And then they were once again in the neatly furnished office, the desk occupied this time not by Mycroft, but by a dark-haired young woman barely out of her teens. Anthea, John realized, recognizing the dark lashes and precise brows and feeling an out-of-place lurch of attraction toward the young woman that would have set Sherlock's eyes rolling. Anthea was leaning over the desk, eagle-feather quill in hand, writing assiduously on a heavy sheath of parchment. John's eyebrows shot up as the effortlessly neat script left him in no doubt of what he had suspected for quite some time now:

Anthea (or, well, whatever her name was) was a witch.

This was considerable candor on Mycroft's part, John reflected. Or determined ignorance on his own. Sherlock had probably known all along, but John…John found women more compelling when shrouded in mystery. Perhaps this was his own guilt surfacing: guilt regarding the parts of himself he could not share, guilt that he was attracted to them at all. John Watson's predilection for the fairer sex was hardly a secret, but he had never considered the option of a full relationship with any of them. Nor did John possess the moral strength to cease attracting women to him (he had long since ceased kidding himself that this was unintentional). Hence his rapid cycling through girlfriends. Only Lily Potter had ever known what he was. And while John had never coveted his friend's wife, it would take a woman of Lily's rare compassion not to run screaming from that revelation.

John had only the briefest moment for introspection, distracted as he was by the sight of the young Mycroft, hairline beginning to recede slightly, pacing his office with the heavy step of a caged tiger. It was a gesture so reminiscent of Sherlock that John nearly smiled. The whim fled the instant he directed his attention to the letter Mycroft was dictating:

Sherlock,

It has been months since you expressed your distaste for my presence. Perhaps this note, and the accompanying object, will serve as a truce between us. Your recent approach to life in the Muggle world is as innovative and novel as I knew you to be capable of. Consider this package, if not a wrong righted, at least a petition to end the childish feud between us.

I made you a promise once to reveal the little I have unearthed regarding your past. I wonder whether you will thank me for fulfilling it. It is fortunate indeed that you are not given to sentiment.

It will probably come of no surprise that you are a pureblood—the youngest son of an ancient family whose distinguished reputation is now overtaken by notoriety. Yes, Sherlock, in wizarding society you have a true biological brother. One who has by his crimes distinguished himself among the worst of the Dark Lord's followers. He is, of course, incarcerated in Azkaban. I need hardly add that the same would be your fate were you ever to return to the world that is your birthright. Your parents perished shortly following your loss.

I have instructed my associate to charm this note against unintended recipients, yet prudence still dictates that the barest summary be given here. Further details will be furnished if you consent to meet in person. I await your owl.

Regards,

Mycroft Holmes

Anthea's quill came to a halt and she looked up, manicured fingers already moving towards a coil of twine that lay on the desk next to a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper. The package Mycroft had mentioned.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"All?" asked Mycroft, coming to a halt and facing her with an odd sort of half-smile. "It's already far too much, I have no doubt."

"You won't tell him his name, sir?"

"No," said Mycroft. "Nothing more until I have seen and…evaluated him in person. The last thing we need is for Regulus Black to go rushing back to unearth old memories. He is a detective now, after all…"

Abruptly as they always did, the recollections ended. John, who had stood to dip a finger in the small vial containing Mycroft's memories, fell back into his armchair feeling as though he had come up for air after a long, long dive. Or as though he had gone on a long journey and come back wiser, but empty-handed. Pensieve memories hadn't affected him this way since his first experience with them in N.E.W.T. level Charms class.

Mycroft was obviously awaiting a reaction, but John found nothing to say. What was there? Blessings or curses? Thanks or abuse? Admiration, or horror?

Sherlock's chance at life had been forged in the flames of egregious error, misguided compassion, and doubtless ulterior motives that Mycroft hadn't shared with John. No wonder their relationship was so rocky. No wonder that Sherlock eschewed and admired his brother in equal measure. No wonder that he despised Mycroft's surveillance and yet relied so heavily on his esteem. Perhaps "archenemy" had after all been the best descriptor at Sherlock's disposal for the man who had saved his life and constantly threatened his freedom.

In the face of all that, what was John's opinion? Even had he known, it hardly seemed worthwhile to add his own voice to the mix. This was nothing an alcoholic sister or guilt-ridden father could have prepared him for.

It occurred to him that Mycroft certainly hadn't been prepared either.

"Well, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft gestured impatiently.

John voiced the question more for something to say than because he expected an honest answer.

"Why did you do it?" What did you have to gain?

Mycroft seemed to have anticipated this. He made no attempt to sidestep the question, though the response was anything but definite.

"Why did I…adopt him into the family, you mean? I suppose there were a number of incentives. It was, as I've no doubt Sherlock himself has complained to you, a convenient method of keeping an eye on him..."

"You could've left him to the Wizengamot."

"I suppose I could have. 'Justice' is a different beast in wartime, however."

"Don't," said John shortly. "Just…don't pretend about this. Justice wasn't your motivation, Mycroft. It never has been. Justice doesn't spy on people in their own homes, or threaten the life and freedom of anyone who gets close to your little brother. I know justice when I see it, Mycroft, and I know that people only apply it when convenient. I've lived my whole life in the negative space around convenience. And I know you don't play by the rules any more than Sherlock does." John took a breath, knowing he was playing long odds. "But you're different than him in one way: everything you do is part of a bigger game."

Mycroft listened with almost an insulting air of ennui.

"Really, Dr. Watson. Are you accusing me of more conniving than Sherlock Holmes? You live with the man."

John snorted. "Right, and that's why I know the kinds of games Sherlock plays. He's always in it for the mystery, the excitement, and he's not afraid to be the wild card if that's what it takes. He also runs out of patience. He'll stab a Cluedo board to the wall if it displeases him."

"Since you're so perceptive, what do you suppose my motivation to be?"

John fell silent.

"I await your diagnosis, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft drily.

John answered with far more candor than he intended.

"Either you're the most sentimental hypocrite ever to set foot on the planet," he started, and stopped. "Or we should all be running for our lives."

Mycroft smiled. "I suppose you'll just have to wallow in uncertainty."

John had expected nothing less. It wasn't until later, though—when he was in the middle of fuming over the degree to which his interrogation of Mycroft had tipped his own hand—that the full truth of his own words dawned on him. If Mycroft's motives truly excluded genuine care for his brother…then he had taken extraordinary measures to gain influence over one of the world's most dangerous wizards based upon an impression of the latter at seventeen. John shuddered. Criminal mastermind—John's own first impression of Mycroft might not have been that far off after all. He wasn't oblivious to the possibilities that Pensieve might present to one as well-versed in deception as a Holmes. Though it was clear that none of the memories had been altered, Mycroft could simply have selected those that confirmed the impression he wished to convey to John. Those that would appear to give a full view of the matter.

He turned over in his mind Mycroft's parting words.

"My motivations you will have to judge for yourself," he said. "But before you voice them, I'd like to hear the reasons you moved into a flat with him six years later. Can you answer that for me, Dr. Watson?"

To John's surprise, the answer came to his lips without the slightest hesitation.

"I was bored," he said.

A/N: Hey guys. Thanks for your patience with the new chapter! I'm gearing up for a very involved part of the story- keeping pace with both Sherlock's cases and everything going on in the wizarding world! Thanks for coming along with me!

While you're waiting, you might check out some of the new stuff I published recently:

In the Silent Chamber (HP)

Lemon Tea (BBC Sherlock, feat. Molly Hooper)

The Dirge of Khan (BBC Sherlock/new generation Star Trek)

Morte D'Arty (BBC Sherlock/Artemis Fowl)

I've been revamping "Speaking of Serpents", my other popular HP/Sherlock story, and the changes/additions will be published soon. I created some forums too, if anyone wants to discuss my stories, favorite fandoms, or writing in general.