To this day, I believe Sherlock's greatest secret (even from himself) was longing for a protégé. Of course, the possibility of him siring a son remains, as always, an impossibility. No woman has, nor ever will, thaw the cold, mechanical core of his being. The fairer sex, to him, was most appreciated as indirect instigators of crime. What better to flair a man's emotions than love lost, scorned, or withheld?

I thank Albus Dumbledore and his machinations, for if Holmes had been left to his own devices, I expect he would still be without a ward.

Thankfully, the matter was forced, and Holmes threw himself into Harry's raising-and training-with all the passion of a man possessed.

-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD

-oOo-

"Too far, Holmes! This time you went too bloody far!"

"I understand you're upset, but the fact is-"

"The fact is he almost broke his leg!" Watson shouted. The doctor paused, and suddenly paled. "Good god...he could have been killed."

Annoyance flashed across Holmes' face. "Don't be ridiculous. A fall from that height?"

In a chair next to the fireplace, Harry inwardly sighed, and tried to focus on his book. This was the third argument this week.

Doctor and Detective glared at one another, each astounded by the other's audacity.

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would some guidelines ease your worry?"

"Guidelines?"

Holmes held up three fingers. "Each of us—you, Harry, and I, will pick one rule for the testing procedures. Non-negotiable. "

Watson gave him a calculating look; Holmes had trapped him with wordplay on more than one occasion. But a rule, and non-negotiable…

"Agreed," said Watson. Giving Holmes a final, wary look, Watson turned and walked to Harry's reading chair. Bending down, he began whispering in the boy's ear. At length, Harry nodded, and the two came to stand before Sherlock; Watson with glinting eyes, and Harry with nose still firmly in his book.

At a nudge from the doctor, Harry spoke, eyes never leaving ink and paper. "If I want it to stop, the test stops."

"If he's in danger," said Watson, "The test stops."

Casually (too casually, in Watson's opinion) Holmes sat, and idly packed a pipe with tobacco. "If Harry stops a test, I'll never give another."

From that day on, once a test began, Harry never quit. But never did he come closer to doing than during his time in Dartmoor. And never did a test reap such rewards.

-oOo-

Try as he might, Harry could not come up with a compliment for the moor. Maybe in the light of day he could find something, but at night, whatever positive points the land may have had bled dry.

Harry and Sherlock were currently bouncing in the back of an old horse-drawn buggy. All around, as far as Harry could see, were grey hills dotted with bracken and stone. A constant wind tugged and cut at their bundled forms.

Gone was the excitement from when Sherlock showed him two train tickets for Dartmoor. Gone was the curiosity when Holmes booked a room at a local inn. All that remained was boredom and vague unease, as if the bleak surroundings were sapping the enthusiasm from his very bones.

Three miles into the countryside, long after the village lights faded behind rolling hills, Holmes tapped the driver. "Here's good. We'll walk back."

The driver and Harry both turned, incredulous, as Holmes clambered down. Harry reluctantly followed.

With a shake of his head, the driver tuned his buggy around, muttering under his breath about the antics of fool tourists.

Harry buttoned his jacket higher, looking around at the gloom. "So, what now?"

"Now we start the test."

Harry nodded, prompting Holmes to continue.

"Simple rules. I walk back to the inn, and you follow." He handed Harry a digital watch. "You'll need this."

"Why?"

"So you can wait one hour before following. Tah." With a jaunty wave, Holmes jogged off, quickly melting into the night.

Standing alone in the dark, Harry belatedly realized Sherlock had not jogged down the road towards town.

He'd gone off into the moor.

Sitting on the cold ground, Harry curled together, clutching the watch close. Wind whistled through the grass and bracken. Small nocturnal noises caused his head to swivel nervously. And as time crept forward, all he could think of was going home, curling next to the fireplace, and reading Watson's latest manuscript.

Never did one hour seem so long.

-oOo-

If anyone had seen, they'd pity the lonely figure stumbling through the night, shivering and uncertain. In that overwhelming darkness, it was by sheer luck that Harry found a footprint. Regardless of that windfall, he was dangerously close to reaching the point where all small, scratched, and tired children just wanted to sit down and cry, no matter how hard they wanted not to.

In fact, the only thing that kept Harry in motion was a single, irrefutable thought. No matter the task, no matter how scary and impossible this task seemed, Harry was sure Sherlock Holmes would have emerged the victor.

Maybe, Harry thought, if he'd just been a little smarter, just paid more attention and read more books. Maybe then he could do it too. Maybe then he could live up to lofty standards Sherlock so clearly held for him.

At that precise moment, looking down at a lonely footprint, with thoughts turning to despair, a desperate something deep inside Harry snapped. And as it snapped, Harry beheld the most unexpected of things.

The footprint, in all its crushed and muddy glory, was veiled in soft golden light.

Some feet away, Harry saw another, similar glow. Despair forgotten, he rushed over, and found it wreathed a portion of mossy rock. In its glow he could just make out a gouge in the moss, clearly marked by the sole of a shoe.

Harry smiled. He laughed. And then he was off. Flitting from the rock, he began the game in earnest.

The light, he found, said nothing of his quarry's direction, speed, or condition. It merely highlighted the clues and drew his attention. Without that golden light, Harry was sure those clues could never be found, not by him, at any rate. They were too small, too subtle, and hidden by night from mere human sight.

Slowly but surely, he deduced the path from each glow to the next, and prayed the magic would last.

-oOo-

Hours later, a weary boy followed a footprint to the top of a hill. Looking down he saw light, not of gold, but a small country inn. Harry vaguely recognized it as the inn Sherlock had checked into that morning. Through hazy vision he could see a thin figure pacing back and forth, with a glowing pipe bobbing in time with measured steps.

Harry swayed unsteadily, and the figure paused. Letting its pipe fall unheeded, the figure ran with loping strides, making its way up the hill towards him.

Harry dimly realized the figure was Sherlock Holmes. With a smile the boy took a shaky step, only to tip forward. As he watched the ground rush up, Harry found he just couldn't be bothered about the impending impact. He was still waiting for that impact when warm arms embraced him.

With blackness closing in from the corners of his eyes, Harry heard two words before losing consciousness.

"Well done."

-oOo-

That's strange, thought Harry, Baker Street doesn't have ceilings like that.

"Feeling alright?" asked a voice.

Turning his head, Harry saw Uncle Watson, doctor's bag and all, sitting in a chair. Behind him was Holmes, staring out a window filled with morning light.

"Uncle? Aren't you in London?"

Holmes turned. "Watson was anxious about last night's test, once I revealed its nature to him. He decided to supervise."

Watson grinned and pulled an enormously bulky pair of binoculars from his doctor's bag. "Night vision. A souvenir from Afghanistan."

"But tell us," said Holmes, "How things went on the moor."

The adults listened in rapt attention as Harry told them of waiting, of dark, desperation, and finally of golden light. By the end, Holmes was pacing up and down, practically bursting with excitement.

The detective whirled on Harry. "Can you do it now?" he asked, eyes glittering.

Watson watched Harry, and kept his face carefully blank, a sure sign he didn't approve of starting such interrogations so soon.

Harry glanced at each of them before nodding. "I'll try. Keep walking like that."

A few minutes of staring at the floor while Holmes paced revealed nothing. No golden light manifested itself around Holmes footprints, as Harry had wanted.

"Maybe," suggested Harry, "It's because you're already here. Maybe without something to solve, it can't find any clues?"

Holmes immediately went to the door and opened it, pausing to turn on his heel. "Find me," he said, and closed the door on his way out.

Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He could remember the snapping feeling from last night, but had no idea how to go about making it happen. After several fruitless minutes, frustration began to mount, and his mind began to wander.

Harry's thoughts drifted particularly to Sherlock's praise from the night before. The detective wasn't one for sloppy sentiments, and Harry wondered what it would take to once again wring such praise from him. So busy was he pondering this, that he almost failed to notice the room's sudden shift. Once again, it was an unmistakable, yet indescribable change; as if the whole room had very quickly and quietly nudged itself to the left.

Harry opened his eyes and barely refrained from whooping in delight. Golden light shone from the floor and doorknob.

He turned to Watson in excitement, and frowned as his uncle froze. "What is it?" he asked.

Watson fumbled in his bag, eyes never leaving the boy's face, and produced a mirror, holding it before his nephew's face.

Harry stared for a few seconds. "I'm going to say something now. Don't tell Sherlock."

Watson nodded.

Harry leaned closer to the mirror. "This is so cool."

Little circles of honey surrounded black pupils. His green irises had turned gold.

"Quite," said Watson, eyes bulging.

Harry hopped out of bed and went to the door, examining the floor's single glowing patch. Presumably, it would mark a footprint of some kind. But to Harry's disappointment, closer examination revealed nothing. As far as he could tell, the glow illuminated an ordinary patch of wooden floor.

"Something's wrong," he said, running a frustrated hand through rumpled hair.

Watson went over and peered at the spot Harry had examined. "What's wrong?"

"Its right here," said the boy, tapping the floor. "I can see it, just like the clues last night."

"And?"

"And I don't see any clues! Just the glow!"

Harry started to prowl about the room. Watson sat, watching and waiting as Harry wrestled with a new problem.

With a final look at the floor, Harry huffed in annoyance and went to the doorknob. There he met with the same problem. The glow was present, but the clue was not. Feeling his spirits beginning to sink, Harry turned the knob and stepped into the hallway.

Down the hallway to the right was another telltale glow, and yet again, it contained no discernible clue. Harry growled, looking around the glows's vicinity. This one was at an intersection of the second story hallway. To the left, stairs descended to the ground floor, while straight on lead to a veranda.

With a cringe, and knowing full well Holmes' opinion on guessing, Harry flipped a mental coin.

The veranda, then, he thought.

Luckily, it was still early, and his investigation only drew the bemused attention of a couple enjoying breakfast. Finding nothing, he beat a hasty retreat with dignity mostly intact. He had guessed wrong, and the fact that he'd guessed at all was a point he determined Sherlock Holmes never need know.

Harry clenched his hands nervously and began walking back towards the intersection. Holmes would probably deduce his appalling guesswork anyway, he thought. Sometimes it was as if the detective could see right into people's heads.

Steps retraced to the golden glow, Harry turned the corner, intent on continuing his clue quest downstairs.

The quest ended before it even began. Turning the corner, he ran straight into Sherlock Holmes. The man was waiting on the second step, just out of sight from the hallway.

"Well," said Holmes, ruffling Harry's hair, "Shall we see if Watson has managed without us?" The detective whistled a cheerful tune all the way back to his room. Harry followed with as noble a gait he could manage.

Watson was able to hold his reaction to mild alarm when the door violently slammed open. Holmes strode inside in high spirits, with Harry close behind.

"Well, well," said Holmes, rubbing his hands together, "I was starting to worry. After last night's impressive display, magic was starting to seem completely unfair." Holmes chuckled. "How nice to know my entire life's work hasn't been wasted."

"He didn't find you?" asked Watson.

Holmes gave another chuckle, and Harry spoke stiffly. "No, I didn't."

Holmes took a calming breath, demeanor morphing from giddy to serious. "Now, tell me what happened."

"I managed to get the golden lights again. Only..."

"Yes?"

"No clues. The glow was there, but the clues weren't."

"And how," asked Holmes, eyes twinkling, "Did you end up on the veranda?"

Harry kicked at the floor, lightly scuffing it. "There was a glow mark by the stairs, so-"

"So you guessed."

Harry cleared his throat, looking everywhere except at the detective.

Holmes gestured toward the door. "Show me exactly where these glows were."

Harry took a moment to be sure before, and pointed to the floor. "Here, and the doorknob."

Sherlock lie down on the floor with a magnifying glass suddenly in hand. He scrutinized the floorboards while Harry and Watson watched in silence.

"I thought," said Holmes, "You said there weren't any clues?"

Harry walked over, speaking with roughly double the confidence he felt. "There wasn't."

"Then what's this?" Holmes pointed through his magnifying glass.

Harry looked through and saw a scuff on the hard wooden floor. "Uh...a scuff mark?"

"That is the slight gouge, or scuff, I created in the floor's polish. Remember? Before I left the room, I turned on my heel before leaving. That is a footprint."

Harry stared in fascination at the miniscule mark, and Holmes turned his magnifying glass towards the chrome doorknob. The detective breathed on the knob, then pulled his head back to examine the smooth metal surface.

"And here," said Holmes, face and magnifier nearly touching the knob, "We have, without a doubt, my very own fingerprint."

You have got to be kidding me, thought Harry.

But sure enough, with the aid of Holmes magnifier, he could clearly see the faint swirling pattern of an adult fingerprint. He decided not to question how Holmes knew the fingerprint was his own; the implied depths of obsession didn't do thinking about.

Holmes grabbed Harry, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. "Come along, Watson."

The trio moved down the hallway, stopping at the staircase Harry had earlier deliberated his 50/50 decision. Once again, Holmes dropped to floor, examining the area Harry pointed out.

As he searched, Holmes casually conversed. "This is where I threw you off. The maneuver lacked decorum, but one cannot deny the effectiveness of... ah, here we go. This little mark, right here, is where I jumped onto the banister and slid down to the ground floor. You see? No walking, no footprints."

Harry crossed his arms and scowled. "So you were untrackable, this time. There won't always be banisters to slide down."

Harry regretted his words immediately. Even more so when Holmes turned a silent gaze on him.

"You are young," said Holmes, "And inexperienced, so I'll overlook that comment. Now look." He handed Harry the magnifying glass and pulled the boy to the floor. "First, note I'm wearing hard-soled shoes. When I point myself in the banister's direction and jump, pushing off leaves a distinct mark in the floor's polish. You can clearly make out the curve of the shoe's toe; the apex of the convex edge is pointing directly at the banister."

Holmes rose with a scoff. "No one is untraceable; revealing marks are left on everything we touch. One only requires the wit to see them."

-oOo-

The ride back to Baker Street was a long one. Long enough, at least, for Watson to get in touch with his whimsical inner writer. Sometime after the train departed, the doctor turned away from the window. "What," he asked, "Do we call it?"

"Call what?" asked Harry.

"You know. The glow. The gold eyes. Everything."

"Does they need names?"

"Names are important," Watson insisted, "I was thinking...Midas Sight."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged, "I guess. What about the glow's themselves? Midas Marks?"

Watson scribbled a note into his writing pad, grinning like a child at Christmas. "Perfect. We'll make a writer out of you yet."

-oOo-

After Dartmoor, Harry's training redoubled. It began their first day back in London, and never stopped. Soon, days and nights began blurring together, melting into one long montage of inhuman training. Sometimes Harry would be woken in the middle of the night for grueling tests of deduction. "Fatigue Acclimation", Holmes called it. Harry preferred to call it a nightmare.

Watson, for once, didn't object. Harry suspected the whole ordeal filled the doctor with a certain with nostalgia for his military days.

Actual, formal lesson plans were few and far between. Sherlock preferred to jump from one subject to the other as whatever whim took hold. Lectures in anatomy would be interrupted for lunch, only to resume as an exercise in psychology. But however sporadic and fragmented the lesson may have been, none could fault their effectiveness.

By far, the most fascinating facet of Harry's training was magical. One by one he uncovered new skills in magic; skills Sherlock tested to the limit. Every week the detective had a new test, and each seemed custom-tailored to break Harry's spirit in new, mind-bending ways. The task designs were flawless, always keeping completion just out of reach, forcing Harry to boldly improvise. With each test he found himself twisting magic a little differently, pushing it a little further, and wielding it a little more skillfully.

Slowly, so slowly Harry himself did not even realize, the tests became shorter. The lectures came less frequently. In an effort to be more prepared, he began attempting to deduce the nature of upcoming lessons. As Harry learned to read the inscrutable detective-watching the face, the eyes, the twitch here, the blink there-Holmes had more and more difficulty misleading him with trick questions and false information.

-oOo-

The training continued to wane, until one day Harry came down for breakfast and no test waited for him. No lecture came forth and no lesson was given. Holmes just sat there, calming eating his toast and eggs.

Harry sat in silence with a cup of tea, wondering if he'd done anything wrong. Perhaps a slip-up on yesterdays test? Nothing came to mind.

"No test today?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and continued to eat.

"Are we doing anything today?"

"Yes. Today I'd thought we'd do some work on the Heathrow Case. I've discovered a lead, and need to investigate a certain pawn shop near Charing Cross."

"That's it?"

"That's it? My boy, who knows what could happen! We might walk into that pawn shop and be instantly assaulted! Rendered unconscious! Do you know what could happen then?"

Harry noted Sherlock was in one of his moods, and the detective barreled on. "No, no, I'll tell you. If a criminal of sufficient ingenuity is present, we might then be dunked in vats of liquid nitrogen and fed into a wood chipper! So yes, that is it."

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to continue, and went back to calmly consuming breakfast. Emotions took him like a storm at sea, suddenly here and suddenly gone.

Harry counted to sixty before speaking. "Then when's the next one?"

"Next what?"

"Test."

"Sometime next week, maybe. Or maybe never. Who knows?"

Harry stared in appalled shock, and Holmes decided to clarify.

"Let me put it this way. From now on, your tests will be working cases with me."

Harry frowned. "Why? Why change?"

"It took some time, but you've finally built up a solid foundation, at least in the art of observation. The most important thing you need now is practical experience. So from now on, I want you to think of our cases a little differently."

"Different how?"

Holmes grinned. "How else? As competitions."

A/N:

Holmes' trick with the doorknob really works. Grab yourself some chrome, roll a fingerprint on, and breathe on it. Condensation gathers on the surrounding metal, but the oil from your finger protects the print.