"That was…memorable," said Mycroft drily, several minutes later, after Dumbledore, with Minerva's help, had extinguished the smoldering curtains.
He made no mention of the most fascinating part of the little drama. Mycroft had kept closer tabs on Sherlock's life than he would ever be willing to admit; had watched him redeem his mind from drowning emptiness and invent a new career by sheer effort of focused brilliance, had witnessed him flounder and excel, by turns, still struggling occasionally in the grip of whatever torment had had such profound effect on his mind. And Mycroft had watched John Watson limp into his brother's life and somehow provide what he himself could not; willing, from the beginning, to be a companion, to risk his life and even to kill for Sherlock Holmes.
But he had never seen them work together this way. Never really understood how the simple, average mind could balance and complete the brilliant, wide-ranging one, how the straightforward suggestions steadied and enhanced the incredible deductive leaps; in short, how John's mind (capable of all the intrigue of a goldfish) could be just as valuable as his extraordinary heart.
He understood now. And the fact that John knew nothing about magic made it all the more astonishing. The man had such complete faith in Sherlock, and Sherlock had such trust in him…
Sherlock, trusting. That in itself was extraordinary.
Sherlock resumed his seat by the flames as soon as they contracted to a more manageable size. His mind felt oddly exhausted, but exhilarated. The burning need to experience magic again had been slightly illogical, bordering on sentimental, perhaps, and yet now it felt as though something had clicked, and the built-up strain in his head was draining away as though from a lanced wound. Magic was no longer an amorphous entity, to be believed in (believed in!) but not approached. It was real, it was part of him; it had been central to the life that had by no means burst the floodgates, but was finally trickling back into his mind.
And so he sat the whole night through. Remembering.
John awoke the next morning in the softest cot he had ever slept in. Dumbledore himself had conjured it the night before, before retiring to his own quarters for the night. John had prodded it cautiously before climbing in and falling asleep within minutes. The day had been an oddly exhausting one.
It had been decided that they remain within the castle for the time being. Mycroft had suggested a return to Baker Street via the convenience of near-instant travel, but Sherlock brushed this idea aside. "I need to be here," he had said, simply. John himself hadn't been too keen on the idea of climbing into the grate again, and had gratefully accepted Dumbledore's offer of a place to sleep. It had been deemed unwise for the two men to venture yet outside the office, particularly given Sherlock's unfortunate resemblance to his brother…and John remembered, with a plunging sensation in his stomach, that his best friend may have his own crimes to answer for. Whenever this thought overtook him, John invariably found himself wishing, for a split second, that Sherlock's memories would not return, that things could go back to the way they were: days spent in companionable silence and nights investigating crime scenes , with no dark, twisted betrayals haunting the past.
For John Watson, the past had always held much more to fear than the future.
Sherlock was still glued to his armchair beside the revived fire. Without turning, he spoke six words that morning. A phrase John would remember later as the one that finally turned his world shatteringly, unequivocally upside down.
"Tell Mycroft I need the memories."
They had another private dinner that evening with Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, the deputy headmistress. She still stared at Sherlock as though he were a ghost. Mycroft had returned late in the morning with a tiny crystal bottle full of a strange, drifting silvery substance, his arrival putting an end to Sherlock's uninterrupted night vigil. Sherlock himself looked drained, exhaustion tracing his features in a way that John knew was not due to his sleepless night so much as to the contents of the little bottle and whatever it was they had unlocked within his brain.
Sherlock had not spoken a word since emptying the vial into a stone basin and disappearing into the memories. John shivered, recalling Mycroft's description—an amalgam of nightmares—but Sherlock had neither vanished literally nor shown any sign of terror; merely trailed a hand in the basin and stood with a curiously blank expression on his face that Dumbledore assured John was the usual result of venturing into the strange, milky substance he called 'Pensieve'. Afterward, Sherlock had withdrawn his hand from the swirling mass and himself from any attempts at conversation and collapsed onto John's empty bunk, sleeping the afternoon away. A natural sleep, John noted with relief, more restful than his flatmate had experienced in the past month. John could almost see the tension bleeding out of his face.
So if his friend's weariness still showed at dinner, John was optimistic enough to believe that the worst was behind them. That Sherlock slowly regained animation throughout the meal seemed confirmation of this; he attacked the delicious food (another of the apparent perks of a magical school) with uncharacteristic voracity, and John wondered whether even Sherlock Holmes was not immune to nostalgia.
Afterward, John was too fascinated with observing the creature Dumbledore summoned to serve tea (it vaguely reminded him of a smaller, more wrinkled version of Mrs. Hudson) to notice Sherlock shudder and grimace slightly at the first sip.
"Veritaserum?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow at Dumbledore. The headmaster nodded apologetically.
Sherlock sighed and drained the cup, replacing it on the saucer. "Prepared by Severus, I suppose, he always was a bit heavy-handed with it…"
"You wished me to join you, headmaster?"
John glanced up, startled, as the door slammed shut behind a black-haired, sallow-faced man. His scowl became more pronounced as he took the empty chair across from Sherlock, who merely smiled.
"You brought that observation upon yourself, Severus. Quite literally. John thinks I have no filter at the best of times, but he is about to learn he is wrong. If any of you have secrets that you wish to keep, I suggest you depart now."
"Veritaserum…" John looked from Sherlock to Severus and back again. "What's that?"
"Truth serum, John. I recommend you take the earliest opportunity to study up on your Latin. Oh, sit down," Sherlock added in response to John's immediate indignation. "It's no more than I expected. An innocent man does not get one of these," he raised his left arm, "without very good reason."
"Let us begin," Dumbledore interjected. "Are you Regulus Arcturus Black?"
Sherlock let out a small breath. "Yes."
"And are you Sherlock Holmes?"
"I am."
"Are you innocent?" inquired Dumbledore calmly.
"Define your criteria."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake—" Minerva began, but Mycroft interrupted.
"To a sociopath's mind, societal laws and conventions are arbitrary. And at times like these, little brother, you do make one wonder."
"One can display sociopathic tendencies without fitting the archetype."
Mycroft was amused. "It sounds as though you've done your research."
"Of course I have, almost directly after escaping your 'rehabilitation' charade all those years ago. As it turns out, Muggles are even more interested than wizards are in finding out what's wrong with me. People don't throw labels around if you provide your own."
The room fell silent; Sherlock scowled.
"Whose idea was it for Mycroft to be here?" he growled. "Or am I on trial in two worlds at once?"
Dumbledore quickly resumed. "Have you committed any serious crime against wizard or Muggle society?"
"Certainly."
"No!" blurted John. "Sherlock—don't—"
Sherlock shot him a pitying glance, and John realized he had grabbed his friend's arm. He closed his eyes, releasing a short, shaky breath. He had wanted answers, hadn't he? He just hadn't wanted to hear this.
"I couldn't lie right now, even if I wanted to, John," Sherlock murmured almost contritely. "And I have done what he said…at least," he raised his voice, turning back to Dumbledore. "I suppose that union the Death Eaters in itself constitutes such a crime?"
Dumbledore's face was impassive. "If voluntarily, yes."
"Sorry…what are Death Eaters, again?"
"Terrorists, John. Dark wizards under the leadership of Lord Voldemort, infamous for a radical belief in the superiority of Wizardkind. Fond of torturing and killing Muggles and Muggleborn wizards. He was one—" pointing at Snape, whose face immediately darkened. "And I was one, though our reasons for joining differed—"
"Yes, to a great degree," interrupted Severus in a silky hiss. "You were a brainwashed pureblood child, and I was a brainwashed halfblood one. You may be interested to learn that your dear brother has since gone the same way—"
John was horrified, and in no doubt that it showed on his face.
"Sirius never sat still long enough for anyone to pound pureblood maxims into his head," returned Sherlock calmly. "He is no more a Death Eater than they are," with a nod at Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore.
This assertion was a wholly unexpected one to the three wizards; Snape's expression instantly turned to stone, and Minerva jerked her head sharply. Dumbledore merely placed his hands together and regarded Sherlock levelly over the tips of his fingers.
"You seem quite assured of…"
Sherlock straightened in his chair, and John suppressed a sigh.
"Let me assure you of something, Severus." Sherlock turned piercing eyes on the elderly witch beside him, with steely grey hair pulled back in a bun. "You're not the only one here to have grown up treated like the filth on the bottom of one's shoes, or to have lost the love of your life for that matter. I'd keep that in mind if I were—wait."
If McGonagall was quivering with fury, it was nothing to the look on Snape's face, an expression that John could only describe as 'murderous rage'. He had seen it applied to Sherlock many times, but never with this intensity; nothing less than Dumbledore's paralyzing grip on Severus' wand arm kept him seated and the detective alive. The stares boring into him from all sides, however, did nothing to curb Sherlock's flood of words.
"Unexpected deduction…You lost someone, Severus? That shouldn't surprise me. What else would have prompted you to come back to the light, obsessed as you were; you never deviated from the Dark Lord's command, except…of course. Was it love? By far the most vicious motivator known to man, though fortunately for you, not to Lord Voldemort. And it's not difficult to guess who, is it? You have little enough in the way of family and friends." Sherlock paused, and John was astonished to hear the slightest hint of regret creeping into his voice. "Lily Evans was a Muggleborn, was she not? I'm sorry she's dead, she was much less an idiot than the rest of my brother's friends…"
"Severus." Dumbledore's voice was warning mingled with threat. Whatever wordless spell he'd been using to keep the Potions master in his chair had failed, and Snape was on his feet, grasping his wand in a white-knuckled grip. John felt himself slipping into the deep, dangerous calm that enveloped him whenever his friend was under threat. Sherlock saw the peril and felt John stiffen at his side, but was powerless to stop himself.
"Your fury at my mention of her suggests guilt. Somehow, you feel responsible for her death…You despised James Potter and yet you protect his son, it must be for Lily's sake, was she the mother? Of course, those two were always sniping at each other, I suppose it was inevitable they got married…"
Dumbledore was on his feet now too, wand in his hand and pointing, not at Sherlock, but at the enraged Potions master.
"Severus, control yourself."
Severus met his eyes, held them for a long, heart-pounding second, and then with a grimacing jerk thrust his wand back into his robes and swept out of the room, hand twitching involuntarily toward his pocket as he passed Sherlock. John leapt to his feet, but the man was already gone, the thick door's resounding slam echoing off the curved walls of the office.
Minerva gripped the sides of her armchair and fought for control of her voice.
"Are you certain that Regulus has been cut off from our world, Albus? He seems quite well informed to me!"
"He is under the influence of Veritaserum, Professor, ask him yourself."
John jumped. He had quite forgotten Mycroft was there, leaning against the mantle and applying a razor focus to the scene. His vigilance had not dissipated when Snape fled, though one hand twisted slowly, rhythmically, unconsciously pivoting the handle of his umbrella until its point dug into the carpet. For the briefest moment he caught Sherlock's eye, and something seemed to pass between them.
"I have been," answered Sherlock to Minerva's questioning stare. "And, as you know, deprived of my memories," with a pointed glare at Mycroft. "Those memories are mostly returned, but what I told Severus was deduction based off observation. The point is that if I can read a man's personal history from his mere appearance, you may be certain that fourteen years in Sirius Black's company were more than enough to acquaint me with his character."
"There was no need…"
"CAN'T YOU SEE I CAN'T STOP!" bellowed Sherlock. "For Merlin's sake ask me something relevant, or this poison will have me spilling your secrets for the next hour. Which would, I think, be unbearably dull for all concerned."
"Not to mention embarrassing," muttered John. Minerva looked affronted.
"Explain your involvement with the Death Eaters, please," said Dumbledore. The headmaster had sat in silence for some time, making no effort to involve himself in the altercation.
Sherlock took a breath. And it unfolded.
A/N: Next chapter's my faaaavorite...