A/N: Well, this is the final chapter, so I think it's probably best I don't comment on the contents too much! The one thing I will say is to repeat that I originally wrote this for Scooby2408. Which means first of all that I need to plug her profile because if you like BBC stuff, you'll enjoy what she has there; and secondly that certain decisions about the ending were made with her tastes in mind. Personally, though, I think the ending came out a lot better than it would have done if I hadn't… she has good taste. XD One last thing I will say is that it's always been a tradition in stories I write for her that there's a scene interwoven with a song. When I was a teenager I thought it was cool, now it's a bit dorky but I still do it, haha. That scene comes somewhere in the middle of this chapter and you'll know it when you see it. The song, however, is 'We Can Work it Out' by the Beatles; youtube it for the full effect. XD

To all those of you who have managed to read this colossal story all the way to the end, thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it :) If you have the chance, it would be great to hear what you thought of the ending, and if you have any comments or questions about it let me know. I am prepared to defend my decisions if necessary ;) That said, please enjoy the final chapter!

Chapter Five Part 3/3

The sun was setting as John arrived back at St Mugos. He had spent several hours inside the pensieve, and, had he examined his physical needs, would probably have found he was hungry or thirsty. At that moment, however, he couldn't care less about his physical state. The world seemed to have narrowed around him, so he couldn't see anything but getting back to the hospital, getting back and seeing Sherlock. Not that he had any idea what he was going to say. It just didn't seem possible. John had seen Moriarty doing horrible things, torturing his friend, using the Unforgivable Curses without hesitation even against someone he used to care about, but somehow Jim's trespass seemed pale in comparison. Sherlock was supposed to be one of the good guys and he was certainly supposed to be smarter than this, smarter than messing around with the darkest of the dark arts, so terrible that even to name it made John's stomach churn as his magical sense revolted. He remembered Professor Sprout, all those years before, gently explaining to his mother that magic couldn't do everything, that death was the end to wizard and muggle alike. Sherlock had ignored this, committed the ultimate trespass, and somehow made the world darker and uglier and dirtier; he was an arrogant little boy who had flown too close to the sun, not realising he was going to drown in the sea, a man who had reached out to steal fire and so damned himself. This was just too far.

Molly was in Sherlock's room when John arrived, she endeavouring to make conversation, he, for once, replying; though John could hear nothing from outside; presumably Mycroft's famous anti-eavesdropping charm again. Sherlock stopped abruptly when John entered, looking at him in silent defiance, daring him to say something. It was that look that drove John over the edge. In two steps he was by Sherlock's side and punched him hard in the face.

"John!" Molly cried, leaping to her feet in horror as John grabbed the front of Sherlock's hospital pyjamas and pulled him up. "John, put him down!"

John only had eyes for Sherlock. "What have you done?!" He shouted, and in some corner of his brain his rational mind marvelled fearfully at his own rage. "What the hell have you done, Sherlock?!"

"I did what I had to do, John." Sherlock replied quietly, meeting his eyes. For a moment they stared at each other and for the first time in his life, Sherlock looked away first. With the realisation that Sherlock knew what a terrible thing he had done, John's rage melted away, leaving behind a cooling anger and a deep sadness. He let go of Sherlock, letting him fall back into the pillows, and fell into a chair himself, his head in his hands.

For a moment, no-one spoke.

"John, I…"

"Don't speak to me, Sherlock." John shook his head. "Don't speak to me."

"What's going on?" Molly asked, nervously, before Sherlock had time to ignore John's plea. "John, what's wrong?"

John looked at Sherlock. "You haven't told her." Sherlock said nothing, looking down at his hands. John laughed slightly. "Well, lucky you, Molly; I was treated to a special premiere of the annotated memories of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock frowned slightly at this. "Annotated?"

"You don't mean to tell me you really do see that white writing all the time?"

"What writing?" Sherlock was clearly unaware of his own skewed worldview himself as he was looking at John like he had gone mad. At that look, John snapped.

"That's not important! He made a horcrux, Molly! He killed Moran and made a horcrux out of it!"

There was evil in the word that made his forehead break out in a sweat. John took a deep breath. He wasn't going to give into the weakness that was the curse of the blessing that was his magical sensitivity, not now. Even so, he didn't wipe the sweat away. He wanted Sherlock to see it, Molly to see it and realise all the implications.

"Moran was dying!" Sherlock said harshly. "He was in agony, John, you must have seen it was a mercy to kill him!"

"And if you had just killed him, it would have been fine, Sherlock! But you didn't, did you?!"

"I…I don't understand." Molly almost whispered, biting her lip. "What's a, a horcrux? What have you done, Sherlock?"

"He's been busy making wax wings, Molly, towers to Heaven, I think there's some fire he's got his eye on." John spat. Molly looked even more bewildered.

"Stop being so melodramatic, John." Sherlock answered, keeping his voice level. "Molly, a horcrux is an item with a part of your soul stored in it. It means that even if your body dies, part of you survives."

"What? But-"

"It's dark magic, Molly!" John said, interrupting her. "Dark magic of the worst kind. It's murder, for a start, you have to kill someone and do permanent damage to your soul, for a start. It's the worst kind of evil, worse than the Unforgivable Curses, worse than anything."

"I had to do it." Sherlock said, his voice low and insistent. "If I hadn't, then Jim would have-"

"You could have just killed Moran." John said. "You didn't have to-"

"Jim Moriarty will make a horcrux, John." Sherlock said, without doubt or pleading or fear, just simple fact. He was looking pale and worn out again, clearly tired from the exertion of this conversation. John had no sympathy. "If he hasn't already, then he'll do it today, or tomorrow, out of you or Molly or anyone else he happens not to value, which is more or less everyone but him. He's smart, John, smarter than Voldemort, just like I'm smarter than Dumbledore, and I'm telling you, if you're going to have an immortal James Moriarty, you are going to want an immortal Sherlock Holmes!"

John shook his head in disbelief, wondering if Sherlock ever listened to himself; if he never thought about just asking for help. Molly spoke before he could regain his voice.

"So, these horcruxes could be anything?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "I used a pocket watch that's been passed down my family. Jim was planning on using a locket he had round his neck."

"Then… if he's made this horcrux thing… is there any way we can destroy it?" Molly asked. John and Sherlock both looked at her in surprise. She twisted her fingers in her lap. "I don't want Jim to die," she said, hesitantly. "But… if it really is as bad as you say, what else can we do?"

"Fiendfyre." Sherlock said shortly. "That or Basilisk venom. They may not even work, but those are the most magically dangerous substances I know. You would have to destroy the vessel entirely, though, and before the soul fragment could flit into anything else."

"Then we'll do it." Molly said, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock's hand. "We'll find a way and we'll do it."

"When Moriarty's is gone," Sherlock said quietly. "We can destroy mine."

"Won't that hurt you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Better than having some sentience trapped here with nothing to do."

"Well, I doubt we have anything to worry about." John said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Because you don't have your horcrux, Sherlock, he does, and he's probably destroyed it already."

"Possibly." Sherlock admitted.

"So it was pointless you doing this at all, wasn't it?!"

Sherlock scowled at him, but said nothing. The lights had just gone out.

"What's happening?" Molly asked. John was already on his feet, his wand drawn, having seen enough terrible events that day to put him on guard. Looking alarmed, Molly followed suit.

"My wand, John." Sherlock said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, in spite of the charm around his room. "You put it back in my coat."

"Ssh." John said, knowing that as things stood, Sherlock was still too weak to be any use in a fight. Sherlock probably knew it too, or he would have gone for the wand himself, if he had bothered to use one at all. "Just lie there, keep still and be quiet."

For once, Sherlock did as he was told, Molly and John standing guard, wands outstretched, on either side of the foot of his bed. Just as it began to occur to John that maybe this simply was just a problem with the lights, curses began to fly through the door. John only just managed to duck beneath a pulse of red light that he imagined would have either stunned or disarmed him, and sent one back, firing blindly, but missing each of the three hooded figures that stood outside the room.

"John!" Sherlock said, stumbling out of bed when he saw his friend drop to the floor. John grabbed him and forced him down, roughly, as another curse passed over their heads.

"Aguamenti!" Molly cried, sending a wave washing over the corridor, pushing the three men back. She kept the water going, looking over her shoulder as she did so. "John! John, Sherlock, are you alright?!"

"Aguamenti?!" Sherlock said, incredulously. "Couldn't you have chosen something a bit more useful?!" He had dragged his coat out of the locker and was hastily pulling it on, drawing his wand out of the pocket.

"It was all I could think of!" Molly wailed. Her spell was starting to weaken and the Death Eaters were able to move forward against the plume of water.

"Aguamenti!" John said hastily, adding his own efforts to the water wall; but it wouldn't hold them long. "We need to move into open ground, we're sitting ducks here." Forgetting his anger, he pulled Sherlock's arm around his neck and grabbed him around the waist, trying to keep his wand steady. "When I say, head for the back stairs."

"A-alright."

"Now!"

They ran out of the room, ending the charm as they turned. Sherlock, limping along as best he could, leaning heavily on John and probably hating every second, still managed to transfigure the water into ice, so that they gained a few seconds on their pursuers, who slipped and fell heavily. They made it to the end of the floor where there was a little-used service stairwell, used only by staff and only then if they had something against the lifts that ran to every floor. This too was in darkness, and without any windows to the outside, was almost pitch black as they ran down the twists and turns.

"Lumos!" John managed to find spare breath to get the spell out and a ball of light blossomed from his wand.

"Nox!" Sherlock said furiously, putting it out again immediately. "No, John, you'll give away our position!"

"They already know where we are, Sherlock!"

"We need to apparate, John, now!"

John laughed. "Do you have any idea how weak you are, Sherlock?! It'll kill you!"

"Apparate, John!"

"I told you, no!"

"They're coming!" Molly said, as there was the clang of more feet, higher behind them on the metal staircase. John swore and shot a stunning spell upwards over Molly's shoulder, but it rebounded off the stairs above, showering them in sparks.

"John, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock snapped. "You'll never get a clear shot while we're moving."

"At least they won't either."

"Only as long as they're moving too." Sherlock said grimly, just as the footsteps above ominously stopped. A moment later they were forced to duck below the bannister as more shots came down from above. The Death Eaters had figured out to shoot down the diagonal and were hitting the wall behind where John and the others were crouching. If they stood, or moved, they would be right in the firing line.

"We need to keep moving." Sherlock said grimly. "Sooner or later they'll start with the killing curses."

"Makes no difference." John answered. "Even if somehow we get outside, they'll catch us up." He didn't say that this was because Sherlock was clearly tiring, his breath ragged even as he tried to control it. He shouldn't even have been out of bed and now they had stopped, John knew it would be with difficulty that he got going again.

"We need to get onto open ground." Sherlock said. "We can fight them if we get out."

"We won't make it."

"I'll hold them off, so you two go!" Molly said, making to get up.

"Molly, no!" John said, as the barrage of curses breaking into the wall behind them finally ceased and the feet started again. The Death Eaters were two floors above them. It wouldn't take them a moment to reach their prey. "If anyone is staying, it's me."

"Look at him, John!" Molly said, gesturing at Sherlock. "He needs a doctor! And anyway, I'm not strong enough to carry him."

"Molly." Sherlock growled, but John hesitated. What she said was true. Besides, it was Sherlock they really wanted. If she could just hold them off long enough for John to get Sherlock outside, the Death Eaters would follow. Unable to believe himself, John nodded.

Molly smiled shakily and turned to go, but this time it was Sherlock that stopped her, reaching past John and grabbing her hand. Molly looked at him defiantly.

"There's no time, Sherlock!" She snapped, trying to pull away.

"Molly Hooper," He said quietly. "Gryffindor." Then, to everyone's surprise, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Take care."

Molly looked at him in shock. Then grinning hugely, she even managed a retort. "I've always been a Gryffindor, Sherlock." She said, and with that got to her feet and charged back upstairs to meet the attackers head on, calling out another spell. There was no time to worry about her, no time for delicacy. John grabbed hold of Sherlock again and began hauling him downstairs, trying to make him go just a little faster.

"What was that just now?" He asked, grinning himself, fear mixing with excitement.

"What was what?" Sherlock asked, with effort, looking down at his feet to make sure they went where he wanted.

"That! Was that a little moment just now?"

"Now is hardly the time, John!"

John laughed, but said nothing more. Somehow, he couldn't worry about Molly any more. There was no way she would let herself die after finally getting a kiss from Sherlock Holmes, a boy whom, in spite of everything in between, she had had a crush on since she was eleven years old.

They had reached the fire exit at the bottom of the stairwell now, and John pushed his way out; finding the door was concealed in the wall of the bottom floor of a muggle multi-storey carpark. There were one or two cars, but otherwise it was thankfully empty, not even a parking warden in sight, and no security cameras; the guards probably subtly persuaded that the basement floor didn't need surveillance. John pulled Sherlock half way across the car park, both of them looking back over their shoulders. Still no Molly.

"We need to wait for her!" Sherlock said. His breath was now catching so badly that he couldn't hold back the coughs, wracking his bruised and battered frame, though his wand arm barely trembled. Nevertheless, John nodded, standing there in wait of their attackers. They wouldn't go without Molly, but she needed to bring the fight out here.

The seconds ticked past and John began to pray that she hadn't done anything stupid; but it was one of the Death Eaters that appeared first, the curse already on his lips while John was still distracted, looking over his shoulder for Molly. He didn't see her. It was his magical sense that alerted him to the danger, suddenly flaring up, a jarring pain in his knee; and time seemed to slow as he looked at the Death Eater, so that he saw the green light issuing forth out of the wand before his ears picked up on the deadly words. At first his thought was simply to get out of the way, throwing himself and Sherlock to the side, but his next thought was escape, and somehow- he would never know how he managed to do it- he turned them in the air and reached out to the first safe place he instinctually thought of, and they disappeared, leaving only a sharp crack and Molly Hooper behind them.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

He had been worried that Sherlock wouldn't survive apparating, and his fears were somewhat justified. They appeared in the lounge, and Sherlock's knees immediately gave way, staying upright only because of John's grip on him, but even so, he retched and violently threw up into the grate. John felt mild relief that he had kept it off the carpets as he tried to steady him, not sure what to do other than letting Sherlock empty it out, but between the coughing and the vomiting at this rate his friend was going to suffocate.

"Easy there, mate." He muttered, rubbing Sherlock's back and adjusting his position slightly to try and open up his airways a bit more. Thankfully the vomiting seemed to have finished and after a few empty retches, Sherlock was able to straighten up slightly, sucking in deep, gasping breaths. John manoeuvred him into a chair as Sherlock looked around in confusion. John subtly took his pulse. To his relief, it was still strong, but it was fluttering irregularly, at the point of giving out. Wishing he had some of the medicinal potions from work, he took out his wand and tapped it on Sherlock's palm, gently administering a slight tranquillising spell, used to calm patients down. Sherlock sighed in relief and his breathing eased just slightly.

"John?" A voice said in the doorway, sounding almost frightened, though not so alarmed she hadn't waited for a polite opportunity to speak.

"Hello, mom." He said weakly, no idea how to begin explaining this one. He wasn't even sure why he had brought them here; he didn't think he'd consciously thought about it. He had just reached out for somewhere safe. "You remember Sherlock?"

"Of course I do." His mother said, frowning, coming over to him. She squeezed Sherlock's hand with all the motherly affection she had ever shown him. "It's been far too long, young man. But look at you, Sherlock. What have you been doing to yourself?"

She was right. It was hard to tell how much of the physical weakness was due to the making of the horcrux and how much to the exhaustion and fatigue of days hiding in a cave and years travelling, how much to the torture of the Cruciatus curse, how much to the subsequent running and fighting. Even so, John suspected the horcrux was having the more permanent effect. Sherlock's cheeks were still hollow and sunken, his face still chalk white, grey shadows under his eyes, and days of the best care in hospital had made no difference. Perhaps the soul was like blood, and when there wasn't enough of it, the body would struggle.

"You shouldn't have brought us here, John." Sherlock said, the moment he had recovered enough to speak. "You're marked, they'll follow you."

"That's why I'm not staying." John replied. "I'm going back to the hospital to get Molly. You stay here and rest. Mom will take care of you."

"What's going on?" His mother demanded, baffled.

"Mom, we're just in… a little trouble." John said, quietly. "It'll be fine, I just… I just need you to let Sherlock rest here for a few days. Take care of him."

His mother must have heard some note of finality in his voice because she took his arm and squeezed tightly. "John, what is it? Where are you going?"

While they were talking, Sherlock had struggled to his feet. "I'm coming with you." He announced. "If you don't apparate with me, I'll have to do it myself."

"Sherlock! You can't, you won't make it."

"I'm coming."

"Then what was the point of us getting you out?!" John demanded, furious. "This isn't about brains any more, Sherlock! You're weak right now and I'm sorry if you can't deal with that, but you'll be in the way! I'm going, you're staying, that's all there is to it!"

"I am so sick of Gryffindors!" Sherlock said, enraged. "I only let Molly stay behind so we could be rid of her!"

"…what?"

"It's not going to get any safer from here, John." Sherlock said, supporting himself on the wall. "I was fairly confident she could hold those three goons off, but if we escape them they'll just send someone stronger after me. We need to disappear, where she can't find us." He straightened up again, in spite of the effort it clearly took him. "But something went wrong. She should have just stunned them and followed us. We need to go back and make sure she's alright."

"I'm going back, you're staying here." John said, pushing him into a chair. "And then I'm bringing her back here."

"John, stop putting her in danger!"

"She's already in danger, Sherlock, we're all in danger, and it seems like you're in the most danger of all!"

"Jim has obviously made his report to the Dark Lord." Sherlock said. "I'm guessing he doesn't like having a rival for immortality."

"Exactly. We're your friends, Sherlock, we're going to help you whether you like it or not. This time it's a team game."

Sherlock naturally recognised his brother's words immediately and scowled, but before he could say anything, the doorbell rang.

"Goodness." John's mother said. "I wonder who that could be, at a time like this…" She stepped out into the hall.

"Don't open it!" John and Sherlock shouted, startling her, coming out into the hall, wands at the ready.

"What's going on, John?" His mother asked again. The doorbell rang again. "They aren't going away. It might be important."

"It's Molly." Sherlock said, sounding considerably surprised.

"How do you know?" John asked.

"Look at the silhouette in the glass." Sherlock said, nodding at the frosted panel. "It's her size, her build; her second and a half pressure on the bell, her anxiety ringing twice so close together, and she's got her back to the door, she's wary of there being someone behind her." So saying, he pulled the door open.

Naturally, Sherlock was correct as always and Molly came in and after the initial confusion of greetings and half-explanations, John had her sitting down in the kitchen, tending to a gash on her arm.

"This might feel a little strange, alright?" He said, preparing the end of his wand. He had already numbed her arm, but it still wouldn't be a pleasant sensation as he melted her skin back together. She turned her head away, refusing to watch, but a moment later, apart from a line of scarring, there was no sign of the wound. "That's it, you're all done." He said, going to wash his hands off at the sink.

"What happened, Molly?" Sherlock said.

"I couldn't hit them at all." Molly said sheepishly. "I kept missing. So I used the Diffindio charm and pulled the stairs down on top of them, but one got out of the way in time and he used it on me and then he ran past after you two." She suddenly covered her mouth. "Oh, no, I completely destroyed the stairs! Do you think they'll fire me?!"

"I think there were mitigating circumstances, Molly." John said. "How did you know we were here?"

"I just couldn't think of anywhere else you'd go when you were in trouble." Molly answered, smiling as she accepted a cup of tea off John's mother. Mrs Hudson sat down at the table and looked at them all severely.

"Now nobody's bleeding." She said. "Somebody needs to tell me what's going on."

"We need to protect the house." Sherlock said, ignoring her. "We need to create a perimeter. John, the incantation you need to do is 'protego maxima'. Molly, do 'Repello inimicum'. I'll do 'fianto duri'. Mycroft saw them using them out in Greece, he said in his last report that the three spells together make a nearly impregnable barrier. Nothing and no-one will be able to get in."

"Wait," John said. "There's Dean and Harry." He turned to his mom. "Where are they, anyway?"

"Gone." His mother said faintly. She had turned rather pale.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"It was Harriet." His mother said. "She told us… last week, she had a… a feeling, she said it was her magic. She was insisting something bad was going to happen and you needed us to leave." John reached over and took her hand, alarmed at seeing his mother was close to tears. "She kept saying, 'John needs us to go, mom'. She told me she could feel danger coming… she was so upset…"

"Where is she now?" Sherlock demanded. "You didn't believe her, did you?"

"Of course I did." Mrs Hudson snapped. "How could I not believe her after years of John being able to tell me who was coming to the door before they turned the corner of the street? No, we told the school Dean's mother was severely ill and sent the two of them off down to Devon."

"You should have gone too." John said, internally marvelling at his sister's magic, already so keenly developed. At least she was safe.

"Oh, John." She said crossly. "How could I, when she said you were going to be in danger here? When you came this afternoon, I almost hoped…" She broke off and pulled John close, hugging him tightly.

"We need to protect the house." Sherlock said again, and went out. Molly followed and, a moment later, John went out to join them. They went around the house, front and back, casting the charms, barricading themselves in. After that, they went inside, Molly helped Sherlock upstairs to the guest room- at Mrs Hudson's insistence, after being alarmed by his exhaustion after doing the magic- and John went into the lounge with his mother to answer all the awkward questions. This time he told her everything.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

That night and the following day they had peace, or at least as much peace as it was possible for them to have when they were just waiting for something to happen, knowing that something would. John felt the dirtiness in his blood more acutely than ever. If the Death Eaters knew exactly where they were, why hadn't they attacked yet? Sherlock's only theory was that Voldemort had already destroyed his horcrux and that something else had happened to take them off the top of the priority list, but that didn't sit right with John. He said nothing, as he had no rational cause for his feeling, but he sat quietly, never letting his guard down, trying to persuade Sherlock to rest, but Sherlock, like the rest of them, was unable to sit still and he paced endlessly around the house, waiting for something to happen or some course of action to open up. Finally, as the sun set began their second night in hiding, something did.

John spotted it from the window of his old bedroom. It was a small roll of scrap parchment, wedged in between the front fence posts, just outside of the barrier. There was no-one in sight, but John still took Sherlock with him when he went outside. They lowered the barrier and Sherlock snatched the note with something like eagerness, scrabbling to unroll it even as John began to put the barrier back up.

"I would leave that, John." Sherlock said. "We're going to need to leave."

"Why, what does it say?" John asked. Sherlock handed the note over without a word, heading back inside the house.

Hello Sherley, it said, and the nickname confirmed what the writing had already told John, that this was a note from Jim. He read on.

I tried to call, but it seems like you weren't in. I'm just going to hang out and wait at your house for a while. Why don't you and John and Molly come and play?

Love and kisses,

Jim xx

"We're not going, are we?" John asked, although he already knew the answer. "This is obviously a trap, Sherlock, he even pretty much says it's a trap."

"I'm going." Sherlock nodded. "Are you?"

"If you're going, I'm going." John said, watching Sherlock pull on his coat and scarf as if they were just going out for a stroll. "Are we telling Molly?"

"I think she's proven herself equal to the task, don't you?" Sherlock replied. "Anyway, she's been listening through the living room door. I don't think we could stop her if we tried."

Looking slightly shame-faced, Molly stepped out to join them, reading the note for herself. Without another word, the three of them got ready and walked out into the street, up the hill, towards the imposing house at the top.

The tall iron gates were open when they arrived, considerately left unlocked. The front door, too, was left ajar, just in case they had any illusions left of being able to make a surprise attack. Wands drawn, Sherlock went first, leading them into the dark entrance hall of his childhood home.

At first, nothing seemed amiss. The dominating stone fireplace still burnt brightly, filling the large lobby with warmth and something of an orange glow, but apart from the crackle of wood there seemed to be no sound, no movement, anywhere in the house. The hair on John's neck was standing on end and didn't seem to be getting ready to flatten out any time soon.

Suddenly, there was music; magically amplified to be almost deafening, made to seem as if it was coming from all directions at once.

"Try to see it my way, do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on…?"

John lowered his hands slowly from his ears, calming down from his startled jump. He looked around.

"Where is that coming from?" He asked, having to shout over the music.

"While you see it your way, run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone…"

"It's the Beatles." Molly said. "This was our song, when we argued." She was chewing her lip.

"We can work it out, we can work it out…"

"Ignore it." Sherlock said grimly, grabbing her wrist and leading her on. "He's just trying to psyche us out. He's hiding somewhere in here. We need to find him. Let's split up."

"No." John said. "We stick together."

For once, Sherlock didn't answer, and they began to check the doors leading off the hall one by one.

"Life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting my friend…"

If only that were true, John thought grimly as they descended the stairs down to the kitchen. Jim seemed to be finding plenty of time for both, and they had just found him.

Jim was sitting at the kitchen table, his back to the stairs, his record player on the table before him.

"Sssh." He said, leaning his head back so he could see them behind him. "This is the best part."

"I have always thought that it's a crime… so I will ask you once again."

"I was starting to think you weren't coming." Jim said, standing up and spreading his hands wide in welcome. "It's really too kind of you. You shouldn't have."

"I never refuse an invitation to my own house." Sherlock answered, pointing his wand steadily at their old friend, as did John. Only Molly's arm wavered slightly, but he hadn't seen what Moriarty had done to Sherlock, to Moran.

"Ooh," Jim said, mockingly, raising his hands defensively. "No need for that. You know who let me in here? Your old house elf. Twitchy, is it? She was waiting here for you, John, to take her to see Master Sherlock at the hospital." He covered his mouth. "Oops, did you forget?"

"Shut up, Moriarty."

Jim threw back his head and laughed. "Moriarty now, is it, Doctor Watson? I'm so intimidated." He looked over at Molly. "Good golly Miss Molly, still looking gorgeous. How did you like my little love letter on your wall?"

Molly flushed but said nothing, her wand now holding steady.

"Call me." Jim said, reaching into his pocket for his wand. He was fast, too fast for John, whose attempt at disarming him was blocked by a shielding charm, but not quick enough for Sherlock, who had started ugly with the Diffindio charm, leaving Jim bleeding from the forehead. Jim felt the cut, looking at his fingertips when they came away red. Then he scowled at them, furious, and the fight really began.

The next minutes were all confusion of curses and hexes flying in all directions, to the point where John could no longer keep track of which spells were his own, let alone anyone else's. There was no time to take note of the progress of the battle, only to defend, attack, defend again. All the while the record was still playing, and later, when he tried to pin down the memories, certain flashes of action, moments of memory, had stuck to the words.

"Try to see it my way…"

The record continued, as Sherlock pushed Molly and John ahead of him back up the stairs after someone had attacked with fire, which had caught, and spread.

"Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong…"

John had been disarmed by Molly's spell gone awry, but Jim was still raising his arm to attack her. John jumped on his back, knocking him over, and they wrestled the old fashioned way, John trying to wrench Jim's wand out of his grip.

"While you see it your way, there's a chance that we might fall apart before too long…"

Sherlock had both John's wand and his own. They were both pointing at Jim. Jim looked up at him, and in that split second of distraction, John got Jim's wand away from him, breaking away from him and standing up, pointing the wand down at him. He reached his hand out for his wand. Sherlock didn't give it back. Molly came over to them, a bruise blossoming over one eye from the exchange in the kitchen, but otherwise unhurt. Sherlock looked down at Jim. John didn't like the look of murder in his eyes.

"We can work it out…" The record was warping in the heat, the words becoming stretched and garbled. Any second now, it would melt entirely.

"Sherlock." John said, worried, still holding out his hand for his wand.

"Go on." Jim said, grinning as he knelt on the floor, looking directly at Sherlock. "Go on. I dare you."

"Sherlock!" John said, urgently. Too late.

"Crucio." Sherlock spat, his teeth clenched in anger, moving both wands at once. Jim grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, then spasmed in pain, screaming until he ran out of air, then laughing manically, hysterically.

"We can work it out…" The record span to a stop. It had survived to the end of the track. Jim was quivering, still laughing awfully on the floor. John, furious, snatched his wand back from Sherlock.

"What are you doing?!" He shouted. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"What he deserves." Sherlock said, coldly.

"You're better than this, Sherlock." Molly said, quietly.

"Oh, no, he's not." Jim laughed, breathless. "He's as bad as I am. Worse. I'm not the one who made a horcrux."

"Be quiet!" Sherlock took a step forward, holding his wand to Moriarty's face. Jim didn't flinch, looking straight up into Sherlock's eyes as he continued.

"I opened it, you know, Sherley. The pocket watch. And I could hear it. Your soul. And it was screaming and screaming and screaming…" There was an awful fascination in his eyes. "Do you hear that, all the time? Is it always there, in the back of your mind? Is that what immortality cost you? Is that what you call living? I really want to know."

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted and for a moment, John thought he was going to use the Cruciatus curse again. He looked as if he wanted to, but then they were interrupted.

There was a sharp crack, and more people appeared in the entrance hall. Three men were hooded and cloaked, the disguise of the Death Eaters, but the fourth wore no disguise. It was a man, or just about a man, impossible to age, with black hair that had been carefully slicked back, dead eyes, dead skin, features that seemed ill defined, like they blurred when you looked at them. John's leg was killing him, the bile was rising in his throat, and every magical instinct was telling him that they were face to face with Voldemort at last.

Sherlock slowly stepped back, letting Jim to his feet. Even he knew this was trouble.

"Problems, Moriarty?" Voldemort's voice was surprisingly soft and mild. Like Jim's, John thought; here was another man who, back in the day, could have talked anyone into anything, before the evil of his magic had corrupted him so much as to be perceptible to all.

"Nothing unmanageable, Master. This is the boy."

"The boy who made the horcrux." Voldemort said with interest. "Give it to me."

Sherlock glanced sideways at Jim, who smirked. Sherlock looked in front of him again, answering carefully. "Excuse me if I pass."

"Then we will kill you and take it from you. Moriarty, do the honours."

"He doesn't have it, my Lord." Moriarty answered, sounding perfectly truthful because, on that front, at least, he was being so. "He's hidden it. We need to find out where."

"Very well." Voldemort said. "Then kill the other one."

By the time John registered that 'the other one' was not Molly as he had initially feared, but was, in fact, him, it was too late. Moriarty had continued with the theme of their battle, but rather than casting Diffindio, which would only cut, he chose Defodio. The gouging spell. He intended to rip John's heart out for the entertainment of his master.

John had his wand ready, though he didn't know what he had been planning on doing. He found himself, however, being knocked to the floor. Sherlock had pushed him to the ground, out of the way. John felt relief for less than a second, then he felt the blood soaking through the back of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock coughed in pain, coughing up more blood, John realised, when it sprayed against his cheek. He struggled out from underneath his friend, trying to heal the wound, but it didn't work. None of the spells from his training worked.

"There's no point, John." Sherlock said, his voice strained. "You can't fix me like that."

"What have you done?!" John demanded of Moriarty. "What did you do to that spell?! Tell me!"

Moriarty held his hands up. "Don't look at me." He said innocently. "It's Mr Horcrux's fault over there. He's the one that poisoned his soul."

"It's true." Sherlock said, panting for breath. "After… such evil magic… the body rejects… the good."

"No!" John said, shaking his head. "No, no, Sherlock. I used healing magic on you, yesterday, at the house, I-"

"You thought you did." Sherlock murmured. His voice was getting weaker. He was still bleeding heavily, making a pool on the floor now that was soaking into the knees of John's trousers.

"Enough!" Voldemort thundered. "Moriarty, find out where the horcrux is! Now!"

Before John could get to his feet or even raise his wand, Moriarty had grabbed Molly and had pulled her close to him, his arm wrapped tightly around her neck, his wand to her cheek. Molly struggled, but it was useless.

"You're dying, Sherley." Jim said. "I'm really sorry, but it's true. So it doesn't matter what I do to you. But I could still explode this pretty little head." He kissed her cheek, then her ear. Molly looked at him, frightened but unsure.

"Let her go!" John shouted, as Molly pulled hard, trying to get away. Jim ignored them both.

"Tell us, Sherlock." Jim laughed. "Tell us where the horcrux is or little Miss Molly Hufflepuff Hooper gets it."

"You're insane." John spat, turning to look at Voldemort. "I don't know why you're coming to us, when he's the one who-!"

"Molly Hooper." Sherlock interrupted, his voice rasping. "Is a Gryffindor." John looked down at him. Sherlock's whole arm was trembling with the effort, but his wand was raised and ready. "Flipendo." He said. He was weak and so was his spell, but it was enough, just enough, to knock Jim over. Molly staggered forward, free of him, and John needed no more prompting. He pulled Sherlock onto his back and ran, ran the only way he could go, upstairs. Molly was right behind them. Sadly, so were Jim and the Death Eaters, on a prompting from their master.

"We need to lock ourselves in somewhere!" John said. They couldn't apparate now, not with Sherlock already bleeding to death.

"John, it's fine…" Sherlock said, weakly.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John answered, kicking open the door to Mycroft's study. He could almost hear the older man wincing from the afterlife, but he had greater concerns than authentic fourteenth century oak at the moment.

"John, you don't understand." Sherlock tried again, so breathless now his voice was like leaves in the wind.

"Quiet." John said, lying him down on the study floor, getting Molly to lock the door and then help him remove their friend's soiled coat. "I'm saving you, Sherlock, I'll damn well cauterise it if I have to."

"John." Molly said, tentatively. "I think you should…"

"Not now, Molly." John said, tersely, going and lighting the fire. Even as he did so, he knew, he knew the fire wouldn't be hot enough in time, and even if it was, Sherlock was probably already too weak to survive the pain of cauterisation. It was an ignoble end for a detective who had barely begun his work.

"Avada Kedarva!" It was Jim's voice, in the hall outside. There were some heavy thuds. John looked up, confused, but before he could process what was happening, the door was blasted into pieces and Jim rushed in.

"What are you doing?!" He shouted. "Get out of here! Now! Go!"

"What?"

"Out of here!" Jim said, grabbing John by the elbow, pulling both him and Sherlock over to Molly. "He's going to kill you, John, and he's not going to do it quickly!"

"Why are you doing this?" John asked.

"Molly, for goodness' sake, go!"

Molly suddenly snapped out of her shock and reached with shaking hands into her pocket. John just had time to see a glance of something gold, to hear a howl of rage as Voldemort discovered the bodies of his followers out in the hall, then the world twisted, rolling up into a tunnel, and all he could do was hold on tightly to Sherlock as they were pulled through it.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

They were back in the muggle car park, outside the ruined service entrance to St Mungos, though the car park itself showed no signs of the struggle that had taken place there. It was almost like there was nothing wrong in the world; except that Sherlock Holmes was bleeding to death in the middle of one of the spaces. No time to worry about why Jim had let them get away. Hardly enough time for anything.

"Oh, no." John said, rolling Sherlock onto his side, applying pressure, trying again with his wand to stop the bleeding. "No, no, no. Come on, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock said, gasping. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say sorry when you're dying, it doesn't count." John answered. "Say it when you're recovered, alright?"

"I'm sorry." Sherlock insisted again, looking at Molly this time. "Molly. I'm sorry." His eyes sagged shut at last. He was going.

Molly was still clutching what John assumed was the portkey in her hand. He couldn't see what it was from where he was, just something circular and golden clutched tightly in her hand.

"Jim put this in my pocket when he kissed me." She said, trying not to sob. She slowly let her hand fall open. "He said it was a portkey, but it's your soul, isn't it, Sherlock? It's your horcrux." The tears started to flow. "I can hear you screaming inside it. Oh, Sherlock…"

John could feel it now, had found the explanation for the crawling, buzzing pain, the swarm of insects pounding against the inside of his skull. But it didn't matter, not now. "Can we fix him?" He demanded. "Molly, can we put his soul back together?!"

"I… I don't know." Molly said, but opened the pocket watch, laying it face down over Sherlock's chest. Nothing happened.

"Come on, Sherlock!" John said, desperate now. "You said you were sorry, didn't you?! So put it right! Sherlock, come on!"

"Please." Molly begged, her tears unrestrained now. "Please, Sherlock."

The pocket watch was beginning to steam again. Then, suddenly, there was an audible crack as the ornate back plate snapped, then the screech of clockwork breaking apart. The whole watch was glowing white hot now, and melted. The gold liquid was far brighter than it had been as a solid, brighter than anything John had ever seen. It glowed, and in its light, John had the sudden feeling everything was going to be alright.

Then the light faded and Sherlock began to scream, in agony, worse than he had been when Jim had been torturing him; but John ignored it, setting to work on repairing the gouge that had been torn from his back. This time the magic took. He wasn't worried about the screaming. It just hurt to have your soul put back together. When Sherlock finally stopped screaming and sank back unconscious into a pool of his own blood, his pulse was still beating strong and regular, and, in spite of the signs of tiredness, he looked healthier than he had for a long time.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

"I'm leaving. Today."

"No, you aren't."

"I'm fine, John."

"I'm the doctor, Sherlock, and you're staying another two weeks." John said firmly, pulling the curtains across the window to the room so Sherlock wouldn't see the smile playing on his lips. After the double healing of body and soul, Sherlock had been in something of a coma for several days, and then woke up in such a delirious state that they had kept him magically asleep for several days more. It had been a week since he had been brought out of it, and now Sherlock was as strong as ever, but he didn't know that. He was climbing the walls to be released, but John thought some quiet time relaxing would do him some good. It was not, of course, in any way a petty revenge for the trouble and worry Sherlock had put them through. Not at all.

Sherlock huffed and scowled, but clearly decided to try again later, still on his best behaviour. John sat down next to his bed.

"How's the scar?" He asked.

"Back or front?" Sherlock returned, although in truth the one at the front was less of a scar then a shiny patch of skin, where he had melded with his priceless and ill-used family heirloom. "Either way, both are fine."

"No pain?"

"None."

John nodded, accepting it, though he suspected Sherlock wouldn't tell him if it was hurting.

"So." He said. "Why did he do it?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, but he was feigning ignorance and they both knew it.

"Jim." John said. "Why did he stop trying to kill us and save us instead?"

"He wants to kill us himself." Sherlock shrugged. "He was only ever play acting the evil minion, you know. He wasn't going to let Voldemort ruin his fun. You say no attempt was made while I was unconscious?"

"No." John answered. "It's all been quiet."

"Then I think we can deduce what happened." Sherlock said. "Voldemort wouldn't take kindly to rebellious subordinates. Jim may have escaped, in which case he'll have to go into hiding, but more likely, he was killed then and there. Either way, we don't need to worry about him anymore."

John shook his head. "You're wrong." He said.

"About what?" Sherlock frowned.

"I don't think Jim ever wanted to kill us, not deep down, not when it came right down to it." John said, folding his arms.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "For someone who didn't want to kill us, John, he did quite a good impression of it."

"I don't think so. After all, he didn't destroy your horcrux. He used the torture spell on the beach so you could get out of the body bind. And he left Molly a warning that she was going to be targeted on her wall."

"A warning?" Sherlock repeated, incredulous.

"Yes." John said. "I think it was a warning, not a threat. He was just… you knew how obsessed with the idea of immortality he was. How much he wanted it. But I think that horcrux of yours put him off, or maybe… no, I think he'd gone off the idea a long time ago. I think he was just a stupid kid who didn't know what he was getting involved in, and then found himself up to the neck in it and with no way out; and, being Jim, he couldn't admit he was wrong, not even to himself, so he just carried on. You would have been exactly the same, Sherlock."

"I would not." Sherlock said, offended.

"Yes you would, because you're both idiots."

"Jim tried to kill me." Sherlock said, angrily. "More than once, John. Do you seriously believe that he was doing it just so he didn't have to accept he'd make a mistake?"

"You have to admit," John said. "It sounds like him. Anyway, he didn't kill you, did he? Because underneath it all, he didn't want to, not really."

Sherlock rolled over in disgust, turning his back to John. "I'm not arguing with you," he informed him. "Not because you're right, but because you will refuse to be convinced otherwise. You always insist on seeing the good in people, John." He made it sound like this was the worst quality in the world.

"If I didn't," John replied. "I wouldn't be here." Sherlock said nothing, so John sighed and changed the subject. "What about Voldemort? Why hasn't he come after us?"

"I don't have a horcrux anymore." Sherlock said. "He'll save killing us for when he has some free time to torture us at his leisure."

"Right." John said. "Good. Great. So… what are you going to do now?"

"Another two weeks in hospital, apparently."

"You know what I mean. Going to join up with the Order at last? The Aurors?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll do what needs doing." He said, and at John's look, added hastily, "Within reason. And you?"

"I've signed up for a secondment to the Aurors." John said, nodding his determination. "This is a war; they're going to need medics on hand. Seeing as Voldemort could find me anywhere, I may as well face him head on."

"Ever the Gryffindor." Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well then, John, good luck."

"You too, Sherlock."

They shook hands on it. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

1st November, 1981

John woke up slowly, unsure whether the cause of his awakening was the growing commotion outside, or the warm feeling of peace inside him. For the first time in years, his heart felt light; and he realised for the first time in a long, long time his magical sense was completely silent, not a peep out of it. Something was different, the world was somehow better, brighter, than it had been the day before.

There really was a lot of noise outside now, the hubbub of conversation, though it was barely six in the morning. John went to the door of the rooms he had been allowed to maintain in the hospital accommodation, stepping out into their common area to find out what was going on.

"John, old boy!" One of his colleagues called. "How about champagne?!"

"At six in the morning?" John asked, unable to stop himself from smiling. "What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard, old chap? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead! Killed last night! The Potters' little lad, the killing curse rebounded off him and killed the Dark Lord! It's over! The Dark Lord is dead!"

His words raised a cheer among the assembled staff, and John felt his grin grow wider. After all this time, after everything he had had to see and do, it was finally over. He could feel the truth of it. Voldemort was gone.

"In that case," He said. "I think I'd better have that champagne!" This was met with another roar of approval.

By the time the morning delivery of The Daily Prophet arrived, most of the staff were at least a little drunk, but it was alright, because so were most of the patients. No-one was worried about being sick that day, no-one was going to die, the world was free. Most of the story was known ahead of the paper, about James and Lilly Potter's sacrifice; a service of memory and thanksgiving was arranged at the hospital for that afternoon. In the meantime, John figured that the Aurors could spare him for a day and, taking a copy of the Prophet, headed for Baker Street, deciding to call in for Molly en route. He stopped in at the newsagents on the bottom of her road, looking for some chocolates for her. He wanted to celebrate in style.

"Your lot seem happy today." The aging owner remarked, when John took his purchase up to the till.

"Yes, well, the war-" John finally caught up with what the man had said and blanched. "M-my lot?"

"Wizards." The man said, gruffly. "I'm not blind."

John laughed. "We are happy." He said. "An evil man has died."

"Hmm." The shop keeper answered. "Then you'd better take another box, free of charge."

John accepted and left, going back outside. There were hundreds of owls, flying around in broad day light; someone was celebrating with shooting stars. The Ministry would be fining people, but who cared? John felt like laughing, so he did. Later he would write to Harriet at the school and tell her how Hogwarts, the wizarding world would be safe for her now. But first, Molly.

She was still at home when he found her, but she had heard the news, and they embraced giddily, conversing excitedly, until Molly was summoned by her wizard neighbours and they arranged to meet later on; John going on ahead to Sherlock's.

Sherlock wasn't at home when John arrived, but John hadn't really expected him to be. Twitchy let him in to wait, and John gave her the other box of chocolate to commemorate the occasion, which moved her so much she cried and expressed her gratitude again and again, along with her hope that Master Sherlock would stay out of trouble now the Dark Lord was gone. John found this unlikely, but didn't have the heart to tell her so. He didn't have to wait long. A few minutes later, Sherlock got home; the only wizard in the country wearing a frown.

"John." He said, naturally not at all surprised to see his friend there as he had deduced his presence from a scuff of dirt on the outer steps. Sherlock threw his coat and scarf down. He was still wearing the new coat Molly had bought him the Christmas after all the trouble with Jim. John hadn't thought of Jim in years and wondered what he was doing now, or would have been doing, if he hadn't died all that time ago. He didn't mention it, and neither did Sherlock.

"Hi." John said. "So, you've been down to Godric's Hollow?"

Sherlock nodded, lowering himself into a chair, looking pensive.

"Is it true?" John prompted, when he said nothing.

"As far as I can tell." Sherlock said begrudgingly.

"Then what's wrong?"

"How did he do it?!" Sherlock exploded, suddenly enraged. "Hundreds of trained Aurors tried, they couldn't do it, neither could Dumbledore, not even after years of work! How did this baby do it, John, how?! It doesn't make sense!"

"Love." John answered.

"I can only think it must have been something in Voldemort himself. He must have pushed himself too far- but that doesn't make sense either, not when you consider how he-"

"Love, Sherlock." John said again, matter of factly.

Sherlock snorted.

"Sherlock." John said, firmly. "Lilly Potter gave up her life for her son. It was just love. That's all."

"It doesn't make any sense, John!"

"Then stop thinking for five minutes and just enjoy it."

"You may as well tell me to stop breathing." Sherlock answered, sulking.

"Well then, think about something else."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, anything." John shrugged. "Elephants."

"Elephants?" Sherlock repeated, distinctly unimpressed. He fell silent thinking, presumably, about elephants.

"So what are you going to do now?" John asked.

"I think it's high time I started the detective business." Sherlock answered. "The Auror office should be able to manage the clean up on their own, and if they can't, well, they know where to find me." There was a slight glint in his eye which suggested the Aurors may find their consultant now demanded a fee. "What about you?"

"I was thinking 'pub'." John answered, raising a smile in his friend. "Come on, get your coat on."

"I don't know anything about elephants." Sherlock complained as they made their way down the front path.

"Good, plenty of questions to keep you occupied." John answered, as they walked along side by side.

Molly was already at the pub when they arrived, sitting at one of the stools on the bar. It was a muggle pub and so nearly empty, unlike the wizard ones which would, John expected, be full to overflowing today. They went and sat on either side of her, ordering a scotch, a gin and tonic and a pint of bitter and just sat and talked about nothing in particular in a way they hadn't done since school, and when they ran out of things to say they sat in quiet companionship. In one of these pauses, Molly reached out and took John's hand, squeezing it as at the same time she lent sideways, resting her head on Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't shrug her off, and they stayed there for a moment, linked.

"I'm glad." Molly said quietly, and nothing more. There didn't seem to be anything else to add.

The pub seemed beautiful that day, though it was small and dimly lit, the whitewashed walls covered in poorly chosen posters and art work, the open beams overhead long since stained by tobacco smoke. The whole atmosphere seemed to change just by the slightest breeze that came in when the door was opened, the patch of light that appeared by the door when it opened, stretching through the pub, warming John's back just for a moment. He heard the sound of the door opening again, felt the warmth on his back, and then saw Sherlock staring over his shoulder, face carefully expressionless. Molly noticed too, and turned, and her mouth fell open in surprise. John knew who was standing behind him, knew it like he knew his own name, though he didn't know how. He turned too, and surveyed Jim Moriarty in silence.

Time and war had not been kind to him. He had lost a lot of weight, and his hair was beginning to grey at the temples in spite of his relatively young age. More noticeable however, was the fact that when he smiled at them, as he did now, there was no self confidence in it, and it quickly faded.

Nobody said anything.

Finally, John turned away to look at Sherlock. Somehow he felt like this rested with him. Jim had done such terrible things to Sherlock, had hurt him and hunted him and tortured him and tried to kill him, and it could be these things weren't made up for in saving his life. Sherlock said nothing, making eye contact with Jim, and the two of them seemed locked in a silent exchange. For a moment, in a wave of nostalgia, John expected them to suddenly shoot rock, paper or scissors. Instead, Sherlock stood up, moved along a stool, and sat back down again. Jim hesitated, and then slotted neatly into the space that had been made for him, as if he had always belonged there.

"So." He said, finally. "My round, is it?"

"Yes." The other three said together, and somehow, with that simple word, something that was broken seemed to be put back together.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

2nd September, 1991

John was on his way over to see Sherlock with a copy of The Daily Prophet tucked under his arm. It was reminiscent of the times he had done this, so many times before, when he had found something he thought might be of interest to the consulting detective; or indeed, when the detective himself was mentioned. Today, however, John was bringing it to show him an article just to annoy him. For once, it wasn't one about Jim, who, as promised, made himself out to be Sherlock's rival, although he did it within the confines of the Auror's office and more often than not the two of them ended up working together. John sometimes wondered why Jim had chosen to work within boundaries; but as Sherlock pointed out, it was probably because he hadn't done too well without them. Even so, Jim had of course got himself the reputation of being a hero by the end of the war, using the years he spent hiding abroad going and undoing the work he had done for Voldemort, persuading people in his charming way not to side with him after all. He had come back the moment he had heard Voldemort was dead and had, for some time, made himself into something of a celebrity.

John, however, wouldn't have changed his own life for all the fame in the world. He had continued working alongside the Auror office as an on-team medic even after the war and his secondment had been over, and had one day had the good fortune to assist in an incident where some muggles had been injured by a run away hippogriff. One of the muggles, to his great surprise, had been Mary Morstan, who had once worked in a shop near where he lived, and, somehow, one thing had lead to another, his superior officer had accidentally-on-purpose overlooked her when casting memory charms, and now they were married, their third child on the way. Sherlock was appalled at John settling down into all this domestic bliss and a quiet life, but John had found out a good way to deal with Sherlock's displeasure: ignoring it. It was hypocritical of Sherlock anyway. John had no doubt he would find Molly round at the Baker Street flat again, now the manager of the St Barts morgue, part-time assistant on Sherlock's cases, and the owner of three cats; which Sherlock refused point blank to let her bring into his flat, but which she did anyway. Somewhere down the years, Molly Hooper had learnt to stand up to him.

The article in question was really little more than a stub, just filing in the bottom of a column, and read:

Boy Who Lived Arrives At Hogwarts

Harry Potter, 'The Boy Who Lived' yesterday began his first year at Hogwarts. The school has requested complete privacy as Potter, 11, is still readjusting to the wizarding world and his unrivalled fame after being raised by his Muggle aunt and uncle. We can tell you, however, that like his father and mother, Harry Potter has been sorted into Gryffindor house after a record-breaking eighteen minute deliberation by the Sorting Hat, the longest in Hogwarts' history.

Sherlock read the article, and then screwed it up and threw it aside.

"Bah!" He said, or something very like it. Even then, Sherlock Holmes did not like to be beaten.