Chapter 3: The Speckled Band

As with anything in life, there were advantages and disadvantages to Sherlock's discovery of the fact that Harriet was a witch during the Red-Headed League Case.

On one hand, Harriet no longer had to hide her magic and could actually pick Sherlock's magnificent brain on the subject; she was certain that Sherlock's ruminations alone had taught her more than she would have learned in Hogwarts for the next four years. For instance:

"Harriet, have you considered why wizards still use pseudo-Latin for spells instead of English?"

"Because purebloods are power-hungry, traditionalist bastards? I mean, they probably grow up learning Latin and all sorts of spells, unlike Muggleborns, which gives them a distinct edge by the time they get to Hogwarts. Of course, we could also just attribute everything to the fact that wizards are lazy."

Sherlock stared at her thoughtfully. "I assume that purebloods are those born into magical society while Muggleborns are magicals with mundane parents. While your explanation does make sense from a domestic perspective, you might want to also consider the international view. Based on my readings, it appears that all ICW members use the same pseudo-Latin syntax for spells, which certainly expedites communication on an international scale, especially when it comes to erecting border wards. Imagine the nightmare of trying to negotiate between English and French-based wards on top of the usual issues."

He continued, "But I suppose that I need to rephrase my question since we've veered away from my original intent. First of all, I'm sure that you have tried to cast spells in English?"

Harriet nodded.

"Did you ever succeed?"

Harriet snorted. "Not even close. My friend Ron tried to use a rhyme to turn his rat yellow when we first met, but the thing just shifted in its sleep. I tried levitating a quill by just saying 'Up!' but it only twitched. I'm still not sure whether that was the wind..."

"But in the bank, you were able to shatter those lightbulbs and teleport without a wand or words."

Harriet stared back at Sherlock thoughtfully. "Good point. Until yesterday, I would have just put it all down to accidental magic, but, aside from the bulb that broke during Donovan's rantings, everything else was pretty intentional. When it came down to it, I was able to do all that when I focused on what I wanted and..."

She struggled to articulate her thoughts. "This sounds stupid, but it was like wishing on a star. Except the trick is that if I wished strong enough, hard enough, I could feel a ball inside me and just had to push it out to do what I wanted."

Sherlock slammed shut the heavy tome that he was reading. "Excellent. That confirms my hypothesis that intent is the key to magic. I assume that you felt drained after the bout of wandless magic?"

Harriet nodded in confirmation.

"So, the wand, wand movements, and words are just amplifiers, meant to further hone and sharpen that intent so as to expedite the transformation into reality. I am sure that if you were to sufficiently focus on what you wanted, you could just as easily cast spells in English with your wand."

"Well, that makes sense, except for the fact that with the pseudo-Latin, I barely need to focus at all," Harriet protested.

"Which further suggests that the ICW must maintain a set of runes that maps the most basic pseudo-Latin words to the building blocks of your spells. Which in turn makes it easy for all ICW governments to track your spells and impose 'The Trace.'"

Harriet's eyes widened. "So you're really saying that I can practice magic this summer as long as I don't use a wand or use a different language? And the key to all of that is intent?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. "Now enough talk! Do try to lift this book off my calves wandlessly - my feet are falling asleep, Harriet."

And:

"That doesn't even make sense," Harriet growled.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and saw Harriet scowling at the mess brewing her cauldron.

"I did everything that the textbook told me to, and I'm supposed to get a blood-red mixture," she muttered irritably. "It's supposed to be a Pepper-Up potion," she added upon seeing Sherlock's inquisitive glance.

"The book, please," Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

"I did -"

"Just give me the bloody book."

Harriet complied, and Sherlock stared down at the instructions.

"Fascinating. Were it not for the usage of magical creatures' parts, this would be yet another chemistry book. Is there a magical equivalent of the periodic table?"

"The periodic what?"

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples exasperatedly. "Remind me to add chemistry to our syllabus. For now, come up with a list of core magical elements, the building blocks of all potions. Then, list out how they react with each other."

He added, "The latter is harder than it sounds. Even in regular chemistry, stirring too little could mean that a solute isn't well-mixed, and stirring too much could lead to supersaturation. I assume that magical creature ingredients are far more volatile, so stirring is even more important than usual."

While Harriet would never be a potions prodigy, she had already learned more from Sherlock in a few days than she had from Snape during an entire year.

On the other hand, Sherlock was essentially an overgrown, self-centered five-year old.

"Catch!"

Harriet woke up spluttering.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you can't just use a water balloon to wake up people up," she said furiously.

Waving her off, Sherlock said impatiently, "Yes, yes, you're mad. Now dry yourself using magic. I want to see if the heating process is gradual or instantaneous. "

It was 5 AM in the morning, and Harriet usually woke up an hour later (Petunia and co. mandated that their breakfast should be waiting for them when they came downstairs; failure meant a thrashing at Vernon's hands, followed by an indefinite period of time in the darkness of the cupboard. After all, none of the teachers cared if the 'delinquent' missed a few days.). So, the timing wasn't a huge issue. It was more the fact that she had just been woken up by a water balloon containing icy water. And her clothes were drenched.

"BUGGER OFF, SHERLOCK!"

Of course, she had to also dry herself in the process, giving the arsehole exactly what he wanted even as he scurried off. Bastard.

And:

"Harriet, I need 10000 Galleons."

"What on Earth for, Sherlock?"

"The Hand of Glory. It would be a perfect addition to the skull on the mantelpiece. Not to mention that it's supposed to be a thief's best friend, whatever that is."

"Sherlock, I'm an impressionable eleven-year-old girl, and you're the 'responsible' adult. That means you shouldn't have even brought me into this obviously dodgy shop in the first place. But now you want to buy an expensive human hand too?"

"Oh, Harriet, don't judge a book by its cover."

"Sherlock, the only reason that we haven't been robbed yet is because we're dressed in rags exactly like some of the hags outside. If we were to take your advice, then we wouldn't have adopted this disguise in the first place."

Sherlock stared at her with his palm outstretched.

"No, Sherlock, we're not buying the blood hand."

"Hand of Glory." His palm was still outstretched.

The two spent another ten minutes staring at each other, waiting for the other to cave. Fortunately, for Harriet, she had experience with the best of them - no one could beat ickle Duddykins in the spoiled-brat, tantrum-throwing department.

All it meant was that Harriet would: (a) never show Sherlock her trust vault and (b) never leave Sherlock in charge of finances during shopping trips. Brilliant detective he may be, but a thrifty spender he was not, especially in this brave new world.


And then there were days like today - when living with Sherlock was both a blessing and a curse, all in one.

Mycroft Holmes stared at a singed Harriet and Sherlock. Thankfully, the pewter cauldron was no longer on fire, but boomslang skin, goat liver, and various other potion ingredients were splattered onto the flat's walls.

Mycroft's eyes were narrowed into slits, and Harriet was distinctly reminded of Professor McGonagall. She gulped nervously.

Sherlock remained as unabashed and impassive as ever.

"Explain to me," Mycroft hissed at Harriet, "why I shouldn't just ship you back to the Dursleys. I thought that I told you explicitly to not share information about magic to Sherlock. You do realize that you are in violation of the Statute of Secrecy?"

"And you, brother dear," he continued coldly, "must tell me what on earth made you think that helping Harriet brew a volatile potion such as Felix Felicis was a good idea. Especially in this flammable, densely populated urban milieu."

"Mycroft, honestly, you can't tell me that you aren't intrigued by the idea of owning a luck potion -"

"And I suspect that you're going to need plenty of that to talk your way out of this before the firefighters arrive, brother dear. Now, both of you, tell me why I shouldn't just let the firefighters into the flat as it is right now and have the Ministry of Magic deal with you as they see fit."

"Wait, I can explain," Harriet began nervously. "It was my fault; I accidentally used magic during one of Sherlock's cases, and -"

"We can make you a regular supply of Veritaserum, Myc," Sherlock sneered, cutting off Harriet's nervous rambling.

Mycroft surveyed the pair coolly and nodded in acquiescence. "Fair enough. Just make sure that the neighbors don't see the explosions, and I can send a special squad to help you with the mess. Unlike the regulars, they will be...discreet."

With that, he spun on his heel and headed out the door. He paused at the stairs though.

"And Sherlock - you owe me a case. Before you start grumbling, rest assured that it is a level 7 at least."


"Mr. Holmes, it truly is a pleasure to meet you today. I would like to apologize in advance for any inconvenience that I may be causing you -"

Sherlock studied the man in front of him. 'Blond, brown-eyed. A botanist/naturalist/outdoors-type, judging by the dirt stains on his fingernails, callused hands, the short-sleeved T-shirt, and muddy sneakers. Not by inclination though judging by the expensive Rolex. Heirloom? Doubtful given the bright sheen, probably a few weeks old at most, and the absence of any engravings. Also, clean-shaven and well-groomed + strong, Old Spice deodarant - definitely vain, concerned about appearances. Or at least the portions that he can control within the confines of his job. Single, never married - no ring, no grooves on ring finger to ever indicate the presence of a ring in the past.'

"You have five minutes, Mr. Stoner."

There was a flicker of irritation in the man's eyes, but it was quickly covered up. "The case involves my older sister, who died a few weeks ago on the eve of her twenty-first birthday. I'm not sure how much you know about -"

"Wizarding culture? The basics. If I'm not mistaken, at seventeen, your sister would have achieved magical majority in the eyes of the Ministry. But in the eyes of Gringotts, she would need to be twenty-one in order to acquire her magical inheritance. From a financial standpoint, I presume that she was set to inherit the Francoise fortune?"

Stoner gaped. "Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes, but how did -"

"Your wand's sticking out of your jeans' pocket. Furthermore, your watch may not be a heirloom, but your earrings clearly state 'Francoise,' and I'm aware that they used to be a major French wizarding family at one point, at least prior to Grindelwald's rampage through Europe. Add in your generally well-groomed appearance despite the naturalist nature of your work, and you are the heir to a magical family."

Stoner cocked an eyebrow. "You truly are as impressive as Dr. Watson made you out to be, Mr. Holmes. At any rate, I will be turning twenty-one in a few days as well, and I believe that I have reason to be concerned for my life given the nature of my sister's death."

Taking a deep breath, he continued, "My sister and I are both studying botany in the University of London. On the magical side, I graduated from Hogwarts with a specialization in Herbology and Potions. Anyway, it was two days before her twenty-first birthday; we were on break at the time and visiting our aunt, Dr. Gwendolyn Roylott. We're not that close, even on the best of days, but she's the only family that we've got, and we wanted to celebrate the momentous occasion together."

"Did you sister have a history of depression or any mental issues?" Sherlock inquired.

Stoner shook his head. "No, she didn't. She was one of the cheeriest people that I've known. In fact, she was a Squib, but unlike so many others, she never begrudged the fact that I got to attend Hogwarts while she didn't. She always pushed me to develop both mundane and wizarding skills, so that I could move between the two worlds easily."

"Go on."

"Around midnight, we heard a high-pitched scream from my sister's bedroom and dashed over to it. The door was locked from the inside, so I had to break it down. Once we got in, we saw..."

At this, Stoner began to choke up.

"She was on the ground, seizing up and writhing in pain. I tried to rush out of the room and get my Potions kit, to see if there was anything I could do to help her, but she grabbed hold of my arm and said, 'The speckled band! Beware the speckled band!' What really stood out to me was the sheer terror in her eyes! She was one of the bravest people that I knew, but whatever it was that killed her scared the wits out of her."

Sherlock stared at Stoner impassively.

"The police completely analyzed the scene, but there were no signs of bullets or breaking-and-entering. Toxicology reports came back clean, and there were no marks on her body. They dismissed the case as a suicide, but I'm not convinced. The terror in her eyes - that was the sign of someone who had seen the Devil himself and was subsequently trying to find someway to get back to Earth alive."

Stoner continued, "Magical authorities didn't find any signs of magic in the area either. There were no foreign potions in her body, no poisons. Her blood was clean."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Mr. Stoner, repeat her final words for me."

"'The speckled band! Beware the speckled band!'"

Rubbing his hands together in glee, Sherlock said, "Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mr. Stoner." Under his breath, he muttered, "For once, Mycroft, you managed to estimate the level correctly."


"Thoughts, Harriet?"

Harriet looked at her notes pensively. "My first instinct is to blame magic - as usual - but given the absence of a magical signature in the area, I'm going to have to pass on that. I would also suspect poison, but the toxicology report's clean though. We need to take a closer look at the crime scene. We should also interrogate Ms. Roylott; it is her house after all, and the siblings don't seem to have the fondest of relationships with her. In fact, it seems a bit suspicious that they all got together at all for such a significant occasion. Did she invite them? Or did one of them set it all up?"

"Well put. You are getting better at this. Now, off we go, for the game's afoot, Harriet!"


From the outside, No. 35 Oxford Drive looked like all of the other houses in the area. Harriet felt a shiver of distaste run through her at the uniformity and blandness of the entire suburban neighborhood. From the clean-cut, verdant lawns to the stock, square, white houses, there were little to no differences from Privet Drive. She thought sourly, "There's probably a Vernon-Petunia-Dudley-Harriet group somewhere in this neighborhood too. The dirty secrets that hide behind such normal-looking walls..."

Sherlock rang the doorbell. Their client, Hank Stoner, answered promptly, with a relieved face.

"It's good to see both of you. Thank for following up on my case. Do you want -"

"Take us to your sister's room," Sherlock cut through Stoner's pleasantries.

Again, a flicker of irritation passed through Stoner's eyes, but the man complied.

Harriet's eyes were drawn towards the cupboard at the base of the stairs as Sherlock and Stoner trudged upwards.

"You two go on ahead. I just need to use the facilities."

The duo nodded and continued on.

Harriet quietly made her way to the cupboard door and twisted the knob. The door made a gentle creaking noise as it swung outward.

'Huh - as dark as a I remember. Much cleaner though - no spiders, no toys, no cot. Just the stuff that you would expect to find in a cupboard - cleaning supplies, shoe-boxes, books.'

She had to barely crouch as she entered the space.

'Can't believe that this is where I was living until Hagrid came. I still fit into it pretty well. Who knows? Maybe Petunia will send me back to this hole if I were to ever return to her. Hard to believe that it's the exact same though, besides the supplies, across neighborhoods.'

Even if Harriet hadn't met Sherlock and hadn't gotten her own room at Baker Street, even if she only had the Gryffindor dorms as a baseline, the cupboard still seemed so SMALL and dark compared to before. 'I can't believe that I didn't get claustrophobia after living in such a small space.'

'Maybe this is why I'm so curious. Maybe this is why I keep reaching and striving. I don't want my life to be like this cupboard - dank, dark, restricted. I want to be free to run in the sun, as cliched as that sounds.'

With that, Harriet gently ducked out of the cupboard, closing the door and making her way upstairs.

'No way in hell am I going back to the Dursleys. I need to set something up with Sherlock's homeless network - safehouse, fake IDs, something. I'd rather be a street kid instead, if push comes to shove and I get forced out of Baker Street.'

Suddenly, Harriet froze. She turned her head and looked around wildly, but nothing was there. She heard Sherlock murmuring softly and Stoner responding equally softly upstairs. But there was another voice too, a loud, strong one.

Kill. Ssssso hungry. Must feed. Sssstupid humans. Kill.

Heart pounding, she waited a few moments, straining to identify the source of the noise. But it had disappeared just as soon as it had manifested. As much as she would have liked to dismiss it, she walked up slowly, with shaking legs and roving eyes.


"Harriet, good of you to join us," Sherlock said. "Do you see anything off in this room?"

Shaking away her thoughts, Harriet scrutinized the various aspects of the bedroom closely. Lavendar walls, Hello-Kitty calendar, white drawer...yeah, everything seemed off compared to her life in the cupboard or even Dudley's second bedroom.

But there was nothing to suggest that Stoner's sister had been -

"The bed frame," Harriet realized. "The surface is flat and closed. It's not one of those types that actually rises above the ground."

"Which makes it harder to move, very good. Anything else?"

"There's a vent directly above the bed. Aren't vents usually on the walls rather than on the ceiling?"

Stoner responded, "What does the vent have to do with anything? Sure, Dr. Roylott did some work with the vents a few weeks before we all visited, but that was because the summer was way hotter than usual, and it had been a long time since the AC and heating units had been refurbished."

"Everything and nothing. We still need more data, but the puzzle pieces are falling into place. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stoner."

"My pleasure, Mr. Holmes. Please let me know if anything turns up."

Before they could leave, Harriet hesitatingly asked, "Mr. Stoner, if you don't mind my asking, just who arranged the entire get-together?"

Stoner's jaw clenched as he replied haltingly, "Dr. Roylott, of course. I didn't want to have anything to do with the woman. She may be our aunt, but frankly, my sister and I were happy to move out of this place as soon as we hit our magical majority."

He added hurriedly, "No, she wasn't abusive or anything. She just never understood the magical side of things and preferred to pretend that it didn't exist. It didn't help that my parents, who all of us loved dearly, died during Voldemort's Reign of Terror; she just wanted to keep us safe. But we wanted to know our heritage. Even my sister."

Harriet wasn't a genius like Sherlock. But something seemed off about the whole situation. "Do you mind if we could meet your aunt too?"

"She might not be too happy to see private detectives. She's...trying to pretend that nothing has changed. Her therapist told me that she's still in denial over sis's death."


"Did you find anything useful in the cupboard?"

Harriet was startled. "How did you -"

"Slightest hint of dirt on your hair." Sherlock brushed it off. "The only place between the kitchen and the stairs with that amount of dirt is the cupboard, given that it's probably not opened that often. You definitely didn't go to the bathroom since I didn't hear any flushing sounds or water running through the pipes."

"Oh."

"Well, did you find anything, or did you just feel the urge to randomly dig through the various nooks and crannies of the house? You're from a suburb, so I'm sure you've seen similar homes before."

Harriet bit back the retort. 'I grew up in that nook and cranny, genius! Why can't you deduce that?'

"Harriet, as much as I hate to admit it, my brother had offered me an excellent piece of advice in the past - 'Caring is not an advantage.' You probably read about it in John's description of the Adler case. Yes, you might be struck by the similarities between Stoner's and your childhood living situations, but in the context of the case, that is irrelevant. All that matters is Stoner's sister was murdered, her aunt may have been involved, and that vent was DEFINITELY involved."

Sherlock may be a genius and an excellent consulting detective. He may have unparalleled skills when it comes to deducing a person's life history from the minutest of details.

But when it came to emotions - god, he was way more broken than she was. 'Yeah, yeah, I don't like pity. I know a 'Sorry' won't fix anything. But does he HAVE to be so casual about it?'

How did he get that way with normal parents? Because she had seen John's brief description of Sherlock's parents. And both Sherlock and Mycroft don't seem like the abused type. If anything, she can picture a couple doting on both of them and pushing them to excel and strive.

'Why couldn't I have gotten that?'

Shaking her head to banish her dark mood, Harriet inquired, "Was there anyone else in the house? Anyone at all?"

Sherlock looked at her puzzled. "I only saw signs of two inhabitants, one of whom was currently out. Why?"

Hesitantly, Harriet described the voice that she had heard.

"You couldn't have mentioned this while we were in the house?" Sherlock retorted testily. "Please repeat it for me."

"Are you sure that you heard it? How loud was it?" he said after a moment of thought.

"Louder than both you and Stoner," Harriet responded flatly. "It came and went quickly, but I know that I didn't imagine it. Could it be a ghost?"

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. What is most curious is that neither of us heard anything upstairs, which we should have if the voice was as loud as you say it was."

He snapped his fingers. "No matter. What say you about visiting Mr. Stoner's dear aunt?"


Dr. Roylott the herpetologist stared at the pair harshly.

"What do you two want? Can't you see that I'm busy, you louts?"

"We're here to ask you a few questions about the death of Hank Stoner's sister?"

"Margaret? Beautiful girl, unlike her good-for-nothing brother. Left this world too soon. Why, what's your interest in her?"

Before they could prevaricate, the doctor's eyes widened.

"Hank hired you, didn't he? Just can't accept that he drove her to suicide. Him and his freakish ways. Well, you can sod off."

Upon hearing the f-word, Harriet snapped.

"LOOK AT ME."

Against her will, Dr. Roylott's head turned towards Harriet; she could feel her will being submerged within the pools that were Harriet's green eyes.

"DID YOU KILL HER?"

Dr. Roylott shook her head numbly. Tears began to leak out of the old woman's eyes. "I would...never...kill...her. I...loved..that...child...like..a..daughter. Not...the...boy. Should...have...drowned..the...boy...at...birth."

Harriet continued to stare into Dr. Roylott's eyes and hold her pinned in place for a few long minutes. Searching. Evaluating. Judging.

Just as she could see the utter loathing that Dr. Roylott held for Hank Stoner, she could also see the deep love that she had held for Margaret Stoner.

Of course, Sherlock had taken her pulse throughout the process and duly confirmed the veracity of the information.


On their way out of Dr. Roylott's herpetological garden, Harriet froze again.

The voices were back.

Free usss. Get usss out of thesse cagesss.

Stupid two-legssss. Poking and prodding at usss in these cagesss.

Back. Back. I want proper meat, foolssss.

"Harriet, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked her, frowning.

Harriet ignored him; as she looked around, she only saw the snakes. She didn't see anyone.

"That noise," she said slowly, "do you hear it?"

"I'm only hearing..." Sherlock said, trailing off as his eyes became distant.

He returned to Earth with a faint smile. "I got it. We need to go back and ask Dr. Roylott one other question though."

"What question? And what did you just figure out? What am I hearing? Sherlock, for god's sake, just wait a moment, and explain, will you?"


"It was the perfect crime, wasn't it, Hank?"

Stoner jumped, startled by Sherlock's voice.

"Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here? I apologize if I seem impolite, but it's been a long day, and -"

Sherlock raised a gun and pointed it at Stoner.

"Please, sit down, Hank."

Stoner sat down with shaking hands.

"Whoa, man, take it easy. I'm not sure what you think is going on, but -"

"Please drop the act, Hank."

The man stopped shaking, and a cold, flinty look appeared in his eyes.

"Much better. Please tell me if any of the following deductions were wrong. You have resented both your sister and your aunt for a very long time - your aunt for rejecting magic and your sister for claiming your aunt's affections. You could have lived with that though. No, what really cut you was the fact that your parents' will listed your sister as the primary inheritor, even though she was a Squib, and they knew that due to the very nature of the inheritance test. While most magical families disinherit Squibs on birth, your parents didn't. To make matters worse, both your aunt and your sister were pushing you to work in the mundane world since they were terrified by the magical world's anti-Squib prejudice and saw far more opportunities here instead. But you, you were enamored with the magical world. It was a way for you to finally step out of your sister's shadow. You may have hated being the freak initially, but you eventually embraced it, especially given your placement in Slytherin. Oh yes, we checked the Hogwarts register; it's surprising how fast owl mail can be even if the Ministry of Magic itself is completely outdated and inefficient. You adopted the pureblood supremacists' ideology readily, and by eliminating your sister, you finally had the chance to make a bold entrance back into pureblood society. To finally bring back the Francoise name. The only remaining obstacle was your -"

"My aunt. Well done, Mr. Holmes. I knew that it was a risk to come to you. I was really hoping that you wouldn't talk to my aunt or that she would drive you away, as she is wont to do. Not sure how you managed to get a word from her that didn't involve 'freak' or 'delinquent.' Anyway, the idea was to get you to suspect her, shift all the blame off me."

Sherlock nodded. "As for the murder itself, I presume that you stole a snake from your Aunt's garden. The Naja naja or India cobra, to be exact."

Stoner chuckled. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. You really were thorough, weren't you? Yes, I stole a Naja naja; it wasn't like she would notice one missing snake out of so many others in that place. I replaced its venom with -"

"Beozar. Ironic that an element known to cure many poisons can become a poison in itself in large quantities. Also untraceable since it dissolves into blood seamlessly if there is no poison to bind with."

"How on Earth - you know what, never mind. I guess I overplayed my hand; I should have gone to the Scotland Yard instead. My uncle used to always talk about his protege, Mycroft Holmes, and how brilliant he was. Then, I saw your blog. Thought that I could use the two of you to wrap things up before the renewal of the Francoise line. Still can, as a matter of fact."

Sherlock looked puzzled at Stoner's final statement.

Stoner snorted. "Oh for Pete's sake, you Muggle genii are so stupid. So confident in your own abilities, believing that just by hanging out with Magicals or reading our books, you can understand us or magic. You filth know NOTHING. You're like blind painters, trying to grasp something that's forever out of your reach. Look up, Mr. Holmes. Look up, and meet your doom!"

The vent above Sherlock opened abruptly, and something fell onto the floor, hissing and spitting.

Sherlock scrambled out of the sofa and jumped away with flashing eyes. He frantically searched the floor and pointed his gun at the ground, but in the darkness, he could not see clearly.

Stoner used the opportunity to jump on the man and knock the gun away. Sherlock grabbed him in a chokehold and tried to throttle him into unconsciousness.

But Stoner forced Sherlock to let go by meting out several punches to his solar plexus. As Sherlock retreated wheezing, Stoner scrambled towards the gun.

Sherlock stood up and looked around wildly - for the snake on the ground, the gun, Stoner, anything...

"Arrrrggh," Stoner screamed.

Sherlock backed out of the hall, fingers scrambling for the lights. He found the switch and turned it on.

One angry Indian Cobra - the speckled band - was slithering out of the room, away from a wounded Stoner. Blood was dripping freely from two deep punctures on Stoner's left hand, the one that had been closest to the gun, and Stoner was already entering shock, shivering and writhing in pain.

By the time his death throes had settled, and a glassy look had entered his eyes to mark his entry into the land of death, the punctures had already sealed themselves up - thanks to the curative properties of the beozar that he had replaced the Indian Cobra's venom with, a painful substitution process that had only served to enhance the poor snake's anger.

Sighing, Sherlock stepped past Stoner's still body and picked up the gun. He weighed it for a few moments in his hand and opened the chamber.

It was empty.

"Thought so. Well, it's good that he didn't attack earlier," Sherlock murmured. Raising his voice, he said, "You can come out now, Harriet."

Harriet exited the cupboard under the stairs.

"I thought that I told you to remain with Dr. Roylott, explain the situation to Lestrade once he got there, and then direct him over here?"

Harriet snorted.

"Oh yes, you had the situation well under control. You went in with John's gun without even checking whether it was loaded, and you decided to wait in the one spot in the hall from which he could still literally get the drop on you. No, you were doing fine."

"I had to confirm whether he used beozar as the substitute for traditional venom. That was the only point that I was still unsure about since we only noticed that after several experiments on rats. The differences between human and rat physiology were significant enough to warrant further investigation, which has now been settled."

"In other words, you were bloody curious and couldn't resist a chance to show off. I hope that your brush with death was worth it."

"Nonsense, Harriet. I was never in any danger. Not with a snake-charmer such as yourself around."

Sherlock's eyes softened for a moment, and the man hesitated. "Thank you."

Harriet simply nodded in acknowledgement.

As Sherlock pulled his coat back on and went outside to greet Lestrade (who characteristically arrived at the end of the party), she pulled a cage out of the cupboard and went off to the kitchen to wrangle a snake.

Honestly, she wouldn't blame it for putting up a fight. Heh, she might even let it go after taking a picture for evidence.


Up Next: The Sign of Three

"The Sign of Three" (Sherlock S3E2) is actually what inspired me to write this fic in the first place. How would a female Harry affect the proceedings of John's wedding?

To all favoriters/followers, thank you for expressing interest in this fic. I am humbled by the enthusiasm and would greatly appreciate your feedback for this latest chapter.