A/N: Hey, I'm back. Happy New Year, because that is seriously how long I've been out of the game. Oops. Here's an extra long chapter to soothe your anger.

After this (frankly odd) conversation, things went just as anyone might expect. Sherlock did not mention the wizarding world again, nor did he comment when John started using small spells around the flat. Though neither men consciously avoided the subject, there seem to be an unspoken agreement between the two; it was easy enough to gauge that their relationships with magic and wizardry were —to say the least— complicated. And so, the matter was left undisturbed.

In the mean time, the two fell into a rhythm which they both found relatively satisfactory. John worked part-time shifts at a medical center, and in his spare hours he accompanied Sherlock on various cases. He acquainted himself with Sherlock's colleagues (whom he refused to call 'friends'). There was Greg Lestrade; a thin, harried-looking Detective Inspector who would sometimes call Sherlock down to Scotland Yard. There was Molly Hooper; who worked in the morgue at St. Bart's and smiled nervously whenever Sherlock wasn't looking.

John was unsettled by Sherlock's treatment of the Molly. He was either snarky, or he barely gave her a second glance. But then again, there were many things about Sherlock that were unsettling. His sociopathic tendencies left John in a constant state of indecision. On the one hand, Sherlock would sometimes say or do things that left John convinced the entire thing was an act, built up over time to hide some past hurt or trauma. Indeed, this was what he thought most of the time. But then, just as he would grow comfortable in this belief, Sherlock would do something so shockingly inept and callous that John could see no viable explanation other than sociopathy.

It was exhausting to say the least.

It was a chilly, January morning when certain unwanted questions arose once again. John did not have to be at the clinic until that afternoon, and was taking full advantage of a late morning. He was sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace at about 8am, tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the other. Sherlock (for once) was asleep, and the resulting peace in the apartment was as unusual as it was welcome. However, the tranquility was broken by a knock on the door.

John sighed, placed his tea on the coffee table, and got up. The knock was almost definitely for Sherlock, and John was loath to wake him.

Sure enough, Lestrade was standing at the door. His long, brown coat seemed particularly rumpled this morning, and he held a styrofoam cup in one hand.

"Oh, hello John," said Lestrade.

"Hi."

Lestrade shifted. "Look, sorry for showing up like this. Is Sherlock around? He wasn't answering his phone and I'm afraid we really need him for this one."

"He's in bed, actually," said John. "But he'll probably be up in a minute anyhow. I don't think I've ever seen him sleep more than six hours at a time."

Lestrade grunted. "That makes two of us."

"Well, if he's not up soon I suppose I can go kick his arse," said John placidly. "Tea?"

"Please." Lestrade glanced at the cup in his hand with distaste. "This one's gone cold."

John stood back to allow Lestrade him into the apartment, and it wasn't long before they were both resting easily on the sofa, steaming mugs in hand.

"So, what is this all about?"

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "That's just the thing, John. We don't really know. We're waiting for lab results at the moment, but there's so little to be said even Donovan agreed we might as well have Sherlock take a look."

John raised his eyebrows. "That's impressive."

Lestrade snorted. "Mind you, that doesn't mean she's happy about it, just that we've done all we can already."

At that moment there was a tremendous crash from above, and then a curse; Sherlock was awake.

John glanced over at Lestrade and placed his tea carefully on the floor.

"This should just take a minute," he said. He rose from the sofa, moving toward the stairwell in a few, easy steps.

"Oi, Sherlock," he called. "Make sure you're dressed when you come down, Lestrade's here with a case."

A muffled snort could be heard from on high. "Yes, I know. I've got three missed calls. With voicemail."

John rolled his eyes. "Be down in five." He turned and rejoined Lestrade on the sofa.

Catching his eye, John shrugged as a way of explanation, "Sherlock commonly comes downstairs wrapped in bed clothes."

Lestrade shook his head, amused. "No, I know about that," he said, but did not elaborate. He smirked, and turned back to his tea.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was tumbling down the stairs, hair still slightly damp, but rubbing his hands together all the same. Lestrade told him the address and he was out the door in an instant, with barely even a curl of dust left in his wake.

The crime scene was a tall, narrow apartment complex painted in a drab white. Though the door onto the street was open and blocked by yellow police tape, the cops themselves seemed to have left for the time being. However, before they went inside, Lestrade produced a set of gas masks from somewhere in the depths of his car.

"You're going to need to put these on," he said.

Sherlock's expression remained impassive, but his eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Without a word, he took the mask and fixed it securely over his mouth and nose.

Entering the complex, they began a long, arduous trudge up to the fifth floor. As they climbed, Lestrade gave a brief account (slightly muffled by way of the gas mask) of what had occurred.

"We got a call at around 5:30 this morning," he began, "reporting shouting and bright flashes coming from the top floor of this building. We'd assumed there was a party of some sort going on, so Digby stopped by to see what the trouble was. He marched right up and banged on the door of the apartment and said all the usual things, but there wasn't an answer. He says he heard a loud thump, and thought maybe the person overdosed on drugs, so he went back down and got the keys from the landlord.

"When he went in he found a woman on the floor, dead. There was no sign of forced entry and there were no other exits. All of the windows were locked, but there were pretty clear signs of a struggle as well as— well, here we are." They had reached the fifth floor landing, and paused to catch their breath.

The entryway of the apartment was cordoned off with police tape, but the site was forlorn and empty. The place was eerily quiet, and for a moment John could not quite put his finger on why. Then he realized that there was no whine of electricity, a sound one usually hears even in a silent building.

"Power not working?" He asked.

Lestrade nodded. "According to the other tenants it went out sometime early this morning."

Sherlock, who had been silently listening this entire time, stirred.

"About the same time as the call, would you say?" He enquired.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, I wondered about that as well. It was already out by that point, though, the caller did use their mobile. It could just be a coincidence, but we can't know for sure."

"You can't," Sherlock muttered under his breath, so quietly that John himself barely caught it. With that, Lestrade ducked under the police tape and unlocked the door. The other two followed him inside.

When they entered the apartment, John caught his breath (as much as was possible with the gas mask on). The main room was fairly spacious, with a kitchenette in one corner, and a sofa and television in another. In the middle of the room, a middling-sized dining table was overturned on the floor, one leg broken off completely. The table, the cabinets, and the walls all carried strange black marks, like burns. The television had a large crack webbed across the screen.

But what was most remarkable about the scene was not the room's appearance of having been disemboweled. It wasn't even the body, lying under a blue tarp. The most noticeable thing to John was the colored smoke drifting along the floor and down the walls.

His head spun. He had to fight the urge to reach out and steady himself against the doorframe. Sherlock (who had walked in immediately after him) stopped, too, but only for the briefest of moments. His eyes roamed over the room, taking in the whole scene. His face betrayed nothing, but John could tell he was startled.

"So," Said Lestrade, sidling up from behind them. "The colored stuff. My team tried to get a sample back to the lab to test it, but whenever they tried the bottle came up empty. We don't know what it is, only that it's not moving anywhere and doesn't even really seem like gas. The masks are more of a precaution than anything else."

John made a noise similar to that of a goose. It was all just too much.

"What do you think it is?" He asked Lestrade hesitantly. "Personally, I mean."

Lestrade shook his head, mystified. "I don't know. At a glance I would say it was smoke, maybe from a drug. I might even suggest that it killed the victim. But clearly its not that... I want to say that its some sort of light, but that can't be it either. It's not like anything I've ever seen before."

"John come here," Sherlock called. "I need you look at the body."

John steeled his nerves. "You already know how she died though, don't you?" Even in his own ears, he sounded brittle and short.

Sherlock blinked, then looked at John appraisingly.

"I have my own guess, but I'll want your opinion to confirm. You know more about these things than I."

Ah, John thought. So he picked up on the magic after all. Of course he did.

He knelt by the body, knowing what he would find, yet dreading it all the same. Sherlock had immediately removed the tarp and placed it on the floor. Underneath it, the woman's body lay on it's back, arms splayed out. She appeared to have been in her upper 50s, with greying hair, and a slim, wiry figure. She was dressed in long, flannel pajamas, and a navy blue dressing gown.

John went through his customary process of examining the body, then stood up with a sigh. He turned to face Lestrade.

"Don't tell me," said Lestrade, holding up his hand. "Heart attack?"

When John nodded, he sighed. "Yeah, I had hoped you might get something different. That's what we got, too."

John was feeling increasingly disturbed by the whole facade. If the case ever came to the attention of the Ministry of Magic— which it would— Lestrade would most likely never even remember this encounter.

"It's possible she really did have a heart attack," Sherlock mused. "But give the circumstances that seems unlikely. Tell me, have you taken anything from the crime scene as of yet? Surely your team can't of gotten their hands on this and then left it the way it was. It would be most unlike them."

Lestrade ignored the jibe and shook his head. "Nope, I oversaw the entire operation and they didn't find anything worth examining."

There was no wand on the scene. That was what Sherlock had clearly meant. John, who had been feeling very strange throughout this entire encounter, finally saw his chance to escape. He moved back towards the door of the apartment.

"Well," he said in his very best time-to-wrap-things-up voice, "Sherlock, you can stay and poke around if you've a mind to it, but I've got to be at work soon."

Sherlock glanced briefly around the room, then began to make his way towards the door himself. "No, it's fine, I've seen all I need." He called to Lestrade over his shoulder. "Email me details about the victim, I'll keep you posted."

Lestrade's eyes had been following the conversation, clearly trying to figure out what had just passed between the two men. However, he seemed relieved that they would take the case, and promised that he would email any additional information.

On the cab ride back, neither Sherlock nor John felt the urge to speak. They arrived back at Baker Street, John (inevitably) payed the driver, and soon they were seated back in their usual spots by the fireplace.

"You were very nice today, unusually so," John said lightly, breaking the silence. "Had the rest of the crew been there, they might not even have been offended."

Sherlock did not smile. "I am only ever realistic. Besides, the reaction is the best part." He leaned forward and fixed John with one of his trademark stares. "And I also happen to know that you don't have to be at work for another four hours."

Memories of Sherlock calling him while he was at work and generally being a nuisance rose to the front of John's mind. "Oh, so you do know my schedule then," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "I only remember it when it's convenient for me. But that doesn't answer my question." "You never asked a question," said John.

"I don't need to ask a question for you to answer it."

"Just like you don't need to remember something for it to have happened, isn't that right?" John said. His vocal chords felt tight. "Let's say, for instance, theoretically, Lestrade came across a case. It seemed like an impossible case, magical, even. But the next morning, he didn't remember it ever happening. That doesn't mean it didn't."

Sherlock was silent at this. He seemed surprised at the acid in John's voice. At last, he responded, his voice quiet.

"Well then. I suppose there would be no point in us looking into this completely theoretical case. Would there, John?" "No. No point at all."