"Sherlock?" Harry's hands hovered over the keyboard. Sherlock raised his head from the books and papers strewn around the low table. He was trying to catch up on his more unusual part of education before they would venture out to poke the proverbial dragon. He wished he focused less on Potions and Herbology in his earlier research. Right now, glossing through the bestiary spread before him, he realized that magicals sure as hell had no idea how to classify any of their animals. Beings. Creatures.
It was very much an 'it's magic. Deal with it.' kind of explanation.
He had little faith in any educational system but this was ridiculous. He needed to ask Grace how in the world she'd managed to finish her non-magical schooling along with the wixen. He could nearly feel his synapses sizzling with the lack of precise information.
"What is it?"
"Cowell/Schneider case isn't really solved, is it?"
Sherlock put down the book he had nearly given up on. Well, he shouldn't be surprised at the question. Harry's dog-with-a-bone attitude was one of the reasons he prepared himself to deal with Mycroft's smarmy face for the years to come. That and the two favours owed for pushing up adoption papers. Worth it. Completely worth it.
He took in the sight of the teenager chewing through his bottom lip, hand tugging at the end of his thick short plait. Harry had many recognizable habits, the most characteristic being how he would run his hand through his hair when deep in thought usually leaving it windswept and wilder than before. This time his fingers stuck there, fiddling with the hairpin that came loose from the complicated fish-braid.
It had served him better than his tousled half-bun, as early in the morning Harry had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time at 221C working on his various 'projects'. The last time Sherlock'd checked on him armed with chocolate-sprinkled doughnuts, he was throwing knives at the names of spells tapped to a plank.
(As far as Sherlock knew, adults shouldn't allow small children to play with sharp things, despite how much fun it was. Somehow it didn't seem to occur to the Dursley family that if Harry had had any less morals, they'd would have ended up dead as a doornail, no matter how much unhealthy joy they got from watching him getting hurt. Thus, Harry had come under Sherlock's care equipped with the plethora of skills that didn't match up with the place he had been raised in. Knife throwing was only one of them. Making another Mycroft's Monkey who was teaching him how to not cut his fingers off loose her cool was another matter altogether.)
The moment Harry arrived from his self-imposed task list, Catherine convinced him to plait her hair. And because she had no problems at all with getting what she wanted, she offered Sherlock's services in exchange. Well, if 'offering' was 'Daaaaadyyyy' screamed on top of her lungs while clutching a case of far too many hair applications, especially in possession of a girl that could barely sustain a ponytail. It took half a package of skull hairpins, that his daughter graciously provided, to get Harry's hair pinned just right. (And if Sherlock took some pictures, well, he could always say they were made for reference.
It suited him. It showed off his face better. Made him look sharper. Severe.
Handsome.
Sherlock wished for the thin layer of make-up that covered that famous scar and for the coloured eye-contacts to be gone. To see Hurricane James Potter instead of Harry Jay.
His son bloody well deserved to look like himself in his own damned home.
His son.
His abused, terrifying, curious witchling who was so much like him in some ways that Sherlock double takes on occasion. Sometimes it feels like he is looking at his fifteen-year-old self in the mirror. Better. Less focused on self-destruction. Without the sharp edges pointed outwards, ready to tear into the unkind world. Too god-damn young for it all. Harry, who can't leave things that bother him to lie and fester, poking and prodding till something gives once he is interested.
"No. It's not. I will share with you what I know but I want you to promise me something."
"Promise you what?"
Harry at least finally stopped agreeing to things without clarification. Sadly, that was the one moment Sherlock wouldn't mind his early days compliance.
"That you won't investigate by yourself or with Archie and Loretta." Harry closes his laptop and turns fully toward Sherlock, his face shifting from mutinous to frustrated confusion. "Please. Promise me that."
"Will you tell me why?" Oh... well, should probably have started with that.
"Of course." He watches as Harry's shoulder slump a bit and he is graced with shy smile, the one he likes the most in the world. Every time it appears it feels like he passed some grand test he wasn't notified off but aced nonetheless.
The joys of fatherhood were surprisingly... joyful.
He liked being a dad. He never thought he would be one, that he was able to care so much for a small person who hadn't yet grasped the alphabet. And then for another, for Harry, who sang said alphabet a little off-key through his laughter so his baby sister could mangle it while jumping on inflatable bouncing horse. It was ridiculous how easy it was to love them.
"Ariadna escaped. They were in process of dropping her off in the more secure prison. Her casefile says she was responsible for at least ten cases of manslaughter in Germany, and few more in UK. The brooch is missing again too, it was reported stolen this morning, and it hit the news not much later. My contact in Interpol thought I should know that they just relocated it. There were eleven attempts at snatching in the past half a year alone."
"Okay. I promise. Won't go investigating on my own."
And, most surprising at all, Harry really looked like he'd meant that.
"They are trying to see who comes asking, aren't they? "So they did. And it won't be long that someone will." "She was trying to get it through proxies."
Sherlock hummed in affirmation. That was his conclusion, too. The brooch was hardly pretty, rare, or even all that expensive, that stealing it would bring satisfying sum of money for all the trouble it generated. Not to mention, its protection system was not by any measure grand enough for theft done out of any professional pride. Which pointed to one conclusion.
"It must be bloody important to her."
Sentiment. The worst possible of reasons.
People were so much more inclined to violence if you poke at their feelings of ownership. They unfortunately like to poke back.
"Yes. I don't like where it is heading, Harry. You were the last person we know of that escaped her and there's no telling what she might do. Especially, since she already tried to get to you once." Harry's fingers tapped on top of the laptop case staring forward and Sherlock had a feeling he had lost him for a moment.
"Harry?"
"What if she knew?" Harry put the laptop down, drawing one leg up to rest his chin on his knee.
"Knew?"
"About who Johann Schneider was. What if he did steal that brooch for her? We know that she wanted it from her files. Schneider and Grusenberg were contracted, but that means they had a buyer waiting for them. Did anyone ask where? Must have."
"Finn Grusenberg was heading to England, yes. Which you already know. He thought different airport would be enough to avoid suspicion." Answered Sherlock already seeing where Harry was heading with this.
"And he sent Cowell's body to the airport nearest to the Oak Inn."
Sherlock kept himself from beaming like an idiot. A lot of it was a conjunction but, bless, it was so nice to know that he wasn't the only person in the room with a functional brain.
"But in this particular place at this particular time... "Murmured Harry under his breath like he was struck by the thought. "Did you know that Jakob Ferguson is a jeweller? " Asked Harry finally, fingers tapping against his thigh." Awfully convenient that a man with a priceless brooch finds himself in this part of town at night and gets himself killed. With nobody noticing. Right across the street of the place Ferguson is co-owner of."
"You think Cowell's body was sent there as a warning for the partner who had cheated him of his prize." Sherlock twitched when John appeared by his side, his voice low as he pointed his chin at Catherine. She was sitting wrapped around Aslan, head on its fluffy mane as she watched animated dancing...guppies? Looks like her mermaid phase was only just beginning. Harry, didn't seem to notice him, still looking at one spot. Sherlock turned his head, letting John see the full force if his smirk. "The thing, about jewellery? It's not on Ferguson's social media, is it?"
"I don't know where that info came from initially, because there's no mention of it on his social media. It doesn't show in the first fifty or so search results, anyway. He'd flooded the web with inconsequential trivia about anything and everything under his own name, but once you know... 'Antique Jewellery Harbour' has a homepage. Little more than the names of the owners along with a few pictures of frankly unappealing earrings. It looks like it was last updated a little over six years ago. Just about the time he had gotten married." Recalled Sherlock, lips twitching at John's little notebook fished out from the space in his chair upholstery.
"Arthur." They both looked at Harry with blank faces. "His stepson? He was the one who told me. Maybe I've told you before?"
The funniest thing was, Sherlock couldn't remember. Neither the name of the boy he'd met briefly - not that he made the effort to, but still - nor where some of the information came from and why it was so dreadfully patchy. There were too many things about this case that he couldn't remember. If he was anyone else, he'd suspect memory problems, and yet he could recall with utmost clarity every detail of the cases he took since then. It almost looked like...
Magic.
Right.
But who or what made him forget?
And why?
"You two still keep contact?"
"Yeah. Not that close, but I know he came back home because he was afraid that that a-hole would do something to him mum. She is filing for divorce."
"Good for her. I'm still surprised that that man walks free." Added John, his pen still on the paper. Sherlock knew that this was not a question of 'surprise' surprise. More like wondering why in the world all people responsible for taking shit from the streets are suddenly wary of their shovels.
Sherlock sighed, sliding his hand over his face. He would have loved a case like this if it had had the grace to stay away from his family. It kept hitting too close to home.
"Sadly, the only things we have on Ferguson are just statements, circumstantial evidence and absolutely nothing else. He has enough money and connections to get off scot-free until we pin him down with something that he can't wiggle out of. At least not before we catch at least a scent of the bigger fish that pulls his strings. If that indeed is the case."
"Billie Boe. He might have not been lying, after all. They really might have found Johann wandering about but looking like Cowell."
"This is so convoluted... "John sipped at his tea with a heavy-set frown. "It would mean that all of them Billy, Lucas, Jakob, Grusenberg and Schneider worked for the same person - Ariadna. Except... Billy and Lucas - the Henchman were searching for Adrien Cowell - who was just a second-rate rat trying to rob people without consequences. And Jakob the Jeweller was waiting for Johann Schneider and Fnn Grusenberg, the thieves."
"It was in the middle of the hot night, practically middle of nowhere and Billy along with Lucas just happened to stumble upon the man they were looking for? Nope. Unless Jakob, okay - somebody," amended Harry with a roll of his eyes at Sherlock's gaze," was supposed to be there to pick Johann and Finn up. And only Johann showed."
"Making it a crime of opportunity. Which explains why only the bag was wet but not the trunk and why there was no sign of biological trace inside it. Johann was never put there. Bloody hell...but that's still..."
"Theory." Reminded them Sherlock.
"Theory. If Ariadna and Jakob do work together then it would explain how she knew that there was a witness. One who met Ferguson's step-son, one who was in the area, one who could be seen leaving with the police from the Oak Inn's window."
"Me."
"You."
"Ferguson failed to retrieve what he was sent for… you think that Ariadna will be lightly stirred or shook like hornets nest? What would make a good consolation prize?"
"Shit." Well, nothing like a crisis to speed things up. Time to look under the metaphorical bed.
Harry was nearly done with packing all his notes in his bag when John made a call. It took a moment to convince Lestrade and Molly to stay with Catherine for the nearest three plus hours and if his smile was a bit smug, that's only because he didn't give them the chance to say no.
They decide to take a walk, letting Kitty talk their ears of on their way on about all the thing she wanted to do with her Taddy and Mo. It's a lengthy tale that involves 'playing pirate fishes' and John smacks Sherlock's arm at his murmured commentary. "Thrilling treasures of the Thames' was not going to be his next blog post, ta. John staves of the word spill with a bag of animal crackers, which became his friend since he became a parent. It works well as her mouth is too busy chewing and hands too full of Miss Bee. In the depths of her teddy backpack rests a tambourine that has been banned from use in 221B. He'll be so gracious as to mention its existence just before they'd leave Lestrade's flat. He was nice like that.
Sherlock does the tactful thing and omits mentioning or speculating why their friends had synchronized their vacation time. Especially while not exactly going anywhere. It gains enough brownie points to put the child on Greg's lap and not hear any complaints while they turn tail and escape with the fastest goodbyes known to mankind. John had already realized that the longer they linger the more likely is the flood of tears. Leaving her off anywhere was becoming more and more like scene from a spy novel with all the sneaking around and tiptoeing upstairs to put her to bed. She could no longer sleep through the sounds of a chainsaw.
Thankfully, there was no shortage of places she could be left when her daddies were working. Besides, all their friends and family loved their Little Bean and somehow decided (with little to none of John's or Sherlock's input) that she needed to be raised in a tribal way or she would end up as hazard to society.
They probably should feel insulted by the mere insinuation that they are not capable parents. After all, any idiot can become one...yet, they couldn't bring themselves to do so. It's too good a thought that, should ever anything happen to them, there will be a bunch of people ready to step in and give their little girl all the love one human can handle or desire. They didn't even finish the question, before the promise was extended to Harry. Harry, of course, remained oblivious to this, told only that should there be any trouble he was to call a whole list of people and abort to Lestrade's flat. They had no idea if he would. He was terribly wilful and loyal, leaving people he cared about was not in his makeup. Probably the only way they could guarantee that he headed that piece of advice, would be to put him in charge of Kitty. Neither wanted to contemplate what needed to happen for this to pass.
The taxi drive to the 'nexus of buffoonery' was of course needlessly tedious, but as they got closer Harry's eyes gained a sharper glint. His posture resembled coiled spring about to be released, a hound that got the first sniff of his prey nearby and will be off the second he can. It's familiar sight. All three of them learned how to walk on a battlefield and all three miss it. Time tempered the worst impulses but the feeling of blood pounding in the ears, world becoming sharper, clearer, body tensing in anticipation of a chase, of a fight of sinking into danger...it was addicting.
Inevitable.
Welcomed.
Exhilarating.
Harry, as young as he was, already mapped some places angels feared to tread and came back out on the other side. It changed him, both profoundly and quietly. Gave him a taste for adventure and a creeping sense of responsibility for the lives he protected. The world sharpened his teeth, polished his claws and clipped his hide for his troubles and now they could no more stop him from fighting then they could stop him breathing. They could only make sure that he wouldn't get swallowed by perceived 'duty' or debilitating guilt, should he fail. It was inevitable that he will. The world does not have a sense of fairness, nor is it gentle for its heroes.
When they slid out from the cab, Harry's head had cocked to the side, like he was listening to something they couldn't hear. He walked slowly, his feet soundless on the curb, history in the eyes that slid over everything in the same way John's were doing since he came from Afghanistan and Sherlock's from his time Away. The carefully maintained space between him and every person who registered as stranger. Awareness. Alertness.
Watchfulness.
People had tried to hammer him into something normal. Convenient. Easier to understand and to tame. But Harry wasn't a nail. And he couldn't shift back to become a child when most of his childhood was spent on practicing survival. You can mold a child into a soldier, but you can't take a soldier out of a child. It was damnably hard to even try to remind him he was just a fragile human, and not one responsible for other people choices.
It was John who found their first clue that something was rotten in the state of Denmark, mostly by the virtue of being closer to the ground then his two bean-poles. A poster, paper, unlaminated and already somewhat worse for wear. On the top large blocky letters questioned 'Have you seen this man?'. The picture was at least of good quality, clear and in colour. The man in question was handsome, blond. Dressed in baby blue shirt and smiling… Only, the man turned out to be someone they all met, thankfully only briefly.
"Is that...?" Asked John only to receive twin nods as Sherlock took the paper. He turned it in his fingers and touched the piece of tape with a thoughtful expression.
"Was he on your list?" Harry frowned but shook his head. There were only three names and none of them matched. "So, we have four missing people, two of which we've met with one being our suspect. This could be coincidence but there are thousand people here, what are the odds of those two disappearing so close to each other?"
"Pretty good." Growled Harry, taking the photograph out of Sherlock's hands, folding it carelessly in four and stuffing it in his bag. "I don't believe that I'm the only person who ever thought of doing bad, bad things to both and I'm sure there are some people who hadn't stopped at just thinking."
"Thinking uncharitable thoughts is not a crime." Stated John mildly while putting his hands in his pockets. Harry's face does a complicated expression but when he starts talking it's with quiet unquestionable disgust colouring his voice.
"I don't believe in law, I believe in justice and I'd care if they were hurt by the miscarriage of it, but I can't say I will cry should they be gone." There is only stark honesty in his eyes as he looks them unflinchingly in the eyes. "And since I can't put them to prison for being assholes, I will happily punch every single person like them till they have no choice but to taste that pure blood of theirs. I refuse to feel sorry for people who go around telling the world that people who don't match their careful standards are better off dead."
"It has nothing to do with the fact that he tried to hit you?"
"You are asking like I hadn't done the same thing before I met you." Harry had a small smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth but it faded with the next words. "I don't care that he tried - I hate that it might have not been me. It might have been anyone and while I can take care of myself, others might not be able to. He tried to hit an older man who told him to tone down his language. That's why I punched him. He tried to hurt someone just because he could. No reason other than he thought that calling someone mongrel and spitting in someone's face was his right and being told off for that angered him. I don't care, I've been called worse. But he'd raised his hand at innocent man and he might have done the same regardless of the fact that it was me there and not someone else, someone who didn't fit in his carefully constructed worldview."
Harry took a trembling breath as an arm landed around his shoulders. It was more then he hoped for because, quite frankly, there was a part of him that was utterly disgusted with this outlook he cultivated in the dark parts of his mind like mold in petri dish. The bigger part, the one that got fed regularly with positive feedback, was crowing in delight, because as much as he believed in second chances he no longer believed in a tenth or one hundredth more. Children might not know better, but every human can learn. If they refuse to acknowledge other people's rights for existence, for freedom, for equality and basic respect, Harry didn't feel obligated to treat them with any. In theory. "I know how it is to be hated. Many do, for different reasons... and I hate that it makes me happy when something bad happens to people like that, because I don't want to be that kind of person. But then I'm reminded what rhetoric they preach and then I'm not sorry at all. Does that make me a bad person?"
"Don't think we can be good judges for that. I lost the count of the noses I broke and how many times Sherlock went out of his way to expose people. Usually costing them their job in process, jail time in few other cases."
"You reap what you sow, as they say. People should at some point have to start smelling the shit they are shovelling. Point is, Harry, neither of us can really stand people who think that there is only one way to live and only one kind of people that should be allowed to thrive. I think," Sherlock looked at John receiving a firm nod, "neither of us can muster any sympathy for idiots who refuse to learn. But then, I don't know if you should look up to us for lessons on ethics, I mean we shot a man for each other, kind of puts a damper on moral argument."
"Sherlock!"
"What, he knows this."
"Public place."
"Oh, yes...Right! To the matter on hand. Harry, you've found something?"
"Those posters… they are all over the street but there is no missing person report I can find. On the other hand… look what just came up." Harry showed Sherlock his phone.
"Well, well, who do we have here? Curioser and curioser. And I am not going to ask why Anderson writes to you." Harry thought that this was a good thing. He didn't know how to tell them that Phil started to write to him because it was quicker than trying to get either of them to answer any inquiry he might have. Harry wasn't under illusion that it was friendship. It was a transaction and he and Anderson were mutually using each other for information.
In a friendly way.
But Harry had unlimited access to Sherlock's brain and Anderson was a gossip dog working in the building full of things Harry was interested in and was eager to explore.
Like Lucas Port, utterly forgettable weasel of a man. But, who knew, maybe if you shake him up just right, something useful might come out.
"She was horrid to you." Observed Sherlock as Harry and John left the Oak Inn and joined him on the sidewalk. They had argued for a bit before about who would go where and why and when, but finally settled on starting with the inn and shop before finding Lucas and then splitting up to look for clues elsewhere. Well, after Harry, grinning widely, wheedled the coat from Sherlock, swapping it for his leather jacket.
(The argument went somewhere like:
"You just want to be dramatic."
"Pot. Kettle. Black."
And surprisingly worked. If John knew it was that easy, he would have done that years ago. Perhaps it would have saved a few of his late jackets if Belstaff was in the line of metaphorical fire.)
John, mostly by virtue of being somewhat forgettable (which was a crime, really), and Harry, because last time Natalie Ferguson and he saw each other he was a slip of a boy in flowery dress and make-up, would question her about disappearance of her husband. And Sherlock, mostly by the virtue of being unforgettable and easily recognised would check with the life partner of Damien Goldberg. She had reported to police that the man didn't come home one day and any contact with him became impossible.
Suffice to say, John was not impressed at all with Mrs Ferguson 'call me Natalie'. But plenty impressed by Harry's fake Welsh accent and how he got away with cheerful 'fuck you' disguised as 'thank you'.
"She is horrid, but she had misplaced her husband, asshole as he is, but still. Divorce or not, I guess she still cares about that piece of shit. Sorry, I don't really feel like going after grieving woman."
"You've forgot your Oreo's, do you want to go back?" Asked John as Harry stripped off the coat, leaving it hanging from his fingers with an impish grin.
"Don't worry about them. We need to drop by Tesco to buy toothpaste." Sherlock paused, one arm in a sleeve. John didn't fight the urge as much as he should and covered his face with his hand. Mostly to hide his twitching lips. So much for Harry's neutrality. Well, couldn't happen to the nicer bitch.
"When did you..."
Yes. John was curious too, when exactly Harry had the time to exchange the filling in the whole package of biscuits and then seal it well enough for it to be unrecognizable from the original?
"Archie."
John peered at Sherlock, who was finding the buttons of his coat fascinating enough to grab his entire attention.
He had heard more than once the half teasing half mocking sentence that big things came in small packages, but in Archie's case those things were sass, hunger and mischief. No wonder Harry liked him so much.
"I should scold you, shouldn't I?"
Harry cocked his head to the side before nodding his assessment.
"Probably."
"Consider yourself scolded." Piped in Sherlock, his hand patting Harry's head like he was a puppy. Harry huffed, frantically trying to fix his painstakingly 'messy by design' bun. Plaits don't survive long with Kitty around.
"It's not pedagogical."
"John, if I could get away with it, I'd write every report in Cyrillic and deliver it by turning them into paper planes. I truly have no leg to stand on and you, dear lover, are an enabler." Sherlock tilted his head.
"No." Said John as firmly as he could.
"But you don't know..."
"No, Sherlock. You will not write reports in Cyrillic. Or any different language. Greg is getting grey just dealing with us, let's give him this much." All interested parties noticed that there was no explicit prohibition of basic origami.
"Personally," chipped in Harry, "I think Lestrade was born grey to speed up the process, all in preparation of the time you crash into his life like a speeding trainwreck waiting to happen and make him question his sanity. But that's only theory."
"Harry, now that I have an image in my head that I never cared to imagine and will need to delete later, can you please tell me if you got anything?"
"She thinks her son might have been the reason of Jakob's disappearance." Answered John, pulling Harry along as they crossed the street, walking in the general direction of their next quarry. "They never liked each other, not even when Arthur was younger. They bickered constantly... She didn't think much about investigating them toward child abuse and was vocal about the police being just a bunch of 'violent ragamuffins' who were bothering 'upstanding citizens' and trampling over traditional way of raising children."
"According to her, Jakob and Arthur got into a loud argument not long before Jakob disappeared." Added Harry, as he frowned at the building's façade. "She couldn't say what it was about. And maybe they did, considering that Natalie went ahead and filed for divorce. I suppose Arthur would have a lot to say about that. But that she tried to point fingers at Arthur… I gather, she's either trying to cover up for her ex... or for herself."
"When did she file the papers?" Harry searched his phone, scrolling through his messages.
"Arthur wrote on 12th. But that might be only when she'd told him."
"Let's leave it for now." Sherlock walked straight ahead, heading for the block in their line of sight. "Come on, we're going to check on Laurence."
"It's Lucas." Corrected Harry, his lips twitching at Sherlock being purposely obtuse. "And once we're done with this case I'll never come back in this part of town. It feels like I'm in a period drama, only with more murder and fairies. Which we were supposed to focus on, I think."
"No reason we can't do both. Even if we are side-tracked. Again." Remarked John, stopping without a warning just few steps before the staircase door, making Harry stumble into his back. "Whoa. You are not coming with us." Harry's face clearly showed what he thought of this idea. "Harry, I am serious. He just got out of prison -and I'm still unclear about how that was possible -after drowning a man in a river and he works for a person who in all probability wants you dead."
"If I had a penny for every person who wants me dead…" Tried Harry, but then he is stopped by Sherlock's hand on his clavicle.
"It takes one lucky shot." Fingers curl at the back of his neck as deadly serious stormy grey eyes bore into him. "Please don't joke about it."
It knocked him a metaphorical step back in a way that made his throat a little bit too tight to swallow and put his heart into skipping gallop. He refused to accept the existence of wetness nestled in the corner of his eyes.
"Alright." He finally agreed one the words stopped refusing to flow. "But I'm gonna eavesdrop."
"Knock yourself out." Agreed John and he didn't imagine the relief that tinted his voice. He watched them going in and then climbed right after, stopping only when he reached the stairs above Lucas's flat and impudently waving them to go on.
Sherlock's first impression of the flat came from the bare crack of muted light streaming from behind the sweaty and pale man peering at them suspiciously with bloodshot eyes. It was rundown and the air stale, suffering from it's owners disappearance and earlier neglect. Kicked up close to the wall, nearly barricading the entrance and under the cover of a thin layer of dust was a messy pile of books. Gardening books.
In the crates pushed hastily under the table green stalks of new plants pushed from the earth. Lucas looked harried. His eyes darted between them and the crate. His white t-shirt glued itself to his chest as he tried to bar them any entrance. John's shoe darted in the small space between the door and the frame and he barged his way in.
As far as first impressions go, it went swimmingly.
John had that wonderful way of making people see his way without wanting to throttle them the longer they spoke, so Sherlock left him to do the talking, while he darted around his flighty sweaty obstacle and went further down the corridor to make a quick sweep of the rooms. He smiled at the impression of wheels in old linoleum that stretched to about a meter to the left of a, frankly, grossly oversized TV set that could speak only of how deeply went dear Lucas' middle-age crisis. He put one finger on the TV stand, it rolled away with barely any effort. He tapped the wall, listening to the dull echo it gave and snorting to himself he left, as it soon became apparent, to the only interesting room in this place.
John's own kind of magic worked and by the time Sherlock was done snooping he had the man resignedly sipping on warm water from the bottle sitting at the kitchen table. Lucas sadly hadn't stopped sweating buckets but had added patting his reddened nose with a paper towel to his repertoire.
"I am not talking with dogs."
"Good thing we are not dogs, then." Sherlock swayed on his heels. "Your bathroom stinks."
Lucas' face did a complicated expression he looked unprepared for until it set on good old-fashioned confusion.
"Listen man, I just came back, you can check it out and I aien't going back. Whatever romance you have for me you can keep it to yourself, I aien't buying anything." Mighty words for the man whose problems were so...down to earth.
Groundbreaking?
Green around the edges?
No, that was bad, Sherlock will have to leave the amusing crowd-pleasing quips to John.
"We aren't buying and we aren't selling anything, we only want to ask you a few questions so we could be on our merry way and you can live your best dog-free life. Nothing you're going to tell us will go to them. We have a deal?"
Sherlock could nearly see the rat that lived inside this man's brain picking up the pace in its running ball at the smell of potential cheese. As much as John and himself dressed up, mostly for comfort, it was still carefully chosen way of projection of oneself onto the world. And a man in a cable sweater with a splatter of grape juice on the sleeve or a thin guy in fancy clothes and coifed hair didn't scream 'danger' until they smile at you in a dark alley when you're the one holding the knife. Sherlock loved to surprise those.
"Half grand and you've got yourself a deal."
"Five hundred? Are you serious?"
"Life isn't cheap, man." Especially when you take electricity and cable from one neighbour and the other wonders about the astronomical water bills. But then, maybe he was an honest thief and wanted to pay his... nephew? For checking up on his plants. Sherlock eyed the sad excuse of a fern that died its unnatural, prolonged, excruciating death by dehydration. Diligently, it seemed so.
He reached for his pocket.
"Will." John was a bad actor, but thankfully the sum was enough to make him make that outrageous 'what are you doing, you madman' sound he was so good at. The brain-rat all but panted in excitement at the closeness of its prize.
"You'll tell us everything we want to know?" Lucas nodded eagerly, eyes on the wallet. Sherlock smiled guilelessly at John who sent him a rakish smile over the man's shoulder. Bless this man for going along with Sherlock's casual madness. "Don't think about it as a payment. It's investment."
"So. What do you want to know?" Asked Lucas, his palms greased with the contents of Sherlock' wallet, wad of papers pushed into jeans back pocket.
"The night Schneider died. I don't care how. I want to know what happened before."
"I've already said everything I know." Hedging. Sherlock despised beating around the bush. Why did people have to be so difficult?
"Then you won't mind repeating it. What you were doing before on that day?" Asked John, thankfully in time before Sherlock defenestrated the fool. Slightly. Only just enough for the man to feel the grip of his mortality.
"Bill and me got into cups, you know. Around the third bottle we realized that the booze is gone. We went shopping. That tall posh guy was talking with old Goldberg outside the shop.
"The hotel owner?" Asked John, catching Sherlock's eye. Sherlock started to wonder if he should be offended when people called /him/ posh, since he had yet to meet a person who wouldn't say it like it was an insult.
"Yeah, that one. A truer asshole mama couldn't birth."
"What do you mean?" John didn't need to fake his interest, but it was always cute when he was trying so hard.
"Well, he kept pissing off people with his holier-then-thou shit. Goes to church every Sunday like a good little bitch, but would tattle on his own Gran and beat her with a blunt spoon if she smiled at him wrong. Off his rocker, that one."
"Do you know what they were talking about?"
"Nah, man. They kind of just stopped speaking. All quick like, like when people are talking and then a mate tells you they were talking about you. All hush hush like in the Mean Girls."
"Abandoning dubious cinematic analogies," interjected Sherlock before the man would have an urge to share the plot of a movie he had no interest of knowing, "what happened next?"
"Nuthing. We went in, got a handful of puppies and found Schneider."
"Did either Goldberg or Ferguson seemed rushed? Nervous?"
"Youeah. Goldie snapped on Bill, told him off for being picky on the snacks. Goldberg is an asshole too. He is just less obvious about it. Thick as thieves those two. Like they are keeping a hand in each other's ass' I figure Dam's woman is pro'bly packing her shit since he's gone." So she was, actually. She was achingly polite when Sherlock had talked to her, but if she had any feelings about her partner's disappearance, the most obvious one was relief. She had a look of a woman finally free to do what she wanted and what she wanted was to pack her things and leave as far as she could. Sibling. Trondheim, if he wasn't wrong.
"One last question and we're gone. When you'd seen Schneider, which way he was going? Toward or away from the shop?"
"Toward, definitely. Looked like he was about on a freaking evening stroll, went up straight from that blasted inn."
They didn't bother with good-byes, Sherlock already considering an option that hadn't occurred to them yet.
"So, are we going to let that man live his life, or..?" Asked John. Sherlock took a moment to finish the thought and seeing as it led only to speculation, he just left that thread loose in case an idea would like to attach itself to the working theory.
"Of course not." Sherlock put the money back in his wallet. He might have pinched slightly more than he gave, but well, such was life. "But beside stealing cable from his neighbours and having a marihuana plantation I can't think of anything to pin him down, what do you think, did he miss jail?"
"What?"
"John, you were looking at it."
"Fern. And books." Sherlock hummed in pleasure at the thoughtful frown that turned into a snorting laugh. "Oh God."
"And," continued Sherlock, "I'm sure if we look through his phone we'll find payment made to his... nephew I think, for taking care of the business while dear uncle was away. Certainly, he won't be winning gardener of the year. He was mildly useful, what with his contribution to our rent."
"You pickpocketed him."
"Who is he going to tell?" Sherlock smirked as John continued to snicker at his side. He wrapped one arm around man's waist and they made their way out of the block. "Now, where is Harry?"
They've found Harry sitting cross-legged on the bench in the shade of a tree, evidently talking with somebody chirping from the phone he held on his lap.
"…check that?" Inquired softly Harry. They perched on the bench on both sides after his dismissive nod. He apparently didn't care whatever they heard or not.
"Yeah, I have still five hours before the plane and I'm getting stir crazy. Honestly, how much you think you need to take for two weeks to the country that is in the same climate as the one you are living in? My mum is fretting like we don't make that trip every year and the Smothergilla is trying to pack things for me that I wouldn't wear if someone paid me. I mean, look at this!" Came the indignant and familiar voice.
"…Is that a hat or some new kind of umbrella?"
"I don't know! But it comes with a box the size of Madagascar and I already said I'm taking only one suitcase but at this pace I will jump inside and find Atlantis. Sorry love, need to go. I swear if it's about another pair of shoes..."
"Text me once you confirm, ok? And call when you land."
"Sure. And then you can live vicariously through my social media and be jealous."
"Just don't…" Started Harry, but he was cut off in mid word.
"Post your pictures. I know." The voice on the other side paused, turned softer. "Hurricane? I'm glad you got away from them. And I hope one day you will be able to walk about without fearing they would find you."
"Thanks Loretta, for everything. Safe travels."
"Bye babe. Keep Archie away from the stupid."
The last thing they heard was 'Coming dad...!' followed by a string of curses before the sound went off and Loretta's face adorned with enormous white hat disappeared to show Harry's screen wallpaper.
"How was eavesdropping." Inquired Sherlock, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
"Yours or mine?" Groused Harry. "Don't you think it's the height of hypocrisy to have an anti-theft door when you're a thief?" He asked snappishly, pouting when they laughed. John's arm lightly wrapped around his shoulder as they all stared at the picture still showing on Harry's phone.
"We are glad we have you. More than you can possibly imagine." John lightly pushed his arm against Harry's, Sherlock mirroring him until they are bracketing Harry between them for just a short moment. It passes when Harry flips his phone, hiding it and subsequently also the photograph, in his pocket. John stretched before standing up. "We're making a break for food, so Sherlock better poke that brilliant mind of yours and see if there is any restaurant nearby that won't get us food poisoning."
"John! The case!"
"Sherlock! Teenager!" Sang John in the same tone of voice.
Harry snorted. Most of the time John forgets he has a working digestive system until Sherlock steers him to food with more skill than a Shepherd's dog. Truth was truth, though. He was hungry.
They find a small hole in the wall that wafers them in the smell of fried chicken. They spot an empty table, arm themselves in drinks and wait patiently for food to come after a spirited discussion on how to spot fresh products from soggy, refreshed, second-use food.
John listens patiently and nods in the right places, leaving his companions to their deduction games. He isn't nearly as picky as Sherlock, nor has he the ease of recognition of taste that Harry sports. For him something tasty is tasty and you could shoot him blind, he won't be able to tell basil from thyme.
He doesn't chuckle, but it's a close thing, because…
Harry spreads.
It's inevitable that he does.
He is comfortable with his company and uncomfortable with the table. For some reason they don't make restaurant furniture with tall people on mind. Sherlock's legs stretch under the whole length of the table, instead of having his knees awkwardly bump it, and since he takes nearly the entire space, it leaves Harry sitting mostly sideways and in every direction.
John once again contemplates that he is surrounded by baby giraffes.
"So, guess who had brilliant idea of finding out whether Arthur is involved or not?" Starts Harry with a grin and John snorts at Sherlock's ridiculously excessive hand motion of metaphorically giving Harry the stage.
They studiously ignore the unmarked car sliding slowly to a stop within their view and two policemen in civil clothing on their way to ruin Lucas Port's afternoon.
Harry watched as John disappeared from his sight with a promise to be on a lookout for Arthur as they parted ways. Sherlock bumped into his shoulder and Harry shook off the creeping sense of foreboding. The road they walked on looked abandoned. There was not even a sidewalk, but it was the lack of the usual human-made path that made him and Sherlock exchange a glance. Where lived people, there lived shortcuts. But here the grass grew wildly, untamed, tangled with weeds and untouched by boots. He stepped off the road and trudged in the untrimmed cluster. It reached nearly up to his knees.
On the other side of the narrowly flowing river lay a wicker basket and a bundle of abandoned wet clothes. A button-down baby-blue shirt lay splayed on the grass, left to dry in the sun of a rather chilly afternoon. Harry looked at it, felling a needling thought that it was somewhat familiar, before shrugging it off. He slowly came closer to the river bank, scanning the area through narrowed eyes. He stilled completely when he caught a glimpse of light reflected on the other side. There, an older woman dressed like a gypsy, her long flowing grey hair caught in two wooden bangles and watching them both with tilted head. Her eyes glittered in the sun like sparkling gems. She was partially hidden behind a hawthorn bush, stick-like legs and bare feet stretched out before her. Well, whoever the shirt owner was, they will not need it for long. Harry nodded to her politely, knowing full well that human she was not. She nodded back, regally, with something akin to amusement as her gaze went back to whatever was on her lap. He observed her for a moment and then scanned the shrubs closest to him. Hidden inside the greenery dew-drop fairies chased after fat glossy beetle, their tiny bodies swarming their larger prey. Further away and closer to the ground glowed small pinpricks of yellow eyes hidden in the grey face of a cross between cat and rat1. It was no bigger than a hedgehog and it seemed placid with its big round ears and fluffy fur, harmless and sleepy in the August sun. Harry had no idea what it was, but he decided to not take his chances and circled the lovely looking fae until he was sure it couldn't get to him. Nature liked playing the game of deceit and he had no need of deceit and even less of a need for a trip to St Mungo's with a pretty ball of silky fur attached to his ankles.
A newt ran straight over his trainers and without a thought Harry stepped on it, hard. Small bones crunched under his foot. He patted his bag and pulled out one of the smaller jars. Whatever it really was a newt or Joint-Eater in its more dangerous form, it was not a time to do a spot of vivisection to check. He searched for tweezers and picked up the dead animal, dropping it inside the glass. Sherlock complained that they were short on ingredients and let it never be said that Harry can't be taught new tricks.
Two steps to his left something glittered in the grass, he bent down, before with a triumphant ha! he scooped a few roundish black and blue scales with a tiny turf of deep brown short and coarse fur still attached. Turns out even otters from different dimension can shed.
It took Harry a moment to realize that Sherlock was no longer at his side, having wandered a few paces ahead. He frowned, searching for the hint of the characteristic coat. He found Sherlock walking in the middle of the road, his stride mechanical, as he swayed and tilted to the sides. His arms swung from left to right. It was like he forgot what to do with the rest of his body while his legs moved. Funny, it reminded Harry of the way his classmates walked when under Imperio curse...
Oh shit.
"Will? William!" Harry ran right up to him, shoving scales into his pocket. He stood right before the man's face, waving before his eyes and nearly got bowled over like he was invisible, as Sherlock simply continued on. "Don't do this to me." Harry wrapped his hands around Sherlock's arm, tugging it lightly. "Come on, come on."
Then he saw it.
Thin, nearly dainty and vibrant blue, with long black triangle shaped nails: three knobby webbed fingers. A hand. Doing the unmistakable 'come hither' gesture. It would be more effective, if not a fact that it was suspended in the air, cut mid forearm and surrounded by silvery sludge-like substance. Its fingers waved flirtatiously and Sherlock went, stumbling and swaying and humming. Oh shit. Oh gods, not this, no, no... This couldn't be...
But it was.
Fuck.
Good luck charm? Ha! He will never bless a fucking cup of coffee ever again.
Well, it looked like all the excitement would start a few months earlier.
Wonderful.
Sherlock felt the uneasy feeling that crept unto him the second they walked into the alley melt into calmness. Through half hooded eyes he barely registered as Harry nodded at something he couldn't see, before he turned to the sound of music. Such a lovely tune. Light, skipping, pipes and fiddles and flutes filled the air. Happy.
He walked.
Feet as light as the fluttering melody. He wishes to dance. Body filling with a pounding of drums. Sweet breeze hits, chilly as the winter morning, good on heated skin. Hand. Nice hand, bluer than the sky. Beckoning him. He goes. Wants to touch it. Wants to see if it's cool. If it's soft. If the rest of it has the same sapphire hue as those fingers. Something chitters. High sound, out of rhythm. It repeats. Brows furrow. Shhh. Listening. Listening. Something crawls on his arm. Sticks. Press. Hold. Drag. Keeps away from dancing and soft and beautiful. He shrugs. It sticks. Like honey. Vice grip. Chitter comes louder. It not that bad. It enriches the melody. Strong as church bells. Gentle like spoon silk. Fierce, a roar of flames and gentle flutter of butterfly wings. And then something picks him up, and he is weightless. There is a feeling of being held above the ground, of pressure around his middle as the world tilts. Feet in the air he flies away from the gentle invitation. Every point of touch is light and smells of thunder and lightning and the sound of warm hearth and it fits. Fits with cold, with the taste of snow, with pines and ravens and thud of pounding feet hitting the ground.
Everything stops.
Boots touch the ground, grovel crunches under his soles. He no longer soars.
Between one breath and another eternity stretches into infinity. And then it snaps like an overused violin string and he takes in the blessed air. Before his eyes is a curtain of pulsing lead. Heavy shimmering surface vibrates lightly out of synch, out of rhythm. It dances as if tiny droplets of liquid were splattering on its surface from the other side. Chitters come back. Low and urgent and close. Good chitters that match the hum. Hard warmth touches face, grasp at him with tender hooks of sun-blessed fingers, sooth the skin that is trapping him inside. He is staring at ethereal eyes that glow even brighter then simmering silver. Should be green. Why green? Why not green? Smile to it, smile. Wonderful shards of gold and amber framed with soft sheen of dravite, blinking on and off like faraway stars. He walks where their light suddenly turns in the fine, tightly spun void of black hair. Dravite hand rises from his skin leaving his face aching for its touch. Tiny glimmer hidden in the wavy darkness disappears. The one on the other side also. That hand rises. And flies. Twin specks of golden earrings arc in the trembling air and lend on sapphire, webbed palm. Delicate fingers wave goodbye and vanish in the pool of silver.
It cracks and shatters and Sherlock starts coughing, spluttering, clutching at Harry's supportive hand. With a whine he hides in the crook of his dark neck, breathing in the familiar smell. Nausea clutches his throat as the strange sensation creeps in. His brain felt like it had liquidated and was about to pour from his ear. Blond hair appears on the edge of his vision once he decides to open his eyes. John. An arm goes around his shoulder and the little brittle noises of wounded animal die a moment later.
"William, we need to go. Can you walk?" Sherlock's mind is like a sludge and his stomach rolls as he leans closer to Harry and John, not knowing which one of them was trembling. It takes a sliver of eternity to understand that he is 'William'.
"Dad, we have to go, come on, give me your arm."
His limbs are jelly but he settles his arm around the wide set of Harry's shoulders. He needs to remember how to move again, but he does, bracketed by two warm bodies. Breathing hurts, there are tiny shards of glass traveling through his lungs, throat squeezed tightly by a hand of unmerciful giant. He takes a small hesitant step, his hand sized by warm calloused palm. He needs two extraordinary long seconds to realize that the cold alien feeling is still there, clinging to his insides like a cloak of ice. He throws a look behind his shoulder. There is no delicate webbed palm waving becomingly. No silver curtain with pitter-patter of invisible rain, but whatever nearly swallowed him whole... it was still there. Air shimmered. Diamond sparkles moved in the swirling patterns like miniature snowflakes, catching every ray of afternoon sun.
Annotation1 - It's a gnieciuch, slavic little alcoholic rat that adores sniffing alcohol from drunk's breath.
[g]- hard 'g' like in 'goalie'- [ni] like in 'nil' - [e] like in 'fell'- [ci] marked part of '(chi)ll' - [u] like in 'full' -[ch] the 'h' in 'horror'