Can't imagine how I managed to wait a full two weeks to update this, lol. I was so eager :'D But update day is finally upon us, thank god!

And I even managed to write a few more words than the usual, haha.

Rate: T

Pairings: Past Sherlily, canon pairings. Johnlock is my life, so you'll see some bromance as well, nothing non-platonic, just their corny, ridiculous selves.

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock (c) Moffat & Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson (c) Sir ACD, HP (c) J. K. Rowling.

Chapter Three – Dr Watson

Silence filled the office of one particular doctor during one particular summer afternoon. Two old friends, who had been through hell and back together, sat at a safe distance from each other, but close enough to suggest a delicate discussion of great importance.

John and Sherlock stared at each other in this tense silence - or rather, John stared accusingly and Sherlock tried very hard not to look away and paint himself as feeling… intimidated. Or uncertain. Which he was not, of course.

"How could you…?" John uttered stiffly. "All these years I've known you, and you've been hiding something this big from me. I've killed a man for you, Sherlock! What else are you hiding? A wife, maybe? …Have you ever trusted me at all? Oh, I forgot, sociopaths don't trust or even like other people."

"I've not hidden this from you," Sherlock murmured, his tone growing firmer as he continued, cutting John's protests. "Because I was not aware of it myself to hide it."

John's eyes studied him searchingly for a few long moments. Then his outrage and anger left him, deflating visibly and leaving him suddenly exhausted as he slumped in his chair. "You have a son," he whispered disbelievingly.

Sherlock Holmes of all people reproduced, for Heaven's sake. John was tempted to look through the window to check whether the sky would soon be falling over them all.

The doctor would also only later realise that Sherlock having a preteen son, as opposed to John's own infant little girl meant that the over-bearing arsehole had one-upped him in yet another department. But for the moment, such trivialities were far, far away from his troubled mind.

"Yes," and Sherlock's shoulders eased as well.

"This… this is related to that 'person of importance', isn't it? Is she his mother?" John asked carefully.

"…Yes. Jane was her middle name."

"And what's her given one?"

"Lily," he answered and grew quiet after.

There were many questions on John's mind, but not many he was sure were appropriate to address in that moment. After all, there was a twelve-year old boy – Sherlock's son - waiting outside his office and he was probably scared and confused. He had, after all, broken his new guardian's nose. He would likely not know what to assume.

And Sherlock did not seem at all in a state to have such a discussion either. The pale, bony hand holding a tissue to his bleeding nose – "If you break my nose one more time, John, you might just permanently change its shape." – was trembling and his age was more visible than ever, downturned mouth and distressed eyes lined with wrinkles. Sherlock Holmes had always had eternally youthful features which John had sometimes been envious of, but it seemed that time slowed down for no one, not even the great detective.

"Does he know?" was the only question he would ask for now. Everything else would have to wait.

Sherlock frowned even harder and his eyes met John's wholeheartedly. "No," and a touch of concern and – dare he say it - fear was lining that small word.

Fear for the boy? He would be shocked to have his whole world changed, to know that the man he had thought had been his father was actually not and that the woman that had been his mother had given birth to him out of wedlock, maybe even cheated on her husband. That he was a bastard.

Fear for himself, even? The boy could react badly to the news. He could hate him for coming into his life so late, to have allowed him to be abused by his relatives, to build his life upon his dead parents, only to find out everything he had ever known and thought of said parents was a lie. That they might not have been a perfectly in love couple and that they might not have both loved him, after all.

Or he might be afraid of the change a child, a son of his own might bring to his life. John was well aware what a critical difference a child could make to one's lifestyle. And although Sherlock had grown accustomed to Emily and was affectionate to her, in his own way, she was not his daughter and therefore not his full responsibility.

"You have to tell him, Sherlock," John advised firmly. "He has to know."

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "I know."

…

Harry found he rather liked Dr Watson.

After the incident where said man punched Mr Holmes, he had been ushered into a chair in the waiting room outside and the two of them had retreated into the office, only to resurface a good fifteen minutes later. During said time, Harry had shifted uneasily in his seat, thrown by the whole chain of events and uncertain what to even start making of it all. Obviously, Dr Watson's issue with his guardian concerned Harry. Beyond that… Was Dr Watson shocked to find out his friend had taken a minor under his wing? Was he troubled by it? Dr Watson had been scanning him, looking and seemingly finding something. Did Harry resemble a mutual acquaintance of theirs? Thankfully, he found he didn't much need to deduce anything.

Or at least, that he could momentarily shelve the conundrum, to pick it apart later, when not faced with impending introductions and maybe the revelation of his and Mr Holmes' purpose at the clinic.

Once they had sorted out whatever issues they had, the doctor had seemed in much better spirits and the detective's nosebleed had ceased. He was called in for the purpose of the whole visit, which was a mere check-up. Harry sighed in relief as he found out this and the doctor shot his guardian a pointed glare.

"You couldn't tell him you were here for a check-up?" he asked tersely.

"I thought it was rather obvious," Mr Holmes protested defensively. "What else would I bring him to a clinic for? To experiment on him?" Harry felt rather silly now that he thought about it, too.

The older man merely shook his head, as if used to the exasperation generated by the presence of Sherlock Holmes and looked at Harry sympathetically, knowing what he was thinking and trying to express that he had been right to be wary, despite what his guardian might have said.

The familiarity of these two men, present in Mr Holmes' casual posture while in the same room as the older man, and in his allowing said man to huff unimpressedly at his antics, as well as Dr Watson's good-natured quips at the detective's expense, suggested a great amount of trust. Sure, you could look at an ordinary couple of friends and say that there was no difference between the given situations, but Mr Holmes for one didn't seem like the kind of man to confide in another human being so easily. And Dr Watson himself, with his stiff, military gait and warm, but wise and weathered gaze, held all the signs of a burdened life.

Either they had known each other for more than a few years, and/or they had gone through a lot together. It reminded Harry of him and Ron. Or at least, he wished his friendship with Ron would last enough that they may become fully-mature adults with such a comfortable interaction.

Harry had no disillusions about life and he tried hard to keep that up. He knew that childhood friendships had small chances of lasting beyond graduation. And Harry and Ron were very different to being with. Ron was happy enough to procrastinate on his studies and homework, labelling most subjects boring and finding it hard to keep his grades above-average, whereas Harry had this innate burning thirst to know. If ever he got really passionate about a subject, he was all too willing to spend his days – the ones that the Dursleys allowed him out of the house - with his nose in a book, so much so that the librarian was often forced to throw him out in order to be able to close the facility.

Harry had a feeling that he'd have an easier time with curriculum if he just let himself to fall into those old habits, but his eventful time at Hogwarts seldom allowed for his previous hobbies. Between murderous teachers, giant snakes and oily-haired pricks, he barely had time to finish his homework. And somehow, he lacked the proper motivation nowadays. But he tried not to read too much into it. He supposed he had enough on his plate as it were.

Examination results were mostly good. Even the bruising on his arm where Uncle Vernon had clenched him was nearly healed. His pale skin had always bruised easily, matter not helped by the Dursleys' less-than-affectionate touch. He was underweight, however, which was likely the reason for his small height, Dr Watson claimed. He then proceeded to lecture Mr Holmes lengthily about regular, healthy meals that did not contain take-out or junk food. The latter endured this with merely a bored eye roll and a displeased grimace.

"Mr Holmes and I have dinner together every day, and I have my other meals at Mrs Hudson's when he's away," he interrupted, deciding to have mercy on him.

Dr Watson looked shocked at this. "You, having a regular, daily meal?"

Mr Holmes looked disgruntled and refused to rise to the bait.

The visit concluded shortly after that with a – begrudging, on his guardian's part - promise to Dr Watson to join him and his family for dinner on Saturday night. They did not immediately return to the flat though.

Noticing Harry's confusion as the cab stopped in front of a shopping complex, Mr Holmes must have taken Dr Watson's discontentment to heart because he explained: "We have to get you some new clothing."

Harry remained baffled, until he remembered that normal people, with normal, healthy familial environments sometimes have their own clothes, which were bought new and specifically for them. He brightened, looking at his companion with eager eyes.

If Mr Holmes noticed his initial turmoil, he did not remark upon it, though his eyes had softened a bit. "I couldn't very well let you wear those horrendous rags of your cousin's, now could I? They do not even remotely fit you."

Several hours, a dozen apparel shops, a couple thousand pounds and a miffed shopkeeper later, they were on route home, both armed with so many paper bags they barely managed to hold them up.

Harry felt severely guilty for drying his guardian's credit card so much, but the man would hear none of it. He would only buy quality clothing from renowned brands, and at the young wizard's protests that he would be wearing 'mundane' – Muggle was too odd a term to use in public, and Harry was not as oblivious as most of the Wizarding World seemed to be – clothes during his vacation and holidays, he firmly asserted that Harry would nonetheless need more than just two pairs of trousers, some shirts and a coat or jacket. Instead, they had assembled an entire wardrobe. Harry was uncertain they would all fit in his room, but Mr Holmes reassured him that Dr Watson's old wardrobe and drawers were plenty of space.

He and Mr Holmes had just climbed the stairs up to 221B with great difficulty when his guardian's remark about women and the strain of shopping was suddenly cut off. Looking up from where he had rested the bags on the ground, Harry noticed that the older man was standing stiffly in the doorway to the living room.

Inside, a sharply-dressed, subtly balding man was sitting cross-legged in the red armchair, the one that Mr Holmes never occupied, the one he sometimes looked at with a lost expression, until Harry walked up and seated himself in it. He was playing idly with an umbrella and had looked up at them the moment Harry entered the room.

"Has your chat with the good doctor proved fruitful?" the man drawled in a high-class accent. Posh was too vague a term, no. Public school? His guardian spoke with a similar accent, Harry noted.

Mr Holmes was silent.

"Won't you introduce us?"

"You should have told me," the detective spat through clenched teeth. "You let me run in blindly-"

"There's really no need to be so hostile. We both know you'd never have gone if I had told you."

"How would you know, Mycroft?"

The newly-named Mycroft tapped his umbrella onto the ground. It seemed a signal or a warning of some sort. "I know you," he said finally, piercing Mr Holmes with a look Harry couldn't read, and something passed unspoken between the two. "Now then…"

A pale hand settled on Harry's shoulder. Harry felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over him. How often had Vernon Dursley laid a similarly sized, but much less elegant hand, on Harry's shoulder? The difference between their intent and opinion regarding the boy they had under their 'wing' had never been more obvious. "Harry, this is my older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Harry Potter."

Mr Holmes, the older one, had a gaze as analytical as his younger brother's, but his seemed colder, apathetic. It studied Harry for a few mere seconds before,

"You haven't told him yet. There seems to be a theme here."

Mr Holmes the Younger's – this was becoming confusing – hand clenched on his shoulder. Harry frowned. What was he talking about?

The older brother smiled thinly, "I'll leave you to your… heart-to-heart, then."

With that, he rose gracefully, patted his suit to smooth out any wrinkles and made his way out of the flat, offering only a nod to his brother as he passed him.

"What did he mean?" Harry asked quietly. He was afraid of the answer. He was growing content with life at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was like a doting grandmother to him, while Dr Watson was the funny, helpful uncle Harry would like to get to know more and he was sure he'd enjoy meeting the rest of the Watsons as well. He had his own room and now his own clothes as well. Mr Holmes himself was an irregular and quirky man, but he did seem to care, though he had different ways of showing it and Harry was pretty fond of him even after only a week. Stuff could not buy his happiness and love, true, but so far fate was finally good to him and he had been given some things so precious, both material and immaterial that he was having a hard time believing this was not just a dream.

He didn't want to go back to the Dursleys. He didn't want to be orphan little Potter for the rest of his miserable life. He'd wear all of Dudley's stained, ratty oversized clothes and sleep on a stiff mattress forever if it would keep him under his new guardian's care.

Mr Holmes's limp hand left his shoulder, finally, as he stepped away and towards the window overlooking Baker Street. He was silent for a full, torturous minute, while Harry's hand found his other arm and grabbed onto it tightly, curling into himself and shifting anxiously.

"You must not fault your mother for what I am about to tell you."

Harry stared at Mr Holmes' stiff back incomprehensively. "Why? What do you-"

He turned partially to pierce Harry with intense blue? eyes. "Just promise me you will not, Harry."

The young wizard nodded reluctantly.

"The reason I came to Privet Drive on that day was indeed that I had heard Lily Potter's only son was being mistreated. However, the reason for which you left Privet Drive with me on said day and had not been handed to a healthy, functioning foster family is not some deep sympathy I felt for you or a sense of duty towards Lily."

Mr Holmes stared at Harry, as if suddenly uncertain whether to proceed, then his lips pursed into a thin line and he breathed shakily. "The decision to take you with me was made in the split-second I realised that you are my son."

Harry's lungs froze in his chest. "I-" he choked. "You-"

"I have no proof of it yet. All my investigations so far have been fruitless, and my reach in the magical world is severely limited, at best," he muttered bitterly, as if addressing some specific individual who was thwarting his attempts.

"However," and at this he turned to a bookcase and pulled out a well-hidden file from within a book. "I have a few photos of James Potter that Lily left behind when she… left."

He handed said photos to Harry, who, after a second, managed to lift his unresponsive arm and take them with trembling fingers. James had been a handsome young man with jet black messy, wild locks and wide brown eyes full of mischief. He was tall and thin and he had a funny gait in the moving photos. His smile was so wide it threatened to split his face in two as he danced with a red haired young woman – his mother – in one photo. He looked at Lily with eyes full of love there.

Harry felt something crumbling within him.

He was handed two more photos. One was of a tall, lean man with dark brown curly hair and pale eyes crinkled with a quirky smile and a much shorter young woman with familiar red hair and striking emerald eyes, who was smiling just as contently. This photo did not move like the others. And the man his mother was holding by the waist was not James Potter.

The second photo was one of a fair, skinny boy in a public school uniform. He was unsmiling and looked particularly disgruntled about something, and he could have been called Harry, save for the curliness of his hair and the colour of his eyes.

"That is a photo of me when I was your age."

Harry dropped onto the couch, staring unseeingly at the photos. His breath was quickening alarmingly fast. An unsettling, hysterical sort of laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he choked on it before it could fully escape. He supposed this was a rather merciful method of breaking the news – what news? It wasn't true, couldn't be true – but it felt like a sacrilege.

-look how much you don't look like James Potter! ha! what a joke! stupid. how could you ever think you were ever entitled to any respect you're not even a proper wizard, couldn't even figure out as much, so oblivious, so DULL, just a little orphan, bastard, freakfreakfreak-

He had a copy of one of those photographs, of James and Lily dancing, he had been gifted it by kind Hagrid on Christmas along with all the others in that thoughtful album he made for Harry. How he had treasured those photos…! My mother and father, he'd thought with awe and grateful tears prickling his eyes.

How those dancing figures and their bright smiles mocked him now….!

"Paternity tests can be taken, but I suppose it's a rather moot p- Harry."

Said boy was breathing erratically, on his way to hyperventilating when his vision was filled with Mr Holmes's face.

"Harry. Harry! Take it easy," he coaxed, his voice low and firm as he took hold of Harry's small shoulders. "Breathe. Breathe. Deep breaths, that's it."

Once he had calmed down, he pushed his fath- Mr Holmes's hands away. Harry stood, photos scattering all around him, and walked up to his room, shutting the door behind him mechanically.

Then he got into bed fully-clothed, burrowing his face in his pillow, trying to force sleep to come, to escape this world that made no sense anymore.

To be continued…

Whoooo, that was emotionally-packed. Is it normal to hang on to your own characters' thoughts and interactions breathlessly? I suppose not, but oh well.

JAAAAAAWWN! Naaaw, I haven't got my fill of you yetttttt, don't leaveeee :O

*cough* I'm gonna try and include him as much as possible, so you can expect to see Uncle John again in the future XD XD XD after all, where Sherlock goes, John follows.

Follow if you wish to read more, favorite if you liek, review to let me know whatever's on your mind. See you on December 11th ;)

-Noxi