Hello there. If you follow me on tumblr then you know that I'm gonna be updating a little less frequently (which means I will be updating like a normal person instead of like a crazy person like I've been updating) mostly because I'm taking some pretty ridiculous classes that thus far I've been neglecting. If you're subscribed to the story you'll get updates, so do that if you haven't already. Keep the feedback coming ya'll, it means a lot. This chapter is the longest thus far.
Sherlock Holmes was losing his patience. Penny was due to arrive home for the winter holidays in a week, and he was no closer to proving Sirius's innocence than he had been in October. Then, of course, there was a week of distraction as he anxiously awaited a letter from his daughter after news had spread of a troll attacking some students in the Hogwarts dungeons. John had quietly informed him that if anything had happened to her they would have of course been notified, but Sherlock was distracted anyway, unable to focus. It had been a miserable week in their home: Sherlock taking two days to recover from the haunting images after interviewing Sirius in Azkaban, and directly after that reading the article in the Prophet about the troll. Poor John did all he could to console his husband, but it was for naught. Sherlock carried his hurt heavily inside of him and even the good doctor couldn't dig it up when it was so raw.
The interview had been nearly useless, which made the whole situation even more frustrating. He travelled to the tiny island before John had even woken in the morning, unable to look into the worried blue eyes before travelling to such a horrible place. He couldn't even imagine the images that look would have cause, the sick, twisted way the dementors would take the loving gaze and turn it into something morbid—well, he went before John was awake. It was cloudy and damp, as it always seemed to be, the ghostly black figures floating over the stone fortress like seahawks searching for prey. Sherlock steeled himself and entered the building, going to the little antechamber reserved for visits. There was a chair placed unceremoniously in front of what seemed like a giant birdcage; Sirius's thin, wild body was lifted on a platform into the cage.
Sherlock glanced at the two Dementors who stood guard at the door, "Your protection is not necessary." He said coldly. The creatures stayed at their post. Finally, after being unable to convince them to leave, he conjured a patronus (a miracle, really, in such a haunted place) which sent them swooping away. He figured he had a few minutes before more returned, so he turned to Sirius, who looked marginally more aware after the dementors had left. "Listen to me, Black, we don't have much time. I'm going to try to prove your innocence, but I need you to tell me everything about that night."
Sirius appraised the dark-clad man before him, brown eyes confused, "Remus put you up to this." He finally said, his voice horse, as if it hadn't been used in many weeks.
"Of course." Sherlock said, impatient. "That night, Sirius. And quickly."
Sirius laughed mirthlessly, madly. "I went to Peter. Found him on a street in London, accused him. I believed he was the one that had sold Lilly and James out…James, my best friend. He was dead and Peter was the reason why. I went to him, yes. And we scuffled. But I didn't kill him, Holmes. I didn't." he clutched the iron bars in front of him, shaking. Sherlock stared back at him, expressionless. He motioned for Sirius to continue, and the prisoner took a shaky breath. "Peter had always been…weak. How he ended up in Gryffindor always made James and me curious. I had seen him, only a few weeks before, asked him to come to the Potters with me for Harry's birthday. He refused, said he couldn't see them, that he had something to do. Mad, he was, he kept muttering about how he had heard something that would be dangerous."
"Heard something? What?" Sherlock sat up a little straighter, but deflated again when Sirius shook his head, not knowing.
"Whatever it was gave him a reason to kill them. You-know-who! In person! Goes to their home in the middle of the night…" Sirius had tears falling thick into his wild beard, shaking his head over and over. "I accused him. And there was an explosion. And he was gone. Finger left on the ground. Dozen bloody witnesses who didn't know what happened, just assumed it was me who set the blast, that I had made him vanish into thin air!" he laughed again, eyes crazed.
Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, frowning. There had to be more. Finally, it struck him. "You're an animagus." He said suddenly. Sirius looked genuinely shocked.
"Who told you that. It…I'm not registered. We were just kids when—"
"I don't care about that. You and James were animagi, correct? Was Peter?"
Sirius blinked, finally understanding. He nodded, "A rat…a bloody rat…" he whispered. In that moment the door flew open and a dozen dementors surrounded Sherlock. He barely even saw Sirius get lowered back into the depths of the prison before the horrible images started, the dementors angry at him for having dispelled them, attacking him with everything less than the Kiss itself. He apparated to St. Mungo's directly, having enough good sense to know that he couldn't come out of this nightmare without John, who would be at work. He popped, writhing under the mental images, into John's office. Half an hour later, the doctor came in, intending to rest between appointments, and nearly yelled out in fear, seeing his husband curled into a ball on the floor, eyes wild and unseeing, clutching his head with a death grip. It was worse, so much worse, than the last time, images of Penny now added to the mangled ones of John, the Dementors hardly holding back in their anger and sheer numbers. He couldn't even react to John's worried hands gently prying his away from the black curls, his whole body stiff as if in post mortem.
John had kneeled patiently next to Sherlock, gently stroking his face and hair until he was able to move again; and when he could, he began to shake, silent sobs racking his entire body. He clutched weakly to John, unable to even feel embarrassed at the weakness he was showing. John apparated them back to their flat, using a hover charm to settle the tall man gently in their bed, where he carefully removed his shoes and outer clothing, leaving Sherlock in a cold sweat in his undergarments. He wrapped him in a blanket and sat next to him, pulling Sherlock's head in his lap with a sigh, brushing the hair out of his sweaty face. Sherlock gazed up at him, still fearful, and John murmured quietly to him until he was able to fall into a fitful sleep.
The next morning Sherlock awoke to a pounding headache, his body stiff, his throat sore. He vaguely remembered coming home with John, being held by the strong blond man as he cried out in the night. The pain in his head made it difficult to move, but he rolled from his side to his back. He could hear John in the hall, sending a message to the hospital from the sound of it. "No I can't come it at all…Sherlock is very ill. Yes I'll be back in tomorrow, hopefully. Thank you." He could only hear one end of the conversation, but he knew it was a disservice to the hospital to keep John away. Guilt gripped his stomach like a vise. John slowly came back into the room, obviously trying not to wake up, but when he walked inside and saw the gray eyes frowning apologetically at him he gave a little half smile, setting the steaming mug in his hands on the table next to the bed. He kneeled on the floor beside Sherlock, pushing the hair that was now dried to his face up and out of his eyes. "You're never going back there. I don't care if it's me in that prison. You are not going back there." He said, managing to be both stern and loving at the same time. Sherlock nodded weakly, feeling ashamed, his throat too sore to reply. John sighed at him and shook his head, reaching over and handing him the cup. Hot chocolate. Sherlock made a face, having never been a fan, but John narrowed his eyes dangerously and he sipped it. Despite the overt sweetness that Sherlock generally despised, he had to admit that he felt better after drinking it. He finished half the mug before setting it down and looking at his hands, John frowning at him.
"Come on, you're a mess. You need to shower." He finally sighed, pulling Sherlock up out of bed and pushing him into the bathroom. He stumbled, clutching his pounding head, and clutched to John as he tried to leave. Sighing, John turned one of the half-dozen taps along the tub and steaming water smelling of eucalyptus filled the porcelain bathtub. Sherlock clumsily undressed and sank into the slightly green water, his angled body pointing sharply out of the water like rocks on a moor. John sighed at him, sitting on the floor beside the tub, chin resting of the lip of it, hand gently pulling through Sherlock's wet black hair. "You aren't allowed to do this again, Sherlock. I'm serious. What if Penny saw you this way?" Sherlock glanced at him and ducked his face up to his eyes under the water, blowing bubbles huffily through his nose.
Penny. No, Penny couldn't see him that way, in fact he and John decided that she was not to know about this case at all, especially since she seemed friendly with Harry Potter. It made the fact that he had not solved it yet beyond frustrating; but really, he had nothing to go off of. Unless he could find Peter Pettigrew alive and turn him in, Sirius Black was doomed to stay in that prison for the rest of his life. Sherlock was obsessed with making sure that didn't happen. Which was exactly why it was five a.m. and Sherlock was still standing hunched over one of his leather notebooks, scribbling furiously, still in the now rumpled shirt and trousers of the day before. His back ached from standing all night, but he ignored it, his ample mind pushing everything that wasn't directly relevant to what he was doing far from his thoughts. He realized John would be awake soon, especially since Sherlock wasn't in the bed with him, which meant that he would get up earlier than usual, but he continued his writing, glancing up occasionally at his subjects in front of him to observe before taking down another note.
"What the hell are those?" John nearly yelled when he came down into the kitchen an hour later, showered and dressed for work. He gestured to the cage on the counter, which held three rats. Sherlock sighed and gave him a scathing look through the dark curls that fell limply into his face. Whoever said there was no such thing as a stupid question had obviously never met John Watson. "I need them for research." Sherlock replied finally, turning back to his notebook. An idea struck him suddenly, "John. Would you be willing to become an animagus for me?" He looked up to him with crazed, excited gray eyes.
John narrowed his eyes, grabbing a mug from a cabinet, "Have you gone mad?"
"Obviously not. It would be greatly beneficial to my research."
"I'm not becoming an animagus so you can perform spells on me and stick potions into my veins!"
Sherlock huffed and slammed his book shut, leaning against the counter. His neck cracked as he leaned his head back against the counter, and John winced. "There has to be a way…" Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Maybe you should get some sleep, love." John said softly, looking at him worriedly. Sherlock waved him off.
"I'm going to try to get into Pettigrew's file." He said with an air of conviction. John didn't reply, so Sherlock looked up at him. He was looking at him with a critical eye; he recognized the look, as he'd seen him use it on his patients before, especially Alice and Frank. He was trying to determine his mental health, and Sherlock scoffed, "Oh save me the doctor's orders, John. I haven't had a case like this in years."
"Yes and you were just beginning to become a normal man, Sherlock. You worry me like this, all obsessive. It's unhealthy." John was frowning and Sherlock could see he really meant what he was saying.
So Sherlock smirked, "You didn't fall in love with a normal man. Face it, Watson, you like me better when I'm interesting." He was teasing John, diffusing the tension with humor, but John was not interested in flirting. He just rolled his eyes and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, giving him one more scathing look before leaving the flat for work. Sherlock glanced at the snoozing rodents before sighing, taking a too-hot shower before heading to the ministry.
"Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you the Black file? Now you want the file of a murdered man? That will not look good in any sense, brother." Mycroft was leaning back in his plush leather chair of his office, glancing at the clock repeatedly. Sherlock was interrupting his lunch hour.
"No one has to know its missing. His file is locked in a box somewhere, no one is checking it for any reason, and I'll return it before Penny arrives home." Sherlock said, hands on the dark wooden desk, leaning forward. He was tired and frustrated and he needed that file, damn it. Mycroft crossed his arms in a gesture very similar to their mother's 'end of discussion' look, and Sherlock scowled, turning out of the office and slamming the door behind him. He went to his own cramped little office, where he was once again alone, and pulled out his wand, violently flicking it toward a singing teacup in the corner, making it smash against the wall with a soprano screech. He scowled at the humming pile of broken porcelain on the ground, fuming.
Mycroft was so obsessed with image and what people thought, it was ridiculous. Furious, Sherlock sent another three cups at the wall, their powdered remains sounding like a live wire on the ground. He stood there, wand in hand, breathing heavily, trying to get a grip and come up with a plan, when the door slowly swung open. He turned around and saw the woman standing in the doorway, a short black dress clinging to her hourglass frame, bright blue eyes shining with mischief, a smirk on cherry red lips. Her glossy black hair was pulled across one shoulder, cascading across pale arms that held a large, heavy envelope. "Mr. Holmes, the younger, I presume?" she purred sweetly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning to face her.
"That would depend on whom is asking." He replied curtly, crossing to sit lightly on the edge of his desk, "Come in then." He snapped, not liking the way her eyes grazed his body slowly. She strutted inside on red stilettos, her body rolling like a cat's as she walked. The door swung shut behind her, and she made no move to sit, standing squarely in front of Sherlock at a distance too close to be considered comfortable. "So who is asking, then?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to get a read on her.
"You may call me Irene, Mr. Holmes, though my name is of little importance to you." She smiled again and set the envelope in his lap. The front of it bore the name Peter Pettigrew, "A little gift, though it will do you little good. You won't find him." Her eyes flicked mischievously to Sherlock's.
"Where did you get this?" Sherlock asked with a little surprise, pulling open the envelope. It was in fact Peter's file.
"Oh you aren't the only one who enjoys pissing off big brother, my dear."
"Why would you want to help me?" he turned his catlike eyes back to her, on the defense. There was clearly something wrong here.
"Oh no, handsome, I already told you there's nothing in that file that will help you. And, I also said, I'm of little importance to you. I come on behalf of a greater power, a young man very much like yourself, except unlike you and your little domestic dreams, he has much bigger plans for the wizarding world. Plans that your little inquiry will be getting in the way of." She smiled wickedly at the look of confusion that cross Sherlock's face for a fraction of a moment.
"I suppose you're a death eater then, yes?" He replied cooly, leaning back on his hands, languid.
"Oh no, Mr. Holmes, my wrists are clean." She turned her forearms out to him, revealing unmarried, perfect pale skin. "My master has intuitions that coincide with the Dark Lord's, but are completely separate. His wrists are not as pure as mine, however. It's impossible to have a double agenda these days in such a mad world." She was enjoying this game, it was clear, but Sherlock remained quiet, letting her continue. "Which is why I was hired to relay a message to you…" Irene bit her bottom lip, her eyes taking him in again, undressing him in her mind, obviously. Sherlock twirled his wand in his fingers, thinking carefully.
"A message?" he finally replied, looking intrigued. He cocked a dark brow at the woman before him, whose eyes reluctantly moved from the tight fabric across his chest to his face.
"You will give up on Sirius Black or you will very much regret it. Wouldn't want your pretty little daughter harmed, would we?" her voice had turned deadly, and Sherlock was instantly on the defense, wand gripped tightly in his hand. "That's what I thought. I'd think very carefully about your next move, Mr. Holmes. Things are about to change around here." She turned, pausing in the doorway, "Oh, and let's keep big brother and hubbykins out of this, yes? Ta, love." She pulled her wand out of her cleavage and had apparated away just as Sherlock had stood, trying to stop her, to find out who this 'master' of hers was. But she was gone, and Sherlock was left alone in the office, the droning of the broken cups suddenly sounding much more sinister than before.
WELP. I changed my writing style a little bit in this one, let me know if you liked it or not. Please leave reviews! -xo