Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Sherlock'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

A/N: In my research, I have found that not only are gun-control laws far more restrictive in the UK, but so, too, are the laws governing the sales of ammunition. I find this rather mind-boggling (I live in Texas, one of the gun-friendliest states in the US, save for maybe Alaska and Wyoming).

Warnings: All warnings from chapter one still apply. And this isn't so much a complete chapter as a bit of filler to get some more details on the magic I'm using in this world conveyed. Nothing from episode two will be seen here – that's for the next chapter (real chapter). I also tie up a few loose ends from chapter one that didn't want to tie neatly with where the chapter ended.

Infinitely Stranger

It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Chapter Two: Little Things

Sherlock remained utterly silent, studying the thin scar and blood smear on his palm, right up until the two of them reached the door to 221B Baker Street. And then it was like someone had flipped a switch when he hung his coat on the peg behind the door to the living room; questions poured forth at a rate which John had trouble following. After a full five minutes of this rapid-fire gibberish, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and split the air with a shrill whistle. "Sherlock! I know you've got questions, but – damn it – ask them one at a time, alright?"

The younger man frowned at the sudden interruption, then nodded. "One moment," he said, heading for his computer. "Do you mind if I record the information?"

John shrugged. "Considering the fact that just about anything I can possibly tell you has already been published? Go ahead."

Sherlock paused and looked up at John. "What do you mean 'published'?"

"Just that. Every spell I know is in a book somewhere. Sure, the ones that work are sandwiched in among dozens that don't – and you have to be a mage to get any of the real ones to work anyway – but they're all out there somewhere. Usually, they're found in those new-age books in the alternate religion section of the bookshops." At Sherlock's expression, John reiterated, "I did tell you that none of this is secret information. It's just too fantastical to be believed."

Sherlock blinked for a moment, assimilating the information, then quickly tinkered with his laptop. "Audio, I think. I'll transcribe the important parts later." He picked up the computer then headed over to the armchairs. Sitting his computer on top of Jennifer Wilson's suitcase, he adjusted the position of the supporting chair so that it was at a good angle to catch sound from both himself and John's chair. While he was setting up, John took off his jacket and draped it over the arm of 'his' chair. He sat his satchel next to the chair, then took a seat.

Sherlock wasted no time in getting started. "What is magic?"

John let out a little laugh. "Hell if I know. I don't think anyone really knows for sure. It's part force, part energy, part will, and semi-sentient on the whole."

"Semi-sentient?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Magic has a mind of her own. There are times you can cast a spell with all the right components and it simply won't work. No rhyme nor reason to it, it just won't happen."

"And there is no pattern to these… misfirings?"

"None that I've been able to see. Ajay, either, for that matter, and he's got about thirty years more experience than I do." The leyline tendril was back. It arched up against John's injured leg, then wrapped itself in a figure-eight around both of his ankles, sending microscopic vibrations coursing up both of his legs like the purring of a cat. He hadn't realized quite how sore he was after that mad dash earlier, but now, with no more adrenaline coursing through him to mask it, and with the 'line draining it away, he could appreciate just how much muscle-strain that little jog had inflicted on him.

"You said you see magic. Does that mean you see when it's being used…?

John shook his head. "Well, yes, but not just then. Magic is in everything, and I do mean everything."

"Even the air?"

"Well, maybe not that, not unless there's a lot of smoke or fog or dust," John allowed. "But everything else? Yeah. Something simple, like that chunk of obsidian I've got, has the least. Living things have the most…" he trailed off, remembering a nonliving example which didn't follow the rules as he knew them.

"But…?" Sherlock verbally nudged.

"It's not just sight that 'sees' magic. It's all the senses. Hearing, touch, smell, taste. Magic has an imprint on all of them, but the easiest way for me to describe it is through sight," John said, laying an important bit of groundwork. Sherlock nodded to show he was following. "When I focus on the magical aspect, what I consider 'turning on' the othersight, it most commonly shows up as visual glowing. That obsidian chunk and other things like it – say an ice cube or an empty soda can – they all glow at about the same level. Slightly more complicated things glow a little brighter, like a filled soda can, or a chunk of concrete – the kind with all the little pebbles stuck in it. Next up are single-celled organisms like bacteria. Then come mushrooms and the like, then complicated machinery like cars – they glow at about the same level as plants. Animals glow even more brightly, with the brightest one I've ever seen being an orca in San Diego, and yes, that includes humans, too. Mages are the brightest of all, unless they're shielding themselves… However," John reached the crux of the matter, "I saw, quite by accident, a computer system that glowed so strongly, it nearly blinded me." Before Sherlock could ask anything about it, John held up a hand to halt the line of questioning before it could begin. "No, I can't say where it was. Even mentioning I saw it would be enough for certain people with far too much power than should be in the hands of bureaucrats to be very, very angry with me. But, on the topic of computers, I can say, without any fear of reprisals, that they've been getting steadily brighter over time. Particularly the last couple of years." He didn't mention how that last little factoid alternatively thrilled and frightened the bejesus out of him.

"Fascinating," Sherlock replied, his mind obviously drawing conclusions in mere moments that had taken John several years to piece together. "So magic has no adverse effects on electronics?"

John shook his head and mentally reached down to stroke the tendril around his feet. "It depends, mostly on the mage, but partially on the gadget itself. Ajay hates technology with a passion – or it hates him, I've never really been clear on the distinction. Not counting the cash register he has for the store, the only electronics he has are a microwave that he winds up needing to replace every six months or so, a motion-activated door chime," John didn't clarify that one, he let Sherlock fill in the blanks as he saw fit, "an old-fashioned rotary telephone, and an old vacuum-tube television; both of which have remained the same since I met him. His clocks are all wind-up, and the last time I saw him flip a light switch, the bulb exploded."

"What about you?" Sherlock gestured vaguely in the direction of his laptop. "What sorts of effects do you have on electronics?"

"About normal, I'd say, with one exception."

"And that is?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow twitched slightly higher than the other.

"My watch," John pulled up his sleeve a bit to show it to Sherlock.

"Casio, analog, and you've replaced the band," Sherlock nearly folded in half to peer closer at it, "five times, most recently about a month ago." He straightened back up.

"Yes," John confirmed the deductions, idly wondering how he knew how many times he'd changed the band over the years, "but in the twenty years I've owned it, I've never needed to have the battery replaced," John said. "Dad gave it to me when I left for uni," he felt the need to defend still owning it after two decades.

"Sentiment," Sherlock said the word like most would say 'scum' or 'toenail fungus'.

"It's not a dirty word, you know," John said, wondering just what Sherlock had against it.

"It clouds the mind; makes logical thought nearly impossible."

"There's very little room for logic in magic – you're going to need to understand that right off," John warned him. "For example, take mistletoe." He indicated the ring he was still wearing. "The plant itself is toxic, but thee-quarters of the healing spells out there need it to work. Or how about a coffin nail?" He turned his hand over to show the slightly-rusty bead of metal on the 'working' side. "Logic would dictate that the nail from a used coffin would be best suited to spells that bring about harm – hexes – right?" Sherlock nodded. "You're wrong. A coffin nail, or the metal it's made from, is one of the strongest focuses you can find for protective magics, and again, it's used in about half of all healing spells."

"Where do you get coffin nails these days, I wonder?" Sherlock didn't seem to realize he'd asked the question out loud.

John chuckled. "They're not that hard to find, not if you know what to look for. I've got a handful in my kit back at the flat I've been staying in that I ordered online from a pagan supply place in the States – the person guaranteed them as the real deal, salvaged from one of their Civil War era cemeteries that had been moved to make way for a dam."

"How do you know they're genuine? I wouldn't simply take the word of someone I only know through the internet."

"Valid point, but there are ways to check. Anything that's been in close contact with death, particularly over a long period of time, has an imprint of that death on it." John explained, then cleared his throat. "Would tea be remiss?" he asked.

Sherlock had the grace to look a little abashed. "My apologies – I was rather more interested –"

"It's fine," John assured him, nudging the tentacle aside so he could stand. Sherlock grabbed the laptop and moved it to the kitchen table. John quickly spotted the electric kettle on the counter. "Where d'you keep the tea?"

"I think Mrs. Hudson left a box in the cabinet next to the sink. Cups should be there, too," the world's only consulting detective made a vague gesture and settled himself at the table. "You were saying?"

John quickly located both cups and tea, but found nothing but a box of baking soda in the fridge. "No milk?"

"Haven't had time to do any shopping yet. Sugar's in the silver canister by the stove – I take two." Sherlock double checked his audio program to make sure it was still running. "But you were saying about death leaving an imprint?" he refused to be deterred from his line of inquiry.

John nodded and filled the kettle from the tap. "Yes. Anything in contact with something dead – a whole being, I mean, not just something like leather – has a very distinct reading with othersight, though in this case, it isn't my sight that notices it."

"How do you sense it, then?"

"Oddly, death smells like cinnamon to me. But not the spice kind, the hot kind they use to make candy."

"It's the same spice," Sherlock couldn't help but correct him. "It's just they use concentrated oil for sweets. The spice itself is ground bark."

Shutting off the tap, John plugged the kettle in and flicked the switch. "I knew that, actually. I have several spells that use the spice, but only two which require the concentrated oil."

"At least that's one ingredient you shouldn't have much difficulty locating," Sherlock said, a small smile tugging the corners of his eyes.

"True enough," John agreed.

"What's the oddest ingredient you've found yourself in need of?"

"Hmm…" John gave it some considerable thought. "You might need to narrow your definition of 'odd', Sherlock, because in a certain sense, they're all a bit odd."

"Bizarre, random, grossly disgusting, or just plain hard to find," Sherlock said, being anything but helpful.

"Well, as for random… the most random thing I've ever seen as a requirement for a spell was a handmade hoop of yucca fibers," John heard the kettle start to simmer, so he stripped the paper off of a pair of teabags and placed them in the cups he'd found.

"Doesn't seem any more or less odd than mistletoe or coffin nails," Sherlock commented.

"It does when it's the only ingredient needed for the spell, but then again, I'm unfamiliar with the symbolism." He looked over at Sherlock. "I ought to warn you, I'm not a purist by any sense of the word – I honestly don't care what culture the spells come from as long as they work as advertised."

"Yucca… That would be the American Southwest, yes?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded. "What is it used for?"

"Shapeshifting," John blithely replied. "Specifically, shapeshifting to an animal form."

"What?" John was glad Sherlock hadn't yet had his teacup in hand. He was certain the younger man would have wound up either dropping it or spraying his laptop.

Smiling to himself at Sherlock's shocked expression, John explained while hunting out the sugar. "Animal shapeshifting. The magic itself is extremely easy, provided you've done your homework. You can't change into something you don't know, after all, and I'm not just talking about what the creature looks like. You have to have a level of knowledge about the animal's anatomy that rivals the best specialist veterinarian or else it simply won't work. You also have to choose an animal that's about your same size – you can't suddenly turn into a mosquito or an elephant." Locating the sugar canister, he added two cubes to one cup, then returned it to the cupboard. "Spoon?"

Sherlock gestured at the vertical row of drawers to the side of the sink, under the counter while asking, "Is this something you can do?"

Quickly locating a spoon in the top drawer, John shrugged. "I've given it some considerable thought. Even looked into a couple of animals I thought sounded appealing, but never really had the time for concentrated study. And, yes, before you ask, I already have the hoop I'd need. All that remains is the studying." The kettle clicked off with a little chime. John turned around and poured the water into the waiting cups, stirred Sherlock's, then picked both up and headed back to the comfort of the living room's armchairs.

Sherlock grabbed the laptop and followed him. A moment later, they were resettled in their chairs, the laptop back on the pink lady's suitcase. "If you can change yourself so drastically, can you change other things, too?" He might have worded the question to make it seem as though he were asking about turning a turtle into a teapot, but John could see a lingering longing, a holdover from childhood daydreams, lurking in the man's silvery-blue eyes.

He toyed with the tea bag for a moment before answering. "I've not found any sort of spell that lets a mage change anything – or anyone – but themselves." He glanced up, and yes – there was a brief flash of honest disappointment on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock quickly recovered, however. "So, going back a couple of steps in this conversation –"

"Is that what this is?" John mused aloud. "It rather feels more like an interrogation, albeit a friendly one." He snickered at Sherlock's 'stop interrupting me' face. "Sorry. Go ahead."

He cleared his throat. "Going back a couple of steps in this conversation, if yucca was the most random ingredient, what was the hardest one to locate?"

"That one's easy – High John the Conqueror oil. It's used in nearly every luck spell I've ever seen, but the plant itself only grows in the southern US, and though it was once-popular, hardly anyone grows it any more. The oil's made from the root, blended with either olive or sunflower oils. Last time I found any, I wound up paying nearly sixty pounds for a two-ounce bottle. Luckily – pun not intended – you never need to use much of it at a time." Now that I'm no longer at risk for deployments to other countries for years on end, it might be worthwhile to look into a rooftop garden or something similar. It would certainly be kinder on my pocketbook than paying through the nose for certain ingredients. "I honestly don't know why it fell out of favor with gardeners – it's quite a lovely flower."

"Luck spells?"

John leveled an odd look at Sherlock. "I've lived, off and on, in a war zone for the last eight years, Sherlock; yet I've only managed to be shot the once. You think I could manage that without some heavy-duty luck on my side?" He didn't mention the gambling that had almost been bad enough to run him out of medical school – his first experience with luck magic – particularly since he didn't even bother with lottery scratch-cards any more.

Sherlock blinked and assimilated the new information. He took a sip of his tea, then said, "You mentioned you were shot outside Kandahar…?"

"That really isn't to do with magic," John didn't much like discussing Afghanistan. It was the main reason why Ella thought he had 'trust issues'. Seemingly in response to the sudden rush of painful memories, the leyline tentacle surged up and set about wrapping itself around both of John's legs, his waist, and then draped a length of itself like a stole around his shoulders. The 'pointy end' took to petting his right hand.

"I think it does – you said you were using luck magic, but you still got shot."

John shrugged, more than confused by the leyline, but not wanting it to leave – it seemed to be putting up a bit of a buffer of sorts between the memories and his emotions. "I lived… eight others in that same attack didn't." Including the nineteen year old kid who'd been riding in the truck right next to him when everything went pear shaped. John reached up and wiped the side of his face with the back of his hand, banishing the phantom feeling of arterial spray. Far better for it to be a sense-memory than a full-on flashback.

"It wasn't a case where the magic didn't work?"

John shook his head. "I was hit by a .50-caliber armor-piercing incendiary, Sherlock. My corpse should have been missing everything from my left clavicle to my fingertips, as well as a goodly chunk of the ribs, flesh, and organs off that side. If that isn't 'luck', I don't know what would qualify."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You were shot in the shoulder, but you claimed the limp wasn't psychosomatic…"

"The force knocked me out of the truck and down a miniature mountainside. All sand and stone and scrub. Cracked my knee – quite literally – on a rock. Starburst hairline fracture of the right patella, coupled with a partial dislocation and moderate nerve damage. It isn't psychosomatic." John wanted to be angry, furious even, that anyone would question him on something medical. He hadn't been boasting when he'd told Sherlock he was a very good doctor. Not only had he been the top of his class at Bart's, but he'd saved more than one life the medics had triaged as 'hopeless'. And it hadn't anything at all to do with magic – he couldn't afford the drain on himself that it would take to magically heal some of the gaping holes he'd fixed in people; it would have killed him to even try. He wanted to be angry, but couldn't quite drum up the energy. The leyline seemed to be draining or buffering that emotion, too. The tendril's 'head' or 'hand' had swiftly moved up to caress his hair and face, like a mother comforting an upset toddler after a fall in the park.

Sherlock, of course, couldn't see the tendril, nor could he see what was going on in John's mind. He smirked and leaned forwards a touch. "If it isn't psychosomatic, John, then where is your cane?"

"I left it at the restaurant, didn't I?" John breathed out the not-a-question in total disbelief and closed his eyes. "Now that – that's to do with magic, and I personally don't understand it a bit." The warm traces from the leyline migrated back to petting his right hand. John sipped his tea, then met Sherlock's gaze. "I told you that magic as a whole is at least semi-sentient, right?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

"Well, the magic that isn't bound up in something collects in what are called leylines. Most of the time, they're likened to rivers or streams of magic flowing through the world, but that's not entirely accurate – they don't really 'flow' anywhere like water does. They're more like roots or webs running just under the surface of the earth, following patterns that only make sense to them. Each collection of connected leylines has it's own… personality, for lack of a better word. As it happens, there is a single leyline system running under London. It's large enough that it also covers a few miles outside the main metropolitan area, too. And ever since yesterday, London's 'line system has been behaving particularly oddly towards me."

"How does it usually behave?"

"It's a mutually-ignoring relationship, typically," John said, then finished off his tea. "Neither mage nor leyline takes any special notice of one another, save for if the mage feels run-down. In that case, simply being near a leyline is akin to having a cup of really strong coffee. Otherwise, leylines and mages have the same sort of relationship as people and rivers – they coexist, but don't really interact. However, if something happens to the mage, like if they've been in an accident and are in imminent danger of death, or if they've burned themselves out on casting spells, they can call to the nearest 'line and offer a 'service unto magic' in exchange for just enough of a boost to ensure they don't die before assistance can reach them."

"'Service unto magic'?"

"Basically, you're promising the leyline consciousness a favor that it's allowed to call in at any point after you've healed up. Annie Holt's the only mage I know of who's done so – she's… God, she's gotta be ninety-six or ninety-seven now. But she told me that when she was in her twenties, she'd been walking home from her job at a laundry, and was mugged. She's still got the scar across her throat – the man snuck up behind her and slit it ear-to-ear," the tendril wrapped around John shivered, "then took off with her weeks' wages. But she survived by promising the strongest leyline in London a service unto magic in exchange for her life. Magic likes being used, so it accepted. Annie survived." The magical tentacle hugged John on the last two words.

"What did the leyline have her do, or don't you know?" Sherlock asked, his tea sitting forgotten at his elbow while his hands took up a fidgety position palm-to-palm just under his chin.

"That was the weird part, the way Annie tells it. The magic wanted her to give a little boy a piece of stick-candy. It was several months after the mugging, mind, but the task she'd been set was to give a child a sweet."

"Ripple effect," Sherlock muttered, his voice quiet enough that John wasn't altogether certain that was, in fact, what he said. "So," he cleared his throat again, "if that is how a leyline usually behaves, how has it been acting strangely?"

The 'line wrapped around John seemed to give him an encouraging squeeze. "Well, up until yesterday afternoon, just before Mike took me to meet you, in fact, walking on my knee was the second most-painful thing I'd ever done."

"I assume the first was getting shot."

John nodded. "It was like someone had taken shards of glass and heated them red-hot, then wedged them behind my kneecap with each and every step. I've been living on oxycodone – if that tells you anything of significance – and even then, it only worked for maybe a couple of hours at a stretch."

"Nasty stuff," Sherlock commented.

"Yes, it's why I only took it if I had to go out somewhere. Probably why I've spent the majority of the last two months sitting at my desk, watching videos on Youtube," he said the second bit with more than a hint of self-depreciation. "Anyway, yesterday, I got entirely fed up with staying at my bedsit, so I decided to spend a little time outside. I've always been fond of Russell Square Park, so I went there. There's a smallish 'line that runs through the park, and one of the benches is bridged right smack over it. I got there – by this time, I'd met up with Mike – and we sat on that bench. The leyline took note of me. Acted like a cat at first, one begging for attention."

"How so?" Sherlock took John's pause for breath to ask for clarification.

"It sent up a tendril of itself. That tendril nudged me and it's only polite to reply, so I gave it a little pat with my own magic. I was careful just to make sure it was a 'hello' type pat, I was very clear on that. The last thing I need is to accidentally owe magic a favor. But it seemed to take that pat as an invitation. It wound up my injured leg and… Well, it drained the pain. I have no idea if it healed the nerve damage or if what it did was temporary or not, but for the first time since getting shot… I haven't had to take any sort of opiate in order to breathe." John seemed a little surprised himself at how long it had been. "And then it…" he trailed off, partly embarrassed and partly truly befuddled at what had happened next.

"What?"

"It petted me, like you'd pet a dog you're fond of. The 'line at the park wasn't the only one to act strangely, either – there's a pretty powerful leyline that runs right under this building, and it's been acting strangely since I got here, too!" The 'line vibrated oddly around him, and it took John a moment to realize it was laughing at him. John groaned and reached up through the tendril of power to rub at his forehead with his right hand. "Great. Now it's bloody laughing at me. Of all the things I've seen and done in my life, this just takes the damn cake – I've got a leyline-feeler wrapped around me like the world's longest, skinniest housecat, and it's bloody laughing at me."

As he sat there, the absurdity of the situation must have struck Sherlock – either that, or the man simply caught sight of the aggrieved and put-upon expression on his face – as the curly-haired git joined the leyline in laughing at him. "Quit it," John said, exasperatedly, and dropped his hand back to the armrest of the chair. "It's really not funny, Sherlock!" He was sure, had he known the man a little better, he could have come up with something to say which would have stopped him from laughing, but as it was… Well, I don't particularly know all that much about him, now do I?

"It's just," Sherlock managed to get out between snickers, "I'd never before truly understood what someone meant by saying 'they look like they're being nibbled to death by ducks' until just now."

John scowled at Sherlock. "Ta," he said sarcastically, then waited for the younger man's mirth to fade.

It didn't take as long as he would have figured before Sherlock managed to calm himself. "You mentioned not having what you needed to cast 'othersight' on me; I assume this indicates that you have the ability to make others sense magic as you do. Is that correct?"

John sighed and nodded. "Sort of. I can't make it so you really experience exactly what I do. Unlike when the term's used to reference a mage's inborn abilities, the spell for othersight is precisely just that – all it affects is the target's vision."

Sherlock's next question didn't surprise John in the least. "What do you need to cast it?"

"A true cat's eye gemstone of at least one karat in size, about the same amount of amber, a tablespoon or so of dried mugwort and an equal amount of wormwood," John rattled the list of ingredients off without needing to pause for thought. He saw the question rising in Sherlock's expression and answered it before it could be verbalized, "You're not the first person I've gone through the 'magic is real' conversation with, Sherlock. And for most, seeing is believing, so I've cast othersight several times over the years. If you want me to do so on you, all you need do is ask – and replace the cat's eye. Those damn things are bloody expensive."

"Does the cut or clarity of the gemstone matter?" Sherlock asked, slight 'thinking' lines forming between his brows.

John shook his head. "No, but it has to be true cat's eye – the jewelers call it chrysoberyl – not just a piece of quartz with a cat's eye effect."

"What of the amber? Are there any specific requirements towards that aspect?"

"None – it doesn't even have to be one piece. There just has to be a roughly equal amount of both amber and cat's eye, just like the wormwood and mugwort need to be in equal amounts."

"'Equal amounts'…" Sherlock let out a tiny sigh. "Does that mean equal mass? Weight? Area? Volume?"

"Um… Considering amber's really light – a lot lighter than people expect – it's volume, I'd say, is what you're looking for." John suddenly got a mental image of Sherlock in the lab yesterday afternoon. Enigmatical comments about riding crops aside, he paused and recalled the boxes of chemistry equipment in the kitchen, he really is a scientist at heart, isn't he? "Both gems get ground down, and you use equal quantities of both powders." A yawn ambushed John. Stretching as well as he could without disturbing the leyline too much, he glanced at his watch. Jesus, is that all it is? Twelve-thirty? Feels like I've been up for days!

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him and John could only guess what the world's only consulting detective was seeing. Probably figured out Mum's a botanist from how my eyes crinkle or some such. The brunette reached over to the laptop and clicked a key without so much as glancing at it. "Enough for now. I believe Mrs. Hudson keeps the bedroom upstairs furnished with linens. I'll endeavor to have milk available come morning," he said, clearly dismissing John from the conversation and the room as he got to his feet and wound around stacked boxes to where a violin case rested on his desk.

John yawned again and nodded. "Suppose you don't need to hear it, but –"

Sherlock just waved a nonchalant hand in his direction, "Yes, yes – you'll be taking the spare room." The latches on the case clicked open as punctuation to his comment. "I'll tell Mrs. Hudson when she wakes."

Reluctantly, the tendril unwound from around him and allowed him out of the chair. Picking up his jacket and his satchel, John headed for the stairs that lead to the attic level of the townhouse. Halfway up the stairs, he had to pause as the sound of an extremely rapid chromatic scale sounded from the living room, then merged into the first movement of Schoenberg's Violin Concerto. John simply stood there, listening for several minutes as the expertly-played piece of music washed over him. You know, I'm glad I'm not a jealous man, he thought, then forced his feet to continue carrying him up the stairs.

He reached the landing where the steps, like the ones below, twisted in a 180-degree bend. John had to focus on his othersense – the dim light from the living room had faded to the point where he couldn't see much otherwise. Since wood was once-alive, it had a particular greenish 'glow' about it. Plastic was a similar case, having been oil in a previous incarnation, and living many eons ago, so the light switch was relatively easy to locate. He flicked the switch and 'deactivated' his othersight. The light revealed a landing similar to the one on the floor below, only about six times larger, and – like the one below – it sported a pair of doors, one to his left, and one straight ahead. He checked the door on the left first, and found a cozy white-tiled bathroom, complete with claw-foot tub and copper fixtures.

The second door opened to reveal a singularly massive space, divided neatly in half by a pair of half-walls with built-in shelving, that supported a checkerboard of colored glass panels stretching to the ceiling. The area closest to the door held a fireplace, positioned directly over the fireplace in the living room below, along with a tired-looking roll-top desk, a metal folding chair, and a pair of matching armchairs facing the fireplace. The chairs had once been a dark blue, but had long since faded to a comfortable no-color grey.

"The more I see of this flat, the more I like it," John whispered to himself, not even aware he had done so. He walked across the slightly creaky wooden floor to see what was behind the colorful room partition. I wonder why Sherlock didn't claim this floor as his? He's certainly got enough stuff to need the extra space. Then again, he paused for a moment, looking a little closer at the walls. The area with the desk – John figured he'd call it his study, for lack of a better term – only had two electrical outlets. That's probably why. But it's not like I really need more than that. I've got my phone charger and the one for my laptop, and that's about it. Though I might want to consider getting a lamp or two. Having just the overhead out here would get a little irritating. He continued into the back portion of the room. A standard double-sized bed, lacking in sheets and blankets for the mattress, but sporting a bookcase headboard, was positioned to his right, bracketed with a pair of nightstands supporting matched bronze lamps. To the left stood a wardrobe, which looked much like the rest of the furniture – a little battered and worn, but still perfectly serviceable.

John walked over to the nearest nightstand and clicked on the lamp, then toed out of his shoes. He sat his satchel on the floor, his jacket absently draped over it, then took a look at the contents of the wardrobe. There wasn't much: three sets of sheets, all in variations of blue and green floral prints; two waffle-weave thermal blankets, both well-washed blue, and an itchy-looking crocheted quilt, the zigzag pattern consisting of every color under the sun.

It took him all of five minutes to make up the bed with one of the sets of sheets and a blanket. He pulled his jumper off and balled it up to serve as a pillow, then stripped out of his flannel and jeans, hanging both on the small row of pegs bolted to the wall next to the wardrobe. Forgetting to turn the lights off, he was asleep moments after he laid down.

Violin music followed him into his dreams.

"This place is a complete nightmare," Sherlock said, glancing around John's pathetic little bedsit.

John, even though he agreed, winced a little. "Well," he said, hurrying over to where his magic-supplies were still spread all over and around the bed, "it's not usually such a mess."

"The mess is the only thing giving it any sort of personality," came the reply.

"Yes, well…" John wasn't sure what to say next, so he didn't say anything. Instead, he set about getting all the magical supplies packed back into their boxes.

Sherlock leaned against the counter that separated the living area from the kitchen. "Will this take long?" he asked, checking his phone for messages.

"No, not long," John replied, tucking the flaps of a cardboard box under each other. "Maybe twenty minutes."

"Good. I told Lestrade we'd be by around noon."

John glanced at his watch. "It's only half-nine."

"Twenty minutes to pack, another twenty to get back to Baker Street," Sherlock ticked off points using his fingers. "I am assuming a shower would be something to indulge in once we get back and you've clean clothing to change into, so thirty minutes for that. And I am further assuming you would wish to be unpacked today as well."

John shrugged. "I've lived half my life out of a duffle bag, Sherlock. Waiting to unpack isn't going to bother me any."

Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow at him. "You're just stalling."

Knowing he'd promised the younger man he'd cast othersight on him as soon as he was unpacked, John grinned. "You sure you really want me to? I mean – you see everything as it is. Wouldn't do for you to go overloading that brain of yours."

"You deal with it," Sherlock replied with a little shrug.

John scooped a handful of loose pebbles of various semiprecious gems back into their leather pouch and tucked it into one of the wooden boxes spread over his bed. "Yeah, true enough. But I was also born this way. I've only ever had my othersenses stripped once, and the experience was enough to tell me that I never wanted it to happen again." He moved on to the next box, also made of wood, but containing pop-up rows of padded holders in which identical glass rubber-stoppered jars of various liquids were stored, each jar sporting a handwritten label. The only jar 'missing' was the confusion oil he had in his satchel – which he'd left back at Baker Street, along with his jumper. "It wasn't losing the sight that bothered me so much – it was when it came back."

At Sherlock's silence, John looked up from his packing. He could practically feel the skepticism pouring off of the younger man. "Have you ever spent a couple of hours blindfolded?"

"I hardly see how that's relevant."

"It's the only thing I can think of that even comes close to what othersight is, though. So, have you? I don't want the details on why, just a yes or no is good enough."

Sherlock nodded, slowly.

"And when the blindfold was removed, did you notice how much more intense colors seemed to be?"

"Illusory, caused by the deprivation of mankind's most-essential sense."

"I know that," John's voice carried a hint of impatience. "I know it's all in your mind, but it doesn't change the subjective experience, now does it? Go around for a while without sight, and when it comes back, it all seems somehow more than it was before. It's a lot like that – othersight, I mean. Only it's about a thousand times more intense."

The look he got in return was still disbelieving, but John gave up trying to explain it. He'll see what I'm talking about soon enough, I suppose. I don't think that even mentioning the fact that the last three people I saw have othersight cast on them fainted from the experience would be enough to dissuade him. It's something he's going to have to see for himself. It took about ten of his prophesized twenty minutes to get the wheeled, hard-sided brown suitcase repacked with all the boxes of his magical whatnots.

That done, he moved on to the rest of the flat. Retrieving his duffle from underneath his bed, he stuffed his pillow into it, then headed to his desk. Opening the bottom drawer, he quickly had his clean socks and underwear transferred into the bag. Next came the top drawer. His laptop and charger were set aside on the desk's surface – he had a carrying case specifically for it. His jar of Scrabble tiles tucked nicely in his jacket pocket. And then there was his Browning.

That's what I forgot to grab last night! I got so sidetracked by the magic, I completely forgot about the gun. He resisted the urge to smack himself in the head. "Um…"

The unintended vocalization captured Sherlock's attention. He looked over. "Weren't you supposed to return that when they sent you home?" he asked, his tone only mildly curious.

"Would have, if the Army knew I'd had it. I turned in the one of record, but I'd reported this one stolen not long after I got to Afghanistan the first time. It only took me three days to realize having a backup would be a good idea, but I also knew there was no chance in hell that they'd approve an official backup weapon for a surgeon." John reached into the drawer and picked up his Browning. He ejected the clip, then racked the slide to remove the bullet from the chamber.

"Didn't whoever they had pack your things think to check?"

John shrugged. "Half the officers there have all done the same thing. Nobody was going to turn in anyone else. Besides, if I remember rightly – which may not be the case, they were pumping me pretty full of morphine at the time – it was Bill Murray who packed for me, and even if it weren't unofficial standard practice, he would rather lose a limb than rat out a friend; he was my primary nurse and is the only reason I'm still breathing right now." He tucked the gun into the duffle, then zippered the clip into an outside pocket of the bag.

"This may not have occurred to you, but have you thought how you're to obtain more ammunition for it, should the need arise?"

John nodded and double-checked the desk. Good, not forgetting anything this time. "I've thought about it," he said, heading for the closet between the kitchen and bath.

Sherlock followed. "And?" he prompted, resuming his leaning posture against the kitchen sink.

"And you needn't worry about it. If I wind up needing to restock, I'll simply let you know how much you owe me." John tucked a stack of t-shirts into the duffle, followed by his olive green jacket, and then moved on to his impressive collection of jumpers.

"And why would I pay for your ammunition?"

"Because, the way I see it, you wouldn't've asked if you didn't plan on using it." A small smirk twitched the corners of Sherlock's mouth at the correct deduction. "It's only fair you replace what you use. However," John paused and leveled a stern look at his new flatmate, "it will take some time, so please take that into consideration before arbitrarily absconding with my pistol, yeah?"

"How much time?"

"Between two and three weeks," John replied without hesitation, then returned to his closet. Next came his flannel shirts.

"No way to expedite that?"

John shook his head. "Nope. Only a week in the mail, but the rest of the time's to allow the shipper to get everything together."

"Hmm…"

Why do I not like the sound of that? John continued putting his clothes in the duffle, finishing up with the flannel shirts and moving on to his jeans. "Okay, what was the 'hmm' for?"

"Oh, nothing, just an idle musing."

Jeans done, next came his pajamas. "Out with it already, Sherlock."

"Is ammunition the only stupidly-illegal item you obtain from this shipper?" Sherlock looked far too thoughtful for John's liking. "It is always best to know one's options."

"Considering I don't even want to ask, the answer is yes. Bullets are the only semi-illegal item I ever ask for. And no, before you ask, I'm not putting you in contact with them. Ever." John was tempted to use Captain Watson and make a 'suggestion' that Sherlock forget it, but he decided to keep that in reserve. Just in case. His spare washcloth and towel were next, and finally, the quilt his mother had given him while he'd still been in hospital. It was far too big for a twin-sized bed, but would do admirably on the double in his room at Baker Street.

"Pity," Sherlock said as John stepped into the bath.

"Not really," John replied, retrieving his shaving kit from under the sink and his toothbrush from the holder bolted to the wall. He snagged the half-empty prescription bottle of oxycodone out of Sherlock's curious hands and shoved it in the duffle, as well; it had been on the back of the sink until the detective had spotted it. Wish I didn't need to have it. Wish I'd never needed it to begin with, but it's probably a good idea – just in case what the leylines did or are doing winds up being a temporary thing. He'd used the last of his shampoo yesterday, and so didn't have to bother with trying to secure an open bottle in his duffle. But he did wrap his bar of soap in his other washcloth, and bundled it into his towel from the day before. A quick scan of the room confirmed that to be the last of it.

Tugging the drawstring on his duffle closed, John hauled it out to the main room and sat it on the floor next to his suitcase. His cellular charger he tucked into a pocket, along with his coffee mug. He thought for a moment. Don't believe there's anything in the kitchen I really need to take with me. There's only a couple of teabags left, and all that's left in the fridge is a bottle of beer. I'm not pocketing a bottle of beer. He snagged his laptop case off of the counter and slid his computer and its charger into it.

"Think that's everything," He said, settling the shoulder-strap for the computer case across his chest. "I've got a few things in storage, but there wasn't any room for them here. I'll see about retrieving them later this week."

Sherlock didn't reply, but did immediately head for the door. John sighed a little and stooped to shoulder his duffle, then extended the pull-handle for his suitcase, thankful once more that the bedsit was on the ground floor and that there weren't any steps or ledges he had to go over. By the time he caught up with Sherlock, the man already had a taxi waiting. John tossed his duffle into the seat next to Sherlock, then wrestled the suitcase into place. How am I going to get this monstrosity up all those stairs?

It turned out to be something of a moot point – on arriving back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson informed him that the house's original dumbwaiter was still functional. The suitcase fit – barely – but it kept him from having to try and haul it up two rather steep flights of stairs.

Figuring he had a little time to kill, John busied himself by putting his clothes in the wardrobe. It lacked any place to hang hangars, but had copious amounts of shelf-space, along with three large drawers under the shelves. His olive jacket joined his black one on the pegs next to the wardrobe, and the quilt his mum had made looked lovely spread across the bed, supporting his pillow. His phone charger got plugged into the outlet behind the right-hand nightstand while the charger for his laptop was connected to the outlet nearest the desk, with the computer itself on the desk. Do I still have that old office chair in storage, or did I give that away before my last deployment? Even though his leg was feeling more like it was supposed to, nobody in their right mind willingly used a metal folding chair.

Checking his watch, he found that it was still only ten-thirty. John opened his spell-component suitcase and rifled through the tightly-packed boxes until he located a midsized black plastic case, slightly smaller than the average household toolkit. He also grabbed a piece of chalk, a couple of thumbtacks, a length of string that had a small lead weight tied to one end, and a pocket-sized laser level. On his way out to the landing, he snagged the folding chair, too.

Flicking the switch to turn on the overhead light – the only window was on the north side of the room and yielded very little light on such an overcast day – John took a long look at the wall next to the bathroom door. Unlike the landing downstairs, and the entry hallway on the main floor, this particular bit of the house had no wallpaper. Instead, it appeared as though whoever had last renovated the building had chosen wooden paneling instead.

He nodded to himself, then selected a point midway between the bathroom door and the corner that fused with the wall containing his bedroom door. He unfolded the chair at the appropriate spot, then used the level to pick a height even with the door frame for the bathroom. He marked a tiny 'X' on the wall with his chalk, with a second one approximately thirty inches to the right. John switched off the level and clipped it to his belt. Next, he wound the free end of his weighted string around the point of a thumbtack and pressed into the center of the first 'X', letting the string unravel and hang straight down. Using the string as a guide, he chalked a straight line from the 'X' down to the floor. He repeated the procedure on the second 'X', then connected both vertical lines with a horizontal one, once again using the string – this time stretched between a pair of tacks – as a guide to keep the line straight and even.

With the outer edges chalked into place, he removed the tacks and string. Sliding the chair out of the way, he moved the toolkit from the floor to the chair and opened it. It contained a battery operated dremel tool, with nearly three dozen bits. He selected one of the tungsten carbide ones – the one he always thought looked rather like a pencil cap eraser – and set it in place. Only slightly holding his breath – the last time he'd charged the battery had been years ago – he switched it on. A bright whirr let him breathe again. Setting the tip against the first chalk line, he set about sanding a shallow semicircular groove into the paneling of the wall, taking care not to let it go too deep; he had no idea how thick the paneling was, after all, and he really didn't want to be putting holes in the walls.

The sound of the stairs creaking alerted him to his new flatmate's arrival. "I thought you'd be unpacking."

John flicked his right hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction. "Like I said, unpacking can wait. Some things are more important."

"Such as?"

John was pretty sure that meant 'what in the bloody hell are you doing?' and so explained, "Such as getting a gate anchor set."

"Pardon?"

"A gate anchor. Basically, as long as I have a piece of chalk, I can always come home."

"And how, exactly, does that work?"

John glanced over. Sherlock was leaning against the stair rail. "How? Magic." He honestly couldn't resist the answer. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a slightly disgusted, yet impatient noise. John smirked. "It's… Really hard to describe. Once I get the anchor point set, afterwards, I can draw a door, step through it, and come out here. Or I can use this one," he nodded to the rectangular outline that lacked a knob-circle to make it even vaguely doorlike, "to access any other gate anchor I've been given permission to use by its creator."

"Teleportation?" Sherlock drew the word out into its individual syllables, making almost sound as though he were trying to say something completely different – and likely in another language.

"Not exactly," John finished what he could reach without the aid of the chair and started on the second vertical line, going up from the floor. "Way I read it in all the sci-fi books, teleportation's instantaneous. Gating isn't. Yes, it's extremely quick, literally like just walking through a door from one room to another, but it still takes time. And – whatever you do – never keep your eyes open. It's slightly nauseating, even with them closed, but open? It's downright hellish."

"You didn't have one at that place you were staying."

"Nope," John agreed. "Always knew the bedsit was going to be short-term. No sense in going through the effort of installing a permanent gate anchor in a place I wasn't going to be staying."

"There is no guarantee you'll decide to stay here, either," Sherlock pointed out. John could hear traces of that odd insecurity he'd seen in the man the night before bleed into his words.

John turned off the dremel and faced Sherlock. He cleared his throat, then said, "I don't plan on moving anywhere else. Even if you decide to move on, I'm doubtful I will – it's not every day you find a flat this nice sitting right on top of London's second-strongest leyline. I'll put up with quite a lot, just for that privilege." Something that looked quite a lot like disappointment flashed across Sherlock's face, almost too quick for John to catch it. "Besides, the company's good. And where else could I fall asleep to the sounds of concert-level violin, unfiltered through speakers?"

The expression on Sherlock's face softened slightly. "I should probably warn you – as it hadn't yet come up in conversation – I've been known to drive people off. Even those who put up with the violin tend to get rather sick of coming across my experiments."

"Well, I'll cut you a deal on the experiments," John said, internally congratulating himself on having actually gotten something right about his new companion that he hadn't been told outright. "I'll leave them alone, if you leave my magic alone. I've got a list of setspells that need cast, and some of them require charms to be set at specific points and can't be disturbed, or the spell fades."

"My last flatmate on Montague Street took exception to the severed hand in the deli drawer of the refrigerator."

John shrugged. "If you manage to get a hold of another one, try to make sure the man was hanged for murder, first." Sherlock blinked slowly at him. "With the proper preparations, it makes a rather… unique candle holder called the Hand of Glory."

"So, the experiment I have going concerning the explosive properties of vitreous humor when exposed to microwave radiation under pressure…?"

John made a 'whatever' motion. "So you put eyes in the microwave, so what? Mike, Erin Connelly, George Peters, and me once duct-taped a cadaver to the ceiling of Professor Morisen's lecture hall and rigged it to crash down halfway through a gross anatomy lecture."

"I've been reliably informed that both practical jokes and puns are considered to be the lowest forms of humor." John could tell, despite the dry tone, that the younger man was fighting back a grin.

"Ah, yes," John airily agreed. "I'd heard that, too, but when you can do both…"

They managed to maintain silence before simultaneously dissolving into laughter.

Making their way through NSY, John kept getting odd looks thrown his direction; but whether that was because of who he was with, because of the fact that his companion was carrying a bright pink suitcase, or because of the fact that he kept getting distracted whenever someone's 'lucky charm' happened to be more literal than they believed… Well, John couldn't say for sure what the cause was. He just found it slightly irritating. Hence, he was more than a little grateful to finally reach DI Lestrade's office.

Lestrade closed the door behind him and gestured to the chairs facing his desk. "Have a seat," he said, flopping into his own. Even to John's non-Sherlockian – Sherlockian? Brain? Seriously? John twitched slightly, dismissing the thought with, Well, what else would you call it? – eyes, it was obvious that the detective hadn't yet had the chance to do more than catnap since the night before.

"Long night?" John asked sympathetically. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade just nodded. "Yeah – with a right royal headache on top of it all, too. The man you two caught last night… He died in custody while we were questioning him."

Sherlock's interest sharpened. Very carefully not looking at John, he asked, "How?"

"Brain aneurysm apparently," Lestrade replied. "I just got the report back from Dr. Hooper over at Bart's."

"Did he tell you why he killed those people?" John quietly asked, his mind trying to figure out if the compulsion spell he'd set might have had a hand in the man's death.

Lestrade nodded. "There were two reasons, so far as we could tell – the man was babbling something fierce. Firstly, he kept on about how he'd managed to outlive four people. I'm guessing he knew about the aneurysm."

"Hardly a deduction – of course he knew about it. He'd likely been told about it three years ago," Sherlock said, unable to hold his tongue.

"How d'you figure that?" Lestrade allowed himself to get side-tracked.

"His clothes were freshly laundered, but all were at least three years old, so he certainly wasn't planning ahead." Sherlock leaned back in the chair with a 'so there' expression.

"And the second reason?" John asked, wrenching the topic back around.

"Money," Lestrade said. "He claimed to have a sponsor – for every person he killed, money was supposed to go to his children. His son's nineteen and going to uni, his daughter is twenty-two and works as a hotel concierge here in London. Both of their accounts have been flagged and any large deposits are definitely going to be back-traced." Lestrade shuffled through some papers on his desk before locating a yellow legal pad. "Mr. Hope – the cabbie – he claimed he'd had the idea floating around the back of his head for quite some time. Becoming a killer, I mean. But he said that he wasn't sure how to go about it, then went on to mention a name." He looked up at Sherlock. "Moriarty. It mean anything to you?"

John's new flatmate leaned forwards and gestured for Lestrade's notebook. Glancing through the notes, he shook his head. "Not a thing," he said. "Who – or what – is it?"

Lestrade frowned. "That's just it – we don't know. Bastard died before he said anything else." He shifted in his chair. "Well, let's get the paperwork over with. Hopefully, I'll actually make it home for dinner tonight."

The three settled into giving their statements – in John's case, it was highly edited, with Sherlock's only failing to mention the flash of spellight and laws-of-physics-ignoring-dust – of the events that had lead to the capture of one Jefferson Hope, former London taxi driver.

Much later that night, over Chinese take-away, John finally felt reasonably settled. Sure, he still had a few things in storage that he wanted to fetch, but the flat was now warded. Chalk lines drawn on the windowsills anchored setspells that kept ants out of the house. The faint hint of eucalyptus lingered in the air – a remnant of a similar setspell against roaches. A small bundle of mistletoe hung from the ceiling in the kitchen, with identical bundles bound with red silk ribbon were hung from each of the flat's fireplaces in order to guard against fire catching hold among Sherlock's book collection. Licorice twigs hung from the ceiling on fishing line in each corner of the flat, warding against break-ins and robbery. Outside, a line of red brick dust lined the joint between the first and second step up into the flat proper, standing guard against anyone trying to enter with ill-intent. And on the mantle in the living room, right next to Yorick, was a hollowed-out egg, packed with cinquefoil, the holes patched over with red wax, to halt any malevolent magics anyone tried to aim at 221B or its occupants. Upstairs, the gate anchor's outline was fully etched into the paneling. It had to sit for a couple of days for the blood lining the etching to fully dry, then John could fill the shallow groves with a combination of glue, crushed moss agate and turquoise, powdered peony blossoms and basil, and sawdust from a yew tree.

The leyline under Baker Street was still acting like some strange amalgam of housecat and mother-figure, but John figured he could live with her odd behavior if it meant his leg remained pain-free. Hell, even if it wasn't acting weird, I'd likely still be here. Like I told Sherlock, it isn't every day a mage gets the chance to actually live atop a leyline. He glanced at his new flatmate – Sherlock was busy dissecting an eggroll, he liked the filling, but didn't care for the wrapper. And the company's more than tolerable. He hasn't flipped out about the magic, which is what I really expected. I can only count two people who didn't run screaming after a blatant demonstration of what I can do. Yeah, I think I'm really going to like it here.

He pushed the thoughts away and dug back into his lo-mein.

A/N2: High John the Conqueror is an absolutely gorgeous flower – it's bright pink (fuchsia, really) with trumpet-shaped flowers (like jimsonweed or morning glory). More people need to cultivate it, if only for the color! There aren't many non-tropical flowers with that level of vivid pink, after all.

Okay, so that should do it for A Study in Pink. I don't know if, now that I've a whole chapterlet without using the source materials (much) I was still able to keep everyone in character. Now, I know the bit about the severed hand was a touch OOC for John, given his reaction to the severed head, but – this isn't exactly the same John as was shown in the series. His magical experiences would have given him at least some level of immunity towards Sherlock's random body-parts acquisitions, in my mind at least. If you disagree, please let me know why. Also, don't be shy about any other criticisms you might have – I tend to beta my own work, and as such, am prone to missing things. Also, if anyone sees a blatant Americanism, let me know (save for spelling – British spelling makes my head hurt) and I'll go back and fix it.

Until next time folks!