Chapter 3: Mr. Holmes

A/N: Greetings! Here is the next chapter, nice and snappy. Don't get used to it!

Disclaimer: Why can't I own Harry Potter or Sherlock? I'd treat them nice, I swear!

When John woke up from his nap, he took a look around Sherlock's room, since he hadn't before crashing. The bed was far bigger than he was used to, and soft. The soldier was surprised by the jersey sheets; he expected silk. Truthfully, the room reminded him of Baker Street, only done in greens. Paper and experiments were strewn all over the place, not limited to the desk nor the chaise by the large bay windows. He noticed the dark green curtains were rather thick; Sherlock must have been prone to vampirism as much when he was younger as he does now, John thought with a small smile.

Speaking of the man, he was currently lying on the bed next to him, flipping through a book. It didn't appear like he was actually reading it. John fought down a blush, though why he was blushing he didn't know. Probably just because if anyone saw them, he would no longer have credibility in his declarations of heterosexuality.

"Good, you're up. Dinner should be ready soon. We can go down if you want, or we can observe the decomposition of several experiments I forgot about when I was last here. It's your call, but we both know what is the best choice here."

"Dinner, right." John started to get up, not noticing Sherlock's deep disappointment.

"John, we need to re-evaluate your priorities. Surely you can see that—"

"Food, Sherlock. Get up, come on," John assured the taller man out of the room, much to his chagrin. He pouted the whole way downstairs, but the doctor was used to ignoring his wishes for his needs.

The red dining room was more formal than the sitting room they had been in, but you wouldn't have known from the people currently in it. Siger had some electronic equipment scattered on the mahogany table, working on it with a screwdriver. Teddy was playing some sort of card game with Mycroft, and as the newcomers observed, some purple goop exploded on Teddy's face. Sherlock sat down next to Siger, pulling out a petri dish from god knows where. John sat across from them, just observing the relaxed dynamics of the siblings.

The dynamics that got considerably tense as another man entered the room. He was older, and John had to assume it was their father. He had the same red hair as Mycroft, though it was curlier. It wasn't as wild as Sherlock's, however. His eyes were a startling blue, even in comparison with his partner. His face was pulled into a stern look, and he was in pretty decent shape despite his age, not to mention huge in height and width. John would say he had a military background, but it didn't seem quite right.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Mr. Holmes began. "Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead. The boy who didn't have enough compassion to tell his own mother he was alive. Do you know what you put him through? He wouldn't get out of bed for weeks, and even then he was like a ghost. You destroyed him, you selfish brat."

"And where were you during all of this?" Sherlock retorted. His brothers remained silent, and even Mycroft was looking down at the table. "What forest did you hide yourself in this time? You left him all alone like usual, made him suffer alone."

"I was gone before you pulled your stunt, so don't even start."

"Ah, so you admit you left Mummy, again."

"I did not—"

"That's enough, boys," Harry was at the entryway, arms folded. "I want a nice, peaceful dinner. We have a guest, if you haven't noticed, and it's been awhile since I've had all my boys home at once. No arguments." Everyone mumbled an assent, excluding John. "Siger, clean up your mess. You too, Teddy."

Dinner passed without incident, though John could still see the tense atmosphere between Sherlock and his father. Siger seemed to be working on his gadget underneath the table, taking a bite of his food only when his mother chided him. Sherlock seemed more interested in what his brother was working on than food, but John managed to make him eat, earning covert grins from Harry. John had to hold back a snort when Mycroft reminded his mother that he should eat as well.

"Oh right," Harry was looking at his plate like he hadn't seen it before. "Thank you, dear. You always take such good care of me." This earned Mycroft quite a few glares, John noticed, sharing an amused glance with Teddy.

After dinner and dessert was over (Harry made quite the banoffee pie), Sherlock was quick to pull John out of the room. He gave his blogger a tour of the manor, showing all of his favorite haunts. He promised to show the grounds the next day, when it was sunny again. Eventually Sherlock was distracted by another abandoned experiment, and John decided to let him be.

He found the Holmes parents in the library, sharing a tender moment in front of the wall that consisted entirely of glass. They didn't even notice him come in. He was about to back out, embarrassed, but Mr. Holmes pulled away from his husband, with a pleased smile, nodding to John as he left.

"Come sit by the fire with me, John," Harry invited, moving to the giant leather armchairs and couch by said lit fireplace. His small body curled easily into the armchair nearest it, and John sat across from him. "I love this room the most, but it gets so cold."

They sat and reflected together for a while, staring into the fire. John broke the silence. "I can see why your sons are all so much taller than you, despite your size, no offense. Your husband is built like a giant."

"No offense taken," Harry smiled. "I have a lot more bite than all of them put together. I've got nothing to be self conscious about, though it did bother me when I was younger. Plus, Ruther is only so big because of his supernatural genetics."

"Supernatural?"

"Yes. Ruther is a werewolf, a born alpha at that. It's only natural selection that makes him so big."

"Werewolf?" John fought back the tremor that wanted to make itself clear in his voice. "They exist too?"

"That's right, you didn't know, sorry. I thought surely he would have told you at least that; it would be hard to explain his own behavior otherwise…"

"Sherlock is a werewolf, too?"

"Merlin, no. How can I explain this…you know about the HIV virus, correct? And you also know how it is transferred to children? It doesn't happen all of the time, and medicine has gone a long way in preventing transmission. With the werewolf 'virus', it is sort of the same. Difference is that the father can give it solely to the child during conception, not the mother. Sometimes the fetus contracts it, sometimes they only receive some side effects from it, like enhanced senses and such, and sometimes it doesn't affect the fetus at all. There is no medication to prevent it, either, so it's all chance. Teddy's father was a werewolf, and he mostly just suffers from extreme agitation during the full moon. Sherlock, however, is probably as close to a werewolf as he possibly could without actually being one, and he's alpha material like his father."

"Wow." John was wide-eyed. "I never would have guessed. You mentioned his behavior?"

"Why, yes," Harry nodded patiently. "He is extremely territorial, for one, and since he is Alpha blood he responds horribly to authority. Aggressive, too. You could imagine that he and his father butt heads all too often. Too much testosterone in a little space doesn't bode well for anybody. There are many other things, too, like—"

"Mother, I would appreciate it if you would stop talking about me behind my back." Sherlock was standing near them, his arms folded over his chest. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I wasn't aware it was a secret."

"It isn't, not from John."

"I thought so," Harry said with a small smile, though it disappeared quickly. "And yet you haven't told him a thing. I can't help but notice that though he seems to be the most important part of your life, he is still very in the dark."

"Leave it, Mummy. You know why." Sherlock's expression grew darker, but lightened when Harry conceded.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't agree with you, but I will respect your wishes."

"Thank you."

"Well, I'm off to bed." Harry stood up, stretching. "Would you like some reading material, John? They can give you more information than I talked about, maybe clearer."

"If Sherlock doesn't mind?" John asked, looking at him cautiously. He didn't like that Sherlock was deliberately keeping him in the dark, especially since the Fall, but he would respect his wishes. Sherlock shook his head after a moment of thinking.

"It's fine. They don't talk about my condition specifically."

"It's not a condition," Harry interjected sternly, but his son ignored him.

"Can I get a book about magic, too?" John asked, and Harry nodded, waving his hand. Three books flew over to John: one was about werewolves, another specifically about the spread of the werewolf genes, and the last was a brief magical history.

In bed later that night, John watched his flatmate sleep. Just what was he hiding from him?