Author's note: Many thanks for your reviews! Personally, I wasn't expecting it to get such a decent following so quickly! I actually wrote the first chapter as a prompt for Omegle to do a bit of PotterLock roleplaying, however many were either a) scared away from the length, or b) uninterested, so I felt as though it deserved a place on at least! Anyhow, I apologize for the last error in the first chapter where my spellcheck put 'aurorer' instead of 'auror'. Sorry about that. If you do happen to find any errors on here, or have any suggestions please throw your comments my way! All reviews are read and taken into account; and plus, the only way I'm ever really going to learn and improve is via the joys of constructive criticism, so I'm all ears (or… eyes xD)

And I'll try to update when I can. This is more of a hobby than anything else as I trudge through my first 'real' novel (if it 'ever' gets anywhere), we'll see.

Anyyyyhow, enjoy! From your friendly neighborhood Aussie.

That case we discussed. Very unusual circumstances. – SH

St. Bart's Morgue. ASAP. – SH

The familiar chime of John's mobile sung out throughout the flat with each consecutive message that graced the screen, leaving John a little at odds with what to do. On one hand, if he chose to respond to Sherlock's summons he would undoubtedly be asked to give a brief onceover on the corpse regarding any professional insight he may have. On the other hand, if he just happened to 'ignore' the persistent cries for attention, his uneventful day may be given permission to continue.

Come if convenient. – SH

Now, John wasn't totally averse to helping Sherlock. If anything, that was why he still chose to hang around (and of course, sentiment), but today John had his reasons. And it wasn't just the post-apocalyptic anniversary blues that had him feeling a little bit blue. This 'case' that had sprung up a good week ago had the entire collection of New Scotland Yard absolutely riddled and had Sherlock practically salivating over all the question marks that kept continuously popping up; but John however, had the whole thing sorted the moment he had surveyed the crime scene and laid his eyes on the rather voluptuous corpse who had been sprawled out over the woodwork. In normal circumstances, John would have volunteered up any and all knowledge to have at his friend's disposal, which would have likely led to the case being solved quick smart. Unfortunately though, these weren't exactly normal circumstances and unfortunately spanned outwards from the world of muggles, being of a 'magical' nature.

If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH

"John!" A motherly yell echoed from the kitchen. "Your phone seems to be wanting your attention! What's a bet that's Sherlock?" The sounds of cups clanging on trays could be heard from the alcove that made up the quaint little kitchen of 221B, followed by a kettle slowly roaring to a boil. "Probably about that poor lady they found last week. All this murder business, it's dreadful isn't it?" She sighed, not quite aware of the one-sided direction her conversation had taken.

Your absence is noted, but not warranted. Arrive, preferably now. – SH

"John? Might be important…" Mrs. Hudson circled around from behind his chair, taking care to lower the tray on the central coffee table (ironically; for tea). As she did so, her eyes quickly scanned over John and it didn't take a detective to tell that he was currently 'spaced out'. "Are you sure you're alright? And I don't mean to nag; you've just looked a bit… Depressed lately, and I worry John. I honestly do." Again, her words of tender concern received nothing but vacancy from the doctor, his eyes practically staring holes into the window starting to be flecked with droplets from a light downpour. This time, she extended a hand out to his shoulder, but was surprisingly deflected from John; now back in the present.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." Poor John, he couldn't be further from the truth. But secrets were of no unfamiliarity to this ex-auror. If anything, he was beyond dumbfounded that Sherlock had never even so much asscraped the surface of John's phenomenal, earth-shattering secret that had the potential to rewrite the concepts of science and technology as humanity knew (although he was entirely thankful that his secret had remained just so), but John likely put down his luck to the simple reason that he had never given in to the constant pull that his wand demanded. Since the day he had resigned from his position as an auror and walked away from a life he never had intentions to go back to, his wand and a few other sentimental magical trinkets locked away in his cupboard had never been given the time or day to see the light.

And it was going to stay that way.

Permanently.

Although; given the nature of this most recent case, he wasn't sure how long 'permanent' would stay that way. Sherlock 'had' to solve a case; there was no ifs or buts about it and despite the fact that there were some cases that Sherlock had left on the backburner (for now) due to lack of evidence or simply due to disinterest, not being able to solve a murder of this nature would absolutely send him scratching up the wall. The worst of that being; any and all frustrations would be taken out on John, and until a case of this nature got solved, those infrequent hunts for cigarettes, bullets in the wall and returns back to the float soaked in the blood of an innocent swine would be all too frequent. That wasn't to say John was willing to totally go and break the Statute of Secrecy to save his sanity, but he'd have to do 'something' to put Sherlock off the scent.

He might not ever be 'on' the scent.

Fair point. It wasn't as though Sherlock's inhuman radar for evidence had ever been tuned in to a craft that surpassed all reasonable physics and logic, so why should he be worried? After all, John was fairly confident that there wasn't special vault lodged away in Sherlock's mind palace with 'Magic and things that do not make sense' stamped on the door. Although, he mustn't forget that the consulting detective's brain worked like a bloody hard drive, the Internet and the server governing the files of WikiLeaks, all combined. To assume anything at this point (with Sherlock involved) was nothing short of dangerous and reckless. To assume that the witch or wizard responsible had been extremely careful in their kill, completely absent in the presence of any looming CCTV cameras nestled on the edge of rooftops or strapped to the stem of street-poles, was nothing short of crazy. And worse off, making the rash assumption that the secrecy of magic was totally and utterly Sherlock-proof was insane.

But what was there to be worried about? Magic didn't leave a burn residue, and it certainly didn't leave an aroma detectable by muggles. If the spell had been strong enough, a wizard or witch may possibly be able to detect a subtle hint of ozone, but that was often minutes after the spell had been cast. And upon initial inspection of the crime scene, John was certain he hadn't picked up anything obvious that would instantly raise alarms among others present. Additionally, the corpse wielded no obvious marks. The only one possible obvious marker that even a muggle could pick up on was visual evidence; evidence that would have been confiscated immediately by the British government (a.k.a. Mycroft) if it ever were to surface amidst thousands of hours worth of footage constantly reeling through the system as a 'counter-terrorism' measure.

And now, quite possibly proving to be a means of capturing a magical murder; potentially revealing the nature of all magical beings and thus exposing them to the muggle world. However, there had always been talk within the Ministry regarding the political elite of muggles having a very minor awareness of the magical world, and John had always assumed the 'elite' referred to the UK Prime Minister as the sole individual who had been granted that knowledge, but nobody knew for certain. There were often times where John suspected that Mycroft may 'possibly' have been informed at some point, however even the millions of strings that Mycroft had at his disposal… Even that might not be enough. Not for the 'ice man', anyhow.

Do I need to call for a police escort? – SH

"Well, you don't look fine. You look a little lost, actually." John felt his surroundings pull him back to the present (again), and he took note that the landlady had taken advantage of the flat's comforts by perching herself gracefully on the edge of Sherlock's favored chair. "Come on John, talk to me? I know Sherlock can be a bit of a brick wall at times, and I don't blame you for keeping it all in." She smiled sweetly, bringing the fine china to her lips but being ever so reserved as she sipped on the Earl Grey. "After my husband died, I-"

Oh, here we go.

"Mrs. Hudson." John teetered forward on the edge of his chair and wrapped both hands around each other. "You're right. You're undeniably right." His voice wavered a little at the end; his hands nervously departing from their interlocked clasp as he ran both hands exasperatingly down his face. "It's something I can't talk to Sherlock about, the whole 'sentiment' thing, you know…"

"Oh."

"And it's not like I try to make this whole 'pent-up' emotions nonsense a habit." John, where the heck are you going with this? "But with what's happened in the past, I suppose it always just seems to catch up with me, I let my worries get out of hand…"

"Oh."

John shuffled awkwardly on the edge of his seat. "And I know I'm the one parading around a moral compass of 'sentiment' in this flat and quite possibly the only one with a conscious, but there's only so much you can disclose to Sherlock, and something like… Well, this. I just can't, and… Mrs. Hudson?" John couldn't help but observe the ever-growing grin that was widening on the old woman's face.

"Why are you smiling?"

This beckoned a chuckle in response, the landlady apparently dangerously close to breaking out in a fit of laughter. "Oh John." She lightly plopped the cup down on the tray, and brought a hand up to her mouth. "I don't mean to giggle, but if you wanted to tell Sherlock you might as well come out with it. I don't blame you, that man can be a bit blind! Especially in these sorts of affairs; the heart can be the most curious thing…"

"Mrs. Hudson!" If he had been drinking tea right now, he likely would have choked on it. "Mrs. Hudson. I- No. No, how many times do I have to tell you, I – No!" He shook his head, his face falling to a frantic 'I've lost this battle' expression. "Please, I am not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but me and Sherlock-"

The poor woman, her little heart was doing its best to keep up with her fit of giggles as she did her best to maintain her composure to some degree, although that battle was soon becoming short lived. "Live and let live, that's what I always say."

"Firstly- No! You're not trapping me in this discussion. Not again." He wildly shook his head, but felt his cheeks redden from becoming a little flustered. "What I meant to say was that this day marks the anniversary regarding the death of a very close friend." He paused, a pallor replacing the flushed redness on his face, all the while noticing that Mrs. Hudson had responded to his emotional confession with a sudden bout of silence. "Actually, a few."

"Oh, John." Her voice suddenly sounded a little bit weaker, a bit broken. "If I had any idea I wouldn't have had a laugh. I'm terribly sorry."

John raised his head a little higher, but responded with a weak smile. "It's okay. Honestly, it happened years ago, earlier days in the army." He sighed; his hands finding their way back together and intertwining as he spoke. "But I lost some close friends a few years ago to this day, and I suppose you never quite move on from something like that." It didn't matter that Sherlock had displayed a few minor errors in his deductive prowess as he stripped John's history from a few minor picks of evidence; John had still been in an army. He had still been injured, and he had still lost his closest friends. It didn't matter how wrong Sherlock had been, because no matter which way you looked at it; he was spot-on.

All right, enough of this. I can spend the day moping, or I can kick Sherlock off the scent.

John, it's Molly. Sherlock is complaining and becoming a nuisance. Please come soon? – Mx

"Perhaps you should give it a rest for today… Sherlock can cope on his own, he's a big boy."

John quickly snatched his phone off the side table, slid through the list of unread messages, but took note of the most recent one and quickly punched in a response, and quickly pocketed the little device.

On my way. He can manage. – JW.

"No… No, it's fine. Nothing will get done if I'm sitting around drinking tea for the rest of the day." He sighed, tipping on to his feet and ambling over towards the coat rack, where he eagerly snatched his heavy jacket. "Don't feel the need to wash up." He added; somehow hoping the aroma of stagnant tea water would overcome the waft of decaying flesh seeping through the unsealed fridge.

As he made his way to the front door, he checked his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed. Wallet, keys, coins and phone… Check. Although, something was obviously missing; the same item that had been 'missing' every single time he departed from the doors of 221B and embarked out onto the streets of London to aid Sherlock in a case, or every time he worked a few hours at the local clinic. That 'one' item he once could never be without; the very thing that had saved his life more times than he could count.

"John? You're doing that 'look' again?" Mrs. Hudson piped up from her spot; still elegantly seated (like a true lady, no less). "Are you sure you don't want to give this one a miss?"

Oh, if only you knew just how much I'd love to take you up on that offer.

"I'm fine…" He murmured, his attention trailing to the direction of his room.

Don't do it John, you don't need it.

"Absolutely fine…" Slipping his jacket over his shoulders, he wandered towards the corridor; in the interim his head and his heart were having their own personal battles within.

Really, you don't need it. Taking that with you would be like taking the murder weapon to the crime scene. If Sherlock even caught sight of it…

If this is a case of magic, the murderer might still be lingering around. If you have to defend yourself, wouldn't you rather have a wand at your side?

You're in muggle territory now! You have a Browning at your disposal. USE THAT!

You know very well that a gun can only do so much damage to a wizard who can cast a shield, who can stop time, or perhaps… Can petrify you before you even have a chance to blink.

But it's a risk! I'm not a wizard anymore, I'm not, I gave that all up. I gave it up….

Until the day magic stops running through your veins, John Watson, you will forever remain an irregular piece of a puzzle that is society; one that doesn't belong. You don't have to use it, and absolute worst case Sherlock sees, you can just use the Obliviate spell.

No. No. No. I won't go meddling with the mind of the world's only consulting detective. No!

Oh for f- Fine. FINE! I'll take the wand!

"Well you don't look fine!" She hollered from the living room as she watched John disappear into his own living quarters and the door lightly closed behind him, but it appeared as though time for tea was over. "I'll be downstairs if you need me!" She called again, but received no response. Thoroughly used to being politely ignored, especially by Sherlock, a light 'oh' escaped her lips as she stood lightly from the comforts of her chair, gave a very light visual inspection of the sheer state of the flat (note to self: dusting to be done), and made an unobtrusive exit out of the flat; with only a light thudding of footsteps being a signal to John that she had finally left.

John however, wasn't focusing on that right now. On the contrary, he had somehow justified his brain that he needed his wand. He had retrieved the little wooden stem from the depths of his cupboard and now held the mystical little trinket in his hands. To describe the feeling of holding it again, after all these years was simply indescribable. It was as if he had returned an unused limb to his body, one that had been severed for so long… The feeling of magic synapsing from his fingertips to the perfectly crafted woodwork was in every sense of the word; magical. If he had sat on the edge of his bedside any longer with wand in hand, he feared he would start to tear up. Worse still, he feared he would never make it out of his flat.

Oh go on, just a little test.

Just to see if you've still got it.

Something easy…

Clutching the end of the wand with the utmost care, a brief smile cracked across his face as he uttered the word "Oh… What the hell; Lumos!" The exchange between hands, to wand to tip was instant; a stream of light erupted from the tip and filled the room with radiance that no artificial light could easily compete with and effortlessly continued to glow brighter, and brighter and brighter. It was fair to say that John could have easily been mistaken for a little kid opening his first Christmas present, or a first year casting their first 'proper' spell. It was brilliant. The feeling was brilliant; and the ecstasy of the moment felt as though it could have lasted forever. At least, until, a more depressing thought came to mind.

Wait.

He wouldn't have bugged my room… No, he wouldn't have.

Would he?

John wanted to curse himself (not literally) for being so careless amongst all the excitement of practically casting his 'first' spell, and despite it being highly likely that Sherlock would have bothered to take the effort to install bugs into John's private dwellings, he couldn't discount the possibility. Thankfully, he was somewhat aware of a spell that could render surveillance useless (although to what degree, he couldn't recall), but that was something he would have to research on a later date. "Out! Out!" At first the wand chose not to comply, and shone a little brighter with each command. Fortunately though, it eventually gave in and began to dim until the light puffed out of existence, leaving the wand appearing as nothing more than a wooden stick. "Right, time to go…" His heart still raced a tad from the thrill of wielding magic for the first time in a long time, but he woefully had to put his turbulent mixture of joy and worry aside as the thought of Sherlock giving poor Molly grief (with John as the cause) came to mind.

He naturally lodged the wand down the side of his jeans, thankful that the cooler winter months had called for thicker denim (useful considering it shrouded the slight raise in fabric that the wand would cause), and made haste towards the exit.

I bloody hope I'm making the right decision.

And with that, he was gone and the flat became blissfully empty.