AN: Hello! I know you've all most likely already read tons of stories like this one. First and foremost: Everything in the Potterverse has been pushed forward twenty years. So Instead of Voldemort being "defeated" in 1981, he was defeated in 2001; and instead of Harry going to Hogwarts in 1991 as a first year, he goes in 2011, and so on. In the Sherlock Universe, everything will be mostly the same, except for, you know, the presence of a certain wizarding savior in our favorite British city. By the way, this is not going to be a Dumbledore-bashing fic, though he will get credit when due. Powerful!Harry and slightly OOC characters.

Another thing: the updates in Son of Holmes will not be regular. I know that will be challenging for you, the readers, but I'll try and update as quickly as possible for my tiny child mind. I'll do my best and if I make any mistakes or if there are any plot holes then please tell me, I'd really appreciate it. I know how annoying it can be to read a poorly written story. You can leave reviews or PM me, both are great.

Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock BBC, nor Harry Potter, and I do not claim to own them either. I do however own the plot, sort of. Well, I got the idea from reading so many other fics that I chose to write my own... You get the idea.

Rating: Nothing too horrible. May be some violence, definite mentions of violence, no more than mild language. This fic has Sherlock Holmes, so what do you expect?

Son of Holmes

The day started off like any other- calm, cool, and utterly dull. Sherlock turned onto his back on the small bed in his smaller flat and sighed. There hadn't been a case in over a week, and he had been thrown out of the morgue yesterday for attempting to smuggle a human arm to his flat for an experiment.

His flat was one huge room, except for the small bathroom next to the front door. The room was approximately twelve by ten feet and seven feet high, with the front door in the corner of one of the shorter sides. Next to the front door, and towards the center of the shorter wall was the door to the bathroom, also small, containing one sink with a small cabinet underneath next to the door, one toilet, next to the sink, and one shower at the farthest side of the room. It was all illuminated by light bulb in the ceiling, with a light switch next to the door. The whole room was a warm cream color, with tiles an off-shade of white on the floor. A dark blue towel was draped over the side of the shower wall.

The main room (from perspective of the front door) had a small table and a chair up against the longer wall to the left. The table was packed with beakers and chemicals whose purpose would evade anyone and everyone who didn't put them there. Beyond the table was a counter top with a drawer and cabinet beneath it. There was a microwave oven above the counter and a small cooker and oven next to it, concluding the rest of the space in that corner. Atop the cooker there was a small kettle with cold water in it just waiting to be heated up for tea. To the right of the door to the bathroom was a twin sized bed with an old worn out pillow and a light grey bedding was along the same wall as the doors, so it took up the remaining space in the corner. To the left of the bed was a small table with a lamp, atop the lamp was a human skull, claiming it as its own, and notebook and biro. The rest of the tiny table top was covered in newspaper clippings and bits of evidence from old cases. Next to the tiny table was a closet roughly three feet wide and five feet tall. Within one would find clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor of it with a few crumpled shirts and coats hanging up. The rest of the wall was taken up with a bookshelf with contents ranging from 'The Different Bees of South Africa' to 'Fifty Ways to Pickpocket Different Types of People.' There were two chairs, one leather and one brown, taking up the far wall in between the bookshelf and the cooker.

Leaning against the leather one was a violin and bow, both expensive and frequently used. On the seat of the brown chair was a laptop, new, but also frequently used. A round carpet was in the center of the room over the wooden paneled flooring. All around the carpet there were papers and envelopes, and knives and plastic bags, except in the very center of the carpet. Giving the impression that someone often sat there looking at the surrounding contents. Similar to the bathroom, there was a light switch next to the front door and a single light in the center of the ceiling, albeit it was a much brighter light. A small cobweb was in the corner above the bookshelf. A window on the far side of the room next to the chairs showed that dawn had come a few hours prior.

Sherlock stood and turned on the light be for going to turn the cooker on. After the water began to warm up, he took a quick shower, put on some black slacks and his favorite purple button down shirt, along with black shoes and socks. When he had finished getting ready he prepared his tea, turned off the cooker, and sat in his leather chair (his favorite) and looked out the slightly frosted window of the second story room, alowing the clay mug to warm his hands. Few people were outside, despite being in central London, and those that were seemed eager to head back in. He checked his new mobile phone for the date (it was one of the few things he let his annoying older brother give him. If Mycroft had his way, Sherlock would be living in a mansion with butlers and maids and the whole like), it was November 15, 2003. No wonder it seemed to be getting colder. He hadn't checked the date in around half a month. The time read 11:28 AM.

He switched off his phone and placed it on the armrest of the parallel chair and retrieved his laptop. Switching it on, quickly inputting his password, he went straight to a website he was making. He had decided a few days ago to call it 'The Science of Deductions' and had just started to describe all the different types of tobacco ashes, what type of cigarette they most often were in, and what the actual plants had in common. It was taking a while, but he started yesterday so he was nearly done.

A little more than an hour had passed when there was an abrupt knock on his door. Silently reprimanding himself for not hearing the new-comer's arrival, he tried to figure out who it was. The knock was urgent sounding, and the man (the breaths were very deep) on the other side was breathing heavily, suggesting he had run all this way up the stairs. Deciding on who it was, he closed and set the laptop to its previous position and walked to the door. As he opened it Sherlock called out, "Making house calls now, Sergeant?"

A young man with graying (more like silvering) black hair and a leather jacket with a shiny badge gave a small glare before addressing Sherlock, "I have a case."

That immediately shut him up. Sherlock beckoned the older man inside and took the laptop and phone off the brown chair and onto the floor before seating himself in the leather one. The Sergeant hesitated slightly before sitting down in the remaining chair as Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers together with his elbows on the armrests and leaning forward in his chair.

"There's this place in Surry, Little Whinging, it's only around an hour's drive from here, but the police department there is in way over their heads, so they called us," The man began, slightly unsure of himself, Sherlock nodded to him to continue.

"Well, there was a triple homicide, and they can't find any cause of death whatsoever. What's even more confusing, is the fact that the family was found around a breakfast table in their own house, in completely normal positions. The only way we know that the family isn't simply sleeping is the fact that they don't have a pulse, nor are they breathing.

"They were found by their neighbor when she went over with her son to play. They were taken in for questioning, but I really doubt they know any more than we do. I came to you because if anyone could figure out how it happened, you could."

Sherlock nodded, and was silent for a few long seconds, the Sergeant looked around apprehensively. The former finally looked up from his hands and at the latter, "Alright, I'll do it. I'll be there in an hour and fifteen minutes. What's the address?"

The Sergeant stood up and handed Sherlock a piece of paper, "Number Four, Privet Drive."

Sherlock stood a moment later and took the paper while leading the man to the door, "I'll see you there. Goodbye Lestrade."

"Um, see ya later, Sherlock," the man, Lestrade, said not completely surprised at the sudden farewell.

As soon as Lestrade was out the door Sherlock closed it and began to gather his things. Namely his mobile phone, his wallet, and a brand new black coat and blue scarf his mother had gotten him for the impending winter. Armed for the outside forces of nature, he walked out his door, locked the flat, headed down past the other rooms, and down the stairs. As soon as he was outside he hailed cab which immediately came to him and told the driver where to go.