"You must be John's friend." Sherlock offered a handshake, but the tall stranger merely eyed his outstretched arm and shoved his own hand further into his pockets. Sherlock turned the movement into a gesture, ushering the stranger back toward the table in the corner. "John will be along in a minute, but it is a pleasure to meet you. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Severus Snape."

They sat. Sherlock mentally recorded everything he could about the man - the way he moved, the way he sat in his chair, the way his eyes flickered over the other patrons of the bar and dismissed them as unimportant. He seemed content with silence, but he must have requested this meeting for a reason . . .

"John told me you're a detective," the man said abruptly. "Best in Britain, if he's to be believed."

Sherlock nodded, accepting his due.

"So prove it." His black eyes bored into Sherlock's. "Guess what I'm here for."

Sherlock leaned back a bit in his chair. "It's obvious - you're looking for the boy."

There it was - the surprise on the stranger's face, quickly concealed. "I am looking for someone, a boy named Harry," Snape conceded. "How could you tell?"

Here we go again. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to recite the signs. "Shall I start at the beginning? Your clothes fit well but you move uncomfortably in them, indicating the garments are your own but you don't normally dress in a jumper and pressed trousers. You also leave space around your wrists as you move your hands, indicating you're used to somewhat larger sleeves than you're currently wearing. What else could it be but robes?"

The strangers eyes gave nothing away. "Continue," he said.

"Your shoes are worn and have taller soles than most, which indicates you are used to wearing that particular pair of footwear but you also spend quite a bit of time on your feet, hence the cushioning inserts. What else could you be but a priest? Catholic, I should say, judging from the greasiness of your hair, which indicates lack of a romantic partner in your life and no particular interest in finding one. Furthermore, your impressive poker face and that faint sneer would suggest a keen mind - one which is continually vexed by idiocy. I know the feeling. That glare, though . . . that can only come from being surrounded by a particular brand of idiocy you find in two places: high schools, or working in a retail establishment around the holidays. Given your choice of vocation, I'm betting it's the former - you're a priest who teaches at a private high school. Catholic, of course."

He was on a roll now, gathering confidence as he went and the stranger didn't contradict him. "Now, the boy - that's a logical deduction as well. Your nose shows evidence of having been broken, probably in childhood. Statistically likely that it was your father. That would also explain the faint scars on your neck, most likely. The faded tattoo on the inside of your arm is a testament to a rebellious period, I'm guessing in your late teens, which you now regret. That rebellious stage suggests you probably got into the priesthood by way of a street ministry, probably one with a particularly helpful male mentor. You had the tattoo removed, and you foreswore all those things priests are supposed to give up, but there was one thing you couldn't forget entirely - your sexual orientation."

That got a response, albeit just a small tightening around the lips, but Sherlock continued. "You refused to shake my hand, not out of superiority, but because you find me attractive and you're not comfortable with being gay. Not surprising; a lot of priests aren't. But the fact that you're wearing street clothing instead of the robe you're accustomed to donning would indicate that you are in disguise, so to speak, which suggests there is a reason you'd prefer not to be seen meeting with a strange man. The disguise plus your career plus your past abuse all adds up to an incident with a student, male, old enough to insist he's an adult - and he may be, under British law - but young enough he's still entrusted into your care. So the obvious conclusion is that something went wrong during the course of this affair, the boy vanished, and you're desperate to find him and do damage control if you discover he's told anyone."

Sherlock allowed himself a return smirk and waited for Father Snape's response. Really, people always insisted on this little display of his talent, but they very rarely reacted well to it . . . John was the only one who seemed to find it endearing, truthfully. It wasn't like he -

A sudden unpleasant churning in his stomach cut his self-congratulations short. "Excuse me," he groaned out. "I'll be right back." And he sprinted for the loo.

John got to the table just as Sherlock doubled over and ran for the lavatory. He considered calling out to him, asking if he was okay, but it seemed pointless.

"Severus."

"John." Severus stood and shook his hand. "I hope I didn't ruin the little meeting."

John glanced toward the restrooms. "Is he . . ."

Severus snorted. "A mild bout of dry heaves, is all. He'll be all right in an hour or so."

Lord. "He did that insufferable 'I can read into your soul' thing, I take it?"

"Your friend is a blooming idiot. I'll have to track down Harry some other way. Thank you for the invitation to lunch, though - shall we stay?" He jerked his head toward the restrooms. "He'll be in there for quite a while longer."