A/N: For my next trick, I'm going to be writing in Sherlock's POV. This should be fun, haha. If you don't like it, don't worry: we'll be jumping back to John's POV in the next fic.

Sherlock Holmes was standing over a dead body, a touch of a smile playing at his lips. "Oh," he breathed, stooping down beside the body in a crouch, "this is interesting."

"It's not a peep show, Freak," Auror Donovan sneered. She was especially moody, though Sherlock was sure he knew why (Anderson's suspicious wife, he suspected) and didn't care. He looked at the crack in the boy's skull before him and bit his lip. Donovan, disgusted, groaned. "Lestrade!"

"Sherlock?" Head Auror Lestrade, swooping in like a protective parent, knelt down beside Sherlock, cringing a little at the sight of the dead boy on the ground. "Got anything we can work with?"

It was best to ignore Lestrade, or so Sherlock usually felt. This instance was certainly no different. Sherlock leaned in, examining the dead boy's head wound more closely. "Fascinating."

John Watson crouched down on the other side of him, giving way to a momentary distraction. He smelled like warmth (which Sherlock knew to be both ridiculous and true), with his jumper fresh from the wash and the scent of tea clinging to the wool. His sleeves were pushed up- it was too warm outdoors for a jumper, still- and his hands were rubbing absently at his corduroy-clad knees. Sherlock stole a glance at him, at his expressive pink face and his neatly-combed hair, and felt his mouth go dry.

Sighing, John met Sherlock's gaze. "Murder?"

For half a heartbeat the word didn't make sense...and then Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the body and the haze cleared. "No," he replied, smiling. He liked drawing his deductions out. Sometimes it was just to show off, but sometimes it was for the little thrill he got whenever John figured something out himself.

John's eyebrows raised. "Not...suicide?"

"Nope."

"Then..." John shook his head, baffled.

Sherlock let the question dangle for a moment before standing and saying, with careful deliberation, "Quidditch accident." Imbeciles, he thought uncharitably. They were at still looking at him stupidly. Not a single one of them can see it. "He was struck with a Bludger, clearly."

"Clearly," Anderson agreed sarcastically as he documented the body. Sherlock ignored him, too.

Lestrade's jaw worked for a moment. "There's one major problem I'm seeing with this theory," he said, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. "He wasn't playing Quidditch."

"Merlin's pants, what must it be like in your funny little heads? Peaceful, I suspect." Sherlock brushed his fringe from his eyes and sighed. "What did the boy say? Think." He closed his eyes and in instant reviewed the testimony of the only quasi-witness to this death, the dead boy's brother. In Sherlock's mind's eye the boy licked his lips, blinked away tears, and admitted brokenly, "I didn't even know Michael was outside. I-I was playing Exploding Snap when I heard it...there was a sort of...of thump and then Michael cried out...By the time I got to him, he was...he was already gone."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave John and Lestrade the sort of look he usually reserved for the mouth-breathing cretins at school. They still hadn't got it. Astounding. "Exploding Snap," he said, practically feeding them the answer...but he was rewarded with only blank looks and a huff of impatience from Lestrade's resident idiot Anderson. Rubbing his temples, Sherlock hurried, "Thomas was playing Exploding Snap in the front garden. Michael went out the side door to the shed- you can see his footprints. Something hit the shed door...see the impact mark? So Michael runs after it. What was he chasing? An escaped Bludger, improperly replaced in the boys' Quidditch kit and freed when Michael opened the door. You-" he pointed at one of the mindless, nameless Aurors Lestrade had dragged along- "check the kit. You'll see I'm right. So, Michael's running through this field. He's hunting the Bludger when- bang! Thomas sets off a small explosion. Michael turns towards the noise; the Bludger slams into his skull; he dies." Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked around at the horizon. "Although one does have to wonder where it is now."

If Sherlock believed in God, he might have laughed at His timing. At that exact moment a whirring sound appeared at Sherlock's left and the missing Bludger hurtled out of the small ash grove nearby, zig-zagging through the air at an alarming rate. Two of Lestrade's Aurors shrieked, Donovan cursed loudly, and John immediately pushed Sherlock to the ground.

"Get off me!" Sherlock cried, wriggling beneath John. The Gryffindor was surprisingly heavy, small but compact...and he was doing his best to blanket Sherlock entirely.

John gasped and groped and grunted as he tried to keep Sherlock from getting up. "Stop wriggling," he said from behind clenched teeth, his face red with effort. "I'm trying to save your life!"

x

There was a sort of grim satisfaction to be had in sitting in Mycroft's office at the Ministry covered in mud, sweat, blood, and bits of grass. John, judging by his crossed arms and cross face, apparently did not agree.

Mycroft gave a tiny, fleeting glance towards his sofa (filling Sherlock with wicked glee) before sighing and giving his tea another stir. "Interesting morning, Sherlock?" he asked, taking a measured sip.

"You didn't bring me here for small talk." Sherlock sat forward, putting his scraped hands on his filthy knees. "What do you want?"

Infuriatingly, Mycroft- instead of answering quickly and concisely, as Sherlock would have preferred- sighed again and looked to John.

"We've been chasing a Bludger," John said after a greedy drink from his own teacup. "Well, more being chased by one, really."

"Ah." Smiling a tiny, smug smile, Mycroft said, "Good of you to take time out of your busy schedule, then."

That was enough of that. Sherlock set his teacup down with a clang and stood, straightening his soiled clothes as best as he could. "You've wasted enough our time. I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

"Sit down," Mycroft demanded, looking put out, as John sighed, "Oh, Sherlock, he's just taking the piss."

Sullenly, Sherlock settled just on the edge of the sofa, not looking at either of them. It was just like John to side with that wretched wraith Mycroft, and if either of them thought he didn't know about their ridiculous Jungle Book code names (or the fact that Mycroft fancied himself something of a Shere Khan) they were fooling themselves. He drummed out an impatient beat on the armrest and wriggled his foot for good measure.

"I should have thought you'd be pleased, Sherlock," Mycroft sniffed. "Obviously I've not brought you in for a social visit."

A case. Brilliant. Sherlock had expected as much but he had long since learned that when Mycroft was involved, things were not necessarily going to go as he'd initially presumed. He tried not to give anything away with his body language- and certainly the average person would never have noticed the difference- but the small quirk of smile tugging at Mycroft's lips told him that his dear brother knew he was secretly thrilled. That little smile did it; he gave up all semblance of pretense and sat forward, his eyes eager. "Tell me."

"You're going to play retriever." Fiddling with a file, Mycroft continued, "Irene Adler, seventeen years of age, attending Hogwarts. Slytherin, capable student but rather delinquent. I would suggest you might have met her, Sherlock, but it's clear you both...run in different circles."

Not-so-subtle jab at sexuality, or some other implication? Sherlock considered that as John bumbled on obliviously: "And she's...what? Gone missing?"

Mycroft laughed obnoxiously. "Heavens, no. She's stolen something from a colleague of mine. You two are going to get it back."

"Must be important," Sherlock said slowly, examining his fingernails. "You don't typically encourage my taking cases during the school year."

Glaring, Mycroft passed him the file. "Consider this an exemption to the rule."

Oh was Sherlock's first thought as he opened the file. Irene was a classic beauty, with big sea-green eyes and red-painted lips. The photo at the top of the pile was of her on holiday, he presumed, and she was leaning over the railing of a boat, waving and laughing, her chestnut hair loose and dancing in a shifting breeze. The next photo was dark; Irene was dancing in a nightclub, her hips grinding into the lap of a man whose face was in shadows...but her eyes were on the photographer, locking the camera's gaze. All of the photos in the file were of a more intimate nature than Sherlock had expected, in fact- Irene in a dressing gown, slumped stomach-down on a motel bed and looking over her shoulder; Irene astride a pretty painted pony in what looked like the Midwest of America, grinning at the camera and brushing her hair from her eyes; Irene in a ball gown, her curls pinned, applying her lipstick in a compact and looking at the photographer in the mirror, a secretive smile curling her lips- and Sherlock tucked that little detail away for later. He passed the file to John, who tried very hard not to look appreciative as he flipped through the photos.

"What has she taken?" Sherlock asked, leaning back and crossing his legs.

Mycroft smiled, the warmth of it not quite reaching his eyes. "A collection of memories. The owner and the content of these memories are not important to the case. Find the memories, retrieve them, and return them to me."

"Mm." A colleague. Certainly not Daddy, not with Irene looking at the camera like that. It was terribly difficult to guess what the memories might contain. And Mycroft wouldn't be involved if this man wasn't someone incredibly lofty. "Will twenty-four hours suffice?"

"I don't know," Mycroft chuckled, pouring himself another cup of tea. "Will it?"