Fangirl's Bloomin' Note: Unfortunately, I own neither the wonderful, beautiful magical world of Harry Potter and all those who dwell within it. Nor do I own the fantastic literary creation that is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. At lastly I do not own the perfect, witty, entrancing BBC adaptation set in modern London. They each belong to JKRowling, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Mark Gatiss & Stephen Moffat, respectively. The words, the imagery, the characterisation, the stories all belong to these wonderful people and are brought to life by the enchanting actors who depict them. I have merely absorbed each of these worlds ever so hungrily and proceeded to vomit them back up in one big mash-up. Explanation; writing practice, this is like exercise for me and also some sort of bizarre catharsis to help me get through my obsessions with both Harry Potter and BBC's Sherlock.
Feel free to criticise anything and everything with the bluntness of the great detective himself. I welcome it whole-heartedly. This story may or may not be continued based upon the feedback it receives. I do have big ideas for it, but it's really up to you. This chapter may be completely rehashed upon review as it was much too hastily written for my liking!
SPOILER ALERT! THE SHIPS THAT ARE SAILING THE SEA THAT IS THIS STORY!
If you have very particular pairings that you like (I totally understand as I know I do) in any of these fandoms I will give you a clue as to what ships this story will definitely hold; SH/JW, RL/SB, RW/HG. Those are my only diehard ships which are basically unavoidable…the rest is pretty much open for discussion! I'm hoping for perhaps a crossover ship, anyone fancy a Molly/Severus? Lestrade/Tonks? Mrs. Hudson/Dumbledore?…I'm getting carried away…
The Magic of Deduction: John Watson Meets Sherlock Holmes
It was dark, the kind of darkness that pressed down upon you, suffocating. The cold penetrated every pore, layers of clothing useless against the probing needling fingers of ice that would wind their way around one's heart; like a small animal, helpless and mutilated, struggling against barbed wire. There was screaming, in every direction, such terrified, pain-filled screaming, red and green light, piercing blindingly across the darkness, sickening thuds as bodies fell against the ground. But still the screaming continued, until John realised, it was his own.
John Watson sat bolt upright in bed. His body was drenched in rapidly cooling sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. His throat was raw from screaming, his eyes and cheeks held the tell-tale signs that he had been crying, his heart was pounding furiously as adrenaline pumped around his body. He clenched his hands with frustration at the repetitive nightmares that had plagued him since his service in the war. And now he was invalided, useless, living in a bleak half-way house as he "adjusted" to normal life. John didn't mention to the Healers that he had never really felt that adjusted to the conventional idea of "normal life"; John and normality had never gelled in the past. Why did they think a nice intelligent Healer who was fond of jumpers and tea had been so quick to volunteer for specialist Auror training? Instead, when the kindly Psychology-specialising Healer's probed at him with gentle questions and suggestions, John would give them a short, textbook answer to get them off his back. A too-calm "I'm fine.", a forced smile that didn't reach his eyes, an even handshake. Anything for them to leave him alone.
Reluctantly, the ex-auror rolled himself out of bed, gingerly putting his feet on the ground and heaving himself forward. He felt unbalanced, and with a wince grabbed the walking stick that lay innocently across his desk. God how he hated that stick. The Healers were convinced his limp were psychosomatic, this they had told him shortly after his return to London. John had been unable to restrain himself when he snapped back at them that they weren't the ones subjected to an Unforgivable for eight hours. Since then, they'd been rather hesitant to bring it up. John started the meticulous routine of getting ready. Showering, shaving, finding something clean to wear. What exactly he was getting ready for he didn't know. He planned guiltily in the back of his mind that this would be the day he'd find somewhere to live. Unfortunately, apart from the mungos healers being greatly against this and feeling the auror-healer was much too fragile to reintegrate himself fully into society, there was also the awkward offer that his sister Harry had given him to move in with her for a while at her place at Hogsmeade. This John refused to do, he would not be that pathetic, but at the moment he didn't really have many better offers. With a sigh, John slipped on his cloak, grabbed his wand and fled the bland building to escape to the hustle and bustle of London.
The morning passed fruitlessly, the few apartments John visited that were within his meagre price range, an ungrateful compensation granted by the Ministry for his services to the British Wizarding Community, were barely in any condition to be inhabited at all. Even with John's skilled hand at transfiguration they were in no condition to be made liveable. As he trudged through the park on his way to St. Mungos John felt more and more that moving in with Harry or staying at the half way house were his only options. He was stopped, however, when he heard a friendly and familiar voice.
"John Watson? Is that you?" Came the recognisable northern bellow that filled John with warmth and nostalgia of better days.
"Mike Standford." He greeted, shaking the wizard's hand warmly, pleased and surprised to see a friendly face. Mike and himself had been relative friends since Hogwarts; they'd been in the same year, Mike a Hufflepuff, John a Gryffindor, but they'd shared many classes together, and had become closer acquaintances in their later years, both determined to go on to become Healers, they went through training together.
Five minutes later and they were seated within the comfort of The Leaky Cauldron, Tom took their lunch orders and scurried away to the kitchen.
"So, how've you been John? Last I heard you were one of the Ministry's specialists in Egypt?"
"Uganda." Stated John, "Although I was stationed with the code-breakers for a short period, yes."
"Wow, sounds like back breaking stuff John, " Said Mike, genuinely impressed, "But I must say you're not looking all that…" The curiosity was of course expected, John looked a lot different from the vibrant young thing he once was, after what he'd experienced, what he'd seen…why, he was nigh unrecognisable.
"Severing curse to the shoulder, couldn't be fully repaired. Unforgivable exposure and dementor trauma is what they've really written me off for though." Mike looked horrified at the mere idea, and gave John one of those sympathetic smiles he'd grown to loathe. He ignored it.
"So, what brings you to London then? New career? I'd be happy to hear you're coming back to work at Mungo's though. Good Healer like you is always a welcome addition."
"It's good of you to say Mike but I'm not sure they'd let me back in until they close up my file. I'm actually looking for a flat. Tired of the half-way housing." Tom brought their meals and Mike began to tuck in.
"Oh!" He said around a mouthful of his sandwich, "And how goes it?"
"Impossible. You know the budgets they expect ex-operatives like me to live on? I couldn't get a place without a room-mate." He scoffed at the idea. But Mike gave him a puzzled look.
"Then why don't you? Share it with someone else I mean? Maybe be good for you, a bit of socialisation." John laughed bitterly at this, the sound was harsher than he intended, but Mike seemed unperturbed.
"Who'd want to live with me?" He asked with a lonely frustration. Mike surprised him with a laugh.
"You know," Conspired Mike with a smile, "You're the second person to say that to me today." He gave another little laugh. John stared at him in wonder.
"Who was the first?"
The next thing John knew, Mike had whished him to the old labs at St. Mungo's where they had trained relentlessly to pass their Healing exams. John let the Healer lead him through the familiar clinical white maze, footsteps falling into place like he'd never been away. They entered a room where a wizard was hunched over a Healer's cauldron, ingredients and implements littered around him.
"Mike, can I borrow your wand? I've misplaced mine." The man's deep baritone sounded from across the room, formalities, greetings and general etiquette either forgotten or ignored.
"Again? What about your spare?"
"Misplaced that one in an experiment." He muttered, his eyes never removed from the potion he was deeply concentrating on.
"What's it for?" Mike asked suspiciously, no doubt envisioning the many ways this man might misplace his own wand in an experiment.
"Need to send a message."
"Why can't you use the office floo?"
"I prefer to send a Patronus or memo" Still he concentrated upon the potion, a pipette hovering steadily above it, unmoving. John found himself talking and moving before he even thought about it.
"Here," He said, flipping his own wand over in his hand and offering it, handle first toward the strange man, "Use mine." Finally the wizard looked up, piercing eyes locking on John.
"Oh," He said with a neutral utter of surprise, "Thank you." He stood up to his full height and moved over to John with a graceful stride.
"Old friend of mine, John Watson." Informed Mike, gesturing towards John. The man made no acknowledgement of this, but simply accepted the wand from John and began concentrating in order to send a Patronus. John did not expect to hear the next words out of the wizard's mouth.
"Uganda or Egypt?"
John took a moment to catch up. He looked toward Mike in confusion but the other man just shrugged his shoulders and continued smiling.
"Excuse me?" He uttered quietly.
"I asked you: Uganda, or Egypt? Which on was it?" John was dumbfounded and made note to shut his mouth.
"Uganda. How-" Before he could question how this man knew, this man he had barely met, a young Healer entered with steaming mug of Butterbeer.
"Ah Molly," Greeted the wizard, accepting the Butterbeer from her, then he gave a small careless frown, "What happened to the lipstick?" The poor girl looked frazzled at this and attempted a casual smiles that came off as more of a grimace.
"It wasn't working for me." She practically whispered. Poor girl.
"Really?" Enquired the tall man, oblivious to her discomfort, "I thought it was a big improvement; your mouth looks too small now." John was dumb-stuck by the mans blunt attitude and watched hopelessly as the girl scuttled away mortified. John looked towards the now even stranger man who just sipped his Butterbeer nonchalantly. John was so lost in his tirade of confused thoughts as he tried to make sense of this situation and this man that he almost missed his next query.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gave John a quick flash of a smile as though this were the most normal and pleasant conversation he'd ever had. John's confusion began to pile up. He looked toward Mike.
"What-You told him about me?" He questioned. Unfortunately, Mike's look of confusion mirrored his own.
"Not a word." He said sincerely.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Demanded John.
"I did." Said the tall wizard simply, "I mentioned to Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for and now after lunch he shows up and introduces me to an old friend, a healer who was recently invalided home from Specialist Auror service in Uganda." John tried to keep calm.
"How did you know about Uganda?" He questioned quietly. The other wizard ignored him however.
"Found a nice little place in Central London; an easy spot for Diagon, Mungos and the Ministry. Together we should be able to afford it. Meet there tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock." He gave a small apologetic smile, "Sorry, got to dash, think I've left my riding crop in the mortuary." The man was now dressed in his scarf and cloak and began to sweep from the room before John pulled himself together.
"Is that it?" He questioned. The man stopped and turned on his heel, re-entering the room and staring at John before he spoke. The straight line of his mouth quirked up slightly at one side.
"Problem?" He enquired simply.
"We know nothing about each other, we don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."
"I know you're a Healer with specialist Auror training recently invalided home from Uganda. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, perhaps offered for you to move in, but you won't go to him because of something you don't approve of, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that the Healers think your limp in psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." He let the words hover in the air as his audience of Mike and John absorbed them, "That's enough to be going on with now I think." With that he once again began to depart, stopping only briefly at the door to impart the words; "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." And with a wink and a smile he was gone.
John looked toward Mike.
"Yeah," Said the other wizard with a laugh, "He's always like that."