So, I got a prompt for this from Cpn. J. Harkness. Here's the first chapter.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-not me. Harry Potter is the exclusive property of J K Rowling-again, not me. I do not claim ownership of things that aren't mine. I just borrow them.

Warnings: The main character of this story is a criminal. There will be violence and criminal activities. He's also not the most patient of people or best of parents. Later chapters may feature corporeal punishment as well as some less than savory parenting techniques.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1—Suddenly There Came a Tapping

A strange tapping came from the window of a dark little flat. The man on the couch jerked up quickly before slowly laying back down. "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door." He recited the phrase in a sing-song voice—a voice that would have almost anyone petrified with fear at the very sound. The tapping came again and the man swung his bare feet down to rest on the floor. Standing, he walked to the window. Gently, he pried it open. "But you're no raven, are you?" A dark brown owl hopped through the open window and shook some of the water from its feathers. The man ignored the howling of the wind and the downpour of rain that was slowly seeping onto the sill. Bending down, his face was brought into a ray of light from a streetlamp outside.

He was a young man, not really even an adult yet—only seventeen or eighteen. He had dark hair and eyes of an indistinguishable dark color. His mouth could be seen to be quirked up in a frightening half-smile as he untied the string that held a letter to the bird's left leg. As soon as the owl's burden was taken from it, it leapt into flight and soared back out into the storm. No longer smiling, the man lit a small oil lamp and placed it on a table. He used a kitchen knife to slice open the envelope and eased a folded sheet of parchment from within. It read:

Richard Cygnus Potter,

We regret to inform you of the deaths of your elder brother, James Potter, and his wife, Lily Potter (nee Evans). They both passed away as of the 31stof October, 1981. Their deaths are listed amongst many who died that we might live in a world free from the terror wrought by the Dark Lord. They are survived by a son, Harry James Potter, who has been placed in a suitable home.

With deepest sympathies,

Helen J. Babcock

Ministry of Magic, Wizengamot Administration Services

The man finished reading and plunged the knife into the table, stabbing through the parchment. Without making another sound, he spun up out of the chair and deposited himself back onto the couch. He scowled up at the ceiling for several long minutes, thinking, before a grin broke across his face. Laughter slipped through his teeth and he threw his head back, letting the sounds of mirth fill the dim rooms.

o

Dawn was spreading across the horizon and pale sunbeams were making their way through the window now. In the pale light, it could be seen that the window was one of four. Several bookcases stood against the walls, an odd selection of books gracing the shelves. A kitchen area filled one part of the floor space. A small dining table sat off to the side and a desk sat up against the wall behind a couch and a single armchair. A door led to a bedroom. The walls were bare, papered in a faded cream pattern.

The young man still laid on the couch, hands folded on his chest. His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. He was thinking—planning.

o

The young man—who we now know to be Richard Potter—paced the floor, arms folded in front of his chest with one hand brought up to his chin. "And you're sure?" he asked.

A second man, who was slightly older with light brown curly hair, nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then go. Do not disappoint me."

The second man moved rapidly to the front door, opened it, and left. The remaining person resumed his pacing and began to speak out loud, under his breath. "The time is at hand. They won't laugh anymore. Nevermore, nevermore." He smiled again. "No, they won't laugh anymore. This will show them. Show them all how stupid they were. How stupid they are. That was my right. My right as much as his. And now he's gone, but I'm still here. I'm still here and I'll take what's mine!"

ooo

A silent figure approached a silent house under the cover of darkness. The street lamps didn't reach nearly far enough into the shadows to draw attention to the man. He walked calmly up the path and towards the door. A bronze number four hung under the knocker. The man smirked at the uniformity of it all. He turned to his left and stepped around the neatly planted flowers and shrubs. He circled the house, ducked through the garden gate, and crept towards the kitchen door. He pulled a set of tools from his pocket and neatly went to work picking the lock.

He had hardly started when the lock clicked and his smirk of amusement changed to a frown of disappointment at the lack of a challenge. He returned the tools to his pocket and eased the door open, revealing a home that simply gleamed with unnatural cleanliness. The man stepped into the house, pleased at the muddy footprints he left in his wake as he moved. He happily pulled an apple from the fruit drawer of the refrigerator and took a large bite from it, leaving it on the sparkling counter before continuing his mission. He stepped softly into the hallway and listened to the sounds of the house around him. He picked out the snores of an overly large man, the even breaths of a normal adult, and the restless tossing of a toddler from above. Listening more carefully, he caught on to what he was waiting for—the sounds of an uncomfortable second toddler. And this one was downstairs.

He took two measured strides towards the cupboard under the steps and tested the knob of the door. His eyebrows rose when he found it locked, but he made short work of that. He tapped six times in the door before he pulled it open. "And suddenly there came a tapping," he chimed. He openly smiled then, as he saw what he'd come for. A small, worn-down crib was squeezed into the space, and in that crib rested the small form of a child, no older than two. A shock of black hair grew from the small head and fell into his eyes.

Leaning over the edge of the crib, the man touched the small boy as if to pick him up. The child woke immediately, but the man swiftly brought his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. "Now Harry," he said softly. "It's time for a story. No crying, now." He reached down and grabbed the shocked boy in his arms and rearranged the child onto his hip. He looked around, disgusted at the other items in the cupboard, all of them trash. He only picked up the blanket from the crib and wrapped it securely around the boy he was holding before beginning the promised story.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a Lord and a Lady and they lived in a beautiful manor with their two sons. They loved both of their sons very much, until one day, the elder son started to do magic. He made objects fly around the room and created colorful sparks from nothing. The younger son tried to imitate his brother, but didn't know how, so he tried to excel as best as he could. He learned to read and write and to add and subtract. He learned so much that he was twice as smart as his brother, but he still could not do magic. The Lord and the Lady saw their son's struggles—saw that he could not make things move or create colorful sparks—and they thought that he wasn't nearly as special as the older son, who could. So, one day, when the younger son was just seven years old, they took him into the town and left him at an orphanage.

"The older son didn't miss his younger brother at all. He was showered in attention and eventually, he went away to a special school where he learned all about magic and how to use it. The younger son cried and cried. He missed his family more than anything and he didn't understand why he couldn't do the things his brother had done. The other children in the orphanage laughed at him when he cried or tried to do magic and were mean to him. He was smarter than they were, and they made fun of him because they were jealous and scared. But the Lord and the Lady forgot all about their younger son and did not come back to get him.

"Eventually, the older son grew up to be a powerful wizard. He married a lady with red hair and they had a son of their own. The younger son was still trying to prove himself. He was still learning as much as he could and he become the smartest man in the world.

"But there was a war going on and all of the wizards were fighting against each other. The Lord and the Lady died and soon, the older son and his wife did as well, leaving behind their son. This little boy was abandoned just like the younger son was before. When the younger son heard about this, he was angry, because he knew how it felt to be left alone. He searched and searched, and eventually, he found out where the boy had been left. The younger son went to the house, snuck in through the back door, and rescued the boy."

The man smiled down at the big green eyes that were looking up at him. "And now, the younger son is going to take his nephew and raise him as his own son." The man hugged the little boy and started out towards the back door. Silently, he exited the house, crept through the gardens, and walked back down the street the way he came. At the end of the street, he climbed into the waiting car and it pulled away, taking the man and the child back to a little flat in the heart of London.

"I'm James Moriarty now," the man said in the back of the car. "I took his name and I took his son. I'm taking what's mine. From now on, Little Harry, I'm your father, and your name is Samuel Brook." The little boy said nothing, staring up at his rescuer in wonder and awe. He hadn't been told a story in almost a year.

I hope you liked the first chapter. I should have another one in a few weeks. Let me know what you thought in a review!

Thanks for reading!

-MP