Disclaimer: Hey, hey, guess what? I still don't own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. Also, not making money from this, and never intend to!

In the last chapter, the song mentioned is Welcome Home by Radical Face. THANK YOU to Jason Layton and Guise'n'Disguise for naming it! *gives invisible cookie*

As for the rest of you, it doesn't really have anything to do with this story, but you should listen to it- it's an awesome song, and still remains my personal favorite.

I really am very sorry for the super slow updating- a whole month!- I partially blame exams and projects (oh god, the projects T_T)

Important Note: I really hate doing this in the middle of the story, but I'm changing Harry's age. In the story, he will be five (almost six), meaning he'll have lived with Sherlock and John for only about a year. I've already gone back and accordingly made tweaks in previous chapters.

Beware: Lots of point of view switching ahead!

The next few days were miserable for everyone in 221B. John and Sherlock's last argument left an electric tension between them that was painfully blatant, particularly obvious when they were both in the same room.

Harry's nightmares continued, and everyday he looked worse than the last. The horribly dark circles under his eyes made his dull green eyes look very sunken in. His refusal to eat was really taking it's toll, too. Even with his already-small frame, he was losing weight, leaving him looking skeletal and zombie-like.

He looked like a tormented ghost, in John's mind: a far too young tormented ghost.

John was trying his best to keep Harry's health up. At meals, he would practically force-feed the young boy, making his best effort to get Harry to eat at least enough to maintain his body functions. Sometimes, he even managed to coax the clearly sleep-deprived boy into taking naps throughout the day.

But the root of the problem stubbornly persisted. Whenever John tried to get Harry to talk about it, the young boy wouldn't open up to him and the conversation would always just hang in an awkward silence until John would finally give up and retreat.

And then there was Sherlock.

Sherlock was not happy- quite the opposite, in fact. And it was just a general fact of life in 221B Baker Street that when Sherlock was unhappy, everyone else was, too. He hadn't had a case in weeks and the lack of mental stimulation was- in his mind- slowly rotting his brain. He had been brooding a lot lately, too, but of what John didn't know- but, then again, he was busy focusing on other things.

Trying to maintain Sherlock's health had become another of John's main objectives. Sherlock had always had the bad habit of refusing food and sleep, and John had always done what he could to change that, but lately that had taken an even higher priority. John was still bitter at him, but he hoped that if Sherlock exercised good habits, Harry would follow the example…

…if only Sherlock would stop acting like an… an idiot!

It was on particularly damp, dreary evening- where the weather itself foretold misfortune- that 'the idiot' lay on the sofa, lying in his usual position, thinking.

He had been thinking a lot lately, his mind always coming back to the same basic thing- that argument with John. Sometimes he thought about his own annoyance at how John was still upset with him over something like this. For God's sake, John knew Sherlock was a sociopath. He knew that the cold disposition was just the way Sherlock was. Why couldn't he just accept that? Why was he so determined to prove Sherlock was not heartless?

After all, several times just on the day they met, John was warned to stay away from Sherlock. He'd seen, many times, that Sherlock did not, in fact, care. Sherlock had made it a point to get it into John's head that the only thing that mattered to him was the work!

Yet, somehow- for some reason that Sherlock could not understand- John still stayed with Sherlock; remained his flat-mate, colleague, and friend. Despite John's adherent distaste for his experiments (alright, so the head in the fridge may have been a bit of a stretch) and all the rows they had (ranging across the board from petty to dead-serious), John was still there, and John still put up with him. It had been some years living with him, and Sherlock still just didn't understand why.

Yes, Sherlock admitted to having an attachment to John, but he generally thought of it as the kind of attachment that a normal, mediocre person might have to their computer. It was new and somewhat strange at first, but after some weeks and a fair amount of use, it became something they were used to having, found to be useful, and were fairly comfortable with- even if it did have some pesky glitches and abnormalities.

And yes, to some extent, Sherlock enjoyed John's company. In general, he didn't like people, and people didn't so much like him. They might fear him, feel threatened by him, be indebted to him, or allied to him, but they didn't like him, they weren't his friend. John was his friend. He was one of the very few people that, when looking at Sherlock, it wasn't as though he was some strange thing, some oddball freak- it was with affection, a true, genuine, affection. Sometimes it was with a mixture of admiration (Sherlock wouldn't deny that he enjoyed John's praises of his genius, a nice boost to his ego), sometimes it was with exasperation at something 'not good' that Sherlock did. But all the while- almost every time John gave him that look- there was that underlying… something. Something. That something that, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he strained his mind with it, Sherlock just could not identify. But he knew it was something different, maybe something new- something interesting. Something… he found to be… nice…

But it was missing. That wonderful, new, unidentifiable, unexplainable, interesting something had been missing from John's gaze ever since that argument. The something was missing, and, admittedly, Sherlock missed it.

And then there was Harry. That's somewhat what the argument was about, anyway- Harry. That orphaned and abused five-year-old who had lived with them for a year.

His attachment to Harry was different than his attachment to John, somehow. Harry's behavior was certainly different towards Sherlock, too. When Harry looked at Sherlock, it was with amazement and… awe. It wasn't like John's admiring gaze. When Harry looked at Sherlock, it was as though he was the most incredible thing Harry had ever seen. Harry viewed him with some sort of childish reverence. Sherlock was Harry's… role model. The young boy followed him around, to the point Sherlock swore he was a shadow (that talked), holding onto his every word, paying close attention to every deduction he saw Sherlock make, and watching with careful intent everything Sherlock did. And John was right- for once- Harry was imitating him. It was in very small ways- like clasping his hands together in the same way while thinking- but something about it just bothered him. The idea of someone trying to be like him just bothered Sherlock. His memory of his childhood was hazy, but if it turned out an adult like him…

Sherlock was a genius, yes, he prided himself in being, in many ways, superior to his peers, yes, but he was also an outcast- he'd been shunned all his life. He'd been… alone… all his life. He was a man with few friends- very few friends. A man who could get along with very few people (he couldn't even get along with his older brother!). And then, there was that feeling- that feeling that had so often been there- that he just didn't belong, like there was something very wrong with where he was. But all that was just who he was, he'd long ago accepted that (even though John still hadn't), but he wouldn't wish it upon anyone else. He would not want anyone else to have to live the life he had, that he was still living- with the school years that were Hell on Earth, his always-working, never-ceasing mind that needed to be kept busy lest he go insane, or his ever-present struggle with his past drug use.

But that was to anyone in general, not just to Harry. Harry who's parents were murdered, Harry who'd been abused by his relatives, Harry who now lived with them. But Sherlock didn't care about him, he didn't care about whatever the boy had once gone through or whatever emotional issues he was currently having. He shouldn't have to involve himself with whatever problem might come the boy's way. He wasn't his parent after all. He wasn't, was he?

…was he?…

It was all the same. The same symbol, the same horrid scene, the same tragic events, the same loss.

But, at the same time, it was entirely different. He wasn't seeing it from his point of view this time. Harry wasn't seeing it from the young, crying, newly orphaned toddler boy as he'd always had before…

…he was seeing it from the killer's point of view. In that particular nightmare, Harry was that snake-monster sinisterly hidden under the cloak and hood. He was seeing with those vile, inhuman eyes- eyes shining with murder and blood.

And he saw them, now with a horrible, full view. He saw his father lying pale, motionless, and his glasses falling askew from his wide, unseeing eyes. He saw his mother, limp from her previous protective stance, with the shining tears still stained on her cheeks from when she pleaded for her son's life.

He killed them. He killed them both. In the nightmare, he saw himself as the murderer, he saw himself killing his parents with the green light. But, Harry did kill them. They died trying to protect him, he was to blame for their deaths! If it wasn't for him…. if only… if only…

It was his fault. It was all his own fault.

Harry awoke, but it wasn't with a sudden start. He awoke gradually, with the slow dawning of realization.

It was his fault. It was all his own fault.

He lay there for a long time. Feeling strangely empty inside- an emptiness that had absolutely nothing to do with hunger. And he felt… horribly alone in the darkness.

The evening turned to night. Midnight ticked by. Then one o'clock, then two o'clock, three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock, and then six o'clock.

It was at 6:10, just when the black of night was beginning to lighten into dawn, that Sherlock realized he wasn't alone.

A small creak of the tell-tale floorboard told him all, but he still raised his head off the sofa, his body protesting against the sudden change from the motionless position it had held for hours previous. There, in the hall, stood Harry in his pajamas, hair tousled, and feet bare, no doubt fresh out of bed. However, going by the frankly alarming darkness of the circles beneath his eyes, his night had been just as sleepless as Sherlock's.

Harry, having noticed movement of the man on the sofa, turned to look at Sherlock as well, and for a while, man and boy just stared at each other- intense blue eyes boring into dull green ones.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Couldn't sleep, Harry?" Sherlock said. It felt stupid for him to say, the answer being so blatant even Anderson would have been able to see it. Nevertheless, it seemed an oddly appropriate way to break the silence. Although Sherlock had never deemed social etiquette as relevant, he'd decided he could delve into the subject slightly if only to appease John, so they could go back to normal- their normal, anyway.

Harry looked as though he was about to say something: say exactly what had been bothering him out of sleep that night- no, every night since that damn snake and skull incident… but he kept silent.

In fact, he didn't say a word as he tentatively stepped toward the sofa where Sherlock lay. Nor did he say a word when he managed to fit onto a small space on the sofa next to his guardian. And the both of them were quite silent when Harry buried his face into Sherlock's sleeve, small fingers clutching onto the material of the man's shirt as though he was afraid Sherlock might just vanish at a moment's notice, never to come back.

Was… was Harry cuddling with him? Parents did cuddle with their children- NO! Sherlock was not Harry's parent! He wasn't… he just…

He felt Harry's shoulders shudder, and then again- but it was a stiff motion, as though Harry was trying to suppress it. The young boy was breathing unevenly, too, and- Great. Just great. Now Harry was crying on Sherlock's shoulder- well, trying not to cry, but…

Sherlock was surprised by a sudden, unpleasant constriction in his chest. He wasn't actually having an emotional response to Harry's outburst, was he? God, how his world- his self!- was turned upside down! All after John had invaded his life and now this… this…

Sherlock looked at Harry. The five year old was not sobbing, suppressed sobs or otherwise, but there were tears on his face, soaking into Sherlock's sleeve, where he could feel a slight dampness.

…this broken, little boy he had to take care of, who was snuggling up against him for some kind of emotional comfort. For a brief moment, he looked at Harry… and saw himself.

The only person Sherlock had ever been close to like this was his mother. And now that he thought of it, it had been for a similar reason to. He, too, had been emotionally distraught- for what reason, he couldn't remember, but it wasn't important, and probably just as well he couldn't recall it- and had felt alone. So he had nestled into his mother's arms, because it made him feel comforted and… cared for.

Sherlock had been assigned to take care of Harry- he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't asked for it, but there he was.

He remembered the way his mother held him, and shifted his arm to envelop the five year old similarly. In turn, Harry's death grip on Sherlock's shirt lessened slightly, as though Harry was surprised at the parental gesture, but the young boy soon nestled into the comforting embrace. His face was still wet, but no more tears were falling- that was good. Sherlock used his other hand to dry Harry's face, more to discourage further crying than anything else.

Sherlock didn't say anything, and neither did Harry. So, once again, a silence fell in the room. It wasn't a tense, unsettled, or awkward like any of the recent 'silence moments' in 221B, but a contented silence that lasted as the sun slowly rose into appearance, bathing the room a rosy gold and casting long shadows that would shorten slightly with each passing hour.

Harry didn't fall asleep the entire time. But his eyelids were drooped and his eyes were unfocused and distant, showing him to either be deep in thought or very tired. This caught Sherlock's attention, and he observed more closely. Yes, the young boy kept in the same constant pattern- whenever his eyelids drooped too far, enough to close his dulled, worn eyes, he would abruptly force open his eyes and blink rapidly in an attempt to keep them open. He was deliberately not falling sleeping and forcing himself to stay awake whenever he got dangerously close to drifting off.

Why was he doing this? He was no doubt tired, exhausted even, the evidence was frighteningly obvious. The bags under his eyes were dark enough to make him look like he had two black eyes, and had been so for days. Even he didn't get this bad, Sherlock thought, or at least not very often. Sure, it wasn't an uncommon thing for Sherlock to deprive himself of food and sleep, but that was when he was wonderfully immersed with work or preoccupied with a particularly absorbing thought process- like that night, for example. But what could be causing Harry to deprive himself of sleep? It couldn't just be a matter of mimicking, or at least Sherlock hoped the five year old wouldn't push it that far just for the sake of imitation. And why had Harry been up and about in the dead of night, up from an obviously sleepless night and emotionally distraught enough to run to the first person he saw- who happened to be Sherlock, of all people.

And then an idea came to Sherlock. What if-

The train of thought came to an abrupt halt as the familiar ring tone of Sherlock's mobile burst into tune. Sherlock could feel Harry give a startled jump at the sudden interruption of silence. Sherlock unwrapped his arm from around the five year old and lifted himself off of the sofa, making an effort not to disturb Harry too much- but even the little boy was looking up in interest, obviously wanting to find out what was going on as much as Sherlock.

Excitement began to ebb at Sherlock as he went to check the mobile that was sitting on the cluttered kitchen table. The only person that would call him right now was Lestrade, and Lestrade calling meant an interesting case. Finally. Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could have taken the mind-numbing boredom sided with emotional turmoil. If it was a case, it would be a most welcome break from it all.

A wide, crazed, and probably creepy-looking smile spread across Sherlock's face. Sure enough, it was a text message from Lestrade detailing the case that had police out of their depths. And it was interesting!

His heart began to pound as adrenaline coursed through his body. Finally, this long awaited work- this beautiful puzzle that kept his hyperactive mind so wonderfully busy and productive. Finally, this feeling- this anticipation of the excitement, the mystery, the game. The game was on again! Oh, how he had missed all of this!

But by the looks of it, he would need his doctor. Would John be against coming, would he still be upset at Sherlock? Oh nonsense! How could John pass up something so wonderful as this? A new case! Sherlock doubted his slightly adrenaline-junkie of a flat mate (and spouse) could refuse this opportunity. In fact, given the stress and tension and just painful slowness of the week, Sherlock bet the good doctor would welcome it!

With that, he practically skipped up to John's room to wake up the sleepyhead. No time for sleep when there was finally something fun going on! That thought stirred something in the back of Sherlock's head, like he had forgotten something… someone?- no no no, who had time for vague feelings when there was a doctor to wake up and drag halfway across London to A NEW CASE! (A case!)

Sherlock flung open the door of John's bedroom. Well, it was sort of their shared bedroom (they had to set aside a bedroom for Harry upon the boy's arrival), though the only aspect of it that was shared was the storage space, since that was really the only function a bedroom of Sherlock served- when he actually slept, it was generally on the sofa. The wood door swung and hit the adjacent wall with a loud thump. Hearing the loud, sudden noise, John's eyes flew open and he sat straight up with such speed it was nearly comical. Then again, with Sherlock so high on pure excitement, he felt as though he could laugh himself silly and just about anything. John, on the other hand, was nowhere-near laughing. Instead, he was still understandably confused, startled, and quite panicked.

"What Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, assuming the worst.

"A case, John! Lestrade sent me a new case!" with that, Sherlock began to tear through John's clothing drawers, pulling out a few things.

John's tense posture relaxed, and with the revelation that there was, in fact, no fire, no one was dead (not counting the poor bloke whose death was about to become Sherlock's morbid source of amusement), or any kind of disaster he had been expecting, he was left irate and pretty well ticked off.

"Yes, that's nice," John's hissed, rubbing his eyes, "and while you're running around London with that, I'll just go back to-"

But he was cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock pulled away the blanket he had been pulling up over himself again. Sherlock then tossed a pile of clothes at him, one of his shirts hitting him right in the face.

"No, you're coming with me- I need your expert medical opinion," he strode to the door, but abruptly stopped and turned on his heel to face John, his euphoric countenance suddenly replaced with anxiousness and apprehension, "That is… if you aren't still upset- if you… want to…"

John sighed, "I- I want to go, yes," he answered earnestly. John couldn't deny that the one thing he really wanted right now was to be able to, at least for a little while, go back to his and Sherlock's normal selves. No arguments hanging between them, Sherlock showing off his brilliance, John's praises inflating his already-overblown ego, the amazing adrenaline high, and them afterward leaning against the wall of the hallway, joking and giggling like teenage girls as they gasped for air. "But-"

Sherlock didn't take any time to listen to the "but" and upon hearing John's admission of, yes, he did want to attend with him on the case, he clapped his hands together and with an exclamation of "Excellent!" all but skipped away.

John put the gathered clothes onto his lap. God help him with this insane man. He hated being upset at him, by all means, he didn't want to be upset- but this was something he couldn't just brush off. So often he just brushed off issues with Sherlock's quirks and idiosyncrasies, but this was serious. Sherlock didn't really care about other's well-beings, he didn't care about the dead victim- the random stranger, in Sherlock's mind- that he was investigating about. That was just how the consulting detective was, John knew that- he could tolerate it, even and, as he thought about it, he could tolerate Sherlock not putting an emotional investment into the subjects of his investigation (he was right, it could be distracting, and distractions in their line of work could be fatal). The problem was that Harry was not just a random stranger- Harry was an emotionally scarred child put in their care. Children like him needed emotional nurturing, they needed loving… guardians. And god forbid, John knew he couldn't do it all on his own- not while he was trying to take care of Sherlock, too. Why couldn't the man just grow up? He couldn't just go on viewing Harry like he was nothing more than just… there. People who grew up with that rarely ended up well, John knew that with some experience- specifically running around with Sherlock, chasing after young drug-dealers, many of them turning out to be from the worst parentage and backgrounds John had ever seen.

John sighed again, putting the pile of clothes aside, and raised himself off of the bed, bounding down the stairs after his flat mate.

"Not going to get dressed?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows upon seeing his pajama-clad doctor, "Wouldn't have thought you to be content with showing up in public still in your pajamas- but whatever suits your fancy."

"Sherlock-" he again to explain the problem, but once again he hadn't managed to get past the first word.

"Come on! Let's go, John! There are cases to be visited, murders to be investigated, puzzles to be solved!" Sherlock cried impatiently, much like a child eager to visit a sweet shop.

John had just said he wanted to come along, so what was the problem? Sherlock's excitement wasn't letting him think properly, and his anticipation wasn't letting him care. Also, there was still that strange feeling that he was forgetting something- but since when had Sherlock ever paid much attention to his feelings?

"Sherlock, wait-"

He practically dragged John until, just at the threshold of the door, the other man stopped suddenly. Now slightly impatient, Sherlock spun around, and then it all hit him: the reason for John's reluctance to leave and that little thing that Sherlock was forgetting. Actually, that little boy.

…oh…

Harry clung to John's legs, which explained why the doctor had stopped walking so abruptly. His widened eyes were darting between Sherlock and John, looking quite scared. 'As of late he'd also been extremely clingy to his two guardians, hardly being able to stand them being in a different room than him. It was as though Harry was afraid that, if he'd ever let John or Sherlock out of his sight, he'd never see them again.'

"Don't leave me," he whispered in a near-silent, almost pleading voice. The boy- his height coming up to John's knees- clutched onto John much like he had onto Sherlock much earlier that morning: as though he was afraid he might just vanish at a moment's notice, never to come back.

Well, this was quite the dilemma…

Aaand, that's all- until chapter 4.

Wow, this ended up being incredibly long for little actually happening. I was trying out a new writing style- it involved a lot of rambling, but I like how it turned out for the most part.

Thank you to my wonderful sister for being this story's beta- your grammar skills far outreach mine.