A/N: This started out as a drabble based off a meme I saw on tumblr, and somehow turned into a 20k word case-fic. #sorrynotsorry

A Study in Magic

John Hamish Watson had never, by any stretch of the imagination, had the sort of life that one might consider normal.

He had lost the chance at having a normal life the day he'd followed Mike Stamford into St. Bart's Hospital and met the world's only consulting detective. Except no, that wasn't necessarily true. Normal hadn't been a part of his vocabulary since he was eleven years old and an old woman in green robes had shown up on the Watsons' doorstep, wanting to talk about John's education; she had then turned his mother's favourite tea set into hedgehogs, and all understanding of the word "normal" left John's young world.

Come to think of it, he had turned the family rabbit bright violet before he could even walk. Maybe normal had never been an option for him.

That being said, even after everything he had seen and done in his lifetime, John was having a really hard time grasping at the situation he had found himself in. And it all started because of the cat.

Well, no, that wasn't technically correct either. It had all started when Sherlock burst into his bedroom in the middle of the night, only that part happened far too often to be considered anything other than normal at this point.

"John, up, now!"

The thunderous slam of his bedroom door against the wall jerked John from a deep sleep, and his fight-or-flight reflexes went into overdrive. Before his eyes had even completely opened, his hand was plunging into the drawer of his bedside table and closing around the grip of his service pistol. He was upright and levelling the gun at his attacker before his tired brain made out the familiar towering silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John growled, voice still hoarse from sleep. He clicked the safety back on with one hand while the other rubbed at his eyes. "I could've shot you."

Sherlock scoffed, the sharp exhale dripping with scorn. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Now up, quickly. Lestrade just texted, they got another."

This news broke through the last vestiges of sleep clinging to his mind, and John tipped his head up to squint at Sherlock's dark outline. "Another?" he asked faintly.

"Hurry." With that parting word, Sherlock turned with an over-dramatic whirl of his coat and disappeared.

Well, there was nothing for it now. If John didn't hurry up and follow, he'd get left behind. And Sherlock wouldn't even think to text him the address so he could follow because it would be hours before he even noticed that John wasn't there. Wouldn't be the first time it's happened, after all. So despite the fact that it was - John glanced at the clock and moaned - half-three in the morning on his first day off in a week, he padded over to the wardrobe in search of a clean jumper.

Once he was dressed, he tucked his service pistol into his waistband and then reached back into the hidden catch at the back of the drawer and pulled out his other weapon. Seven and three-quarter inches, oak with a dragon heartstring core. John traced his fingers fondly over the engraved handle of his wand. He didn't use it often anymore, not since Afghanistan, but he still usually kept it with him, especially when going out on a case with Sherlock.

Just in case.

John strapped a wand holster to his forearm, cast a quick Disillusionment charm on it, and then tucked his wand into the holster. Sure that his wand would be well concealed, he pulled his sleeve down over the holster. John did one last check, grabbed his phone, and jogged down the stairs just in time to jump into the cab behind Sherlock right before it took off.

A half hour later, the cabbie dropped them off in front of an old townhouse on the east end. The house was made of crumbling brick, and the paint around the window frames was chipping. It didn't look any different from any of the other houses on the street, apart from the police tape draped across the wrought-iron gate. Before John could take in any more than that, Sherlock flounced up the front walk and left John to hurry after him.

"Yes, thank you, Donovan, for your expert opinion," Sherlock was saying, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as John finally caught up to him in the main hall. "Well clearly you've got this handled then, I don't know why you even called me."

"Neither do I," Donovan muttered dryly, arms folded across her chest in an obvious sign of aggression.

"Enough." Lestrade stuck his head out of a doorway further down the hall, casting an annoyed glance at them both. Sherlock looked torn between his eagerness to get to the scene and his desire to verbally tear Donovan apart for her cheek. John solved the problem by stepping passed them both and heading for the doorway with a friendly, "Hey Greg." He grinned triumphantly when he heard Sherlock follow with an imperious snort.

The dining room crime scene looked like someone had unleashed a small hurricane. The furniture was overturned and broken into pieces, dishes laid in starbursts of shattered china all across the floor, and one window was cracked, a spiderweb of fractures spraying out from the bottom left corner. A light fixture in the centre of the room was hanging at an ominous angle, swaying like a pendulum. It looked exactly like the last four crime scenes in the case, right up to the complete lack of a body.

"Victim?" Sherlock asked, already prowling around the room, his mercurial eyes cataloguing every little detail that the rest of them couldn't see.

"Alastair Turnhill," Lestrade said. His fingers twitched over his pocket like he was dying to pull out a cigarette. "Low-level ministry worker, no family in the area, no criminal record. Neighbour next door heard a commotion, said it sounded like a pretty vicious fight, but by the time he'd got here from his house, the whole place was empty. No body and no suspect, just like the others."

"Exits?" Sherlock asked, crouching to examine a spot on the wall and pulling on a set of the violet nitrile gloves.

"Only two doors in and out of the house, front and back. Neighbour came in through the front, and the back was locked from the inside," Lestrade rambled off with the practised measure of someone who had done it hundreds of times before. "No broken windows, all of them locked and undamaged. Just li-"

"Just like the others," Sherlock finished for him. "Was there any mention of a fire?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion and John wasn't far behind. "No, why?"

"Scorch mark," Sherlock said, tracing a long, delicate finger across a patch of faded wallpaper. "Too far from an outlet to be electrical. It's almost like a hot projectile struck the wall, but if so, then where did the projectile end up?"

"How do you know it's not from before?" Anderson drawled from the doorway that led to the kitchen. "Could've been there ages."

Sherlock stood up in a flurry of wool coat, his eyes latching onto Anderson's smug expression with laser-like precision. "Because, Anderson," Sherlock snarled pointedly, "there was one exactly like it on the floor of the previous scene."

"There was?" Lestrade asked in surprise. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It wasn't relevant then," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's appearance at a second scene, though, that makes it interesting."

Curious, John walked around Sherlock and crouched down in the spot he'd just vacated. Sure enough, there was a black streak on the wall, narrow and angled downward across the dull floral print. It was so smooth and precise it almost looked intentional. John brushed his fingertips over the mark and felt a strange, electric shudder shoot up his arm. Panic welled in him as he felt the residual energy left in the wall, the faintest trace of what had caused it still hovering there within the wood and plaster.

Magic.

How had he missed it? How had he not noticed it before? Now that he was paying attention he could feel it; the shimmer in the air, like the buzzy feeling that preceded a heavy thunderstorm. There had been magic cast here, a lot of it and very powerful, at that. He was so far out of touch, had been away from the world for so long, that he hadn't even given it a second thought. Auror Pippincrull would be so disappointed in him.

Shaking his head, John used the nearby tipped-over chair to lever himself back to his feet. Sherlock was pacing circles around the room, rattling off deductions at lightning speed, and John forced himself to focus. "...didn't know his attacker, who was clearly much larger and skilled than him. The victim was incapacitated in this room, here judging by the crush patterns of this broken cabinet door," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely at the cupboard in question beside him, which had most of its lower shelves broken and its meagre contents spilt across the floor. "But the suspect left something behind. Here."

Everyone looked up interestedly as Sherlock scooped an odd ornament off the top - and only unbroken - shelf. Lestrade and John both moved closer to get a better look at the object, a small copper figurine of some sort.

"How do you know it's from the suspect?" Lestrade asked.

"Dust," was Sherlock's one-word answer, not looking up from examining the bottom of the figurine. John and Lestrade had both been to enough crime scenes with him to know what he meant, but it seemed not all were up to speed.

"Dust?" Anderson drawled sceptically.

"Yes, Anderson, dust," Sherlock said before Lestrade could step in. John, who didn't like Anderson much more than Sherlock did, didn't even bother to try and stop the inevitable lecture. "Dust: organic particulates that are carried in the air until settling on a surface due to a combination of static electricity and gravity. Surely even with your primary school understanding of forensics, you can understand the relevance of dust in determining the length of time that an object has been in one place.

"These few other items are coated in dust, but it's smudged. Moved recently then. This is corroborated by the faint outlines left on the shelf itself, shadows of where the objects sat before they were relocated. There hasn't been enough time for the dust to cover these exposed spots, which means that the movement occurred very recently. This figurine, however, is entirely devoid of dust and was perched in the dead centre of the shelf, on a spot that is coated in dust particles. Therefore, it's fairly easy to conclude that the other items were moved aside to make a place for this addition at some point in the last forty-eight hours."

"You don't think the victim could've just redecorated?" Lestrade asked curiously. "This definitely came from the killer then?"

Sherlock nodded, twisting the brass figure in his fingers like a spider binding up its latest catch. "There is no connection between this piece and any others," he said. "The victim is a man of simple means, not prone to decoration or aesthetics. The brief glimpse I had of the sitting room matched with what remains in this room is indicative of that. His furniture is aged and loosely matched, likely accumulated over a length of many years. The few decorative pieces that he owns fit a similar motif."

"Aeronautics," John concluded, his eyes skimming the shelf. "They're all model planes."

The faint quirk of lips and tip of the head that he received from Sherlock was a sign of approval and pride, and John fought back the satisfied grin. "Exactly," Sherlock said. "As are the items on the sitting room mantle and the bookshelf in the hall and the framed prints above the sofa. So why would a man whose few decorative items pertain to aeroplanes make a place of honour for this troll?"

Sherlock held up the figurine between his finger and thumb, giving John his first proper glimpse of the thing. "It's a gnome," he said in surprise, stepping closer to look at the trinket. It had been decades, but he would recognise the little potato-headed figure anywhere. It took John a minute longer to notice that the room had gone oddly quiet and when he looked around he saw that Lestrade, Sherlock, and Anderson were all staring at him with expressions ranging from curiosity to confusion.

"A gnome?" Lestrade asked finally. "Like those little, bearded fellows people put in their gardens?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock cut across before John could think of a way to save himself.

Lestrade shrugged unconcernedly. "I'm just saying, that thing doesn't look much like the ones my in-laws collected."

"It just reminded me of something I saw when I was a kid," John said, pulling on an expression of vague disinterest to hide his hammering heart. Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, and John felt sure that the detective must somehow be able to sense his internal panic. "Was from a fairy tale book, I think. That's what the gnomes looked like. I just remember because their heads look like potatoes, you know?"

Lestrade went back to examining the figure with bemused interest, but Sherlock's gaze didn't waver from John's face. "The book, do you remember the title?" he asked.

"Not off the top of my head, sorry," John said. "Like I said, I was a kid."

"If this image came from that particular book, it might be relevant to the case," Sherlock pressed insistently.

"Sorry," John said again. "I'll look into it, see if I can remember. Maybe give Harry a call."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if he could sense the lie in the words, but he didn't press it any further. "Very well, if there's nothing more you need from me," he said to Lestrade and tucked the figurine into a pocket of his coat.

"Oi, that's evidence!" Lestrade said.

"It's also the best clue we have in this case, and I need to examine it more closely," Sherlock replied. "We can go through the motions of you bagging it into evidence, but we both know I'll just nick it from there later anyway, and I doubt you'd like to waste time when the killer is still out there and most likely preparing to kill again."

Lestrade let out a weary breath, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine, but be careful with it, would you? Try not to – explode it or something?"

"Of course," Sherlock said with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Take samples of that scorch mark. See if your incompetent apes can figure out what caused it." Then he started for the door, leaving John to promise to text Lestrade if they found anything of relevance before jogging out after him.

"This case is becoming more interesting," Sherlock said as he ducked under the police tape. It was a huge sign of consideration that he bothered to hold it up for John as well. "Five disappearances with no bodies and the only clues are a few scorch marks and this odd little trinket. A gnome, you said?"

"It was just a guess," John countered with a shrug. He needn't have wasted the breath because Sherlock was already murmuring to himself, examining the gnome figurine shrewdly as they walked toward the main road. John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans to fight off the early morning chill, still an hour or so from sunrise.

The case was setting his nerves on end, and he personally couldn't wait to see the end of it. He had no doubt that the killer was a wizard or witch, and he didn't particularly want Sherlock getting too far into it. John hadn't been a part of that world since Afghanistan, and he didn't appreciate that it was creeping back in now that he'd finally found something good for himself.

As they reached the corner, movement in his peripherals caught John's attention, and he glanced into the yard of the house there. Perched on the low garden wall was a grey tabby cat, its head tilted to watch the progress of the two men heading down the street. There were distinctive markings on its face – rectangles of darker grey around its eyes – and the sight of them made John stop mid-stride. It couldn't be… The tabby stared back at him calmly, yellow eyes unblinking in the half-light cast by the nearby lamppost.

"John. John?"

John roused himself and looked over to see Sherlock several metres ahead of him on the pavement, glancing back with his brow furrowed. "Oh, right, sorry," John said, shaking himself. "Got distracted. Happens when you wake me up in the middle of the bloody night."

"Really, John, the night was already more than half over before I roused you," Sherlock said, but the patronising tone in his voice wasn't as cutting, a sign John took as the Sherlock equivalent of fondness. "Now come along. We can get you a coffee on the way if we must."

"Where are we going?" John asked, hurrying to catch up to him.

"The other crime scenes," Sherlock said. "I'm willing to bet that we will find more of those scorch marks, and I need to get my own samples."

"I thought you were having Lestrade's men do that?" John asked in amusement.

Sherlock scoffed. "And trust those buffoons? Really, John, you should know better. And I feel like I've seen a figurine like this before, at one of the other crime scenes. If it turns out that there is one in each scene..."

John grinned, getting swept up into the thrill of the chase. The anxiety of before began to bleed away beneath the familiar feelings of adrenaline and suspense, the tension easing from his muscles as he pushed himself to keep pace with Sherlock's long stride. Still, as they crossed the road, he glanced back over his shoulder.

The grey tabby was still sitting on the garden wall, watching.

John didn't even bother to look up from his laptop when he heard the overly dramatic huff of frustration from the kitchen, too well-used to them by now. There was the sound of Sherlock clattering around, things being shifted and roughly moved across the table, and then the detective himself appeared in the doorframe. "I need to go to Barts," he announced, rolling down his shirtsleeves as he strode across the room.

"Oh yeah?" John asked distractedly, frowning as he backspaced the last sentence of his blog.

"Need supplies," Sherlock was muttering as he gathered up his suit jacket and wool coat. "Those scorches, the chemical composition is something I've never seen. Can't figure it out." He paused by the door to grab his scarf, wrapping it around his neck with a practised movement. "And there's something on those figurines, something small. Need a better microscope, something stronger."

John finally looked up, his eyes flicking passed Sherlock to the row of brass gnome figurines lined up on the edge of the kitchen table. Just as Sherlock had suspected, they'd found one at every crime scene, nestled in among the room's other decor. Likewise, they had found scorch marks in most of the scenes, remnants of strong spellwork, although enough time had passed that the magic in the air had dissipated.

"You think Molly can help you figure it out?" John asked curiously as Sherlock bagged the samples into his pockets.

"She has access to chemicals and equipment that I don't have here," Sherlock said, sounding pained to admit that he lacked in anything, even if it was just supplies.

"Right," John said, nodding and going back to his laptop. As he heard Sherlock head for the door, he called after him, "Text me if you find anything." From halfway down the stairs, Sherlock made a loud, dismissive noise. Yeah, he wouldn't be getting any texts. John was half-tempted to follow him, but there was no chance of Sherlock actually finding anything. Muggle science was impressive, especially in Sherlock's hands, but even it couldn't make sense of magic.

John had only gotten two more sentences typed up in his blog post about their last solved case - The Gilded Glasses, a title John was feeling rather proud of even though Sherlock would undoubtedly complain the moment he saw it - when he was startled by a loud pop! Recognising the sound for what it is, John's hand went immediately to the holster on his right forearm. His laptop clattered to the coffee table as he bolted upright and pointed his wand at the person who had just Apparated into the sitting room of 221B.

"Good morning, Mr Watson."

John's arm faltered in shock. "Professor McGonagall?"

The elderly woman's thin lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a smile. "It is good to see you again, Mr Watson," she said. "Or I suppose you go by Dr Watson now, don't you? I apologise for alarming you, but I had to wait until your - partner left."

"It was you, then," John concluded. "The cat from the crime scene." McGonagall nodded. John contemplated for a second and then sighed. "Right, I'll make tea. I have a feeling this is going to be a long story."

John stepped into the kitchen and moved some of Sherlock's experiments - he preferred not to look closer to tell exactly what they were, for his own sanity - out of the way so he could lay out the only set of nice teacups they still owned. The kettle boiled with a quick Heating Charm, and he tucked his wand back up his sleeve. He used the time it took to prepare the tea to gather himself, settling himself into the calm, pragmatic facade developed by a lifetime as a soldier. By the time he carried the tea back into the sitting room, cups balanced on a mismatched tea tray, he was compartmentalised enough that the sight of McGonagall, in her deep sapphire robes and pointed hat, sitting in his old red armchair didn't even startle him.

McGonagall accepted the tea with a shallow nod. "This is an interesting path you've fallen onto," she said conversationally, her gaze drifting across the various detritus on the mantle as he settled down into Sherlock's leather armchair. "They've kept an eye on you for the last few years; Potter filled me in after I saw you this morning. Investigating Muggle crimes, chasing down murderers." She stirred her tea idly, her eyes flicking over him in a move oddly reminiscent of Sherlock. "And here we all thought you had left the Aurors for the quiet life."

John chuckled. "Yes, well, so did I. I meant to, anyway, but my flatmate's a bit mad."

"So I've heard," McGonagall said with a wry twist of her lips. "Mad, but a genius. You aren't worried that he'll find out?"

Her gaze drifted pointedly to his left shoulder, and John instinctively rolled the injured joint. "You mean that it's not a bullet wound I got in Afghanistan but a curse scar?" McGonagall hummed in agreement. John smirked. "And yet he's still to wonder how the tea gets made every morning."

McGonagall's lips quirked. "Ah, one of those sorts."

"Yeah. Sherlock may be a genius, but you know how Muggles can be. They see what they want to see, and he won't take anything without clear scientific proof first," John said, shrugging. He stared down into his tea for a moment and then said, "You know, I've never known you to be one for small talk and beating around the bush. You're here about the case. What I don't know is why you were there at all. Did you know him?"

"No, I was there consulting, like you," McGonagall said, setting aside her teacup and folding her fingers together below her chin. "As a favour to Potter. He suspects that the killer might be using Transfiguration and asked if I would investigate should another murder occur."

"Transfiguration?"

McGonagall's lips thinned in a familiar sign of displeasure. "On the bodies of those he killed," she explained.

John choked on his tea, hastily setting the cup down as he struggled to clear his throat. "Merlin's beard," he breathed. "Once I knew magic was involved, I just assumed he was Apparating away with the bodies."

"The ones here in London aren't the only murders," McGonagall said grimly. "They have been happening all over the United Kingdom for many months. All the same, all wizards and witches attacked in their homes, and yet no bodies have ever been found despite considerable searching."

"So you think he's been Transfiguring his victims so that no one can find them?" John asked. "And then what, taking them home and putting them on the mantle like some perverted coin collection for serial killers?" John's gaze drifted passed her to the four brass figurines lined up along the edge of the kitchen table, and his stomach dropped. Sherlock's deductions at the crime scene came back to him. "Or maybe he's leaving them behind as a sign. To mock the people trying to catch him."

"That's what Potter suspected," McGonagall said. "But when I went to the scene I could find nothing with any traces of Transfiguration magic."

John swallowed hard. "Because it had been taken from the scene before you got there." He straightened up and walked over to the table. By the time he had picked one of the gnomes up and turned around, McGonagall had already approached him, moving with more speed and grace than a woman her age should have. "We found one of these at each of the scenes, all of them sitting on shelves or mantles where people would see them."

McGonagall plucked the figurine from his hand curiously. "Gnomes," she observed in a voice of calculated indifference. She moved her wand in a complicated gesture above the figurines, and a faint red mist coalesced around the brass figures. The way McGonagall's lips suddenly tightened into a hard, white line was all the confirmation he needed.

"Bloody hell," John whispered in horror.

"I need to take these to the Ministry," McGonagall said, and she drew a velvet pouch from somewhere within her robes. "Potter needs to see these."

"Right, yeah, of course, just-" John drew his wand and, "Geminio." A perfect row of matching gnomes appeared right behind the originals. McGonagall arched an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged unrepentantly. "Sherlock'd throw a strop if they just went missing. He's difficult enough to live with on a good day. Besides, they are technically the property of the Yard, can't have them go missing."

McGonagall picked up the figurine that matched the one in her hand, examining them side-by-side. "You always were particularly gifted at Charms." John fought back a pleased smile as she nestled the figurines into the bag and then tucked it back into the mysterious inner pocket.

"Those people, are you going to be able to - fix them?" John asked uncertainly.

"The spell on them is strong, so it will take some time," she said, her tone slipping back into the one she used when giving lectures. "I will have to do some research. This spell is not one I recognise, but I will find a countercurse."

John nodded tightly, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Right, good. Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"If your partner does happen to discover anything new, send an owl to Potter, would you?" McGonagall said, and when John promised to do so, she nodded and then fixed him with a scrutinising look. "It's good to see you still doing something with your life. We were all worried when you left the Aurors. You've got too much raw talent to waste it."

"Thank you, Professor," John said, struggling to control a blush. He was far too old to still flush with pleasure each time a teacher paid him a compliment.

McGonagall nodded. "I expect I'll be seeing you again soon," she said, and then turned on her heel and vanished with a pop.

It was well into the evening before Sherlock stormed back into the flat. John, who had been distracted to the point of anxiousness all day, glanced up from the crap telly he wasn't really watching. "Find anything, then?" John asked.

The way that Sherlock flung himself dramatically across the sofa was answer enough, and John felt the knot in his chest loosen ever so slightly. "Those traces are like nothing I've ever seen, John," Sherlock groused emphatically. "Even with the equipment at Bart's, I can't get a proper chemical readout. They don't match any elements. They appear to give off varying levels of electrical charges, something more than should be left by static. So the cause was certainly some sort of electrical catalyst, yet it left behind absolutely no trace particulates, but that can't be possible."

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he picked up something in Sherlock's tone. "You're loving this, aren't you?"

Sherlock swivelled into a sitting position, staring hard at John over the top of his steepled fingers. "Five disappearances, with no bodies, no suspects, and no witnesses. No discernible link between the victims, no conclusive evidence left behind, and not a single tangible clue save this." He reached into the pocket of his coat, and John's stomach plummeted; there, between Sherlock's long pale fingers, was a little brass gnome. "What's not to love?"

"You're a git," John intoned dryly because it was the sort of thing expected of him. He was, at the moment, less bothered with Sherlock's questionable love of the macabre and far more concerned with the new problem that had just developed. John had forgotten that Sherlock had taken one of the gnomes with him to the lab, which meant Sherlock was still holding an original. An original that was meant to have been sent to the Ministry. John would need to find a way to exchange the one Sherlock had, but the hungry look in Sherlock's eyes as he examined the figurine in his palm told him it would be a while before the detective would be letting it out of his sights.

Sherlock, as usual, paid no attention to John's comment and whirled his way over to his desk, where he started pecking wildly at his laptop. John let his eyes drift back to the telly, but he couldn't focus on the latest episode of Top Gear. Without his permission, his gaze kept cutting over to the gnome perched on the corner of Sherlock's desk. That gnome was a person; some poor murder victim Transfigured beyond recognition. Somehow that unsettled John far more than any stray body parts in the fridge ever had, which perhaps said more about him than he'd like to analyse at the moment.

John passed another two episodes in his fragmented staring match with the gnome, before he finally couldn't take it any longer. He set aside his laptop and was halfway toward the staircase when Sherlock said, "Turning in already?"

"Well, I was woken up before dawn," John reminded him with forced humour. "And I've got a shift at the surgery tomorrow."

"We're on a case," Sherlock said, frowning.

"It's only a half shift. Besides, there's nothing I can do to help right now, is there?" John pointed out.

Sherlock's lips pursed ever so slightly, the beginnings of a good pout on the horizon. "I think better when you're here to talk to."

John chuckled drily. "Sherlock, you haven't spoken a word for over two hours."

This time the detective looked genuinely surprised. "Haven't I?"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, John took a steadying breath. "So clearly I wasn't much of a participant in whatever conversation you've been having the last couple hours," he said. Sherlock looked ready to protest again so John hurried on, "Hamlet can stand in for me if you desperately need someone to talk to."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, scowling. John gestured pointedly at the mantle, and Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "You named my skull?" he asked, sounding sincerely reproachful at the idea. "And couldn't come up with anything more imaginative than that?"

John grinned and shrugged. "Thought it was clever."

"It's a cliché bordering on offensive," Sherlock rebutted, but time had given John a great insight into when Sherlock was upset and when he was only putting on a face. There was a sort of weary fondness in Sherlock's complaints that softened the barb. "It's also not even correct within the context of the play you reference; the skull was not Hamlet but Yorick."

"Well call him whatever you like, the skull's going to have to be your sounding board for the night because, unlike some people in this household, I do actually need to sleep at least once a day," John responded. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock harrumphed loudly and turned back to his laptop, but just as John reached the doorway, he heard a quietly grumbled, "Goodnight, John." John headed up the stairs to his room with a smile on his face.

A smile which was promptly dashed when he opened his bedroom door and saw a silhouette against the window. Alarmed, John hastily shut the door behind him and then threw open the window. The barn owl hopped inside and offered out the envelope in its beak. John slit the envelope and pulled out a short sheaf of parchment, flicking on the bedside lamp to read the emerald ink.

Watson, Hope this didn't cause a bother but I didn't know a less obtrusive way to contact you. I need to talk to you about the case. Could you come by my office tomorrow? Cheers, H. Potter

John's heart had leapt up to hammer in his throat. If Potter was reaching out to him so quickly, something new must've developed. John grabbed a pen from the nightstand, flipped the parchment over, and wrote "I'll be there" on the back before stuffing it into the envelope again.

"Take this back to Harry, would you?" John asked the owl, which was currently preening its feathers. The owl stared up at him for a moment before plucking the envelope from his fingers and fluttering out of the window. John watched its silhouette fade into the night before closing the window and perching on the edge of his bed.

Despite his exhaustion and his best efforts, John knew sleep wouldn't come easy.

John had never felt more out of place as he stepped out of the golden lifts into the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement. All around him were waves of witches and wizards in robes of varying colours, while he was wearing battered jeans and a favoured jumper beneath his canvas jacket. He could feel the curious gazes of others as their eyes panned over his Muggle clothing and the guest badge pinned to his lapel, but he ignored them and headed for the bullpen office beneath a sign that announced "Auror Division."

Inside, John's gaze was drawn immediately to a particular cubicle (three back, two left) and he saw that his old desk had been claimed by a young witch, her flyaway curls pinned to the top of her head with what appeared to be her wand. She was fresh-faced - probably straight from her NEWTs - and eager, and almost entirely engulfed by the waves of parchment scrolls spread across her desk. John could remember that feeling, being inexperienced and determined to prove himself to his new colleagues. Of course in that day, they'd all been riding the high of the war ending and the righteous fury of tracking down the last of the free Death Eaters.

"Watson?" a deep voice cut into John's reminiscing and his gaze flicked to the wizard who had just stood from his desk. A soft grin of surprise cut across his face.

"Derkins," John greeted the older Auror pleasantly.

"Merlin's pants, it is you," said Derkins and he was laughing as he gripping John's bicep bracingly. "Haven't seen you in ages. What're you doing back here?"

"Meeting with Potter," John responded. "What about you? I thought you were retiring?"

Derkins puffed and shrugged nonchalantly. "Larissa wanted me to, but I couldn't bear the thought. Swung a bit of a promotion instead, I'm heading the Training Division at the mo, whipping all the recruits into fighting shape. It's a bit more desk work than I like, but it keeps the missus from harping on so," he trailed off with a motion that signified a weary 'what can you do?' "Must say, was a shame to see you go. How's the shoulder?"

"Better," said John, smiling tightly and flexing his hand to rid it of the faint tremors. "Never be as good as it was, but I suppose I'm damned lucky, all things considered." He cleared his throat and glanced deliberately at the door in the back of the office. "Anyway, I'm supposed to drop in on Potter so I'd best-"

"Oh, right, of course, he should be back there. It's good to see you, Watson," he said.

"You too," said John and he grinned sincerely at his former co-worker. He shook the hand Derkins offered to him and then wove his way through the jumble of cubicles. The large door at the back was partially cracked, and a plaque beside it read 'Head Auror H. J. Potter' in blocky letters. John wiped his palms on his jeans and then tapped his knuckles against the wood.

"Come in," was the response, and John pushed the door open to step into the office. It looked much like it had the last time John had been in there when he'd turned in his resignation from the Ministry. The contents of the desk and shelves were in stages of categorised disarray, but not quite cluttered to the point of being unruly. A battered Sneakascope was perched on a pile of books, balanced on its tip and utterly silent. There was a set of framed photographs on the wall, the three Potter children beaming and waving from behind the glass. Harry Potter himself was bent over the desk, his quill scratching across the parchment, and he glanced up shortly at the sound of the door.

"Watson," he said and beckoned him in. "One tick, just finishing." He signed the parchment with a flourish and set his quill aside, then rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Thanks for coming in."

"I figured it must be urgent if you were calling me in so quick," said John. "And besides, I needed to bring this." He pulled the fifth brass gnome from his pocket and passed it across the desk. "Sorry, my flatmate had it when McGonagall came by, and I had to nick it back." John thought briefly of Sherlock's look of startled outrage that morning when John had 'accidentally' spilt his tea on the detective's lap and restrained a smile. It had been easy enough to switch out the gnomes while Sherlock was in the other room changing his soiled trousers, and he was none the wiser to John's moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness. "Did she manage to fix them?"

"Yeah, yeah, course," Potter said, twisting the figurine between his fingertips gingerly. Clearly John wasn't the only one put off by the knowledge that it had once been a living person. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. If you wouldn't mind coming with me to St. Mungo's?" When John nodded, Potter stood and pocketed the gnome. He Disapparated with a sharp crack, and John followed a second later.

The foyer of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies was relatively empty in the mid-morning lull, apart from a pair of children who were hiccoughing purple soap bubbles between their exasperated parents and a man in a far corner who was scratching at a bright blue rash on his face. Potter nodded shortly to the receptionist and then set off to the lifts. They rode down in silence and Potter led the way to a large room off to the side.

John had been in more than enough morgues in his life to recognise one instantly. This one was far wider than any he'd set foot in before, magically extended to accommodate the long row of tables. His eyes scanned down the row of draped white sheets, and he cursed under his breath. "Are they all-?"

"There's twelve in total," Potter said. "At least so far as we know of, there might be more we haven't discovered yet. The five from London, one each from Sheffield, Derbyshire, Hull. Two in Edinburgh, one in Cardiff. This one," he signalled at the nearest bed, "we only just found yesterday in Manchester. Happened a month ago but we didn't realise it was one of ours. I've got Bletchley and Gammott combing back through mysterious disappearances all across the country to see if there's more we've missed."

"And there's no connection?" asked John, awe-struck. "We don't know why he's doing it?"

Potter grimaced and combed a hand back through his hair. "Well, we've got an idea," he said. He walked over to the nearest body and folded back the white sheet. A middle-aged man lay beneath, grey and cold and slack, but John didn't notice any features of his face. His eyes were drawn, instead, to the deep red marks on his chest and he fought back a wave of nausea.

There, crudely seared into the skin like a cattle brand, was a single word: Mudblood.

"Christ," John breathed, turning his gaze away. "All of them?"

"Every single one," Potter said solemnly. "Not the same place, some's the arm or leg. The one from Derby's got it on her forehead. But they're all marked the same."

"Muggle-borns." John's jaw twitched. "So there's some Pureblood supremacist out there killing and branding Muggle-borns. And then Transfiguring them to hide the bodies, and leaving them on display like a taunt."

"Gnomes," Potter said, touching his pocket where he'd stowed the one John had brought.

"It's 'cause they're pests, I reckon," John said. "Gnomes are garden pests, and this nutter thinks he's the bleedin' exterminator come to clear out the problem."

Potter exhaled slowly through his nose. "I was afraid it's something like that."

"We need to find the connection," said John. "There's got to be something more connecting these people than just their blood status, some way that he's tracking them down. As spread out as they are, he's not just picking Muggle-borns at random. If we find that, we can figure out where he'll strike next."

"And we can get ahead of him," Potter finished, nodding. "I'll get my men looking into it, pull up all the records we can find." He surveyed John thoughtfully for a moment. "Your new flatmate is a detective, right?"

John's lips quirked slightly. "As if you don't already know," he said. "McGonagall said you've been keeping tabs on me."

Potter shrugged, looking only slightly abashed. "It wasn't easy losing one of my best men," he said. "I know why you did it, and I understand, but it's still a shame. I'm starting to think, though, that it might be useful to have a connection with the Muggle police."

"You have a Muggle counterpart at Scotland Yard," John pointed out. "Harry, I'll help where I can, but Sherlock's a Muggle. And not just an ordinary one, he's a scientist and too damned smart for his own good. The more he looks into this, the more I'm afraid he's going to figure something out."

"There are exceptions to the Statute of Secrecy," said Potter. "Unless you don't want him to know, that is."

"It's not that," said John, rubbing a hand down his face wearily. "It's not like I'm ashamed or something, and I'm not in hiding. It's not just that I'm not sure I want him to know, it's that I'm not sure he could handle it, really. He's a scientist, like I said. His world has rules and order and explanations, and magic just-"

"Doesn't," Potter finished for him.

John made an aborted gesture of agreement. "I don't know how he would handle something so far outside of the world he understands, and if he can't accept it, I don't know where that would leave us." He trailed off, leaving the rest of the statement unfinished, but it seemed like Potter understood because his former boss nodded.

"Right, fair enough," he said. "We'll keep this as Muggle as possible for the time being, then." He muttered to himself as he grabbed a strip of parchment and quill from the nearby desk, scribbled something down, and then passed the paper along to John. "That's my mobile," he said. "You or your detective mate find out anything else about the case, ring me."

"Ring-?" John glanced down at the string of digits on the parchment beneath the heading H Potter. "You have a mobile?"

Potter grinned, digging an older model mobile from an inner pocket of his robes. "My Muggle counterpart at the Yard didn't appreciate all the owls. Makes him more comfortable to be able to phone me. Besides, have to admit, they're right convenient sometimes, even if it did take a lot of complicated spellwork to make it so the damn thing didn't explode every time I walked into the Ministry."

"Figure that out on your own, did ya?" John asked curiously.

"Hardly," Potter admitted with a laugh. "Never had much of a mind for that sort of thing. No, we've got a couple Unspeakables working with Muggle tech, trying to adapt it to the Wizarding World. They've done some really fascinating stuff with computers, as I understand it. This phone's still in testing, but once they've worked out all the issues, we're talking about getting them distributed throughout the Aurors first, then maybe more of the Ministry eventually."

John shook his head. "Blimey, this place has changed a lot since I left."

"Well, if the last fifty years taught us anything, it's that distancing ourselves from the Muggle world doesn't end well for any of us," Potter said sagely.

"True enough," John agreed pensively. "Right, well," he gestured with the parchment and then tucked it into his pocket, "I guess I'll be in touch."

John could hear the screeching from the front step, and he braced himself before opening the front door of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was coming down the stairs as he stepped in, and she shook her head when she saw him. "Been at it most the morning," she said, tutting loudly. "Wailing on like that. Mrs Turner's phoned to complain already, but he won't talk to me. In one of his moods again. Maybe you can-?"

"I'll talk to him," John assured her. She nodded and patted his arm before slipping passed and into her flat. This time of the evening, it'd be her herbal soothers and bed. At least that way, if they started a shouting match, it wouldn't bother her. Nothing stopping him now. John trooped up the steps like a man heading into battle - which he very much was, in this case - and let himself into the sitting room.

Sherlock was standing near the window, violin tucked beneath his chin as he drew the bow sharply across the strings. There was none of the usual elegance and beauty to his playing today; stinging chords and dissonant noises stabbed at John's ears, echoing in the enclosed space. It was the sort of playing that he usually reserved for annoying Mycroft out of the flat. John hung up his coat and cleared his throat loudly.

"Bad day?" he asked lightly. Sherlock responded by zipping the bow across the strings again, producing a piercing, high note that John felt vibrating in his teeth. "Don't reckon you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock abruptly pivoted, pointing his violin bow at John like a sword. "What do they have on you?"

John frowned, nonplussed. "What? Who?"

"It's the only explanation that makes sense with all of the facts," Sherlock said emphatically. He unceremoniously dropped his violin and bow into the leather armchair and set off pacing a circle in the sitting room, a well-worn path he often frequented during difficult cases. "You are not the sort of man to be taken by monetary offers, as you demonstrated upon your first encounter with Mycroft. Therefore the price is not of monetary value but personal. What possession could have such a high value? You are not a man of many possessions, certainly not sentimental trinkets. Which implies that the object in question is not a physical entity but something you would classify as higher importance.

"As a doctor and a soldier, surely there is nothing to which you grant higher status than that of human life, but whose? Have they threatened you? No. No, your morality would not allow that. You've already shown yourself to be largely self-sacrificing, it's an implicit part of your character, so it's not your own life that's at stake. Someone you care for, then. That could be any number of people, really, you are so prone to emotional attachments. Family, friends, co-workers, girlfriends, the woman-next-door, that elderly cashier at Tesco you're so fond of. Who is it, John?"

"Sherlock," John said, slowly, as he struggled to catch up with the detective's rapid-fire speech, "I've no bloody idea what you're talking about. Who's in trouble?"

Sherlock scoffed darkly. "Don't play the fool, although you are so very good at it. Clearly, someone is manipulating you through some means. Tell me, so we can solve this."

"No one's manipulating me," John said. "Now would you slow down and tell me what you're on about?"

"This!" From his pocket, Sherlock produced a brass figurine. "This is what I'm on about."

John fought to keep his expression neutral even as his stomach knotted. "Something happen with the case? There's not been another, has there?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed silver as he narrowed them at John for a long, calculated second. "When I examined this figurine yesterday, there were several fingerprints on its surface. Our killer is either a complete imbecile or overly-confident, likely both."

"Well, that's good then, yeah?" John said. "You know who did it?"

"No. The prints do not match to anyone. Whoever perpetrated this crime has not had their fingerprints documented anywhere in the UK, and while that narrows down the field slightly, it is hardly enough to base a conclusion. The owner of the prints is irrelevant, however. What is relevant is the fact that when I examined the figurine again this morning, there is not one set of viable prints but two, neither of which match up to the first set.

"Now the prints are slight and indistinct, hardly enough to make a match from, meaning that the people who left them touched the figurine as little as possible. One set is unfamiliar, although there is some callousing to indicate the prolonged use of a narrow object and the sort of imprints generally caused by writing are far too small for a standard pen. The second set would also be completely unknown to me were it not for a very distinctive scar that bisects the whorl on the second finger. A scar acquired in this very flat."

John flexed his left hand at his side as he remembered the row that had followed after he'd cut himself on a shattered beaker Sherlock had left lying about in the kitchen sink. It had required stitches and left the pad of his finger slightly disfigured. His heart was beating a painful tattoo against his ribs, and it took considerably more effort than it ought to draw a full breath. This was it, then; this was the moment it all fell apart.

"Clearly the plan was to substitute a secondary set of figurines for the first, but it was very poorly executed," Sherlock continued, his eyes flashing with a silent challenge. "They are physically suitable replacements, similar cosmetically as well as in size and weight. But there are minor differences, apart from the fingerprints. Each of the original figurines had a microscopic scratch in it, in various places, yet these decoys are unblemished. Most tellingly, they have a unique chemical composition. The originals were a unique hybrid of copper and zinc that also contained a strange amalgam of silicon, carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen; a combination that indicated the figurines were comprised of more than just the straightforward brass that makes up these cheap replicas.

"Now the superficial similarities would be enough to fool an imbecile, but you had to have known that I would not be swayed by such a weak plan. Therefore I can only assume that you knew you would be caught. More concerning, however, is that you are attempting to sabotage this case. You are a morally sound man, and it would be highly uncharacteristic of you to stand by and allow a murderer to go free, let alone to help him. Therefore I can only conclude that it is something you have been forced into and you allowed this ridiculous exchange to happen with the knowledge that you would be discovered. So I ask again, John, who is manipulating you?"

Under the fierce, righteous anger of Sherlock's gaze, he was forcibly reminded of the early years of his service, when he had been a young, frightened cadet being berated by his commanding officers. It was an instinctive reaction when he slipped into attention, his heels clicking together and his fisted knuckles pressed against the side of his thighs. His chin was already tipped up to meet his much taller friend's gaze, and he flexed his jaw as he sought the right words.

"I'm not being manipulated," John said, his words slow and calculated.

Sherlock scoffed darkly. "Who are you protecting?"

"Myself." The word snapped into the air, leaving a stinging silence in its wake. He struggled to loosen some of the tension that had drawn his shoulders up toward his ears. He forced his voice back towards normal even while Sherlock continued to stare. "It never occurred to you that I am protecting myself, did it? That I've got secrets of my own you haven't managed to puzzle out? That you're not the only one with a past you aren't ready to share?"

Sherlock's expression was impassive, intense and expectant, but it was his eyes that gave away his thoughts. They narrowed ever so slightly, the furrows at the corners deepened infinitesimally, and his gaze flicked over John again in a frenetic search for clues he had missed. Apparently, the idea never had occurred to him, and somehow that simultaneously eased and sharpened the ache in his chest. It was a bittersweet knowledge that Sherlock had so much faith in him to believe he could never do something selfish, tainted by the fact that he'd been lying to his best friend for so long, even if it was only a lie of omission.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, but some of the bite had slipped from his tone, the vaguest hint of uncertainty lingering around the edges. "What secrets could you have that are so dark that you would risk ruining the case?"

John let out a weary breath and found that even his ingrained soldier's bearing was sagging beneath the weight of the truth. "I haven't been completely honest with you," he said, dragging a hand down his face and determinedly looking anywhere but at the detective. "About what I know about the case, and about me."

"The gnome," Sherlock concluded unquestioningly.

"That's the least of it," John said dryly, a half-hysterical giggle teasing his lungs at the ridiculousness of it all. He faltered, clasping his hands behind his back as words swirled wildly through his head. There was so much to cover, such a vast world to explain, and he had no idea where to begin. He tried to think back to how the story had been broken to him, but somehow he didn't feel it would help much. Magic was much easier for an eleven-year-old boy prone to magical accidents to accept than it would be for someone as empirical as Sherlock.

"You know I never appreciate time wasting, John, and I find it particularly tiresome on this occasion," Sherlock barked.

"And I don't appreciate your impatience much either," John shot back on reflex. He let out a sharp exhale and pinched the bridge of his nose. Usually, his temper was kept under better control, but the stress had frayed his self-restraint. "Look, it's just – I can't think of a good way to say it, so I'm just going to show you."

John had just reached up beneath his right sleeve when a loud pop echoed through the flat. The fighting reflexes that had kept him alive through both a Muggle and Wizarding war flared into life, and John's body reacted without conscious thought. He spun toward the source of the sound and drew his wand in one fluid movement.

There was a figure in the kitchen doorway but the only feature he noticed about the intruder was the wand pointed at Sherlock's heart.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had doubted the input of his own senses. There had been years when he had never trusted the visions, so many years when the only times he bothered to focus on anything outside his mind were when he was inserting a fresh needle into his vein. Those days were long past, though, narcotics replaced with the thrill of the puzzle and adrenaline of the chase. His senses had been honed to precision, and he relied on them to deduce and interpret the world around him.

Yet even his mind could not make sense of the scene currently unfolding in their sitting room.

It played out as if in slow motion, beginning with the sharp crack, like the sound of a backfiring car, in the door to the kitchen. An unknown man stood there, although Sherlock had heard no one enter the building, much less the flat. He was garbed in what could only be described as robes - ceremonial, perhaps? - and wielding a polished wooden stick like a sword.

In the same moment of the man's arrival, John had pivoted with the reflexes of a soldier, and his arm shot out. Even though he knew it was currently in the desk drawer, Sherlock still expected to see the familiar Browning handgun, but instead, John clutched a stick of his own as if it were an adequate weapon. The intruder waved his stick, producing a flash of bright violet light that propelled itself towards Sherlock. John also directed his stick at Sherlock and half-screamed, "Protego!"

The air shimmered ever so slightly around Sherlock, and the violet projectile ricocheted away, causing something on the mantle to shatter. While this was happening, the intruder had turned his stick on John, who had his back to him, and yelled, "Stupefy." A red blast struck John between the shoulder blades before he could defend himself. The look of panicked resignation on John's face slid away as his eyes rolled up and he collapsed in a heap.

"Affligo." Before Sherlock had time to process that John was out, a gust of blue-green wind collided with his chest and sent him tumbling backwards over the coffee table. He hit his head on the arm of his chair on the way down, blinking away spots of white as he shoved himself onto his back. "Petrificus Totalus." Against his bidding, every muscle in Sherlock's body suddenly went taut, arms snapping to his sides and legs locking until he was straight as a board on the carpet. He couldn't move a finger, couldn't even unclench his jaw. All he could do was stare up as the intruder came to stand over him.

The intruder towered over him, glaring down with dark eyes full of disgust. "Muggle filth," he snarled. He swiped his stick, and a streak of purple flames cracked against Sherlock's chest. The pain was agonising, like a metal pipe swung against his ribs, but the power that was holding Sherlock's body in place wouldn't let him react. The intruder repeated this several times until Sherlock had to squeeze his eyes shut as every part of him ached. "You and your Mudblood friend have stuck your noses where they don't belong for the last time."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, desperately wanting to look over and check on John, but he couldn't move his head. The intruder walked around the coffee table, and Sherlock could barely follow him in his peripheral vision. The man crouched, and when he stood, he had an arm around John's chest, holding the unconscious soldier against his body. He pointed his stick at Sherlock, a sinister grin curling up his lips.

"Sectumsempra." With an elaborate wave of the stick in Sherlock's direction, it felt like an invisible knife had been dragged roughly across his skin, carving a harsh pattern over his chest and up the side of his neck. He could smell the blood as it welled up in the wounds, soaking his shirt and pooling in the rug, but Sherlock didn't look away as the man disappeared with John in the space of a blink.

"Enervate."

John's brain struggled to catch up as he was yanked forcibly out of the darkness. Soldier's instincts kicked in, and he made himself focus on the immediate situation. He was sitting up, tied to a chair in a dark, stone room. The holster on his forearm was empty - missing, actually - and there was no familiar press of the handgun in the small of his back. Disarmed, then. He seemed to be uninjured apart from his left shoulder, which was throbbing in a way it hadn't in ages. He was also not alone, and everything came back to him as his gaze settled on the wand pointed at his chest.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"Your kind disgusts me," the other man said as if John hadn't spoken. "Thieves and imposters, the lot of you."

"What have you done with Sherlock?" John repeated forcefully.

The man sneered at the interruption. "Your Muggle pet? I dealt with him, he'll be dead by now."

Something cold and hard settled in John's gut, and even as a blinding rage and fear built up in him, a dark, dangerous smirk dashed across his lips. "Wrong answer," he growled. "See, 'cause I just wanted to see you arrested for what you'd done, but now? Now I'm gonna see you suffer and-"

"Crucio!"

The pain was instantaneous and overwhelming. It felt like thousands of knives were prying his muscles apart, microscopic layer of fascia by layer, all at once. His body tried to seize, wanting to flail and recoil from the pain, but the ropes kept him upright in the chair. It was far from the first time John had been hit with the Cruciatus Curse, but experience did nothing to soften the agony. He could do little more than squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to end.

It wasn't until the pain stopped – just as abruptly as it had begun – that John realised the ringing in his ears had been his own yells. His wrists burned, rubbed raw from struggling against the ropes, and he tasted blood – he'd bit the inside of his cheek. John leant over and spit onto the stone floor, ignoring the dribble it left on his chin.

"No, John Watson," the man said, pressing his wand tip up under John's chin, so he was forced to look up at him, "you are the one who is going to suffer."

John scoffed. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that, you elitist bastard."

"Langlock." John fought against his gag reflex as his tongue adhered itself to the roof of his mouth with a sharp jerk. Voice lodged in his throat, he settled for glaring heatedly up at his captor.

"Your kind don't belong in our society," the man said, lips curled maliciously. "I always thought all the blood status propaganda was wrong. When You-Know-Who came for your lot, I fought for you. This," he gestured at a long, knotty scar that marred the olive skin of his jaw, "was what I got for my efforts.

"My work at the Ministry has been devoted to studying the cause of your kind. Combining Muggle sciences with what we know about blood status to figure out where your kind come from. I was helping you. And this is what I got for it!"

The man let out a furious noise and brandished his wand in John's face, a spray of sparks dazzling his eyes. "My family is Pure. Pureblooded wizards all the way back to the Middle Ages. There hasn't been a member of the Whitehawk line that wasn't a wizard. And then my son…" His voice broke with rage, his face paled, and he started again. "And then my son turns out to be a Squib. Centuries of pure magical blood and my boy loses his birth-right to one of you freaks ."

John's eyes widened as he finally understood. The man – Whitehawk – seemed to take this as an admission of guilt because his eyes glinted. "You see what you've done?" he snarled. "Mutations like you are the reason that my son will suffer. Do you know what his life will be like? He will have no place in our world, no purpose and no marketable skills. People like you have stolen magic from the people who deserve it, people like my boy. After all that I've done to help your people, this is what I get in return.

"No, your kind will suffer for what they've done. And you – you are the worst of them all. You have this ability, this gift, and you choose to ignore it. To throw away all that you've been given – that you've stolen – and go back to being a Muggle like it means nothing to you. Stealing it away with no regard for the lives you ruin in the process. You will suffer. You will pay."

Whitehawk's eyes had taken on a dark, wild glow that John had only ever seen once before: when he'd woken up strapped into a Semtex vest with a mocking smirk looming over him. He felt no less afraid now than he had that night at the swimming pool, but, just like he had with Moriarty, John lifted his chin and didn't let his fear show.

Whitehawk raised his wand to eye level, smiling sickeningly. "Flagrante cacumen." The tip of his wand glowed red-white, and the air above shimmered with heat. John guessed what was coming before it happened, but nothing could brace him for the moment the wand point touched his forearm. Despite all his intentions of stoicism, he couldn't help it; John screamed.

When the world started going dark at the edges, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. Off to one side, his mind was running a stream of calculations – surface area of injuries by depth by proximity to veins and arteries to equal approximate seconds until unconsciousness and eventual exsanguination – but he ignored them. Instead, he turned his attention to his visual short-term memory and replayed the confrontation.

The whole event had taken only a grand total of seventy-three seconds to unfold. Strings of deductions and explanations ran through Sherlock's mind like lines of code, and he scrambled to piece them together into a conceivable whole. No matter what he tried, there were always bugs, glitches that did not comply with the rest of the parts. In the end, there was really only one conclusion that worked with all of the evidence, and it still did not feel like an answer at all.

A sharp pop jerked Sherlock's attention back to the present, and he forced his eyes to focus on the door to the flat just as a new man stumbled in. The newcomer held a stick at the ready like John and their attacker had, scanning the room for signs of danger. When he spotted Sherlock on the ground, he cursed and dropped to his knees beside him.

"Finite Incantatem," he said and the invisible force holding Sherlock's body vanished. A strangled groan broke out of Sherlock's throat as he immediately lifted a hand to the gash on his neck. Blood was pouring from the wound, already thick in his shirt and congealing in the carpet below him.

"Just hold still," the new man said, and then he was tracing the design of the cuts in the air with his stick, murmuring under his breath.

"John," Sherlock hissed out through the pain as his skin burnt and ached. Trying to draw in a deeper breath reminded him that his ribs had been battered, at least fractured if not broken. Still, he knew that the amount of blood he'd already lost meant he wasn't long left, and if this man was an ally then Sherlock was going to point him toward the person who could still be saved. "He took...John," he gasped. "Go...find John."

"We'll get him," the other man said firmly. "But hold still so I can fix this." And the man returned his attention to moving the stick above Sherlock's chest. It wasn't easy making sense of the man's hushed voice, but the words sounded like some kind of bastardised Latin. Sherlock focused on taking slow, shallow breaths as he surveyed the man bent over him.

He was around Sherlock's age, although something in his green eyes made him look older and worn. His dark hair was dishevelled, and round-framed glasses had slid down his nose. Black robes were hanging haphazardly from his shoulders, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed on details – a smudge of ink on his fingers, a dusting of crumbs on the right front of his robes, the single downy feather clinging to the hem of his sleeve.

Letting out a heavy breath, the man sat back on his heels. The itching in Sherlock's skin dissipated and he touched the side of his neck. Blood was drying against his skin but the gashes were gone, unblemished as if there had never been an injury. Sherlock sat up and tore his shirt open, sliding a hand down his chest. There were reddened, tender patches under the layer of blood but no sign of the wound that had caused it. Sherlock opened his mouth but the world suddenly pitched to the side and he moaned.

"Easy," the other man said, and the hands gripping his shoulder made Sherlock realise it wasn't the world that had tilted but him. "You lost a lot of blood."

Sherlock glanced sideways at the other man. He had no idea who this man was, but he seemed to have the same strange abilities as John and his captor. Whoever this man was, he knew what was going on more than Sherlock did. "He took John," the detective said. "We were attacked, by a man who I suspect is behind a string of recent murders in London. John was taken."

The other man cursed, dragging his free hand back through his hair. As he did, Sherlock spotted a peculiar scar on his forehead, a thin, pale jagged line above his right eye that looked like a child's interpretation of lightning. "I was afraid of this," the man said. "I shouldn't have gotten Watson involved. If I hadn't gotten here when I did, you…"

"You're having the flat watched," Sherlock guessed.

"Taboo charm, on the sly," said the man, distractedly, as he looked around the room again. "Set it up yesterday after McGonagall told me. I knew Watson wouldn't appreciate it, but I was afraid you might become targets once you got involved in the case." He paused and glanced at Sherlock curiously. "He told you then?"

Sherlock frowned. "You are referring to whatever secret he is keeping that is interfering with my case," he said. "No, he did not have the chance, but I've been able to deduce a general idea given the circumstances. John, along with our attacker and, assumedly, you, are all possessed of some ability to influence and affect matter through the use of your little sticks and words that sound largely Latin in origin from the few I've heard. It is, I believe, what is commonly referred to in children's literature and folklore as magic."

The man stared at Sherlock for a moment, looking vaguely dumbfounded, and then huffed a soft laugh. "Merlin's beard, I do think Watson may have underestimated you, Mr Holmes."

"People generally do, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary," Sherlock said dryly.

"Yeah, well he wasn't so sure you'd be able to accept the idea of magic," the man said.

"When you have eliminated all other options, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true," Sherlock said. "It was the only solution that made sense with all of the evidence given."

"Right." The man nodded and stowed his stick away beneath his robes. "Well then, er, oh, I'm Harry Potter, by the way. I'm a -"

"Old soldier colleague of John's," Sherlock concluded. Potter raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You refer to John by his surname, but you say it with a familiarity that suggests closeness. His friends and co-workers from the surgery all refer to him as John, or occasionally Dr Watson. The only ones who call him purely by his surname are his military companions, as is their protocol. You have the bearing of a soldier, although the length of your hair suggests you've not been on active duty recently. It was an easy deduction. Now may we discard the pleasantries and focus on the fact that John has been abducted by a serial killer?"

The other man – Harry Potter – blinked at him for a second and then nodded. "Right," he agreed.

Sherlock contemplated getting up to pace, but he still felt weak and shaky, so he settled for folding his legs so he could lean his elbows on his knees. "Now that I know about the – magic – there are parts of the scenes that make more sense," he mused aloud. "I assume that is what caused the scorch marks and general destruction. And the lack of bodies, presumably because he disappears them out with himself. In that case, some of them - not all of them because of the length of time, surely - but some of them may still be alive if we can-"

"They aren't," Potter cut in grimly.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply, eyes snapping to him with laser focus. "How do you know?"

Potter let out a sigh, dragging a hand back through his hair again. "The gnomes," he said. "The little figurines from the scenes. Those are the bodies. It was a complicated Transfiguration spell, took us ages to figure out that was what was happening. I only thought of it because I've seen something similar once, a long time ago. Transfigured a body into a bone and buried it." Potter grimaced and added, "Also, the five from London aren't the only ones."

"Tell me everything."

Despite the severity of the situation, Harry couldn't help but be fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. The detective was currently pacing in front of the fireplace, one hand on the mantle to keep his balance since his legs kept shaking beneath him. When Harry had tried to object – the man had lost a lot of blood, after all, he really ought to be lying down – Holmes had argued that the movement helped him focus. He still looked a sight, with his blood-soaked shirt half-open to reveal a bruised and bloodstained chest, and his hair was wild from constant fussing, but he seemed entirely unaware of his own condition.

It had taken almost twenty minutes to recount the entirety of the case, and Holmes had continued to press him for further information even afterwards, drawing connections from infinitesimal details Harry wouldn't have thought to look for. His brain moved through information at a rate that would put even Hermione to shame. He had managed to accept everything Harry had told him about the case with no complaint, even though his pinched expression betrayed his internal conflict, and now he was talking his way through it all.

"He broke his pattern," Holmes said emphatically, drawing Harry's focus back. "This man kills his victims inside their homes, yet he abducted John. Why? He could easily have killed him. I was unarmed and posed no threat, and you've said the spell he cast on John would have rendered him unconscious. By all rights, John and I should both be dead now. So why aren't we?"

"You should be," Harry reminded him. "If I hadn't gotten here when I did… And even then, if I weren't so familiar with that spell he used, you would be. I think we can assume he meant for you to die."

"Implying that John is the one he really wanted," Holmes said. If Harry didn't know that attempted murder was par for the course around Baker Street, he would've assumed Holmes' lack of concern on the subject hinted at shock. "So there's something about John that makes him different from the other victims. He took John for a reason, and he might still be alive if we can find him."

Harry nodded, following the line of thought. "And if we can figure out what makes John special, it'll give us a better idea of who targeted him."

Holmes abruptly growled, clawing his hands through his hair and dropping heavily onto the arm of the leather armchair. "I can't work like this!" he snarled. "I'm working from insufficient data. I don't know enough about this world and what variables are relevant to the situation, and there isn't time."

"So walk me through it," Harry said. He crossed over and sat down opposite Holmes. "I know this world, maybe I'll get something from it that you missed. John told me you've got a great memory, so tell me every single detail you can remember from when the guy attacked you."

Holmes' jaw clenched, but a bright, determined glint had appeared in his eyes. "He appeared there," he said, standing and moving to the kitchen doorway, "with a dull popping noise."

"Apparition," Harry supplied instinctively, and the detective acknowledged him with the vaguest twitch of his head. During his explanation of the case, Holmes' frustration with the unfamiliar language had been apparent, and Harry had tried to offer the correct wording when he could. Although he didn't say anything, he could tell Holmes appreciated it.

"His wand was drawn, at the ready. He fired at me first. I didn't hear the word used, but the spell was violet. John turned to protect me. Protego. A spell of protection, judging by the effect and the Latin root. While John's back was turned the intruder struck John with the spell you said would have incapacitated him."

"So the guy knew the best way to take you both out," Harry interpreted. "John was the immediate threat. He knew attacking you would divert John's attention, leaving him vulnerable. Which means he also knew John's instinct would be to protect you before himself, so he knows something about John's character."

Holmes continued, "Once John was unconscious, he attacked me again. I was immobilised and struck seven times. He stood over me; a clear display of power, aggression, and superiority. He called me Muggle filth, and referred to John as Mudblood-"

"Nasty term for Muggle-borns."

"-and then he grabbed John." Holmes moved around the coffee table and knelt. When he stood again, he was clutching a wand – John's, Harry realised, probably dropped when he'd been Stupefied - with a look of rapt fascination and sadness.

"And that's when he left?" Harry pressed.

Holmes blinked and then nodded. "He carved me up and then vanished with John," he said. Harry didn't fail to notice that Holmes tucked John's wand into an inner pocket of his jacket. "He said nothing more."

"Okay, then what did he look like?" Harry said, changing tracks. "Distinctive clothing or features?"

"Average height, dark featured," Holmes said. "Darker than the typical Anglo-Saxon, with a brow and nasal structure common in the Mediterranean. Italian or Greek, most likely. He wore black robes, heavier weave than yours, with violet and silver threading along the hems. High-collared. Expensive shoes. A large, silver brooch on the left side, shaped like a bird of prey – falcon or eagle, perhaps – encircled by runes in a language I am not familiar with. Heavy ring on his right hand, broad and circular-"

"Wait." Harry stood as something in the description resonated with him, a cold knot settling in his gut. A bird brooch… "Did he have a scar on his jaw? Thick, white one all down the right side?" Holmes' widened eyes answered for him and Harry cursed.

"You know who it is," Holmes concluded.

"Adrian Whitehawk," Harry said. "He works at the Ministry - an Unspeakable. I've met him a few times. He's part of a team doing research into Muggles. I don't know all the details, but they've been looking into what causes witches and wizards to be born into Muggle families."

"And that would give him access to names of Muggle-borns to target, yes?" Holmes asked. Harry nodded; he couldn't be certain, but he had to assume they had lists of subjects for their study. "Good, then let's go get him."

Harry frowned. "You're not coming, Mr Holmes. You're injured, you nearly died. And you're a Muggle. No, you're staying here." Turning away, Harry conjured his Patronus. The silver stag, glowing softly in the middle of the sitting room, looked up at him expectantly. "All available to Adrian Whitehawk's manor, he's the Gnome Killer. Bring a Healer if available." He dismissed the Patronus with a flick of his wand, and the stag cantered off through the windows into the growing dusk.

Holmes was standing behind him, pale face set, and Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. He couldn't imagine how it must feel for the detective, being in so far over his head and unable to help. Harry knew if it had been his own best friends in danger… "I'll get him back," Harry promised. "Don't worry." And then he turned on his heel.

The sudden grip on his bicep upset Harry's balance, and his muscles protested at the sudden tug. His heart leapt into his throat, but he was already mid-Apparition and there was nothing to be done. When the pressure subsided and his feet were once again on solid ground, he felt a body stumble against him, and he scrambled to stay standing.

"You bloody, stubborn git," Harry muttered fiercely as he checked the other man over for injuries. His own arm was sore and the muscle felt strained in the worst way, but it was survivable. Holmes, however, was looking a bit green and leaning hard to one side. It wasn't hard to see why; the right leg of his trousers was shredded, and beneath it, the skin and muscle of his calf and foot were mutilated in large gouges.

"Have you got a death wish?" Harry asked incredulously as he checked to make sure that there was nothing worse wrong with Holmes. The detective ignored him, breathing slowly through his nose in an attempt to steady himself. Harry shook his head and crouched to examine the injured leg. "You're damned lucky," he said and then cast a quick sealing spell. The gouges weren't bleeding, but it was better to be safe. Then he wrapped a strong numbing charm over his calf, a dull bluish glow tinting the skin.

"That's the best I can do for now," Harry said, straightening up to meet the taller man's gaze. Holmes looked better, the lines in his face loosened with the pain gone. "I'm no Healer, and fixing Splinching was never part of my training, but that'll hold for a bit. You really need to go to the hospital-" Holmes narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Harry continued, "but clearly you have no sense of self-preservation so let's go then. But I take the lead."

Harry Summoned a sturdy branch from the nearest tree and gave it a critical look before passing it along to Holmes. Holmes glanced down at his numbed leg, the foot twisted at a slightly unnatural angle, before he accepted the branch with a nod. The two of them exchanged determined looks and then set off up the drive.

The manor house, a towering, Gothic structure, sat dark and hulking in the centre of the property. A glittering fountain sat off to one side of the drive, a mermaid figure – the beautiful sort from paintings and not the accurate, mottle-skinned kind he'd met at Hogwarts - letting out a steady stream of water from the tip of its trident. Harry gestured for Holmes to stay behind him and then walked up to the front door.

The large, bleached wood door was locked, but a quick tap of "Alohomora" made the bolt retract and set Harry's nerves on edge. In his experience, when it was that easy to get through the door, there was usually a trap on the other side. Harry glanced at Holmes and grit his teeth; he couldn't take any chances with the detective's safety. Thinking longingly of his old Invisibility Cloak, neatly folded in his desk drawer at the Ministry, he settled for the next best thing.

"I'm going to cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on you," he explained in a whisper. "It'll keep you from being seen." When Holmes jerked his head in acquiesce, Harry touched his wand to the top of the taller man's head and watched as his features blurred and faded. Holmes shuddered and stared down at his hand in surprise as the ground became visible through his skin.

Harry cast the same spell on himself and then looked up to where Holmes' face was just barely visible as a ripple in the darkness. "Keep behind me," Harry hissed, "and keep quiet. I don't know what we're walking into." Without waiting for an agreement, Harry pushed open the door to the house with his wand raised defensively.

A cavernous, unlit foyer sat innocently on the other side, the moonlight giving Harry only the vaguest impressions of polished marble and wood, drapery and an elaborate chandelier. Harry dug a Knut from his pocket and threw it into the middle of the room. In a flash, the bars of the chandelier whipped out and spiralled around the coin, holding it fast in the air. "Impedimenta," Harry said, pointing his wand at the writhing bars of gold. The chandelier froze, limbs moving sluggishly like they were trying to force their way through molasses.

Wand still raised, Harry stepped into the room. A flicker of movement drew his gaze, and he looked over just in time to see a figure disappearing from the frame of a large portrait. Harry cursed under his breath; there went the element of surprise. "Homenum Revelio." Two faint, white glimmers appeared in his vision, down and to the right, and his heart leapt. There was someone in the house.

Holmes limped along close behind him, the improvised crutch making a dull thunk on the gleaming floor, as Harry crossed to the doors to the right of the main entrance. It took three tries before he found one that opened onto a downward staircase. He had only made it two steps down when a sudden, anguished scream echoed up the stones. He had to throw out an arm to catch Holmes as the detective made to shove around him, eyes wild.

"I will not hesitate to Stupefy you and leave you here if you can't follow orders," Harry hissed under his breath when Holmes tried to break free. Holmes made a discontented noise but stepped back, and Harry turned his attention back to the stairwell. The scream – hoarse and strangled – stopped after another second, and Harry pushed on.

When the screaming picked up again, a few steps later, Harry's knuckles whitened around his wand. As much as they hurt to listen to, they were also reassuring because they meant that Watson was still alive. It also meant their cover hadn't been ruined yet because surely Whitehawk would've disappeared if he knew they were coming.

Harry took a bracing breath and then jogged down the last few steps into the room.

"Expelliarmus! "

The out-of-place spell dragged John back into the moment, and he struggled to lift his head. His muscles were aching so much that the effort made his vision swim. Even still, John could make out Whitehawk, still standing in front of him, and an indistinct figure was materialising at the foot of the staircase.

"Did you really think I would let someone just walk into my house without my knowing?" Whitehawk asked with a sarcastic laugh. "Avabella warned me the moment the front door opened." He nodded his head toward something behind John, and although he was curious, twisting his head around to see would require more effort than he had at the moment.

"It's over, Whitehawk." John started, forcing his eyes to focus. It was Harry Potter, his empty hands held out to the side in a sign of surrender. "The Aurors are already on their way."

"And they will find you both dead, and I'll be long gone," Whitehawk responded. His wand turned back toward John, and he whispered, "Astringio." John gasped as a sudden pressure wrapped around his chest, squeezing inward and forcing the air from his lungs. His tongue still glued to the roof of his mouth only made it all worse. "I'm sorry, Potter, I truly am. I don't have anything against you, but you just had to get involved. I'm only trying to get rid of the Mudblood thieves. You're just in the way, now."

Harry took a step forward, but Whitehawk said, "Incarcerous," and coils of rope blossomed into life, winding themselves around Harry from head to toe. He overbalanced and tipped, barely managing to twist enough to land on his side instead of his face. A grunt of pain caught in the twist of rope gagging him.

The crushing pressure around John's chest grew progressively worse with each passing second, his ribs groaning as they curved inward. John stopped being able to draw breaths, gulping in tiny bursts of air that did nothing to help the light-headedness. Heart pounding frantically in his ears, he didn't notice that Whitehawk had started talking again until the wand tip dug into the underside of his chin and forced his head up.

"It's time to finish this," Whitehawk snarled in his face.

A flicker at the corner of his darkening vision caught John's attention, the vaguest shadow on the wall opposite that he almost dismissed as a trick of his oxygen-deprived brain. Even as two of his ribs snapped beneath the persistent compression, he smirked and gave a determined nod.

"My thoughts precisely," a deep voice rumbled from the foot of the stairs. Before Whitehawk could react, an explosion of sound echoed painfully off the stones and masked the sound of several more of John's ribs shattering. A shriek of pain coupled with the damp thwump of a body hitting the ground, but John couldn't see through the mix of black and white spots crowding his vision.

"John!" The hand that grasped his face was familiar, long, narrow fingers curved around his jaw and damp with perspiration. John wanted to answer, but his tongue was still stuck so he couldn't manage more than a breathless moan. Immediately after, another rib splintered, and he wheezed sharply as it tore at something inside his chest.

"Fix him!" Sherlock shouted angrily, the hand disappearing from John's cheek. There was a high-pitched scream, but the pressure didn't stop. Liquid was clogging his throat and blocked out the last of the air John had managed to drag in. "Stop this!" Sherlock's voice was piercing, and John thought he must be hallucinating the note of terror.

Another gunshot split the air, and suddenly the pressure disappeared from around John's chest. He gagged out a mouthful of warm, clotted liquid, slumping forward to spit it out and try to suck in breaths. Each movement made his broken ribs sear with pain, and somehow his inhales didn't feel like they were bringing air into his body. The years of medical study flashed two quick words through the back of his mind: perforated lung.

"John? John!" The hands were back on his face, grasping at the ropes that had fallen away from his wrists. John didn't even have it in him to recoil as fingers brushed over the line of swollen burns on his forearm. "Stay awake, John."

John blinked several times slowly and finally managed to make out the swirls of blue, grey, and green wreathed in bleached white above him. Sherlock's eyes. "Y'r 'live," he garbled through the blood still thick in his mouth, and he thought he was smiling but he couldn't be sure.

"Of course I am," Sherlock replied with a weak attempt at his general condescension. He glanced back at something behind him. "Do something!"

There were more words he wanted to say, so many things John could feel crashing over each other in waves inside his head, but he couldn't manage the air. He didn't have time, had never had enough time. The most he managed was a choked, "Sher… m'sorr…" before the darkness swept in and dragged him away from the sound of his name.

For some reason, the smell brought back a wave of nostalgia. He couldn't place it – something clean and natural and vaguely electric – but it was comforting in its own way. John felt distant from his body, and he was content to exist in this peaceful halfway point for some time.

Except something was nagging at the back of his mind, telling him that this was wrong. He had vague impressions of danger and fear, of things in places they shouldn't be, and someone was in trouble. Not him, but someone else. Someone important.

He couldn't be sure how long it took, but John slowly dragged himself back to the surface. He gradually became more aware of his body, although he didn't have much control over it as far as he could tell, and the numb sensation dissipated into a prickly feeling like when your foot falls asleep. Everything, including his eyelids, was cumbersome and uncooperative.

Flashes of memory started coming back – the golden gnomes; a cat on a garden wall; Sherlock's eyes narrowed accusingly; spells flashing across the sitting room; a dark, stone room and coarse ropes; burning, pain, screams, pressure. John gasped in a breath, relieved to feel his lungs expand and fill with the motion. He took several grateful breaths that slowed his heartbeat down again.

It took more effort than he felt it should have, but John pried his eyes open. He didn't recognise the dimly lit room but it still somehow gave off a feeling of familiarity. Little globes of pale light gleamed against the white walls and bathed everything in a soft, ghostly glow. John was lying beneath a woven blanket, the sort of mass-produced thing he'd seen hundreds of times before.

That explained the familiarity: he was in a hospital.

In the corner of his vision, John could just make out a heap of dark curls on the blanket by his hip and something in his chest unknotted. "Sherl-?" John's voice was hoarse and practically non-existent as it hissed out of him, vanishing into the night air. He swallowed and tried again, shifting his arm slightly to nudge the curls with his fingertips. "Sherlock?"

The head snapped up suddenly, and it took them both a second to focus their eyes in the gloom. Sherlock looked more ruffled than usual, the way he generally looked when he crashed at the end of the complicated case. His face was deathly pale, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes, and he was dressed in a white tee-shirt that somehow made him look ridiculously young and innocent.

"John?" Sherlock rubbed his palms over his face, and when he met John's gaze, his eyes widened. "John, you're awake."

"You're alive," John responded sluggishly, because he could remember that cold, righteous fury and fear when Whitehawk had told him Sherlock was dead.

"Considering your state, I think you can be forgiven for stating the obvious," Sherlock said, and John caught the faintest twitch of lips that betrayed his fondness. Then his expression darkened. "How are you feeling? I was assured you would not be uncomfortable, but you suffered nine broken ribs and a perforated lung, among your other injuries, so I find myself suspicious as to how that is possible. Of course, I admit that I am largely unaware as to the capabilities of the medicine in this world."

John nodded distractedly, his head already drifting back toward sleep now that he knew the danger had passed, before the reality of Sherlock's statement caught up to him. His eyes flicked to the floating orbs of light, and the faint hum in the air and the pieces slid into place. They were in St. Mungo's - a magical hospital, after being abducted by a wizard who had cast curses at them both, before John had gotten the chance to tell him that he was a wizard himself.

Sherlock was leaning his elbows on the edge of the mattress, his fingers steepled as he stared at John with that unwavering, mercurial gaze. "You know," John murmured.

"It was rather hard to miss, all things considered," Sherlock replied. "I will not pretend to understand the entirety of things, but your friend Potter has provided answers where he can. He even lent me a few books that I read while you were asleep, they were quite informative. It isn't much, but it is a start."

"Right." John took a moment to digest this information, not quite sure that he was actually awake and this wasn't all some strange dream.

"You expected me to be incapable of comprehending this," said Sherlock. John shot him a look that expressed very plainly that it was exactly what he thought, and Sherlock's mouth slanted again. "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains-"

"Must be true, yeah," John finished, having heard it before. "I guess I just never considered that you wouldn't see this as an impossible." They lapsed into another silence, and this time Sherlock was the one to look away, his eyes drifting down to his fingertips. John cleared his throat uncertainly. "I should have told you."

"You are entitled to your privacy," Sherlock said slowly. Considering this came from the man who had barged in on John in any number of private situations, John couldn't stop the amused smirk. "However," Sherlock continued, and some of the natural bite returned to his words as he glanced up to meet John's eyes again, "the information that you withheld impeded our case and directly affected my ability to solve it. This is unacceptable."

John fought the instinct to cringe at the rebuke in Sherlock's voice. He could handle abuse hurled at him from countless superiors in the military or angry bosses, but the sharp disappointment in Sherlock's tone cut through him like a knife. Still, he lifted his chin and said, "I understand."

Sherlock's eyes, a bright, translucent silver in the dim light, scoured over the features of John's face in an almost comfortingly familiar gesture. Apparently satisfied with whatever he deduced, Sherlock nodded. "Good," he said. "Now get your rest."

"Just like that?" asked John, surprised.

"You are hardly fit for lengthy conversation. Your eyes are struggling to track, and the strain on your ocular muscles is going to give you a headache shortly, which will only lower your ability to focus. Now that your previously accelerated heart rate is dropping back into normal resting levels, it is unlikely that you will be conscious for much longer." John glanced down, not even having realised that Sherlock's fingers were resting on the pulse point in his wrist. "I have been assured that you will be fit to return home in the morning, but until then, you should rest. You're the one constantly badgering me about the benefits of sleep, after all."

Home. Something in John's stomach seized. "I wasn't sure you'd still want me there after all this."

A dangerous grin flashed across Sherlock's face. "Of course. Where would I be without my blogger?"

And even as John huffed a laugh, he felt the way Sherlock's grip had tightened around his wrist and John's tension uncoiled. The danger was over, and they would recover. As long as they were both still in 221B, everything else could wait for another day.

The pale stone buildings rolled passed as John leant his forehead against the window of the cab that was carrying them back to Baker Street. It was hardly noon but already the day had been exhausting. The back of the cab was quiet, John lost in idle thoughts while Sherlock hammered away at his phone, but it felt comfortable. Companionable.

It felt like nothing at all had changed, despite the fact that everything had.

Potter had arrived at St. Mungo's first thing in the morning to debrief them. They had both given their statements, and Harry had informed them that with Whitehawk's death, the case could officially close. A search of Whitehawk's research at the Ministry had yielded a list of Muggle-borns who had been employed by the Ministry – the list that he had used to select his targets. The victim's bodies were being returned to their next-of-kin, and Whitehawk's family and research partners had been cleared. It was finally over.

Before he had left, Harry had also given John a stack of forms to sign that would have 221B Baker Street officially listed as the residence of a magical family. It meant magic could be performed there, even in front of Sherlock, without getting angry owls from the Ministry. The detective had shown interest at the idea, even if he'd said nothing as he added the rolls of parchment to the little sack of their few personal belongings.

In fact, Sherlock had been remarkably quiet all morning, or at least quiet for him. Oh, he'd been only too happy to elaborate on every detail he'd deduced about the case for Harry, he'd whinged and complained incessantly while the Healer had checked him over, and he'd thrown a good proper fit when they'd forced a Blood-Replenishing Potion on him. The poor Healing staff had been only too happy to see the backs of them, and John couldn't rightly blame them.

Yet all morning, Sherlock hadn't badgered them with a single question about magic and that part was a bit unusual. John couldn't be sure whether it was lingering shock or some strange attempt at tact on the detective's part, but either way, it was making John edgy. He could handle Sherlock being an ass, that he was used to, but this was weird.

The cab turned a corner sharply, and John grunted as his shoulder bounced against the door. He was still achy and tender, but he considered it a small price to pay with the condition he'd been in when he'd arrived at the hospital. He was damned lucky just to be alive. As it was, he would be back to normal in just a few days, except for his arm.

John picked at the bandage left visible by his hospital-issued shirt. The Healers had done what they could, but curse scars were notoriously difficult to heal, as the starburst pattern on his shoulder constantly reminded him. They would be nothing but faint white lines, but John's forearm would forever bear the slur burnt onto him.

Just like the thin, jagged ribbon that wound unsteadily across Sherlock's abdomen and up the right side of his neck. John glanced sideways at him, eyes following the wavering curl that blossomed from the neck of his shirt and ended just below his ear. In the end, they'd both gotten off lucky, really.

"You're so terribly maudlin sometimes," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. John raised a questioning eyebrow. "Really, you're the only person I know who actually becomes depressed when deprived of tea." John turned back to the window, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction, but he was sure the detective knew he was smiling anyway.

The cab deposited them at Baker Street, and John gathered their bag before paying the driver. When he turned back, Sherlock had already let himself into the flat. John almost smiled; at least some things never changed. The sound of violin music had filled the air before John even reached the top of the stairs.

John dropped the bag on the coffee table and glanced across to Sherlock, who had taken up his customary spot by the window with his violin tucked under his chin. For a moment, John's eyes lingered on the missing area rug and the darkened stain in the wood – Potter said he'd done what he could, but some things couldn't be erased. They'd need to get a new rug to cover that spot before Mrs Hudson noticed it.

John shook himself. "I'm gonna make a cuppa. Want one?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Sherlock made no motion that he'd noticed, but John was used to being ignored. He set the kettle to boil and prepared several slices of toast. There was something weirdly comforting about moving around the kitchen with Sherlock's playing in the background, and it felt like the last of John's unease faded away with it.

"Tea's ready," John announced when he came back into the room, balancing the dishes. He settled down into his chair and watched Sherlock over the top of his mug. The song was familiar, one John had heard him play before, usually at night, but not one he knew the name of. Must've been one of his compositions that he'd written while working a case.

If he was playing a composition, that meant he had a lot on his mind. "Sherlock," John said, loud but steady, "are we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock's fingering faltered, and he lowered the bow. "Is there something you need to say?"

"No, but I know you do," John replied. "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, despite what you think. I know a thing or two about you. I can tell when you're obsessing about something."

The silence dragged out for a moment, and then Sherlock set his violin down in its case. He climbed into his chair, picking at the plate of toast John had put on the side table, and finally looked up at him. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed slightly as his gaze catalogued details and John sipped his tea without comment.

"When we first met," Sherlock said finally, and John nodded him on, "and I deduced you, you told me that the only detail I'd gotten wrong was your sibling's gender. How much did I actually get wrong?"

"Nothing," John said, frowning. "You had it all right, except the bit about Harry."

"Your boss or your sister?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer the rhetorical question. "He told me that you used to work for him. You're telling me it changes nothing?"

And that's when John saw it, the flicker that dashed across Sherlock's expression. For the first time, perhaps in his entire life, Sherlock doubted his deductions. Worst of all, it was John's fault. "I'm serious, Sherlock," he said firmly. "This doesn't change anything. I did work for Harry, for a while, but I'm a soldier too. It's sort of a long story."

Sherlock's steepled fingers pressed to his lips, and he stared expectantly in a way John took as permission to continue. He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea before elaborating.

"See, about the time I was finishing up secondary school, there was a dark wizard gaining power in our world. Voldemort. He was a wizarding supremacist, so the more powerful and the more followers he got, the more dangerous it was for Muggle-borns like me. His people had a tendency to target not just Muggle-borns, but their families too, so I figured it was best if I made myself scarce for a bit. I traded in being a Healer for going to Muggle medical school instead.

"Well, right as I was finishing up, Voldemort sort of took over. He had people in the Ministry, and they were enacting all kinds of laws that allowed Muggle-borns to be hunted down. I got tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, and I wanted to distance myself from my family to keep them out of the Death Eaters' – that's what Voldemort's followers called themselves – sights. The military seemed like as good a place as any to hide out, so I enlisted."

"You joined the military to avoid a war?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

John huffed a wry laugh. "In a way, yeah, I guess I did," he agreed. "Not the best plan, I admit. But somehow just getting shot at seemed a lot safer than being targeted by Dark wizards. Some of those Death Eaters, well – Whitehawk was a kitten in comparison. I'd been on the wrong end of an Unforgivable Curse before. Bullets were the kinder option.

"In the end, it didn't do any good either."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Your parents?"

"They weren't even targeted for being the parents of a Muggle-born," John said scornfully. "Just for being Muggles. It was a sport for the Death Eaters, seeing how much destruction they could cause without being caught. Muggles never noticed anything, because who would believe it was magic that caused these freak accidents? Collapsed bridges, levelled towns, unexplainable diseases. You might've seen some of them, they cropped up on the news now and then.

"The way I understand it, a group of Death Eaters set a couple houses on fire. They Stunned anyone who tried to escape. Seventeen people died that night, including my parents. The only reason my sister survived was because she was in Dublin, passed out at some bar with her friends. The only time I've ever been grateful for her drinking. Officially, it was ruled an unfortunate accident caused by some faulty wiring and an unusually dry summer, but I think she's always suspected it was something to do with me."

"She isn't like you." It wasn't a question, and John didn't waste his breath answering. "This is what prompted you to join the magical law enforcement?"

"I wasn't able to right away, of course," John said. "Ministry was still being run by Death Eaters then. But I started helping where I could, around my military training. The idea caught on, and a whole lot of Muggle-borns and even Half-bloods enlisted because it got them a free ticket out of England, under the radar of the Death Eaters. It was hardly a perfect solution, but it was an alternative to camping out in the wilderness, hiding from the Snatchers, like some did. It kept us going until the Battle of Hogwarts."

John paused, rubbing the back of his neck, and glanced across at Sherlock. "I don't know what all Potter told you. Did he mention-"

"It was in one of the books," Sherlock interrupted with a nod. "I understand the general idea."

"I thought it might've been." John nodded. "I found out through the Wireless. Some old dorm mates of mine ran this underground radio channel with information about the war, the sort of stuff Voldemort's crowd didn't want getting out. Listened to it every night I could with a few of the other wizards in my area. When we found out Harry had gone back to Hogwarts, we knew the time had come. It was a hell of a trip, Apparating ourselves all the way back there.

"That battle was–" John grimaced, images he'd long tried to forget spiralling through his head in a wave of colours. "Magic or Muggle, there's nothing glorious about wars. I saw a lot of good people die in the castle we'd seen as a sanctuary growing up. I still wonder sometimes, maybe if I'd stuck with my Healer training instead of hiding out in the Muggle world, if maybe there were more lives I could've saved that day."

"You won the war."

"Yeah, we did," John said, shaking himself out of the memories. "And after that, it all turned to making things right again. That's when I took the job with the Aurors. It was a hectic time, and we tripled our numbers to try and round up all of the escaped Death Eaters we could. So many of them had gotten away with it the first time, but the Minister wasn't taking those chances again. It felt good, to be doing something productive like that."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's shoulder, and he knew what question would come next. "Afghanistan?"

"Came after things died down at the Ministry," John explained. "Once things had settled, I told them I wanted to go back to my position in the military. It had started as a way to get away, but I'd found I enjoyed it. Things had started getting bad in the Middle East, and I wanted to do my part. The Aurors' office was overstaffed at that point anyway, so they didn't put up much of a fight.

"I had put in more than a decade in the military when the Auror's office contacted me. The International Wizarding Defence Agency - it's a bit like a Wizarding Interpol - had been tracking a group using the unrest in the Middle East as a cover for their activities. They were launching a task force to deal with them, and they wanted me for it because I was familiar with the area. Our Ministry has a lot of pull when they want, and the minute I agreed, they had it cleared through my superiors.

"The task force was an adventure. There were agents from four countries, and even though they were all law enforcement, none of them had experience in a war zone. It was up to me to lead them, and keep them safe. The plan itself was straightforward enough, but I had never seen an operation like those Dark wizards had set up. They were merging magic and Muggle tech in ways people had never dreamt of. Still, it really almost went off without a hitch."

"Except you were injured," Sherlock concluded.

John rolled his shoulder, phantom spikes of pain firing through the muscle as he thought about it. "Like I said, it was combinations we'd never imagined possible. Enchanted objects, explosives laced with potions. Two of the others got injured too, but I've been told I got it worst. If it hadn't been for Murray, I might not have made it."

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "You were injured in a way that left you incapable of continuing your career in the military? How is that possible? Just yesterday I saw you healed from something that should have killed you."

"Magic can fix a lot of things, but there are still some things it can't do," John said. "Especially when it comes to Dark magic. The curse caused a lot of nerve damage, and in my wand arm. It took a while to get most of the function back, even with magic, and I don't have the strength or speed I used to. I was a liability."

At this, Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Anyone who thinks you are anything but an attribute in a dangerous situation is an idiot." John fought a pleased smile, fidgeting with a biscuit to avoid the detective's unrelenting stare. "Potter told me he wanted you to stay on."

"I couldn't, not with how much my reflexes slowed in my wand arm," John said, shaking his head. "You saw how quick that duel with Whitehawk went down. Every second of time you lose is another spell coming at you or your team. I wasn't going to run that risk. Besides," he glanced up at Sherlock and grinned, "I've found a new job, and I think I'm going to stick with that. God knows what would happen to you if I weren't here."

Sherlock smirked back. "You do have skills that have proven to be quite useful," he said, and from him, that was glowing praise. "Particularly now that I have been made aware of your other abilities. Think of the uses!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," John said, struggling to control his laughter. "Statute of Secrecy. I can't use magic out in public."

The detective pouted. "Well, perhaps not publicly, but covertly," he said. "A quick spell when Anderson is being particularly obtuse?" John didn't even try to fight back the wave of giggles at Sherlock's hopeful expression. Sherlock beamed triumphantly, recognising the concession, and immediately leapt into plans.

And as John relaxed back into his chair and fielded the endless stream of questions from his best friend, he felt at peace. It appeared that the game – which he had been so certain would end with the reveal of his secret – was only just beginning.