Harry raked his hand through his hair as he paced. "You don't understand," he stated, rounding on Mycroft who sat inspecting his manicured fingernails nonchalantly.
"What you are asking, it's just not possible."
John looked from Harry to Mycroft, his eyes taking in the stark contrast from the agitation of the young man to the indifference of the man sat next to him on the couch.
"Yes," Mycroft drawled, the taut smile returning to his lips. "Sirius once claimed that himself and, yet my, dear brother has achieved a task you claim impossible."
Harry scowled. "I have no idea how your brother has been able to get into the alley, but he shouldn't have been able to do so. You don't understand," he sighed, collapsing into the couch next to his wife Ginny, who instinctively placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's not just that there are spells and enchantments to repel muggles; it's unplottable. It's...Merlin, where's Hermione when you need an encyclopaedic explanation of something this complex?"
"Hermione?" John asked, frowning. "Isn't she the young woman Sherlock has been visiting?" His voice betrayed a level of concern that caused Mycroft's eyebrow to quirk momentarily as he glanced at John.
Harry sighed. "Yes."
.
The sleek car pulled silently away, leaving John on the pavement outside 221B. For a moment he stared down the road, watching as the car moved the corner before turning and staring at the door. Uncertainty tugged at his psyche as he puzzled on what to do. Finally, with a drawn out sigh, he pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, slotting them into the lock. Once inside the flat, he settled into his armchair and stared absently at the empty chair opposite him. Huffing, he dug his fingers into the arms, pulling himself up and strode over to the desk, retrieving that day's copy of The Guardian from the clutter before returning to his armchair. Opening the paper, he scanned the headlines, taking none of them in, before closing the paper with a heavy sigh. He stared once more at the empty chair before leaning over to one side to remove his mobile from his pocket. No new messages, no emails, no notifications from his blog. He placed the device on the end table, lost in thought as Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared in the room.
"Off again is he?" she questioned, as she busied herself in the kitchen.
John hummed his reply.
"He could call," she remarked as she filled the kettle.
Again John hummed, staring at the empty chair.
Suddenly, John gripped the armrests, forcing himself up out of the chair, stalking towards the door, before hurrying down the stairs, leaving a startled Mrs. Hudson holding the teacup and saucer on the threshold of the kitchen.
"Well," she huffed, before turning and tipping the contents of the cup down the sink.
.
The taxi came to a halt half way along Henrietta Street as John pulled his wallet out of his jacket. Paying the taxi driver, he turned, pulling the map from his pocket.
"This is insane," he muttered under his breath as he searched for some clue as to where Sherlock could be.
Turning into the plaza in front of the Covent Garden Market, he narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the various buildings, trying to spot any inconsistency that would suggest something amiss. Muttering under his breath, he paced the courtyard, before circling the market itself, past The Royal Opera House before turning back into Henrietta Street.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, scratching his head, oscillating indecisively. Inside his pocket, his mobile vibrated alerting him to a text message. Taking the device out, he frowned at the screen.
Mycroft
Any progress?
Rolling his eyes, John thrust the phone back in his pocket, scowling at the buildings as the street lights hummed on in the dusk evening.
"Wait a minute," John murmured, his eyes narrowing at the buildings in front of him. On the corner was The Ivy, a bar and grill, it's dark green parasols standing proudly out the front. The next building along, 3 Henrietta Street, was a cream building, the blinds in the window suggesting that it was a place of business. However, what drew John's attention was a door.
A single door with no number and a doorknob in the middle. This door stood in between the two buildings, it's brick surround seemingly no part of either building that stood next to it. John's eyes travelled up, counting the four windows, one on each story, above the door. Each window appeared to be boarded up inside.
"How peculiar," John commented, remembering the way the home of Mr Harry Potter had seemingly blended in unnoticable. He tried to recall whether he had noticed the property when he got out of the taxi and found he could not recall seeing it previously.
Tentatively, he approached the door. Feeling the urge to look up, he then spotted the sign, the blacked but otherwise unmarked board hanging above the door, causing John to frown.
"How odd," he murmured, reaching for the door.
Nothing could have prepared John for the sight that greeted him as the door opened.
There, in front of him, was a wall.