Hello, Lovelies. I decided not to be as explicit in the abuse, or rather how it occurred. This is post Moriarty and in the books that makes it approximately three years after Sherlock "died". John isn't married, he and Mary had an argument-although I'd be spoiling it for you If I said anymore. Anyway, here you all are.
Chapter I- Not Boring
221B Baker St.- London England, Modern day
Sherlock Holmes was Bored. Yes, with a capital "B".
He was very Bored.
He could feel his mind rotting he was so Bored.
He wouldn't have been Bored that day, but John and Mrs Hudson had gotten rid of his experiments, they'd mumbled something about health safety and some such nonsense. He couldn't understand how they could brush science by in such a brisk manner. So what if there had been human viscera in the fridge. He'd been experimenting with the organs and he'd needed somewhere to put them where they wouldn't rot. Really, how could those two be so stupid? Sherlock had decided to spite them and smoke a fag, but it seemed that John had actually gotten rid of the latest pack he'd bought. Then Sherlock had decided to shoot that confounded wall again, it didn't matter that no one believed him- the wall did have it coming. John seemed to have had one of his rare moments of intelligence, however, and decided not just to hide the Browning but to take all the bullets with him to work, or at least leave them with Mrs Hudson.
So Sherlock was curled up in a sulking ball on the couch, wearing nothing but a sheet. If Lestrade or Mycroft or whoever wanted to come and give him a boring case, then they'd have to deal with him like this. Really, wasn't there anything interesting going on in England today? It was days such as this one where he rather missed Moriarty. At least the consulting criminal hadn't been boring. Not to mention he'd given Sherlock quite the conundrum the previous years; what with making Sherlock fake his death and then run about figuring out ways to neutralise threats to his loved ones… Even Mycroft, although Sherlock would die before he informed his brother of that.
Anyway, Sherlock was sulking when the laptop gave a trill, someone had emailed. Sherlock cocked his head and decided to see what it was. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. So off the couch he came, sheet wrapped around him like a blanket, and he shuffled over to the computer. Sherlock looked at the email, it seemed someone wanted to request an investigation.
Dear Mr Holmes,
I'm very glad that you are back fore I've very much missed the web journal. However, I am writing to let you know that if you are in need of a case then you shall find one along Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surrey.
Regards
Sherlock stared at the email. There were two sentences, short, concise and vague. There was no name, no specific information; just a tease. Someone familiar with older vernacular, which could mean a Ms Marple impersonator. Somehow Sherlock didn't think so. This email was…interesting. He had to look into this, and because he was still feeling vindictive; he shan't tell John about it.
Sherlock threw the sheet off and ran starkers to his room. He quickly dressed and went on his way, down the stairs and out into the nippy October air. He hailed a cab to the underground and got on the next train for Surrey. So much for Boredom.
Privet Drive- Little Whinging Surrey
He was Bored again! The letter had been a disappointment, really. He felt betrayed. He'd walked up Privet Drive twice now. Twice! The houses were boring and identical, everyone was a snoop, an adulterer or a twat. Often a combination. He'd noticed number four had a tad more interesting secret of child labour, if the grass impressions had been anything to go by, but that was something the idiotic police could handle. He was walking back down Privet Drive, intent on skulking back to London, when he saw a small boy working in the garden at number four. Sherlock scoffed at the idea that there was much that could save the plants from winter, but that didn't seem to stop the dark haired child.
As he approached he noticed the clothes were from an obese spoilt brat, size of the clothing and quality of the fabric consistent with upper-middle class family that allowed son to over eat on a regular basis. This current child, he observed also wore shoes too large for him, was severely malnourished and seemed approximately seven years of age, rough measurement of bone length through simple observation as well as height indicated age as well as unusual small sleeping quarters that resulted in growth stunting. Also bruising, burns and scar tissue hidden beneath the clothes that fell off his body he was so skinny. Sherlock felt a pang of anger and sympathy for the child, the sensation beginning a burning hole in his gut. He wrote it off as biological instinct; seeing as he and the child looked very similar, even in their bone structure, to an extent.
The child should have been in primary school, it wasn't even the afternoon, but here he was. Home schooled, Sherlock concluded. He noticed the boy was holding a small garden snake that was bloody. It was obviously dead but the emotional reaction of the child indicated he was not the cause, tears and the manner in which the serpent was held. What really got to Sherlock, what convinced him that the email had been true after all, was that as the child buried the serpent in a shallow grave he hissed to the corpse in a long sibilant string. However, it seemed to be a phonetically structured sound that Sherlock knew, because linguistics was useful knowledge and so stored in him mind palace, to be a structure type for language. The child was, Sherlock could only conclude, speaking snake.
Sherlock was captivated. He had to learn, he made to figure out this puzzle. For the first time in a while Sherlock was absorbed into a mystery. The young boy looked up, noticing his presence. The clear, vibrant green irises and the livid scar on his forehead struck Sherlock. The child froze his hands on the little grave he'd covered.
" It died. When someone dies they need to get buried or they make other people ill. It's good for plants too," the boy said, before he ran back into the house. Sherlock knew that to be logical, interesting that a seven year old knew such logic. His curiosity was piqued even further. Sherlock needed to observe this new puzzle.
Sherlock had spent hours watching the house from multiple different locations, slightly changing his dress, appearance and accent to fool the neighbours into not realising he was the same person. He did his best to get views of the windows but that was usually rare. Night had fallen. Most of the families were sitting down at the table but Sherlock didn't care, he had eyes only for number four and what that family was doing.
The wind had picked up and the air had become chill with the setting sun. Sherlock had noticed clouds overhead and concluded that there would be a light to moderate rain that evening, he wasn't wrong. The back door of number four opened to find a man pushing Sherlock's new puzzle out of the door. Was that a walrus? Sherlock asked as he blinked. Well, it didn't matter, only his puzzle did.
The puzzle staggered down the street, Sherlock followed, and seemed to know the area better than a child should. Whilst exploring, Sherlock had memorised the street layout of the boring place. He'd delete the information as soon as he left, but for now it may be useful. As Sherlock followed from a distance he suddenly saw an arm appear from an alley and grab the puzzle. His puzzle disappeared and Sherlock hurried to catch up. His sharp hearing picked up a gruff voice, indistinct wording as the puzzle screamed.
Sherlock entered the alley just in time to see the puzzle was pressed against the wall with his large pants falling down and a large man, paedophile, Sherlock deduced, undoing his own before something really interesting happened. One moment the scene before him was occurring and before Sherlock could react there was a bright red light emitted from the puzzle that rushed into the man's chest; it threw the man across the alley and he smacked with a sickening crunch into the opposite wall. Even Anderson would have known the creep was dead.
Sherlock's puzzle was collapsed trembling against the wall and Sherlock was better able to see the extent of abuse. In less than thirty seconds he took in the belt impressions, bruising, healing leg bone and signs of previous sexual assault, the last much older than the others. This puzzle wasn't just complex and fascinating, he was tragic. Sherlock approached slowly, and the boy saw him. The wide green eyes grew even wider, fear obvious. The mysterious boy hurriedly pulled his ragged jeans up.
"It is alright. I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Sherlock," he said with his hands opened and out before him. He'd rather not experience what the dead man had.
"Are you going to tell my aunt and uncle?" the child asked. Parents dead or deemed unfit. Most likely the former, Sherlock deduced. Relatives excuse abuse as a punishment, no to increase the severity of the abuse, for displays of…What? Magic? Sherlock wasn't sure, but it had most definitely happened and it wasn't a hoax. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth. Science hadn't disproven magic, so it only remained an improbability. Until now, because Sherlock had most certainly not been hallucinating. Truth, then, Sherlock concluded. In front of him was a small warlock.
"No, I'm not going to tell your relatives. I'm actually here to help. What's your name?" Sherlock asked. Okay the bit about helping had been a lie, sort of. He didn't condone child abuse, or rape. So he'd be doing something to help this little warlock, but he was more concerned with unravelling the puzzle.
"Freak. Or Boy, it depends on uncle's mood. You're the man from the burial today. Have you followed me all the way from Privet Drive?"
Sherlock nodded. The child knew they were five blocks away from his…Home. Interesting. However, Sherlock wasn't interested in that, he was interested in the warlock's name. Psychological and emotional abuse as well? They don't half ass it do they.
"Why are you called freak? It's not a little boy's name," Sherlock said. He was pretty sure it wasn't an acceptable name. The warlock had risen from a crouch now, and he did a half-shrug.
"I've always been called that, I was left at number four when my parents died. They say car accident, but I think they're lying. I should go now, I'm going to get in trouble for this," it was said with such a forlorn tone that held too much bitterness for a seven year old to have. The same way Sherlock had spoken to Mummy at that age.
"Come live with me," Sherlock said before he knew it. He froze, not only had he just compared this tiny warlock to himself, but now he was doing something very illogical. The green eyes turned to him, full of hope and bitter wisdom.
"You saw what I can do and you want to live with me?" he sounded sceptical, but there was hope hidden there as well. Sherlock nodded. He'll be… An experiment. Yes, that's all, Sherlock told himself.
"I don't mind. People call me a freak as well. I personally think that being normal is boring," he said. The child took a step closer to him. He cocked his head, the light drizzle had turned rather heavy and they were both becoming wet.
"You're from a big city, and you live with other people… Are they nice?" the child with the big eyes asked. Sherlock blinked. Oh this will be interesting, he thought and smiled. A warm, genuine smile that didn't frighten people and that made him very handsome. He crouched down to the warlock's height.
"Yes, they are very nice people. John's a doctor and he loves children. Mrs Hudson is always ecstatic when a child lives in her building."
"She's your land lady." Another step closer, Sherlock could grab him if he so desired, but the child needed to make that move.
"Yes, and a very nice land lady too," Sherlock promised. The child took one last step towards him and nodded. Sherlock kept his smile as he scooped the little warlock into his arms.
"Then we're off to London."
A/N: I know, Harry is a bit OOC, but he's lived a hard life and he knows that he's different. So he does what any child does when placed in that circumstance, he learns to read people-the fact he's got magic makes it easier for him. Which is why he can tell Sherlock is from a big city, people in big cities tend to live with other people because of space and money matters, hence it's logical Sherlock lives with people if he's from a city. Harry is logical because it helps him survive, but it also piques Sherlock's interest. I didn't name Harry because he gets a new name, although his nickname will be Harry. The name by itself though is boring, and must be upgraded. Also , John appears next ch. TA
