This is a challenge fic for the Let's Write Sherlock Trope Bingo Challenge on tumblr. The prompt is simply 'AU: Magic'. Please enjoy :)

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Chapter One: With The Last Chime of the Clock

He swore that the blasted chip and pin machine was going to be the death of him. After that first humiliating encounter, John was determined to prove not only to himself, but to the rest of London that he could use the bloody contraption without a problem. But yet again, it usurped him and he was back to raging at it within mere minutes of trying to use it.

Not even Sherlock's antics and behavior could compare to the insanity of that machine and inspire such a strong reaction from him.

As John walked up the stairs after entering 221B, he thought very briefly about blogging about his experiences –after all, it could be funny to some sick person out there- but decided against it. It was already humiliating enough to know that a part of London saw it all happen, much less have the entire world laughing their arses off at his expense.

He opened the door to the flat to see that Sherlock was speaking to what looked like to be a client.

And a very posh and important client, at that. He was dressed in a sharply-pressed suit and his shoes shone as though he had spent hours shining them –or perhaps spent a pretty penny to have it done for him. How the stranger had managed to squeeze himself into John's chair and not crush it flat was a miracle; he was as big as a house, his ruddy cheeks jiggling as he turned his head around to look to the door.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said with a clap of his hands. "You're just in time." He paused and sighed. "Another row with the machine, I see."

"Yeah, of course you do," John muttered as he shut the door to the flat behind him and removed his jacket to hang it on the coatrack.

"Mr. MacGregor, this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said to the man sitting across from him. John took a seat in the empty chair next to Sherlock and cleared his throat.

"How do you do?"

"So this is Dr. Watson." Mr. MacGregor's voice boomed with cheer as he leaned forward to shake John's hand. "I am so pleased to meet the face behind the famous blog."

John smiled, but quickly scowled at Sherlock's eye roll.

"Yes, yes, famous blog; certainly an accomplishment if you can call it that."

John sighed in slight annoyance. "Hang on, don't I know you from somewhere?" he said after studying the man's face for a few moments.

"Most likely from the papers. Being the Permanent Secretary attracts some unwanted attention these days." The man's chortle made the very walls of the flat shake, his many chins wobbling and dancing. "I'm here by association with the elder Mister Holmes," he finished after his laughter was exhausted.

"Oh, really? You work with Mycroft?"

"You could say that," Mr. MacGregor said mysteriously with a wink

"If you don't mind," Sherlock broke in impatiently. "I'm really not in the mood for the mindless chatter and would like to get back to the issue at hand."

John half expected Mr. MacGregor to be offended, but was surprised at his hearty chuckle. "Mycroft certainly wasn't joking when he said you have a one track mind, Mr. Holmes." He leaned back to relax, his hands folded on his lap. "To give a quick recap of what I just relaying, Dr. Watson, I have come to seek the assistance of Mr. Holmes for…an investigation into a matter that has come to light concerning the Elizabeth Tower."

"Big Ben," John said. He had yet to get used to the new name for Westminster Palace's famous clocktower.

"Precisely. It seems that there's a rumor of a…sort of mystical being spotted around the clock tower."

John's eyes slid to Sherlock, who instead of looking as though he was about to fall asleep or tell the man exactly where to put those rumors was actually holding his hands in front of his mouth, seemingly intrigued by the whole matter. Which didn't make sense; to Sherlock, rumors were just that- rumors. What could he possibly think was there to even investigate?

"And this…being," John finally said with a frown. "No one knows what it is?"

"No," Mr. MacGregor said. "But judging by the testimonies that we've gathered, it seems that whatever it is, it's extremely powerful – too powerful for any ordinary man to confront."

John blinked. If Mr. McGregor actually thought that Sherlock had some sort of magical ability that could take on that…whatever it was, he was sorely mistaken. Sherlock was brilliant, yes and sometimes defied the laws of human observation and psychological profiling, but he didn't go around pulling rabbits out of hats and telling people to pick a card, any card.

Sherlock was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't a magician.

And John opened his mouth to say so, but at the slam of Sherlock's hands on the armrests of his chair, he paused and expected Sherlock to say it for him.

"I'll take the case."

John sputtered. "Sorry, what?"

"Splendid to hear, Mr. Holmes, absolutely splendid," Mr. MacGregor said with a loud clap of his hands. "Mycroft was very right to refer me to you. I trust that this little rumor will be put to rest in no time with your help. Well, I had better be off. Good to meet you, Dr. Watson."

John nodded dumbly, watching with slight amazement as Mr. MacGregor pulled himself up from the otherwise unharmed and still-standing chair.

"And good luck to you both." With those final words, the man took his leave with loud, heavy steps and Sherlock got to his feet.

"Well, I suppose you've got some questions," he said as he went into the kitchen.

"Yeah…yeah, what are you doing taking on a case like this?" John got up and followed him. "This isn't murder, Sherlock; this is a rumor about some kind of powerful…demon-spirit thing flying around Big Ben. You're wasting your time with this; who even knows if these people aren't trying to get a rouse or attention or something?"

Sherlock stood and simply watched John.

"And besides, you're not some kind of wizard," he finished.

"Oh, John." Sherlock smirked and picked up a beaker full of what looked to be water. "That is where you underestimate me."

John barked out a humorless laugh, but at the bubbling of the water in the beaker in Sherlock's hand, he felt the sound catch in his throat and felt his jaw drop. As soon as it registered in his mind that the water was actually boiling without any fire under it, it started to freeze and little ice crystals began to form at the base of the beaker.

What…in the bloody hell-

As instantly as the water froze, it was back to liquid and crackling sounds and pops of electricity floated and bounced around the entire flat. To John's utter surprise, the water almost alive with pure power, as though if someone even placed their finger in the beaker, they would find themselves electrocuted. And yet, almost as soon as he was about to actually accept what he was seeing, the water turned back to its normal state, free of any abuse that had just been inflicted on it.

Sherlock set the beaker down and waited. John looked between his flatmate and the beaker.

"You…you…you can-"

"Control elements, yes," Sherlock finished flatly. "Only certain ones, though: fire, ice, and electricity. I suppose that you could say that it's…magic in its own right." He rolled his eyes. "The term is quite frankly overused and grossly misunderstood, so I would much rather call it for what it is: ability."

"How…you….why…how is it that I haven't seen this before?!" John practically shouted. "You mean to tell me that I've lived here for months and I've somehow missed that you can conjure up fire, ice and electricity at will?!"

"It had yet to come up with a case," Sherlock said with a light shrug. "And I usually try and keep my powers under tight reign when I'm around others. Quite honestly, they've gotten me into some trouble over the years and I've had to practice some extreme self-discipline in using them. If I'm too free they start to get stronger and then it becomes harder to control them. If I don't use them enough, they become weaker and I risk losing them. So I have to keep a delicate balance between the two. You haven't seen it because I haven't let you."

"Wh…who…wha…" John felt as though the world had gone mad around him; magic –ability, whatever he called it- didn't exist. It just didn't. That was something for fantasy novels, not real life…wasn't it?

"Is…is your whole family like this?" John finally asked in a level voice.

"No. My father's side doesn't have a drop of magical blood. The last known person with powers like mine in the family was on my mother's side – my great-great-grandmother. Was quite known for her healing ability all throughout Europe."

"Healing ability?" John repeated with a blink.

"You know, like a doctor, except…not." Sherlock picked up his phone from the table and quickly dialed a number, placing it to his ear. A few seconds of pause paused, and then he took a deep breath.

"Brother dear," he said with a cheesy cheerfulness that made almost John smile. "Nothing, nothing at all; just wanted you to know that I accepted the case from your absolutely lovely colleague, Mr. MacGregor."

Mycroft's voice on the other end of line immediately deepened and John likened it to the voice of an adult character from a Peanuts cartoon.

"No, that's not sarcasm," Sherlock said with an eye roll, still managing to keep up his feigned enthusiasm. "At any rate," he continued, "I'll need to borrow some supplies from you for my investigation into this little matter."

The voice on the other end of the line droned again.

"You know exactly what I mean by that," Sherlock said flatly. "Don't act like you haven't had one of your CCTV cameras watching that entire conversation. I'll need it all by nine tonight, if you can manage it." He paused again. "But of course if you're just going to be like this, I could just break into your house and get it myself," he said innocently. "Maybe I'll also stop by your cupboard and put all of your soups out of order again – I know how much you love it when I do that-"

John distinctly heard Mycroft say Sherlock's name.

"Nine tonight. Don't forget." He hung up. "Well, that was eventful. Now, I'm off to Scotland Yard to prove that a little old man gutted his neighbor with a plastic spoon. Won't be long." With those casual last words, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and swept out of the flat with a grand slam of the door. John stood and watched the beaker of water and slowly, he reached to pick it up –thankfully, it was cool to the touch-, placing it in the palm of his hand. But as much as he tried to get the water to do what Sherlock made it do, it stayed unmoving in the beaker. With a sigh of both defeat and exasperation, he set it back down.

Just when I think I know him, he has to go and reveal that he's some kind of bloody wizard. I just can't win.

The doorbell rang at a minute to nine later that night.

"John," Mycroft said with a polite smile as the door opened, letting in a gust of spring breeze.

"Mycroft." John moved back to let him in and shut the door behind him, turning to follow Mycroft up the stairs. With a sweep, Mycroft walked straight past the couch where Sherlock lay with eyes closed, two nicotine patches on each arm.

"Try and return these the way they've been brought to you," Mycroft said dryly as he set the two velvet bags down on the table by Sherlock's laptop.

"Not even a wish for good luck. Really, where's your sense of brotherly love?" Sherlock murmured without opening his eyes. "Mummy and Daddy would be so disappointed with you."

"I'm sure that they would understand, considering the circumstances. I imagine that this news of Sherlock's abilities was a surprise to you, John," he said as John took a seat back in his armchair.

"Um…yeah, just a bit."

Mycroft stared at him. "Huge surprise, apparently," he said after a short once-over and John internally rolled his eyes. "Sherlock isn't exactly tactful with talking about the magical bloodline that runs throughout our family. Then again, we haven't exactly been very open about it."

"Who would even believe us if we talked about it, anyway?" Sherlock mused.

"Who would, indeed?" Mycroft's face twisted into a somewhat grim smile that was actually quite normal for him. "At any rate, I shall leave you to this. Hopefully, you can do something about this…creature." He walked toward the door and paused. "Oh, and try not to set the Westminster Palace on fire, encase it in ice or stop the clock with rampant electricity. That would be a right sight to explain to Her Majesty."

"I'll certainly think about it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Please do." With that last sarcastic command, Mycroft walked out of the flat and down the stairs, the front door shutting behind him with a soft snap. John drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"What's in the bags?" he asked.

"Very important tools to help us with confronting this phantom."

"So you're calling it a phantom now?"

"Much better than calling it a ghost or a demon. Plus, it sounds more exciting." Sherlock sat up and shot to his feet, stepping on the coffee table to make his way toward the velvet bags.

"So," John said after a few seconds of watching Sherlock weigh the bags in his hand. "Does Mycroft have an ability of his own like you?"

"Yes."

"Well…what is it?"

"He can stop time."

A pause.

"Stop time?" John repeated.

"Well, how else do you think he gets so much done within a day?" Sherlock asked as though it were so plainly obvious. "His ability is actually something very unique." Opening one of the bags, Sherlock reached in and pulled out a worn river rock, completely covered with what looked to be ancient markings in some kind of primitive language. "He has a verbal chant –that only he can use- and he also has this stone which can be used by pretty much anybody. He keeps it under lock and key, though; doesn't want to be responsible for some kind of butterfly effect."

He set the stone down on a bare part of the table. "But the catch is this stone is only effective when Big Ben chimes thirteen times."

"Wait, thirteen? But there's only twelve hours on the clock."

"Sometimes, according to legend, the bell actually rings a thirteenth time. And that gives anyone with the right access a way to basically 'cheat the clock' and waltz around the world while it's in a state of limbo."

John shook his head. Just when he didn't think things could get any stranger.

"How do you even know the thirteenth chime is going to happen tonight?"

"Trust me, it'll happen tonight."

Trust him, he says. Right. "What's in the other bag?"

"You'll see," Sherlock said mysteriously, taking it and walking to the kitchen. For a second, John considered staying to see what was being created in the makeshift kitchen laboratory, but with a sigh, he got up and picked up his laptop from the table.

"I'm going up to get some rest before we go."

He left the flat just as Sherlock was firing up the centrifuge.

John tried to pass the time with writing a new blog and watching telly up in his room, but he still found himself getting increasingly nervous as midnight approached. When he felt that he had exhausted YouTube's supply of cat videos –including Nyan Cat-, he went down to the flat and saw that Sherlock was standing at the window, staring out into the street below.

"It's almost time," Sherlock said distractedly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." John clenched his fist as his hand began to very slightly shake. "So how is this done?"

"We wait for the thirteenth strike, and make sure we're touching the stone when it happens."

"Right…right." John took a seat at the table, warily watching the old stone that sat so innocently on the blank slate of table. It had to have been extremely old – probably older than Sherlock's great-great-grandmother. And the symbols…if he didn't know any better, he could swear that his eyes were playing tricks on him and that the grooves of the stones were actually waving…

He tore his eyes away as the chimes of Big Ben began to ring out across London.

One...two…three…

"You could always back out, you know," Sherlock said. "It's not too late."

Four…

"No, no, I want to come along." John waved his hand in dismissal.

"Suit yourself, then."

Seven…eight…

"Do you have a plan on how to handle this phantom if we meet it?"

Sherlock turned around from the window and touched the stone. "Not really. But that's the fun with it, isn't it?"

John sighed –of course- and reached to touch the stone, the rough ridges of the inscription making his hair slightly stand on end.

Eleven…twelve…

…Thirteen.

And with the echo of the last chime ringing in John's ears, he watched as the world around him literally stopped.