Of Mysteries

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. If I was, I'd be taking a chocolate bath and writing a prequel on the Marauders and Lily.

Sirius wasn't sure when it started. It could have been a month, it could have been two, but there was something going on. Having known James for the better part of seventeen years and having been his best friend for equally long, he knew when something was up. One of his many virtues, he thought with a smirk, was his ability to read characters and James was an open book, who wore his heart on his sleeve for good measure.

Brushing the dark hair out of his eyes that would have made the hearts of any watching females flutter alarmingly, Sirius leaned back in the exceptionally ugly, yet amazingly comfortable armchair which his roommate had insisted they buy when they both left home. He felt like an anxious father, he thought with a wry smile. That was normally Remus's job, but since Dr Lupin was wrapped up in his new fiancée as well as his incredibly hectic schedule, he had failed to notice the change in his best friend and childhood companion.

Hearing the swift click of the key turning in the lock, Sirius attempted to whirl around in a menacing fashion, but the ancient chair got stuck halfway and Sirius gave it up as a bad job and abandoned the chair to face the man he thought of as the only brother he'd ever known.

"Care to tell me where you keep disappearing to, dickhead?"

The use of language was more affectionate than anything else. James knew that better than most. After all, he was more likely to indulge in it himself than to not when addressing Sirius.

"None of yours, mother."

If they were fifteen again, Sirius would've wrestled it out of him, but James was no longer the beanpole he'd been then and Sirius's ample ego refused to pick a fight he would probably lose.

James Potter was the only son of two wealthy, elderly parents who had worshiped the ground he walked on until one morning they'd been found lying still in their beds, pale and cold as death. For they had been dead. It had nearly killed James, who'd been barely nineteen at the time and Sirius, (who had been welcomed by the Potters as if he were a second son) had all but forced James to move in with him and helped the deep wounds to heal with the three Bs, Booze, Birds and Breakfast (Sirius was of the opinion that breakfast was the best meal of the day and frequently ate it for dinner and lunch)

But James wasn't nineteen anymore. At twenty four, he was one of the best police officers Sirius had ever met (and Sirius had encountered a fair few throughout his wild and not entirely misspent youth) and was on the brink of promotion to Detective. He was also (to Sirius's great annoyance) six foot two, with a shock of dark, eternally messy hair and hazel eyes that were frequently lit with humour and exasperation in the presence of his best friend. Easy on the eyes, Sirius thought with a kind of brotherly pride.

"Is it a crime to be concerned around here?"

"It is when you act like a little girl Pads."

Sirius made an indignant sound, as he always did when James brought his masculinity into question. But James was the champion at evasion and if he was trying to steer Sirius off course, Sirius would take the hit to his pride.

"You're always going out early, missing breakfast, and when you get back you look as if you want to top yourself. So, who's the girly one Prongsie?"

James scowled darkly.

"Bugger off."

Sirius grinned with delight, but let the subject drop. Of course, it could just be work, but Sirius knew James adored his work, no matter how much he whined about it. Yes, there was something afoot and Sirius was going to get to the bottom of it, if it killed him. James might be the almost-detective, but Sirius was Sherlock Holmes and by Jove, Watson, he was going to get to the bottom of James's odd behaviour.