AN: Reading your responses to the last chapter was an interesting experience.

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night to John's voice, and a dim light from down the hall. He sat up quietly, rubbing his eyes. His feet shuffled along the floor as he moved into the kitchen, where John was sweeping the stick- his wand- along the walls. John looked as if he were concentrating on his task completely, but Sherlock knew for a fact that the other man was aware he was awake. Sherlock took a seat, quietly watching him work.

It seemed like a second later when Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. He jerked up, fighting his attacker. John caught his arm with a soft expression in his eyes. Sherlock finally took note of his surroundings.

Light filtered through the window, casting John's face in gold. The wizard's hair was in disarray and the space beneath his eyes looked dark and sleepless. Sherlock felt the tingle of warmth on his cheek where he'd been resting it on his arm, on the table. It was morning, and Sherlock had fallen asleep as John had nearly finished the living room.

"Back to bed, Sherlock," John told him quietly. Sherlock let him pull him from his chair and lead him back to their bedroom. The both of them seemed to collapse into the mattress. Sherlock cracked an eye open to look at his partner.

"Jawn," he drawled, his voice muffled by his pillow. John's eyes did not open, but an eyebrow raised, followed by a "Mmrph?"

"What were you doing last night?"

"Mmph. Persheshin speh."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting, until John groaned and lifted his head. "Protection spell."

"Why? I didn't think we'd need one," Sherlock yawned. John didn't answer. "Good night, John."

Three hours later, Sherlock's sleep was interrupted yet again by his phone. John groaned and threw a pillow in its direction, burying himself in the stolen blankets. Sherlock removed the pillow off his face and lifted his hand to grab the device.

'1 missed call: Lestrade'

"We have a case," Sherlock murmured.

"Fantastic," came the muffled response. Sherlock's phone moaned. "Change that fucking ringtone."

"Locked room. Man's still alive, but he's like a living corpse," Sherlock read the text. This caught John's interest, as a blond head poked out of the cocoon. "He's catatonic. Unresponsive. It's as though his very soul had died."

John sat up, suddenly very much awake. "Take the case. I think I know what's going on."

Sherlock was full of questions as John rushed to get ready to leave. The detective wasn't slow in his routine, either. But there was a fire about John, as though the case related to him in some way.

The sleuth decided that, considering the unusual circumstances, that may have been true.

"Lestrade, where is the victim?" Sherlock demanded the minute he was allowed behind the yellow tape. Greg sighed and pointed to the room down the hall.

"His wife reported that he was murdered, but once we got here, it was painstakingly obvious he was still alive," the DI informed them, leading them to the open door. John paused at the doorway as the other two continued to walk in. "However, he isn't responding to any stimuli. Well, I mean, when Anderson pushed a finger into a pressure point, he jumped in physical pain, but he won't speak. He won't look around. He doesn't even look like he acknowledges he's got police in his bedroom."

John approached the bed. Sherlock looked up at him questioningly. The doctor examined his mouth and eyes, before straightening. "Sherlock, you were awake last night; what do you think the temperature was like?"

"It was unusually warm. Maybe about twenty-two?" Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together.

"Lestrade, did the wife ever comment on the temperature?"

"Now that you mention it, she said that she got very cold in the middle of the night and moved to the sofa, where it was warmer. She said her husband was still asleep."

John pursed his lips and stood, deep in thought. Finally, he looked around the room, drew his wand, and aimed it at the door. It closed shut.

"Muffliato," John commanded. It didn't look as though anything happened. Sherlock's eyes widened. John wasn't supposed to use magic in front of Muggles. He turned to look at Lestrade, who…

...didn't look at all shocked or surprised.

"You think it has something to do with magic?" Greg asked. John nodded.

"I'm sure of it. This looks like a bad run-in with a Dementor, actually," he said.

"Wait, hang on, Gavin, you know about magic?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"A Dementor? I heard of 'em. Never saw one," the DI shook his head.

"You're a Muggle. Obviously you can't see magical creatures."

"You're a Muggle and you know about magic?"

"Yes!" both John and Lestrade cried, interrupting their own conversation. Sherlock went silent.

"And before you ask, I have a reason," Greg told him. John made a warning noise, shaking his head. "What? He still doesn't know?"

John shook his head again. The DI straightened, a peculiar expression on his face.

"Oh, so he allows him to remember you, but God forbid Sherlock knows his dirty little secret," he scoffed.

"What secret? John, who is he talking about?" Sherlock demanded. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, Sherlock, there is a lot that has been going on right under your nose for a very long time. Almost your whole life," Greg told him, breaking the ice. "In fact, it was happening in your very household."

"John?"

"This may be hard to believe," the wizard sighed. "Sherlock, your brother is a wizard. He attended Hogwarts like I have. You don't know about this because your parents were afraid of him."

Sherlock scoffed, giving John a smile. John frowned at him, and the smile disappeared.

"When Mycroft got his letter, your parents thought it was a joke," Greg continued. "They forced him to ignore it. Then more arrived, followed by one of the professors of the school. She explained everything to them, all the way up to Mycroft's abilities. Suddenly, certain events had explanations. Mycroft was a wizard."

"Your parents didn't want you to grow up encouraging Mycroft's magic," John picked up. "In fact, they went so far as to confiscate his wand every year during the Summer. They lied to you. Told you he was sent away to a boy's school, far away. They let you believe that it was his choice. And when you were older, they told you that Mycroft refused to let you attend his school, causing you to hate him and treat him like shite ever since."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, thinking. When he lifted his head, his eyes gave away the hurt and betrayal he felt.

"You knew about this?" he asked. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "How is it that my flatmate- my best friend- finds out that my brother is a wizard before I did? Or Lestrade, you… You knew about this for so long, you knew about John- how long have you known about John?"

"Almost as long as I've known him," Greg answered sheepishly. "After John and Mycroft met, My sort of… spilled the beans. He forced me to pretend I didn't know until you knew."

"But why would he tell you, if he can't even trust his own brother?"

"Because he thinks you hate the ground he stands on," John answered. "He is afraid of how you would react."

Sherlock went silent, and John fidgeted with his wand. Finally, he sighed sadly and lifted it.

"I'm sorry. Obliviate."

Sherlock fell to the floor.

AN: I know. I'm evil. Don't kill me yet, let me redeem myself!

Thanks for the great reception, guys. I love you all. If I could kiss your precious cheeks, I would. To "Old Ping Hai", I always look forward to your reviews each chapter, and I'm so happy last chapter wasn't an exception. To "Protagonist Of Life", you're probably going to kill me now. And to "Nataly Skypot", all you ever say in your reviews is "muy bueno" and to all of that, no matter if I say it or not, my response is "¡MUCHAS GRACIAS!"

I found out that this fic has been recommended by a Johnlock fanfic Tumblr. The link to the fic goes to my AO3 account, which I haven't updated since… chapter three. Oops. I'm still really happy I was good enough for a rec. Thanks, guys!