Just a quick AN- This is the result of some seriously persistent plot bunnies. I don't really know what to do with it plot-wise after this, which is why it's a one-shot. However, if you would like to use the idea and continue the story, please feel free! Just PM me first to let me know- I would love to read it if you do. Anywhoo, thanks for reading guys, and remember that reviews are the purest form of happiness!
Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness as his mind palace faded out of sight and the empty, silent flat took its place. He sighed, and sat up, looking at his phone for the time. It was 4:00 in the morning- he must have been in his mind palace all night. He looked at the mess that was the kitchen table- most mornings a spot would have been cleared off and tea would be waiting. But it was too early now, he supposed. He craned his neck around to make sure that John wasn't up and about (of course he wasn't, for all his complaining about lack of sleep, why would he be up at this hour?) and reached down into the crack between two pillows on the couch. After a minute, his fingers brushed against a cool, solid object, and he grabbed it, pulling his wand out of its hiding place in the sofa. He flicked it lazily in the direction of the kitchen, where the pot began busying itself making tea. He grinned to himself, and lay back onto the couch, waiting for the water to boil. Unfortunately, there was no spell for that- he would just have to be patient.
He picked up a file from the coffee table and read through it again. This case was easy, really, a disappointment. But for lack of anything better to do, he glanced through it, solved it, and threw it in disgust back onto the table, all before he heard the plaintive whistle of the kettle.
He flicked his wand again, and a cup of tea came floating out of the kitchen. He grabbed it out of the air and, placing his wand into his pocket, took a long drink. After he had finished the tea, he was still bored, so, feeling particularly lazy, made his violin float to him also. Well, it's not like John can see this, he's still asleep, he reasoned to himself. Just because he chose not to live in the wizarding world, didn't meant that he wanted to give up the convenience of magic. He set his wand down on the coffee table next to the case file, and picked up the instrument. As he drew the bow across the strings, the sad tones of a minor etude echoed throughout the flat. Low enough not to wake John, but loud enough to be heard from the door. He grinned to himself.
However, John was apparently a lighter sleeper than Sherlock had thought. He heard a stumbling sound, immediately followed by John poking his head around the doorframe, glaring sleepily at Sherlock.
"Good God, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what time it is?!" He grumbled, as he wandered into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea from the kettle. Sherlock grumbled an incoherent response, and John turned around, walking into the sitting room and flopping in his chair. Still playing the violin, Sherlock watched John with mild interest- his bed head was particularly violent this morning, and then he realized.
His wand was still on the coffee table.
In plain sight. In. Front. Of. John.
Sherlock's heart seemed to stop beating for a full minute.
His jaw dropped open slightly in horror, and the bow fell to the ground, forgotten. John was sitting in such a position that he could easily see the wand, though he hadn't yet, luckily. Sherlock's heart went from not beating at all to pounding violently at a million miles an hour. Panicking, he reached over and swept up the wand, stuffing it hastily back into the couch, also grabbing the case file he had just solved as a cover-up for the quick movement.
John noticed Sherlock moving, and turned to look, but Sherlock, fueled by panic, moved so fast that by the time John got his sleep-heavy head around, all he saw was the consulting detective staring at the file with an odd look on his face.
"Sherlock, what's wrong? You look like you've just seen a ghost." Shoving his panic away, Sherlock replied nonchalantly, still looking at the file.
"Don't be ridiculous, John. Ghosts don't exist."
Lie. The word echoed inside his head, the way it always did when he had to lie to John about something concerning magic. But that's how it had to be. John was a muggle, albeit the most interesting muggle he had ever met, and if he found out that Sherlock was a wizard, he'd probably go running for the hills. Sure, John had stayed with him through a lot, but he thought that magic would probably be too much.
And whenever Sherlock thought about John leaving, his heart would seem to twist painfully in his chest. He often wondered if it might be some sort of… emotion, but that was impossible. He was a sociopath. He had done everything in his power to ensure that, training himself to ignore all emotions, then later applying an emotion-suppressing jinx to himself, so he was literally incapable of feeling anything. But then why did the thought of John finding out and leaving make him feel like a hole had been gauged out of him?
His train of thought got away from him when he realized that John had asked a question.
"Hmm?"
"I said, did you solve it? The case?" Sherlock snorted slightly at the question.
"Of course- it was the bartender of the local pub he frequented."
John smiled and shook his head in amazement.
"What does that make? Four this week?"
"Five." John laughed.
"Y'know you're driving Lestrade mad, trying to find enough cases for you to solve."
Sherlock shrugged with a devil-may-care grin on his face. But as soon as John turned his head, he let out a slow, shuddering breath, realizing what a close call that had been. He absolutely could not allow John to find out, he just couldn't.
Suddenly, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He read the text quickly, and then a manic grin spread across his face, all thoughts of the wand forgotten. John sighed, and pulled himself up out of the chair as Sherlock sprang across the room, grabbing his coat and scarf.
"Hold on, hold on. Let me get changed, Sherlock. And it's four in the bloody morning, why-"
"A woman out on an early morning jog found the body draped over a park bench. Now come on!" John quickly went to change clothes, honestly surprised to see that Sherlock hadn't just left while he was doing so. But there was the tall, thin man, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for him.
The two men left the building in a hurry, Sherlock calling a cab, and John thinking This has got to be a thousand times better than a cup of coffee for waking up.
John followed Sherlock into the cab, and twiddled his thumbs throughout the entire silent trip. Sherlock was looking out the window, thinking. And John was thinking, as well. What was that all about this morning? He wondered what had happened to make Sherlock's skin turn whiter than a bed sheet, and he could have sworn he saw his hands trembling. It certainly couldn't have been the 'boring' case file he had solved. He guessed he would never know why Sherlock had done that- this thought occurred to him quite often. John mentally shrugged, chalking it up to just his flatmate being as weird as usual.
However, he remembered it taking all his willpower not to tell Sherlock that ghosts did, in fact, exist- just to see the look on the other man's face. If he was honest, John hated keeping this secret from Sherlock, but it was justified. Sherlock was probably the most science-oriented muggle on the face of the planet. If it were ever revealed to him that magic existed, he would probably go insane. He had the whole world organized, categorized, and understood, in his brain. Telling him that something 'impossible' like magic really existed would be the equivalent of dropping an A-Bomb on his Mind Palace.
And so he kept silent about the wizarding world, and kept his less 'logical' healing methods and ingredients hidden in a chest locked with both a few normal locks and an inordinate amount of charms. He usually carried his wand with him, in a special pocket sewn into all his jackets that was impossible to see. Sure he was being secretive, but it was for Sherlock's own good.
That didn't keep him from hating it, though.
The cab pulled over at the park, and Sherlock jumped out wordlessly, leaving John to pay the cabbie-again. He sighed, handed over the money, and then followed Sherlock to the crime scene, where he was talking rapid-fire to Lestrade. His one-sided conversation was mostly insults, but the occasional relevant question could be heard as well.
John followed, stepping over the yellow tape into a pretty normal-looking apartment, except for the blood splatters, dead body, and laptop which with a smashed screen. Sherlock went to examine the body, doing that odd dance-like thing he always did as he looked everywhere, at everything, his raptor-like eyes not missing a single thing. When he was done, he turned to John.
"What do you think, John?" He asked. Taking his cue, John stepped forwards to take a look at the body himself.
"Female, about thirty…two. Death by drowning in her own blood-" he froze as he noticed something else. A subtle shift in the air behind the laptop. It looked like a bad glamour, but that was impossible, that would mean that someone nearby was continuing the glamour, as they couldn't be sustained over long distances. The glamour seemed to focus on a ballpoint pen, and John remembered that, and looked around the flat for whoever could be sustaining the spell. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock asking him a question, but waved it off. The northmost window had a large balcony, a perfect hiding spot. John put his hand over his gun and walked towards it, nodding to Sherlock, who nodded back and followed. John put a hand on the window, and taking a deep breath, threw it open to reveal a man hastily climbing over the railing.
"Hey!" John shouted, and Sherlock ran past him- curse his long legs- and John followed.
The chase was on.
As they raced down the alley, with Sherlock in the lead, the man they were chasing glanced back at them, and began to run faster. When that didn't do him any good, he pulled something out of his coat, just as the alley came to a dead end. Thinking it was a gun, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and pulled him down behind a dumpster. But instead of hearing the crack of a gunshot, Sherlock saw an arc of light fly through the air with barely more than a whisper. Magic?!
He peered out from behind the dumpster on one side, unaware of John doing the same on the other side. Both men's eyes widened at the one thing they wanted least to see: The man was standing his ground with an evil grin on his face, his wand held out and ready, waiting for them. Another wizard.
They both closed their eyes, realizing simultaneously that this was it- they couldn't run, if they did the wizard would have a clear shot at their backs, and they couldn't hide here behind the dumpster forever. No, the only thing they could do was face the man in a duel.
Of course, both thinking that the other was a muggle, they felt disappointed that the charade was up- but there was no other way out of this now.
John's going to leave. Sherlock thought.
He frowned, brushing his fingers against his wand in his coat pocket. He was glad that he had decided to bring it this once- usually he left it back at the flat. Maybe he would start bringing it with him to all his cases- which he would be attending alone. His heart gave a little flop in his chest, tightening his throat uncomfortably. His John, kind and strong and so beautifully ordinary, was two minutes away from hating him. He was lucky enough that John didn't hate him for his personality alone- but he was dead sure that John would not appreciate the fact that Sherlock had been lying to him for the past few years. John was going to leave, and never come back. And Sherlock would be alone again. He gripped the edge of the dumpster until his knuckles turned white, ignoring the physical pain that somehow gripped his chest in an iron fist at the thought of John leaving. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for what he was about to do.
Sherlock's going to flip. John thought.
He could see it in his head- Him jumping out from behind the dumpster, defeating the wizard at the end of the alley (he could tell the man wasn't a very strong wizard- he had made too many mistakes already) and looking back as his friend stared with shock at the impossible. His mind palace would crumble, he would probably never even look at John again- suddenly John swore he could feel the weight of each and every lie he had ever told Sherlock, crushing his chest with an impossible weight. Guilt rushed through his veins, and his shoulders slumped. But, pulling up some of that army strength, he squared his shoulders, moved his hand to the opening of the secret pocket hiding his wand, and whispered a silent apology to the man beside him, eyes screwed shut in concentration and agony. He had to act.
Neither of them wanted to do it. But there was nothing to be done- not if they both wanted to make it out alive.
Somehow, both men neglected to so much as glance at each other before they made this monumental move. Maybe it was guilt that prevented them from looking at the other's face, or maybe they were both just occupied with their own thoughts. But the fact remains that both men pulled their wands from their coat pockets and jumped out from behind the dumpster, without ever taking a look at their friend. If they had, they would have seen that they were right next to them, like always, and things would have most likely gone very differently.
Both men fired off unending volleys of curses and spells, and the criminal at the end of the alley managed to hold his own under the onslaught for all of five seconds before the combined power of the two wizards knocked him off his feet. He lay where he fell on the alley floor, unconscious (John's doing) and tied up with ropes that had appeared out of nowhere (Sherlock's doing)
Sherlock glared at the man, and only then did he think to turn and look at John, with sadness in his eyes as he waited for the only friend he might ever have to leave him for good.
And John turned to look at Sherlock, fear in his eyes as he waited for his friend to have a psychological breakdown over the existence of magic.
And off course, neither of them saw what they expected.
Sherlock's jaw dropped open, and so did John's. You could cut the silence in that alley with a butter knife, it was so palpable.
"Oh… my God." John finally said, bringing his wand down to his side with a shaky hand.
His wand. John has a wand. Sherlock thought, and his brain faltered for a moment, thrown into shock by John- his John, who he thought he knew so well, standing strong in the traditional dueling stance, his stout oak wand held aloft. John is a…wizard?! Sherlock's brain started again, kicking into overdrive, and he had trouble getting enough air into his lungs.
"John?" he whispered, his face full of as much shock as it was possible to cram into one man's features.
"Oh my God!" John only repeated, a huge smile overtaking his face. Relief buzzed through his veins, managing to cover the confusion, but not quite the shock of the striking image of his friend with a wand, face a mask of fury and concentration. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, it was too good to be true! Sherlock was- oh dear God, Sherlock was a bloody wizard! Sherlock had been a bloody wizard this whole time, and John had been too dense to see it?! How?!
John's only consolation at this point was the fact that he was a wizard too, and had somehow managed to keep that from Sherlock, even when Sherlock had not only deduction, but magic apparently too, on his side.
"Sherlock, you-" But whatever John was about to say was cut short, as important statements are wont to do, by DI Lestrade, who came screeching into the alley in a police car. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance that clearly read talk later. They slipped their wands up their sleeves, and walked as calmly as they could over to the car. Sherlock showed once again his impressive acting skills as his face melted into a visage of careful nonchalance. John, however, was just able to keep the manic grin off his face, and had to take a deep breath to keep from laughing out loud.
Lestrade jumped out of the car, muscles tense and gun drawn, but then relaxed when he saw how calm the two men seemed.
"Did you get him, then?" The silver-haired man asked. Sherlock nodded.
"He's in the back of the alley. He's the one who killed the woman, obviously."
"Yeah, obviously." The DI muttered dryly, motioning to his men to go get the criminal.
"How'd he do it?" Lestrade asked, genuinely confused. He never could keep up with Sherlock's thought process, and was usually left behind in the dust because of it. But he didn't mind-as long as they both got to the same place, namely, the criminal behind bars.
Sherlock paused for a moment. He knew the culprit had used a cursed feather quill to stab the woman through the throat, although he obviously couldn't tell him that. His mind raced to come up with a plausible answer that would satisfy their little muggle brains.
"He snuck into her room while she was working on her laptop, planning on threatening her until she gave him custody of their children (they're divorced), and she saw him in the reflection on the screen and turned around, making him panic. His finger slipped on the trigger, and luck made the bullet hit her neck." Lestrade listened to Sherlock's explanation, and frowned.
"Wait, but if there was a bullet, wouldn't it have stayed in her throat?"
"Not if it went through her neck. You saw the laptop, the screen was completely shattered- obviously the bullet traveled through her neck and hit the computer."
"But then wouldn't we have found a bullet?" Sherlock threw his hands up in the air.
"Well, it's hardly my fault that your task force is so incompetent! Of course you should have found a bullet, there is simply no other explanation, except that whoever was working forensics, probably Anderson, was too much of a pea-brained simpleton to look for it!"
Lestrade put his hands up as Sherlock seemed to get more and more upset.
"Woah, woah, okay mate, just, look, calm down! We'll go back to the scene, and take another look." Sherlock scoffed.
"You won't find it." He growled. "Come on, John." Sherlock brushed past Lestrade and started walking towards the main road. John exchanged a look with the DI, then followed his eccentric flatmate.
The DI watched the two go, and sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he thought of the mountains of papers he would have to fill out.
Sherlock didn't look back once, schooling his face a carefully constructed mask of indifference as he hailed a cab. He hadn't meant to get so worked up at the DI, but his surprise and panic leftover from the whole John-is-a-wizard thing just…leaked into his performance, translating into anger at the Yard's incompetence. He was lucky that happened often, so that nobody would give it a second thought.
A cab pulled to the curb, and he climbed in, followed by John. John closed the door, Sherlock gave the cabbie their address, and the cab started moving, slipping into the London traffic like a fish into a river current.
Sherlock sat silently, every neuron in his enormous brain snapping with confusion, and elation, and relief. John was a wizard, John was a wizard, another honest-to-god wizard, and he wasn't leaving. Thousands of questions pushed to escape, but Sherlock pinched his lips together and held them back, waiting until they got home. With the cabbie in the front seat, this really wasn't the place to discuss.
When the cab pulled over at Baker Street, Sherlock leapt out of the cab, and practically sprinted across the sidewalk, through the big black door, and into the flat. John sighed, paid the cabbie, and followed him. Usually he would be cursing his stiff, cold joints, but the release of so much pent-up magic back at the alley seemed to make them just a bit better. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, and walked into the flat, where Sherlock was taking his coat off and throwing it at the door. John sidestepped the hurled article, and hung up his own jacket, trying to stall long enough to collect his thoughts. Finally, he turned to face Sherlock, who opened his mouth, and then paused, and closed it again.
Sherlock had been so impatient to get back to 221B, to talk with John, to discuss this new…development. However, now that the moment was here, he found himself not knowing how the hell to start. John took the opportunity to stall just a little more.
"Tea?" He asked. Sherlock scowled, and flicked his wand. Immediately, the sound of the kettle filling itself could be heard, and the door swung shut on its own. John sighed.
"So that's how we're going to do this, huh?" he asked. Sherlock frowned, then found his voice.
"Do what?" He asked. John gestured vaguely.
"This. This whole…. Magic thing." He paused for a moment, then began chuckling to himself. Sherlock frowned. He was still trying to wrap his enormous brain around the fact that John was not a muggle, even though he thought he had accurately deduced him as such, and John was laughing?!
"What?" He snapped, and John shook his head.
"It's ridiculous!" he cried, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his whole face. Sherlock loved that smile. He grinned slightly, thinking how he wouldn't have to miss it.
"I mean," John continued, "Here we are, both living under the same roof for two whole years, both wizards, and neither of us knew it! It's bloody hysterical!" It was kind of funny.
Apparently, it was very funny, because if you were somehow there, watching at number 221 B Baker Street on that evening, you would have seen two grown men rolling on the ground in an absurd and childish fit of laughter for nearly ten minutes. And throughout the evening, you might notice them exchange a particular glance, and both would grin like men who had just discovered the world was really an okay place after all.
The End.