Title: Sodding Useless Wizards
Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse
Fandoms: BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter
Pairings: mystrade
Author: Z-sama (dA user the-lady-harkness) and TWTL
Beta: none

WARNINGS: angry john, post-reichenbach

MISC: We don't own Sherlock, nor do we own Harry Potter... Check out bonus content on the Sherlock!Wizardverse tumblr... sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com

It had been a long afternoon.

No.

It had been a long day.

From the moment he had said goodbye to Mycroft that morning, apologizing for having to run to work on his scheduled day off by giving him the last cupcake from the night before, Greg Lestrade knew it was going to be a very long day.

He'd gone into the office looking worn out. He'd been up all night, not really doing much of anything but dreading the next day. Mycroft had sat silently with him before finally convincing him to get some rest.

First, he'd been called in on a murder. No surprise. It was still his job, after all. But the circumstances surrounding it… He'd been forced to call in help. In the past that had meant Sherlock. But now…

So he'd met John Watson at the park, the man still unwilling to go near St. Barts. Especially on this day of all days. They'd chatted after John gave the photographs a cursory glance. Greg had asked after Mary, of course. It was the polite thing to do. He'd offered to head over to the cemetery with him, but John had declined, saying he'd already been. John gave his theories based off the photographs, and he left.

Greg wasn't sure John realized how much he had picked up from Sherlock in the short time they'd lived together. The doctor was nowhere near the dead detective's level, but he was amazingly brilliant all the same. Better than those clods he had working under him.

By the late evening they'd had it wrapped up with a nice neat bow. He'd gotten a text from Mycroft apologizing that their dinner plans would have to be postponed until tomorrow.

So, his entire day shot to hell, his evening canceled, Greg Lestrade had stopped by a florist right before she closed up shop and bought a sorry looking bouquet of flowers because that's all she had left that still seemed to have some semblance of life in them. He took it to the cemetery. Just as he'd done for the last two years. Silly, really.

But then he reminded himself how not-silly it was as followed that same long walk. That same old path to the tombstone that had seen its fair share of vandalism over the last three years. Most of it foul… And some of it, just some of it, hopeful. He'd once found the entire back side of the marker covered in bright yellow declaring for the world to see that Moriarty Was Real. The front side equally defaced with I BELIEVE IN right above the name, and the words YOU SHOULD TOO below.

John had it cleaned up, of course. At first he'd taken care of it himself… But more and more he'd had someone else come out to scrub away the paint. To pull away the papers taped to the back and the sides. Clear away the trinkets left behind by others who'd never believe the lies.

Now, standing there at the foot of the grave, he sighed and remembered the day Mycroft had told him his boys in suits had discovered just how close to death he'd come that day. A mole on the squad, ordered to kill if Sherlock hadn't…

And because he had, Greg was alive. John was alive. Hell even Mrs. Hudson had been targeted according to Mycroft's agents. Because of what Sherlock did, he was there to pick up the shattered remains of Mycroft Holmes, such as they were. And now…

"I'm surprised you still make the trip."

Greg dropped the flowers and jumped back in surprise, looking around for where the voice had come from.

"Stop that. You look like a frightened mole rat."

"Oh god…" Greg said, forcing himself to calm down. He was a grown man for Christ's sake. He was just imagining things. Wouldn't be the first time. At least, he hoped it was his imagination. Because his next guess was a ghost. And after an encounter with the one that had decided to live at Grimmauld Place last summer, he wasn't too keen on the idea.

"Not your imagination." The empty air that was behind the tombstone suddenly had a head floating in it.

Greg yelped, jumping again with wide eyes. "You're-"

"Not a ghost."

"But-"

"Invisibility cloak. Stole it from mummy out of spite." The rest of the body followed.

Greg still hadn't moved from his spot, unsure if he was having a stroke or…

"Three things," the man who should have been in the grave between them said. "Firstly, I am alive. Secondly, I need your help to clear my name. I have more than enough evidence collected in the last three years for you to present to accomplish this."

Greg swallowed hard, still not believing what his eyes were seeing.

"Thirdly, and this is the most important, Lestrade. Do not breathe a word of this to Mycroft."

o0o

He'd gotten in late, but thankfully before Mycroft. It gave him time to think over the encounter at the cemetery. He seated himself in the parlour in his favorite chair. The one that Mycroft had bought him shortly before he'd moved in. Back when his now blissfully ex-wife had kicked him out to move her gym teacher boyfriend in. Back before he'd gotten in bed with the British Government.

So lost in thought he hadn't noticed when his bed-mate had returned home until an elegant silver tray was set down on the low table in front of him and the seat beyond that was filled with the older wizard and his black ministry robes.

"I thought we had an elf for that."

"We did. Mummy finally managed to get the wretched thing to stop coming back."

Greg gave a tired smile, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea only to find Mycroft had already done so. He'd even fixed it just the way he liked. So he picked up the cup and one of the little pastries beside it. He ate and drank in silence, trying his best to push thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. He was sure Mycroft would read his thoughts easily from his face. Or the way he held his pastry. He was quite used to it by now of course, and thanked whatever greater power was responsible for giving his lover tactfulness.

"These are quite good," he said. "Not from your usual place. It doesn't have that weird wizard fruit in it."

Mycroft sat with one leg crossed over the other, his robes open to show his immaculate suit. "No. They opened a new bakery close to my office."

Greg nodded in response and reached for another, lapsing again into silence. But it was more bearable now that he wasn't alone.

o0o

It had been three weeks since the anniversary of Sherlock's death. And three weeks since he'd found out that brilliant git was actually alive the entire time.

And now, he was looking up from the ground, holding his jaw (sure he'd heard it crack) as John Watson glared down at him angrily.

It was quite sudden. He'd been with Molly in the lab, going over some of the evidence Sherlock had brought him the night before. Once again, Mycroft had been called away to his other job. This time something about a dark wizard cursing a cactus. Sherlock had told him to go to Molly. That she'd know what to do. That she'd known the entire time…

And now, apparently John knew as well.

Because he was so angry he couldn't form proper words. It all came out as a bit of a jumble. Something about kittens, Greg thought at one point. Kittens, bastards, and rage.

From the way he was holding his hand, Greg knew it hadn't been hurt when he'd hit the inspector. He picked himself up off the ground, declining Molly's offer to help. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to check for the blood he could taste, Greg let John have his moment of anger a bit longer.

"Hate to see what the bastard looked like when you got done with him," he said, turning his head to spit into a nearby cup, thankfully empty of the coffee he'd had earlier. "I got work to do, so if you're done…"

He hadn't been done. He shouted a bit more, but that was just John. Once he got his initial rage out, he was full of shouting and frustration. He still wasn't too happy when he'd left, but at least he hadn't knocked Greg off his seat a second time.

o0o

When Mycroft saw him that evening, he'd insisted on having a look at his jaw himself. Casting a few diagnostic charms, which Greg had to agree were much more pleasant than having an x-ray done. And faster.

"A hairline fracture. You're lucky." After casting another quick spell to mend the bone, he set his wand down beside the small jars from his first aid kit.

"I know," Greg said as he watched his lover choose one of the jars and open it. The smell was terrible, and he wrinkled his nose. "Don't put that crap on me."

"Do you want to walk around with a bruise the shape of John Watson's fist on your face or do you want to frown without wanting to shout in pain?"

Grumbling under his breath, Greg turned his face and let him apply the cold, smelly cream on his face. "I'm not going to work tomorrow," he said, enjoying the feel of Mycroft's fingers massaging the sore spots on his face. "But I've got some errands to run. Need me to make any extra stops for you?"

"Mmm… I've got a meeting with Her Majesty on Tuesday."

"I'll make sure to get you an extra sponge cake." Greg smiled, wincing some.

"It's not going to work right away," Mycroft said at his discomfort, giving his cheek one last swipe with his fingers before closing the jar. He left it out of the kit when he closed the box and set it back on the shelf. "Reapply before bed. You should see significant improvement in the morning."

Greg caught his wrist and rubbed the skin just below his cuff with his thumb gently. Mycroft looked down at him with a smile. Not on his face, no. But in his eyes. Those were the only ones Greg could trust. The only smiles that he knew were real. "Early night?"

"Just a bit of paperwork left to do."

He nodded, looking away. "How many stacks?"

Mycroft's free hand took him by the chin gently, careful of his inspector's still sore jaw, forcing him to look him in the eyes again. "Just a folder or two. Nothing more."