, then hesitantly climbed onto the rug. He found to his delight that the rug held up his weight effortlessly. It was like sitting on the floor; much more comfortable than a broom. He had no doubts that a broom would be more responsive and faster, but for long-term travel or transporting more than one person at a time, the rug might just be the answer.
“Go!” he said, laughing aloud.
The rug obediently launched itself forward.
Straight into the bookshelf.
Sherlock and John looked up in surprise when there was a loud thud from above their heads, followed by a torrent of smaller thunks. They hurried upstairs to see Harry lying on the floor in his room, covered in books, the carpet buried under all of it.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry was downstairs, seated on the couch with a plastic baggie of ice held to his forehead. John was looking resigned and entirely unsurprised from his chair, and Sherlock was growing slowly redder as he paced and ranted about the sins of his brother.
“- not as if we asked him to interfere in our lives, but it would be so unreasonable to allow us to live our own lives without his puppeteering influences?”
“Sherlock,” John said patiently in a long-suffering tone, “Mycroft gave his nephew a birthday present. It isn’t a crime.”
“Actually, it is,” Harry piped in. “He just… made it not a crime. With a special permit.”
“I meant the giving, not the flying carpet, Harry,” John sighed.
“Does he expect me to thank him? Is that it?”
“I don’t think he expects anything, Sherlock. I think he’s just giving his nephew a gift.”
“Mycroft doesn’t do anything without expecting anything. You should know that by now, John!”
“Fine. Then he has ulterior motives. So what? He gave Harry a present. You don’t have to do anything back for it. Just let Harry have the carpet, no harm done. God knows you’ll turn down any favors he asks of you anyway.”
Sherlock scowled. “He’ll know that we’re using it. That he’s managed to get to us!”
“Sherlock… I think you might be overreacting.”
“I never overreact!”
“Father, I can keep it, right?”
Sherlock stopped pacing and shouting to stare down at Harry. “…What?”
“I can keep it?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say no, but John beat him to the punch. “Of course you can, Harry,” John reassured him. That earned him another Look from Sherlock. “Well? Do you want to tell him he can’t? Just because his father’s being oversensitive about a five-year-old fight with his brother? Because of that, a twelve-year-old boy can’t keep his birthday present? Hmm?”
There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock made a face and threw himself backwards onto the couch in a sulk. “Fine! Apparently I have no say over what goes on in my own household!”
Harry was too used to this to be upset by Sherlock’s outbursts. Instead, he took the acceptance for what it was and hugged Sherlock. “Thanks, Father.”
Sherlock mumbled something that might have been ‘you’re welcome,’ if you squinted just right.
Next chapter here.
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.
Hermione had promised. Harry was not generally as trusting of a child as many first-year students. He had seen people smile out of one face and then turn around to kill with another. He knew that there was evil in the world, and that it would do anything to get what it wanted, and the truth was the first thing to be cast aside. But his dad had taught him that it was okay to be wary of strangers and of people who could hurt you or people you suspected were up to no good, by deductions, gut instinct, or otherwise, but that it was not okay to distrust your friends. So when Hermione promised to write, he believed her. Ron had promised the same when they left Hogwarts, as had Theo.
Aethel never bore any letters out of the ordinary. There was a report, once, of his exam scores - he’d passed with flying colors - and that was it. Harry let her out in the evening so she could stretch her wings, but she always returned with empty claws. He’d written letters, three or four to each of his friends, but nothing came in response. After that, he’d run out of things to say. There were only so many letters he could write before he had to stop himself from writing, ‘Why won’t you write back? I miss you. You promised.’ He never quite allowed himself to pen that. He wouldn’t be that pathetic. But it was hard, seeing the kitchen window latched tightly shut.
Tagging along with Sherlock helped. It always gave him a boost of confidence when he gave Anderson a headache from solving the case based on the one piece of evidence that Anderson had declared completely useless. John took up teaching Harry how to sew up tears in his clothing. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as a crime scene, but it was tedious and involved much more skill than Harry had previously thought, and he couldn’t deny the practicality of it. Especially not when John took the time to explain a few extracurricular stitches, ones that Harry might be able to use one day to sew stitches on a wound rather than a rip in his sleeve. But there were only so many ripped pieces of clothing in the flat, and John wouldn’t allow anyone to go tearing up clothing just to let Harry sew it back up, so Harry was left to his own devices again.
Fortunately, the end of July rolled around eventually and Harry turned twelve. There was a marvelous little party in 221B. It was a small crowd, just the three of them plus Mrs. Hudson, but that was how they had always celebrated birthdays, and so that was perfect. John hung up a banner over the windows that read “Happy 12th Birthday, Harry!” and ordered a cake from the baker’s down the road, Harry’s favorite chocolate buttercream.
The tradition was that on Harry’s birthday, everyone would wear pajamas around the flat all day. It had started when Harry turned 8, his first birthday at Baker Street, and Sherlock had refused to change out of his pajamas-and-bathrobe ensemble. Now it was simply what everyone did. They crowded around the little kitchen table to watch Harry blow out the candles, then the whole lot migrated into the living room to push presents into his arms.
“Go on, then, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, bundled up in a very cozy-looking floral bathrobe.
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped open her present and pulled out an old-fashioned slingshot, the sort that he’d only seen in movies. He held it up and stretched the drawback mechanism a few times experimentally. “Interesting,” he said slowly.
“Now, don’t get into too much trouble with that,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“I won’t,” Harry promised. It was an easy promise to make, because she’d said ‘too much trouble,’ not no trouble at all. And ‘too much’ was entirely subjective, wasn’t it? “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Just what he needs, another way to annoy the faculty,” he sighed. “Thanks,” he said, smiling nonetheless at Mrs. Hudson.
John and Sherlock had apparently gone together on their present to Harry, as the box was impressively large and bore signs of John’s patient and neat gift-wrapping. The note was signed ‘love John and Sherlock’ despite the fact that the entire thing was written in John’s handwriting.
The wrapping fell away to reveal a gorgeous miniature trunk, all varnished cherry wood with tooled leather straps and brass locking mechanisms. There was a little handle attached for easy carrying, too, and Harry let his fingers roam across the surface, drinking in the different textures of the materials.
Sherlock, ever blunt, snorted. “The present’s inside.”
Harry looked up with surprise. There was more? Still, he took the key that was tied to the note and unlocked the latches. And sure enough, Sherlock was right. As beautiful as the box was, the real glory of the present was inside. The box was lined in soft brown suede, compartmentalized into little sections and holders for all of its contents. It was utterly stuffed with a veritable miniature potions storeroom. There was a brand-new collapsible brass cauldron, held into place with another leather strap. A new set of knives and tools were arranged along the top of the box, each fitting complacently into its own pocket. Rows of tiny bottles and boxes of ingredients, essences, and powders marched along, nestled tightly into the suede. There was even a shuttered chamber in which Harry could store his potions textbooks, his quills, and his inkpots.
For a few minutes, he was completely unable to form a reply at all, let alone thank them. Fortunately, his awed expression seemed to be enough. John chuckled and ruffled his hair. “You’re welcome,” he said with a smile. “We know how much you’ve enjoyed Potions class, so we wanted to help you along.”
“Proper science requires proper equipment,” said Sherlock with a brusque nod.
“Thank you, Dad, Father - it’s amazing!”
“Don’t thank us,” John countered. “Just keep doing well in school.”
“I will! I can’t wait to use it!” He leaned across the table to hug both John and Sherlock in turn, then Mrs. Hudson, as well. Everyone seemed pleased that he enjoyed his presents, and soon enough, they were all having a second round of birthday cake.
Harry carried his potions box and slingshot back to his room at the end of the night, carefully setting them on his desk. They were coming with him to Hogwarts, no question about it. The potions box would be invaluable in Potions class next year, that was for sure. The sheer quality of the instruments would be a huge step up from his old Diagon Alley basic first-year tools. And the slingshot had so much potential for practical use; he was sure Ron would get a kick out of it, too -
There Harry’s thoughts trailed off. Then again, Ron might not get a kick out of it. Ron didn’t seem to care enough to spend five minutes writing a letter.
But that was fine, wasn’t it? He could do alright without his old school friends. After all, Sherlock didn’t really have any friends at all until he met John, and look how that turned out for him. Maybe this just meant that he was supposed to concentrate on his work at Hogwarts instead of wasting time with people who didn’t seem to bother wasting their time with him.
He told himself that it was flawlessly logical and empirical, but it didn’t quite erase the sick feeling he had in the pit of his stomach as he laid on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
An insistent tap on his bedroom window distracted him from his maudlin thoughts. He rolled his head to peer at the window, where Aethel’s head appeared. She disappeared momentarily, though, before the crest of the top of her head fluttered against the windowpane and vanished again. Harry frowned and went over, only to find Aethel bobbing up and down in the wind, struggling to carry a package that looked like it weighed about ten owls. It was long and cylindrical, wrapped in unobtrusive brown paper. He pushed the window open and grabbed hold of the package, pulling it inside. Aethel, relieved and weak from the trip, flapped in and settled on his headboard with an unhappy hoot.
“Sorry, Aethel. If I’d known this was coming, I would have sent reinforcements.”
She eyed him for a moment before deciding that this was worth far too much energy and folding her eyes shut. Harry, hefting up the heavy package, couldn’t blame her. He threw it onto the bed. A small slip of paper was affixed to the end of it, and he tugged it off curiously.
Harry, it read simply,
I hope your 12th birthday finds you well. I suggest that you don’t inform Sherlock of this birthday present. John might be interested, though, if you choose to tell him. Regardless, take care of this. Enclosed is a Ministry Permit for its use within the borders of the United Kingdom. Show it to any aurors who stop you and you will be allowed on your way.
If you find yourself at a loss to manage it, wand taps and verbal commands would be a fruitful course.
Mycroft Holmes
A permit? Whatever Mycroft had sent was otherwise illegal within the country, then.
Fantastic!
Harry tore open the paper with enthusiasm, and a beautiful Persian carpet rolled out. It settled onto his bed, and he stared at it. No - it couldn’t be. Could it? Mycroft wouldn’t dare send him a flying carpet; they’d been banned in Britain for over half a century. Then again, he shouldn’t put anything past Mycroft. As soon as the man got an idea into his head, nothing would stop him, neither human powers nor laws.
It looked ordinary enough. It had a delicate white fringe on opposite ends where it had been woven, and its fibers were thick and dense, plush where Harry ran his hand wonderingly across it. The design was beautiful, and he traced its patterns with his index finger. It was mostly scarlet, a brilliant hue that was warm and deep, threaded through with twining gold, emerald, and tawny shades. There was an old oriental rug in the living room, but it was nothing like this. It was old and worn down from Sherlock’s pacing and years of chemical spills. This rug was like a jewel.
Licking his lips, he drew his wand out and tapped it lightly against the rug. “…Up?” he asked, and it wasn’t much of a command, more of a question. But the rug trembled a moment, then raised itself smoothly off of the surface of Harry’s quilt. It hovered there, a few inches above the fabric.
“… Whoah,” was all he managed at first. Then he pressed a hand down onto the rug. Instead of sinking, the rug held, supporting his hand no matter how hard he pushed. He clambered onto the bed, then hesitantly climbed onto the rug. He found to his delight that the rug held up his weight effortlessly. It was like sitting on the floor; much more comfortable than a broom. He had no doubts that a broom would be more responsive and faster, but for long-term travel or transporting more than one person at a time, the rug might just be the answer.
“Go!” he said, laughing aloud.
The rug obediently launched itself forward.
Straight into the bookshelf.
Sherlock and John looked up in surprise when there was a loud thud from above their heads, followed by a torrent of smaller thunks. They hurried upstairs to see Harry lying on the floor in his room, covered in books, the carpet buried under all of it.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry was downstairs, seated on the couch with a plastic baggie of ice held to his forehead. John was looking resigned and entirely unsurprised from his chair, and Sherlock was growing slowly redder as he paced and ranted about the sins of his brother.
“- not as if we asked him to interfere in our lives, but it would be so unreasonable to allow us to live our own lives without his puppeteering influences?”
“Sherlock,” John said patiently in a long-suffering tone, “Mycroft gave his nephew a birthday present. It isn’t a crime.”
“Actually, it is,” Harry piped in. “He just… made it not a crime. With a special permit.”
“I meant the giving, not the flying carpet, Harry,” John sighed.
“Does he expect me to thank him? Is that it?”
“I don’t think he expects anything, Sherlock. I think he’s just giving his nephew a gift.”
“Mycroft doesn’t do anything without expecting anything. You should know that by now, John!”
“Fine. Then he has ulterior motives. So what? He gave Harry a present. You don’t have to do anything back for it. Just let Harry have the carpet, no harm done. God knows you’ll turn down any favors he asks of you anyway.”
Sherlock scowled. “He’ll know that we’re using it. That he’s managed to get to us!”
“Sherlock… I think you might be overreacting.”
“I never overreact!”
“Father, I can keep it, right?”
Sherlock stopped pacing and shouting to stare down at Harry. “…What?”
“I can keep it?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say no, but John beat him to the punch. “Of course you can, Harry,” John reassured him. That earned him another Look from Sherlock. “Well? Do you want to tell him he can’t? Just because his father’s being oversensitive about a five-year-old fight with his brother? Because of that, a twelve-year-old boy can’t keep his birthday present? Hmm?”
There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock made a face and threw himself backwards onto the couch in a sulk. “Fine! Apparently I have no say over what goes on in my own household!”
Harry was too used to this to be upset by Sherlock’s outbursts. Instead, he took the acceptance for what it was and hugged Sherlock. “Thanks, Father.”
Sherlock mumbled something that might have been ‘you’re welcome,’ if you squinted just right.
Next chapter here.