Ok, so I'm back, those of you who have read this story already... it's not worth it. I'm just changing slightly what happens.

ENJOY!

(...oh and... no SLASH!)

Before the Consulting Detective

Chapter 1

The Wizard Detective

I never wanted this, I mean the brain I have, and I should mention I am a sociopath. I am bored almost all the time and I consider suicide all the time. I am too intelligent for my own good.
I was 11 when my father died, killed by Voldermort himself. Anyway, I'm coming to Hogwarts this year... I might have forgotten to mention... I am Sherlock Holmes.
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Sherlock lay in his room at Holmes manor. His father had recently died and he was empty. His mother was sick with an unexplainable sickness no doctor or medi-wizard could place. She was only dying a slow painful death. Sherlock knew his brother and the doctors were trying to hide it from him but Sherlock had seen the syringes, medicine and professional equipment brought up to her room. In the trash, there were always napkins and such soaked in blood, which Sherlock's mother coughed up.

Mycroft though tried to help, not Sherlock of course (they hated each other with passion) but their mother. He was still at school, that year would be his last but Mycroft had a summer job at the ministry. All the money he earned (which was a lot) came to his family. People respected the Holmes family, as Holmes (Sherlock's father) had been the minister of magic, until he died. Mycroft had gotten an easy, comfortable job at the Ministry.

Sherlock had always been a light, happy person; those who had known him had liked him. He had been an intelligent, full of life, young lord.. The now Sherlock was a sulky, thin, rude (sometimes), arrogant, ignorant young lord which had seen enough bad things for a lifetime. This was not normal for an 11-year-old boy.

Sherlock, well, he hadn't noticed these changes in his character as much as everyone else, he didn't care, for him all feelings were now all the same-emptiness.
As he lay, Sherlock thought about the dark and light sides. For the first time in his life, Sherlock realized he was not on the light side, yet he was not dark, he was a mixture-gray.
At that moment, he heard his house-elves voce coming from the other side of the door and darkly said, "Enter". A house-elf came in with a preoccupied expression.

"Dinner is ready, master Sherlock," Sherlock shrugged and motioned to the hallway.

"Bring it up will you, Doodle?" The house-elf nodded once, opened his mouth to say something then closed it as he saw Sherlock drift into his thoughts once again, then exited the room.

Sherlock walked aimlessly through the nearest town to Holmes manor. It was the second village (of only two) which was wizarding only. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, shielding Sherlock from the wind. This summer has been cold, thought Sherlock, or perhaps I don't see the warmth anymore.
As usual, there was nobody on the streets, on a day like that most people preferred to stay indoors. As the wind got stronger and colder, Sherlock ducked into a nearby shop. The moment he was inside, he felt the sudden air of ancientness. It was full of magical items: there were old brooms leaning on self-opening cupboards, toys that spoke and coins that multiplied and much, much more. Sherlock made his way to one of the many bookcases. The books, which lay almost forgotten, on those bookcases, looked old and nasty, as if there were gruesome secrets enclosed in them.

Sherlock flickered through some books, they were all either on the dark or light side. None gray. Sherlock liked gray, biology was on the gray side, a practice that was neither dark nor light.
The dark would say it was not evil enough and the light would say it was evil to dissect an eye. For the same reasons Sherlock liked Chemistry and Physics. They were the laws of nature. Magic had nothing to do with it.

Once again, Sherlock's eyes flickered throughout the room. His eyes landed on a dusty, messy cupboard. On top of it lay a case. Funnily, curved and black mixed with a blood red. After stacking two stools on top of each other and climbing on the top, he pulled the case off the cupboard and placed it on the table in the corner. He gazed at it for some moments. Then after a small debate on whether to open it or not, he blew the dust off. Sherlock squinted and coughed as it flew up, after it somewhat cleared he threw the latches open.
Inside was the most beautiful thing he`d ever seen

A violin.

It had a mixture of brown, red and some type of brick orange. The curves were beautiful. Slowly Sherlock took the bow and pressed the violin to his chin, the bow ran over the strings as he'd seen the violin players did at their parties at home. A beautiful tone floated through the air, enveloping the whole shop with a warm glow. It was as if the violin had only just been strung, the strings were strung tight and so was the bow.

"She hasn't been used for years," Sherlock jumped and turned to see a fragile old man with tears in his eyes, "my wife`s fiddle," he explained as a tear rolled down his cheek. Sherlock nodded once and slowly lowered the violin into the case.

"It`s beautiful, the violin," the man bowed his head in agreement.

"That it is."

"Sure enough, Mr Solace," Sherlock muttered glancing at his nametag. The man chuckled as his tears dried.

"Nah, that was my father, I`m Jacob," Sherlock extended a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man's eyes widened as he shook Sherlock's hand.

"It`s an honour. I am very sorry for what happened to your father," Sherlock nodded, accepting his sympathy.

"You know how to play it don`t you?" Sherlock said gesturing to the violin case. Jacob hesitated.

"No."

"Don`t lie to me, your hand tells me you played the violin, and for many years. You played in an orchestra," Jacobs eyes widened once more, "And that was a lie as well, you don`t have a wife, you never had one. You used to play in the theatre but in the orchestra as well, I just don't really understand why you lied to me...ah, you were in the secret service as well," Jacob shook his head in wonder.

"How did you ever know that?"

"Practice," Sherlock muttered darkly, "Oh and I was meaning to ask, would you teach me?" Jacob frowned in a long silence.

"Why?" He demanded. Sherlock shrugged.

"Violin music always has let me think well, I could always concentrate with violin music," Sherlock muttered as Jacob stood in silence regarding the young boy.

"If you want to become a professional, well, you can`t, you should have come to me at the age of six."

"Just teach me what you can."

"What do I get out of it?" He asked eyes a little shinier than before.

"Let's say... fifty galleons every class?" The man's mouth dropped.

"Sorry?"

"You heard me," A long silence followed.

"Master Holmes, you are a very remarkable person," Sherlock smiled tightly.

"Thank you, now would you teach me, if I bought this violin?" The man threw his hands up in frustration.

"All right! All right, all right, all right! Just stop! Meet me here on Monday next week at ten o'clock sharp! The violin is free! Now get out!" Sherlock grinned as he slammed the lid shut and practically run out of the shop almost jumping with joy, for the first time in months.
The wind had died down a little and Sherlock was able to walk to Holmes manor. He walked through the main doors nodding thanks to the butler who opened them and went to the sitting room. It was the same as usual, the fire blazing with life, the two armchairs facing it, a tea-table between them, the two maids by the doors, the two sofas and the other tea-table. Sherlock slumped down on one of the armchairs and picked up the newspaper lying on the table.

"Could you bring me some tea, Elisa?" From the other side of the room, Elisa, the maid nodded and shuffled out of the room. Usually Sherlock would issue this command to a house-elf but he found Elisa's tea always much tastier.

Sherlock's pale gray eyes scanned the papers looking at the different news. Another house had been blown up with the dark mark placed upon the rubble, some new cult had appeared and more boring news. The maid appeared with a silver tray which she placed on the table.

"Anything else, master Sherlock?" Sherlock shook his head his eyes fixed on the paper. The maid scurried off. Ever since Siger Holmes' death, Sherlock had become very withdrawn and rude to the servants around the house to which before he had been nice to. Every servant had noticed the change and as they were lower class and had not wanted to insult the youngest Holmes they had not approached him anymore.
The doors opened and a rather tall figure with a slight pig nose and pointy ears came in.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft." There was a sort of tension in the air, which told the servants not to approach the two under any circumstances.

Sherlock frowned eyes not leaving the paper.

"Are you not going to pack?" Sherlock finally raised his eyes to his brother.

"For what?"

"You are going to London for the remaining part of the holidays." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Since when?"

"Since this morning, mother is violently sick, you cannot be taken care of here," Sherlock frowned.

"Where are you going?"

"I shall go to Farnham for two weeks with our uncle then returning to London for the remainder of the holidays," Sherlock frowned.

"Why can I not stay here?" There was a tone in his voice which suggested he wasn`t going anywhere soon without answers.

"You are too young."

"Ah so mother is dead." The two servants hiding in the shadows took sharp intakes of breath. Mycroft hesitated and that was enough for Sherlock.

"I was going to break it to you in London, before the funeral." Sherlock shook his head in wonder.

"You are a sly Slytherin. Do you really think you could trick me like that?" Sherlock laughed grimly while Mycroft frowned, he did not like it when one would insult (or try) his house at Hogwarts."No, I am staying here until the funeral," Said Sherlock. For the first time Mycroft surveyed his brother after three months of not seeing him. What he saw was a Gryffindor or perhaps a Raven claw and he did not like it one bit.

"You leave tomorrow at nine o`clock, be at the gates a little earlier," Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Mycroft turned on his heel and left the room. Sherlock sank back in his armchair. That is not the way brothers should talk to each other, he thought, they should support each other instead.

Three hours later Sherlock sat at his desk in his quarters mourning the death of his mother. He knew now from studying the wizard law his guardian was Sherrinfold Holmes, his uncle as Mycroft was not yet of age.
Since now both of his parents were dead their will had to be revealed and Sherlock knew Mycroft was desperate to get the manor.

Slowly Sherlock picked up the quill lying on his desk and wrote a quick letter, which read as follows:

Dear Mr. Solace,

I very much regret the fact that I cannot come to you on Monday morning as I am leaving to a funeral. We shall continue our lessons in about a year, next summer, when I return from Hogwarts.
Thank you very much,
Sherlock Holmes

With his seal ring, he pressed it against the hot wax on the envelope and held it down for a few moments. Muttering the name of his house-elf, it appeared and he gave the letter to him leaving muttered instructions to give it to the old man.

Then with that done Sherlock fell back into his dull mourning thoughts.

The next day was dull in a way. There was damp fog hanging in the air as if it wanted to add some sadness to the death of Helena Holmes. Nevertheless, Sherlock did not register the sadness; he registered the scientific facts as always. To him the damp air was a sign it was going to rain and nothing more.

A car (a beautiful black Mercedes) already stood by the gates when Sherlock came down from the manor. As soon as Sherlock was seen a man, the chauffeur jumped out of the car and took the luggage from Sherlock then opened the door with a stiff bow of his head.

By the time the car arrived at London it was already time for Luncheon. Seconds after the car reached its goal, Diagon alley,, more precisely the Leaky Cauldron, and deposited Sherlock and his luggage it sped away into the daily London traffic.

Walking up to the barman Sherlock laid a couple coins on the greasy table.

"I'll take a room for two weeks," the man nodded accepting the money and passing Sherlock a key.

"Should I show you to your room?" He asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"No I'm fine." Taking his key Sherlock blundered up the stairs and to the correct room number. The door opened with a stiff groan and Sherlock frowned. Next time, if there were a next time, he would use a different inn. As soon as he was sure his room was not contaminated with mice or rats, Sherlock slipped out of the inn and went to explore Diagon Alley. As he passed the now darkened shops and dull streets he couldn't help but remember how it had all been before the war had started, before his mother had become all sick and his father had been alive. The streets had been alight with conversation and laughter; music had floated through the air. Slowly Sherlock shook his head. However, it wasn't like that now, he couldn't live in the past.
Confidently Sherlock made his way to Gringotts doors, which still held the message on them. He snorted; Gringotts was nothing but a pattern, a labyrinth all made with one single formula.
Sherlock sped to a young goblin in fact the youngest looking of them all. It seemed as if he had just taken the job. Sherlock took a small key out of his pocket.

"I wish to go to my vault," he said to the goblin who nodded and jumped of his stool. He signalled Sherlock to follow him and started walking to the doors. Soon they were driving through the tunnels under the bank and the whole city. Sherlock grinned as he worked the pattern out. As they reached their goal the cart slowed down, stopping in front of a big metal door with the number 34 stamped upon it. The goblin, now introduced as the youngest goblin to work in Gringotts – Griphook, pulled the key out of his inner coat pocket and stuck it in the lock. He then turned it.
The door opened with a loud squeak, which rebounded through all the halls and tunnels.

Sherlock stepped inside not paying attention at anything but the gold he had to pull out. One of his ancestors, his great-grandfather had decided to explore the vault and ended up dying in the room of riches.

There were just too many books, charts, brooms, old trunks.

The young socio-path scooped up a handful of galleons another handful of sickles and another of knuts. Then without any other delay he slipped out of the vault letting out a sigh of relief slip through his mouth. The goblin nodded and signalled to the cart.

"If you will, master Holmes," Sherlock jumped in the cart without saying anything and the pair started their return journey to the land of humans.

Sherlock still had to buy all his things for Hogwarts and that is what he did. Firstly, he went to the cloak shop frowning at the sight of it empty, usually it was full with people waiting for their turn to get measured.
As he opened the door there was a small ring of a bell that ran throughout the whole shop. After several minutes, a woman emerged from behind a curtain of beads.

"Hello dear, so Hogwarts is it?" Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, of course."

"Well, then let's get you measured up."

"Is it possible you know where I can get a duster?" He asked as she went behind the counter to find the things she needed. She looked up with a raised eyebrow.

"Since when are students interested in dusters?" Seeing his glare, she answered his question quickly, "The muggle brand Belstaff provides very good quality dusters." Sherlock nodded in thanks then sighed.

"And do you know where I can get a good quality suit, one that could be muggle and magical?" She looked at him oddly.

"Spencer Hart, is rather good, only it's very expensive-"

"Price is nothing," he said frowning. She gazed at him as if confused.

"We should get started." After a long agonizing time standing on a stool with several pins sticking into his skin Sherlock was relieved when he paid and was able to run out of the shop. The next station was the bookshop. After several other shops, Sherlock stopped at the last shop he had to go into Ollivanders.
Once more, the door opened and a tinkle sounded throughout the mysterious shop. A man emerged from behind the endless stacks of wand boxes. He gazed at Sherlock with wonder.

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes," the man said. Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

"Yes, I am here to buy a wand," the man raised an eyebrow and with humour said, "What a queer place to buy a wand." Sherlock frowned at the bad humour.

"Yes, indeed, I should rather go to a different place." Sherlock said to Ollivander. The man suddenly laughed nervously and shook his head, his mysterious act gone.

"No, no it's quite alright, please stay here," Ollivander smiled. Sherlock scoffed.

"If you insist."

When he came back out of the shop Sherlock was slightly weary, he had tried a very big amount of wands but none had worked for him. He ended up getting a wand with a chicken feather (yes, chickens were considered a magic animal) in it. Once again, Sherlock opened the box and gazed at the very weak wand. He had to get a good one.

I hoped you liked it, how I have transformed it...