Hello! Um, first, I would like to express my amazement and gratitude for all the reviews and alerts I have seen! I appreciate all the critique and encouragement!

Anyone else see A Scandal in Belgravia? Probably. I watched it online and holy crud was my mind was blown! We read The Hound of the Baskervilles in school this year, and I loved it, so I can't wait for next episode!

Anyways, sorry if I missed any mistakes in advance. No real warnings for this chapter. Hope you all enjoy! (:


He had never meant for anyone to find out.

You would think it would be difficult to hide such a monumental part of your life from everyone around you. But not for Sherlock Holmes, master of suppression. He had lasted for years at 221B Baker Street without so much as one person suspecting him as being anything other than a genius jerk.

Because it was one thing to be outstanding when it came to solving mysteries, bringing criminals to justice and diabolical plots to their doom. It was entirely different to be actually...well...extraordinary. Not through intelligence or lack of social skills, but supernaturally so.

Sherlock had designed a life for himself where those supernatural aspects were unnecessary and unneeded. Therefore, what was the point in using them? It was the perfect paradox in which he would never have to expose his true nature to anyone.

Unless, of course, an unforeseen life-or-death instance would have to go and subconsciously drag the magic out of him. Yes, magic.

While he had been an exceedingly clever child, that was not all he had ever been. Plenty of Holmes in the family lineage were clever. However, as far as he knew, he was the only relative who was born a wizard.

And Sherlock, no matter how easily he ignored this fact, could never stop being a wizard. Which put quite a damper on the comfortable position he had construed for himself here in London. Pretending was always an option, but now he required an alternative. Which left the blaring, unanswered question at hand: What now?

He could run.

Sherlock was by no means adverse to the plan. He had proven it just now, when he sprinted away from the startled faces of John and Lestrade. Along with the impulsive idea, though, came an insufferable lists of doubts. Doubts he wasn't keen to linger on—but with a mind like his, every doubt had to be thoroughly probed.

So, what was he to do? Throw away this life and pick up another? Rebuild once more and convince himself that, yes, it was for the best and nobody would miss him anyway. Mycroft could make it happen with a swish of that infuriating umbrella. One phone call and he could... It was so remarkably easy to plan.

Sherlock usually called people who took the easy way out for their own convenience cowards. But with him, it had never been about cowardice—it was survival, always about survival.

To ease his internal struggle, he headed into the bathroom for a cold splash of water. In the mirror, Sherlock could see that his face was still flushed from the earlier extertion, and his eyes were lined with edges of old ghosts and darkness. He would have disregarded the observation from his mind and went back to his inward crisis, had the bloody household items not started talking to him again.

Disappearing, again? his reflection seemed to mock.

He countered it with a dry, unamused look.

Well, up until this point, it had been working rather fairly in my favor.

Giving the bothersome mirror no time to taunt him further, Sherlock quickly retreated into the bedroom. There, he sifted through the miscellaneous junk scattered underneath his bed, trying to locate the suitcase he knew he had stored. He eventually found the case, but hesitated in retrieving it.

Eventually, he stood up and began to pace instead. Entering the living area, where the curtains were half-drawn, half-opened, and drawing curious shadows across the wall, he found his thoughts continued to waver.

Nobody would care if he were to up and vanish one day...but would he miss them?

Perhaps miss was too strong a word, or them too personal a pronoun. How about, would he miss the routine?

Would he yearn for the mysteries Lestrade invited him to consult on that cured his wretched boredom? Mrs. Hudson's affectionate doting? The free meals from grateful restaurant owners? Brown-nosing the oblivious Molly to get what he wanted at the morgue? ...or sharing the flat with John; a true, unexpected friend?

Was he prepared to give all this up in exchange for a clean slate that might never live up to the standards old memories provided?

Losing every ounce of motivation to carry on, Sherlock flopped onto the couch with a groan. Inner turmoil was so irritating. He debated over what to do, going over every available option in his head, when a familiar face sitting atop the mantle decided to invite itself into the discussion.

Aren't you tired of lying? the skull questioned.

The detective glared it from where he sat.

Everyone lies. I just happen to have an aptitude for it.

Ever think that telling them the truth could be a good thing?

Sherlock dismissed the idea with a scoff.

Oh, yes. I'm such a freak already; this will really tip their perspective over the edge. Not that I care. Life would simply be so much more intolerable with the London underworld breathing down my neck to perform parlor tricks.

Before the outdated piece of anatomy could reciprocate a response, footfalls echoed from downstairs. They were hurried, more rushed than his own had been, and Sherlock immediately knew who they belonged to. Who else could it have been but—

John stumbled through the front door, which was left ajar, and caught himself with a ragged call of, "—Sherlock!" He coughed, trying to regain his breath, while surveying whatever situation he had walked in on.

Which happened to be his flatmate holding a conference with the mantlepiece. Nothing unusual there.

John raised his brow quizzically. "Consulting the skull?"

Sherlock smirked despite himself, though found his gaze unable to meet that of the doctor's. "Just a friendly chat, actually," he said.

"A meaningful conversation, I'm sure."

The detective smirked again, but the humor was short-lived. It was obvious why his friend was in such a haste. John wanted and answers; not that Sherlock blamed him. Only he really was in no mood to deal with this sort of situation. Maybe that was why absconding from the flat had automatically seemed so appealing.

Fate, apparently, decided he'd run enough for one lifetime. It was time to amble towards the truth headlong, and in doing so, reveal the secrets he had so carefully concealed. Knowing this, however, did not make him any less thrilled to go through the trouble.

Luckily, though stern when it came to important matters like these, John Watson was as confused as any normal person would be after seeing what he saw. "About before—what happened with the suspect—exactly what—?"

Sherlock sighed. "You're really not very experienced at giving the third degree, are you?"

John laughed shakily. "'Fraid not." There was a distinguished pause. "That doesn't mean you're getting off the hook without answering me."

The sentence was more of an order than an inquiry, so the detective felt justified in saying nothing to it.

"I just...I hope you're not going to deny what occurred. Addressing it directly shouldn't be difficult, since you're generally pretty straightforward. And honestly, it seems a waste of valuable time; as both you, I, and Lestrade saw it with our own eyes. All I want to know is," John trailed off.

And finally, when he seemed to gather the nerve, added, "...how did you do it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock averted his eyes out the window, arm resting above the solid pane of glass, while watching the mounds of citizens scurry about. How many of them like him, walking among the normal people, just trying to keep in step? Or vice-versa? "You wouldn't believe me even if I said."

"Try me," his flatmate challenged.

There it was. The dare. The dare to say anything to catch them off guard. People issued it all the time, thinking they were too well-versed in this world and immune to surprise. Predictable. When the answer actually shattered their expectations, they never gained his sympathy.

Still, John was a friend, and all-too human, so he braced himself for the reaction to the bombshell he was about to drop.

"Fine, then," Sherlock sniffed, and crossed his arms belligerently. "Magic."

Muggles never did react well to having their prim little worlds turned upside down.

John looked as though he didn't believe he heard him correctly. "Pardon?"

Then again, the life he and John Watson shared was anything but 'prim.'

"Magic. I used magic to stun Badger and prevent the impending act of violence," repeated Sherlock.

"Yes, I saw that," John confirmed. "But you're saying you used...y-you what, jinxed the bloke with a nasty spell?"

Sherlock huffed. "Putting it rather vaguely there, but yes."

For a couple of minutes, John just stared.

"You know, I never thought you were the type to pull someone's leg." There was the immediate disbelief; next came the indignation— "Then again, maybe you are. But seriously, I was expecting something a tad more realistic from you, Sherlock."

The detective tensed, the oncoming fight foreseen. "This is as close to truth as you'll get, John, because this is—"

"Bollux," John cut off, suddenly angry. "The least you could do is not lie to my face about it!"

"I'm not joking," Sherlock snapped.

It took a few quiet moments of calm for both parties to simmer. When John finally recognized the expression on his flatmate's face to be nothing else than absolute seriousness, he was rightfully befuddled.

"You mean you're—you're not pull my leg here?" Skepticism was still present, but at last, John was willing to believe him.

"I'm a wizard, John," Sherlock reiterated coolly. "A person who retains the ability to use magic."

The doctor gaped incredulously. "Wizards exist?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, more than you know. They're everywhere; living amongst the population unnoticed. Especially here in London." Sherlock smiled thinly, knowing how absurd this must sound to someone who had no clue.

"...okay," the doctor said, trying to digest it all. "So, these magical folks, they just—what, hide in secrecy?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no. There's an entire magical community where they abide by their own laws and traditions. However, there are also those who coexist peacefully among the muggles."

"Muggles?"

"Non-magical people," Sherlock clarified, appearing mildly apologetic. "Sorry. It's just a term they—we—use."

"No offense taken," John assured, quite obviously not peeved, or merely unaware that some people took the word as an insult. "It's just...wow. A lot to take in."

"I imagine," the detective muttered blandly. Then he sighed. "You want to go grab a bite to eat?"

John was floored. "What?"

"Are you hungry? I'm feeling a bit peckish myself."

On one hand, Sherlock admitting to being 'peckish' was an astounding feat in itself. John was tempted to agree if only as an excuse to get his friend to eat a decent meal. But then there was the other hand...

"Uh, yeah, sure—you just spilled like, your deepest, most well-hidden secret to me, and you're suggesting we go out to eat?"

Sherlock blinked rather flippantly. "Well, yes. Since the cat's out of the bag, nothing much else I can do, can I? The whole point of a secret is to not have it told. Now that is has been, what have I got to lose?"

It was truly hard to argue with such simplistic logic when presented in the most concrete and confident of tones.

"Dinner, then?" he pressed, waiting for an affirmative.

"Alright," John agreed, pursing his mouth in bemusement. "Though can't you just, you know, conjure a sandwich out of thin air or something equally as convenient?"

Sherlock donned a sour look. "I'm not a bloody genie," he muttered tartly.

Unable to resist pursuing the matter, John went on, "If you were, you'd think it would be a lot more tidy around here. You could make it shine for dear Mrs. Hudson's sake, at the very least. "

Oh yes, he was going to have fun with this.

"Or glow, even! Can you make it glow?"

"Stop it," Sherlock warned, making his way out the door.

John grinned the whole way downstairs. Since, after all, annoyed as he was, Sherlock had never said he couldn't make things glow either.

No, there never was a dull moment at the Baker Street residence.


Sherlock found himself dashing back up to the flat not three seconds after they'd stepped out the door.

'Wait a minute,' he told John, stopping abruptly outside their home. 'I just need to pop back in quick.'

It really was nothing, thought Sherlock. Nothing vitally important, anyway.

For whatever strange reason, it was something he still felt had to be done.

He swiftly crossed the living area and went into his bedroom, avoiding the mess of experiments strewn about the floor. On the far wall, there were a few paintings adding to the decor. All of them had been hand-crafted and given as gifts by an old friend. A field in the countryside that reminded him of home. A barren tree with wicked-shaped branches standing tall.

Finally, a winged creature with the body of a horse, reptilian face-features, and bat-like wings spread out against a misty forest landscape.

Flipping it open to expose a secret compartment behind, Sherlock came to a lock that needed no combination. Holding his breath, he uttered the first—technically second, if you count subconscious magic, which barely counted at all in his book—spell he had in so long. He spoke it delicately, like greeting an old friend,

"Alohomora."

The small door behind the picture whooshed open. On the inside, it was no more than an ordinary muggle safe. That just so happened to be holding a few extraordinary objects. He saw the one he sought laying between an old pair of dog tags and a vial of a shimmering liquid.

A less-than-a-foot long, sleek stick of black wood. It laid proud and unique among the other valuables scattered across the hidden compartment, for none of them held a candle to the worth of such a tool.

Carefully, with a gentleness he rarely showed, Sherlock took the wand between his two index fingers, ghosting his thumb over the surface. It was covered in a fine layer of dust, probably from remaining untouched for a number of years.

"Hullo, old friend," he said quietly, enthralled by the potential power he could wield, yet had ignored, now coursing through his tingling fingertips. He compared the sensation to a knight reuniting with his sword after ages of retirement.

And he would brandish such a weapon again, it seemed, if the situation required it. Sherlock didn't know exactly why he was inclined to take such a caution, but his gut had rarely failed him before.

So without further examination, he slipped the wand into the inner pocket of his coat, safely tucked away and concealed from prying eyes. Maybe his paranoia was merely rearing its ugly head, but Sherlock decided it'd be best to keep it on his person now that his secret was uncovered.

Just in case.


Sherlock is vaguely foreshadowing for the future—John is making genie jokes. Hopefully they're all not too OOC?

Let me know what you thought, since feedback is adored!