Title: John, I'm a Wizard
Series: n/a
Fandoms: BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter
Pairings: Pre-slash and slash Johnlock, established Mystrade, established Drarry
Author: Z-sama (dA user the-lady-harkness) and TWTL
Beta: Phil the Sherlotter
WARNINGS: See first chapter for all the warnings.
MISC: So... Sherlock's telling the next bit. Well then, should be interesting I suppose... Also, this fic is up on tumblr with BONUS CONTENT. God help us all... .com
LAST LITTLE NOTE: Remember... o0o denotes scene changes. the lines across the page denote time period changes. it's pretty straight forward.
Alone.
Alone in Mycroft's domain, where there were sure to be surveillance spells and charms activated the moment his brother had shut the door behind him.
Sherlock's only comfort came from the fact that despite John's explosive anger and rather powerful right hook, he was in no real physical danger. "So if people simply asked rather than assumed-"
"Not the time for it, Sherlock," John replied in a warning tone. Letting him know quite clearly that right now, he wasn't going to deal with that particular admission.
Sherlock gave a curt nod then. "Tea?" he tried, knowing John's ever predictable and oh so very English way of problem solving always began with the drink.
"No."
"Ah." He gave another curt nod. So it was going to be one of ithose/i sort of discussions. The ones where John wanted to stay angry for as long as possible, which also meant that he needed the anger in order to give him a solid focus. Not get distracted, as Sherlock tended to do to him, by other lesser emotions. He needed to see past sentiment. This, Sherlock realized, was not going to end well.
He sighed in defeat, a particular sound only his mother, John, and Mrs. Hudson had ever heard. "If you wouldn't mind?" He indicated the room itself, and John seemed to understand. He too knew, after finding them, that this was Mycroft's domain.
A few moments and some well placed mufallato spells later Sherlock and John stood with two chairs, a loveseat, and three tables between them. Each man waiting for the other to begin, unwilling to be he who broke the pregnant silence.
When it was clear that John wasn't going to break first, and Sherlock had wanted to get back to Baker Street before Christmas came around again, the detective spoke. "How did you find us? I don't recall having shown you this part of the manor. Did Lily-"
"She didn't. I... I wasn't paying attention."
"None of the house elves?"
"No," John replied, his voice losing the hard edge already, but still resolute in his annoyance. "I just picked a direction and stormed off. Determined to give you a piece of my mind for what you've done to me."
He brought his hands up to his chin, steepling his fingers beneath it in thought. "It's possible the magic you have absorbed had sought out its source. Interesting. We will need to experiment-"
"No experiments Sherlock. None. What the bloody hell did you do to me?! You- I knew you were a jealous, selfish bastard, but this?! I'm not some piece of bloody property you can just rub your whiskers on!" John had come closer, between the chairs and to the first table. Sherlock had remained in place, watching him. Analyzing his movements. The way he waved his hands about. Noting the crescent moons left behind by his nails from the clenching of his fists. "First you run off anyone who smiles at me, and then- What the hell were you thinking?! Did you even do your research when you slapped this damned thing on me?!"
"Clearly, you've spoken to my sister and know that I was not aware of the full extent of the binding bracelet's attributes. I had no intentions of leaving it on you beyond our stay here for the holiday, as I am well aware that it would create complications in both our friendship and our working relationship." He dropped his hands, his arms moving into an open gesture with his palms facing John, as if inviting him to come closer. "As for chasing any prospective intimate partner away, they have all clearly been inferior. Some far too young for you, to be honest, and lacking the desire for a stable and committed relationship. Therefore, you would be content for a year. Maybe two. Then they would leave, and you would be unhappy. I have merely been saving you the trouble. Had a suitable match come along, I would have gladly stood aside and let her whisk you off."
"Sure you would," John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. A familiar sign that he believed Sherlock's words to be little more than lies and excuses, despite the fact that in this instance they were truth. "So you're telling me that every single one of my girlfriends, and by the way there was a rather decent chap in that lot too, were driven off because what? You didn't want to see me get my heart broken?"
"As my only friend," Sherlock said, choosing his words very carefully and hoping his expression and body language matched appropriately, "your happiness has been a chief concern. As have both your physical and mental health. If you are unhappy, it affects the Work. When the Work suffers, we are unable to effectively solve cases. Therefore minute moments of annoyance, and the occasional row, are better than months spent on our sofa bemoaning time wasted on a failed relationship."
"That's..." The tension left John's stance, just a little. "That's oddly altruistic of you... But that still doesn't give you the right to keep doing it."
"Then I will stop."
"No you won't. You never bloody stop. Because you think you know what's best for everyone. Not really much point now, is there though? Not since you've marked me like some oversized cat!"
"That was completely unintentional and I resent that you dare to think I would purposely do such a thing. I despise magic, and the entire world that I come from. Why do you think I prefer to live in muggle London? Surround myself with muggle machines and do every little thing the muggle way? If I could rip it from my very soul and discard it in Mrs. Hudson's rubbish bins, I would do so in an instant!" He moved closer now. But stopped as he reached the love seat. Recoiling as if to move even closer to John would burn him. In truth, he wanted very much to close the distance between them. To stand in front of John and pull him into his arms - if only to silence the voice of the creature in his mind. That thing which had been with him these 60 odd years and only quieted to a whisper when John was near. But now, now that his very magic hummed and surged beneath his skin when in this muggle's presence- No. Such intimacies, he knew, were unwelcome and unwanted.
John had always been very clear on that point.
"But I suppose," he said, a little calmer than he had been, but it was a hard won calm. "It is fortunate that I have yet found a way to do so. As without it, you and I would both be dead. I three years past and you just six months gone."
John frowned. His blue eyes narrowed as Sherlock watched the anger rising back once more. Six months. Sherlock knew he would make the connection to his statement. Connect it to his miraculous return and John's fiancé's distressing disappearance. "Mary."
Sherlock nodded. "Mary."
"That was her, then. It really was her trying to-"
"Kill you. Yes. An associate of her's had distracted me so that she may assume my identity for the short while it had taken to seek you out. My family had been the primary targets, but to discover you here... Well. That was icing on her cake."
"Why would she-" Confusion. "She loved me." Denial. "Sherlock, what did you do?"
"I think... Before we pursue that particular topic it would be best if you viewed the evidence against her."
"No. None of this cryptic mystical bullshit. I want-"
Sherlock couldn't meet his steady gaze. "She is dead, John. She had worked for Moriarty. She was planted as a failsafe when Sebastian Moran discovered I was still alive. I did not know this until after I had killed him. After I had returned believing you to be safe. The moment I saw her, I knew her for what she was. Had she been muggle, had she not been an agent of Moriarty, I would not have stood in the way of your nuptials.
"But I could not reconcile the fact that you were about to marry a woman who would murder you at the first opportunity. Most likely, as she later confirmed, on your honeymoon."
Without looking, Sherlock heard the snark. Heard the frustration and the hurt masked by anger in his words. "So again, you were just looking out for my health and happiness."
"If you do not believe me, I will prove it to you the only way I can."
With that, he reached into his sleeve, sliding his wand from the holster strapped to his wrist. He had taken to wearing it again only after administering the potion to John. He moved slowly, so that John could see exactly what he was doing. With his free hand, he reached for a vase, transfiguring it before touching the tip of his ash wood wand to his temple.
John watched as the tip began to glow, similar to the films he had watched (when Sherlock hadn't found his DVDs and mysteriously destroyed them), and knew what his friend was doing. He frowned, and thought to protest that he need not actually see anything. Yet, he held his tongue. Sherlock, he knew, had always strived to prove he was clever. He told people he was right, and if they didn't believe it, well, he would deduce every minute detail. He would tear them to shreds before their friends, family, and co-workers. After they came to the same conclusion, he would remind them he'd told them so from the start.
But never had John seen his friend so desperate to be believed.
So he watched, as Sherlock closed his eyes, letting them flutter just a little as if scouring his mind palace for just the right thoughts. Chasing just the right memories to pull out. Private moments for John to just peruse at his leisure. One. Two tapped into the top of the vase turned phial.
The glowing strands of misty memory, curling and coiling about one another like snakes rather than the liquid substance John had always assumed it would be. Had allowed the films to lead him to believe.
He rounded the love seat then and leaned down to place the phial on the largest of the three tables in the room. He straightened up, and once more had become the master of his emotions. "This, I believe, is all the evidence you will need concerning your late fiancé. As for the... recent encounter I am bound by oath for five years, and can only give the barest detail without risking my own safety. The council I had been made to deal with frown upon outsiders knowing the intricacies of their day to day activities." He paused, waiting for John to object. When no such words came, he continued. "I will say that when I had believed you to be dead, I broke free and took her from this place to an isolated location. We dueled, and I bested her. Rather than take her life myself, I took her to a council which governs certain types of wizards, and she was dealt with according to the law. I will spare you further details because I can already see from the way you are clenching your jaw and the set of your shoulders that the subject is greatly distressing to you, and I do not wish to cause you further upset."
He made to leave when it was clear John would not respond, at least not verbally. Sherlock made a wide arc around the room, to avoid close contact, fearing he may not be able to control himself much longer while in such close proximity to his dearest friend. When he had reached the door, he heard John speak at last. "What you said before," he started. "When you didn't realize I was in the room."
"I meant every word."
"And am I one of your distractions? One of your puzzles?"
"No," Sherlock answered truthfully. "I am unsure where Mycroft keeps his pensive. I will send him in shortly to assist you. After reviewing the data, if you wish, we may continue this discussion in the comfort of my former rooms."
By the time John had turned around, Sherlock was gone. The door closing quietly behind him.
o0o
"Is this even safe? For me, I mean."
"Safer than television, actually."
"Is it like in the films?"
Mycroft nodded, but with hesitation. "In most cases, yes. But... not with my brother."
John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Of course. Because he can never let anything be simple."
"As you know Sherlock has a remarkable mind. The way he orders his memories and knowledge is, well, a rather odd system. Quite frankly I can't make any sense of it myself. What few times I have had the privilege to see inside his mind, I came away with a sense of chaos. His memories are quite intense."
John's tone easily showed how wary he had now become at Mycroft's admission. "Intense how?"
"Memories viewed through a pensieve are sight and sound only. Simply a recollection of what has passed. But Sherlock catalogues every detail. More than sight and sound, he records exact smells. The sensations of touch. But most importantly, his emotions during the experience. In his own way, he collects them for later review, seeing such things as data to be collected and analyzed after the fact." At this, John tilted his head just slightly. He was trying to understand what this meant. "Oh yes," Mycroft continued. "Your suspicions that my brother's self-diagnosis of sociopathy is incorrect are well founded. He feels most deeply. He simply excels at masking his emotions and controlling his body. Separating his subjective view from the objective."
Mycroft regarded the phial, sitting where Sherlock had left it. "Whatever you see in the pensieve, remember that it has already taken place. It cannot physically affect you. The emotions you may experience are not your own. Before you look inside, find a piece of information in which to ground yourself. To keep yourself from getting lost and swept up in what you see. Sherlock's memories tend to... replay as if they are actually happening in real time. Be extremely careful, and keep your wits about you John."
"What happens if I don't? If I get swept up?"
Mycroft's eyes softened, but it was the only evidence of his sympathy. "Then you may begin to believe as he has come to believe."
"Which is?"
"That he is monster that cannot be controlled. Cannot be stopped. And does not deserve to live."
"So after a rather lengthy warning, Mycroft fetched this large, glowing bowl of water. In it he poured the contents of the phial and told me to dunk my head in."
"I've seen grandfather do that. It's quite silly like an ostrich," Hudson said. "Standing there with your bum hanging out. Rather good for kicking."
"You didn't."
"I did," Hudson said proudly.
Harriet turned to John with eyes wide in wonder and curiosity. "What was it like? Looking at things from father's head?"
"It was... Well, it was strange at first. All misty and shadowy. And there was a lot of floating until I thought gravity might still exist. But..." He looked to his dozing husband with a fond smile ghosting his lips. "By the end I understood. Now, this isn't true of everyone, mind, but walking around in your father's memories didn't just show me what happened. Mycroft was right, when he said I'd feel things. And it told me what he couldn't. You know he's not very good with feelings."
At this the two curly blond topped heads nodded.
"If there were any doubts about how your father felt about me, well by all accounts they were tossed out the window."
Hudson leaned closer, balancing precariously on the pillow he'd taken as his seat. "What did you see?"
"Lots of things," John said. "His first duel against Mary and after that when your uncle took him home to look after him."
"What else?" Harriet pressed eagerly, arms wrapped around John's pillow. "Oh please daddy, what else!"
John laughed, recalling the images he had seen in the pensieve a little over six years ago. None of them were cheerful, but the twins' childish desire to hear about them, to know every detail - that was what caused him to feel so light about such heavy matters. "Imagine your father with red hair. More of a Weasley red, really. And," he said, watching their heads turn towards Sherlock. "A bright yellow shirt. I think he had khaki slacks as well."
