Disclaimer: Sooooo, the middle of the Aegean Sea is as empty as the name implies. There is no Mt. Olympus there. Darn it! The fishermen that gave me a ride suggested I try the actual Mt. Olympus. Personally I'd thought that was a bit too obvious but as I'm bored and have no other leads I'll go there and look for clues. Until then the characters are still not mine. And I'm still poor so it's going to take me a while to get there.

A/N: And now we get to the good stuff. I apologize for there not being more chapters posted during this Sunday Blitz but it's been an off week. Hey at least the chapters themselves are longer right?

The Loch Ness Monster

Chapter One: Leave Taking

Chapter Summary: And so they are finally off on an adventure. Will someone interfere and stop them leaving? And why is John sleeping?

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock pounced energetically on his friend's sleeping form in a flying leap from the door. "We're leaving today and you're not packed! Get up!"

John batted a slow, ineffectual hand at his flatmate cum best friend. "C'n pa' later!" He claimed sleepily. "'M shleepin' now." He buried his head farther into the pillow and away from Sherlock.

"Ja-a-a-wn!" Sherlock whined and rolled off of John's back to lie beside him, pushing on his shoulder in an effort to get the other man moving. "They'll be here in five hours. You have to pack!"

John, still more asleep than awake, turned over towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his chest, pulling him close. "'S early. Go ta shleep," he ordered. "Pa' later." He nuzzled his nose into the side of Sherlock's neck, sighed deeply and let sleep take him back under.

Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling. This was an interesting development. John was holding him like a teddy bear and he found that instead of being uncomfortable or irritated he only felt warm and now that John had mentioned it, it was early. Really, the sun hadn't even come up yet. The warmth of John's arms around him was making him just a bit tired. Where was the harm in just closing his eyes for a few minutes? Sherlock snuggled down next to John, closed his eyes and let the soft sound of John's breathing lull him to sleep.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

It was so warm. So warm and so very comfortable. That was his first thought upon waking. John fluttered his eyes open in confusion, unaccustomed to this level of comfortableness while waking.

Feeling an unexpected weight on his arm he carefully turned his head. John's mouth dropped open in silent shock. Sherlock had invaded his bed sometime in the night and was hugging John's arm to his chest and using his upper bicep as a pillow. John tried to find some kind of irritation at Sherlock's utterly unbelievable lack of concern for other people's privacy but really couldn't.

Sherlock looked at home sleeping beside him and impossibly innocent. He mentally gave a philosophical shrug. At least the other man was sleeping. Sherlock tended to go until his body dropped where he was standing so finding him sleeping peacefully without the inducement of being completely exhausted was a nice surprise.

His eyes roamed the room until they fell on the small alarm clock he kept for those days when Sherlock didn't wake him with an explosion or the violin or banging about on the stairs. Those days were rare but they did happen.

7:29 a.m. Harry and Luna would be there in an hour and a half! He hadn't packed yet! He'd been intending to get up early this morning and do what little packing was needed. Harry had said that he would take care of the arrangements and all they needed were toiletries and clothing. Another thought hit him. Had Sherlock packed? Bloody Hell! They were going to be late!

He must have made some movement or sound of surprise because the grip on his arm tightened, Sherlock's head pressed farther into his bicep and Sherlock made a snuffling noise. John turned his head again to look at Sherlock just as the other man's eyes opened. "You made me fall asleep," he accused John mildly in a sleep roughened voice.

"Did I?" John asked, bemused. He had no memory of Sherlock coming into his room or in fact anything except sleeping.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded decisively. "I came in to wake you up to pack and you snuggled against me and made me warm and comfortable and told me to go to sleep."

"Sorry?" John said uncertainly. Was Sherlock angry about the events he had no memory of? It was too bad, really. If it was that easy to get Sherlock to sleep then he'd like to try it again. Unfortunately, that didn't seem likely to happen.

Sherlock waved his apology away. "You were asleep and therefore not responsible for you actions." Then he frowned. "Though you could have warned me that you liked to cuddle in your sleep."

"You couldn't deduce that for yourself?" John asked with a small chuckle.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "No," he said shortly. "I knew that your temperature would rise while you slept but I didn't know that you liked to hold someone or that your arm would be so comfortable. It really does make a good pillow."

"Alright then," John nodded and grinned. He looked down at the arm Sherlock was still clutching to his chest. "Mind letting me go? It's only that I still have to pack, Sherlock."

Sherlock followed John's gaze with confusion and then slight shock. His grip tightened reflexively and then loosened slowly. John wondered what was going through that great brain of his. "Very well," he finally said in a grumpy tone. He looked over at the clock and nearly pushed John from the bed. "Hurry up! They'll be here in an hour and you haven't packed or dressed or eaten! You pack and I'll make you some tea and toast." He jumped up from the bed and raced towards the door.

"Try not to burn my toast this time, please?" John rolled the rest of the way off the bed and stood smoothly.

"Of course," Sherlock's voice floated back to him from the stairs. "It isn't my fault the toaster doesn't like me." His tone was petulant.

John snorted. "That could be because you tried to use it to toast toes last month," he said to himself. Leaving Sherlock to fight with the toaster he ignored the bangs from downstairs and gathered up the clothes he wanted to take to Loch Ness.

"Finally," Sherlock expelled loudly when John made it to breakfast fifteen minutes later. "Here," he shoved a plate towards John. "Toast," he paused and glared at the blackened lumps. "Well, it was supposed to be toast."

"Mmm," John hummed and took the plate. "Did you pack everything you wanted to take?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock sniffed.

"Are you sure?" John needled, knowing Sherlock would think of something he wanted at the last minute.

Sherlock thought for a moment and then raced off while John laughed. John waited until he was positive that Sherlock was in his bedroom before chucking the ruined toast into the bin. The kettle whistled and John poured himself and Sherlock cups of tea. "Tea, Sherlock!" He called.

"You binned the toast, didn't you?" Sherlock said in his ear from right behind him.

"Christ!" John jumped and spun around. "Don't do that! And yes, how did you know?"

"Well you certainly didn't eat it. No crumbs on your shirt. So, you must have binned it. I suspected you would. It was inedible, after all."

John shook his head and handed Sherlock his tea. They sat across from each other sipping at their tea and waiting impatiently for Harry and Luna to arrive. Finally at five til nine a knock sounded downstairs. Sherlock bounded up out of his chair, ginning in excitement, threw open the door to their flat and almost threw himself down the stairs to answer it before Mrs. Hudson even had her door part way open. "Finally," Sherlock exclaimed, there was a sudden silence after his declaration and John had just about resolved himself to go check when Sherlock's cold, irritated voice floated back up to him. "Go away, Mycroft. You are not needed here."

John rose from the table and went to the door. He peeked around the frame but couldn't see anything except Sherlock's back. "Come now, Sherlock. Dr. Watson challenged me to actually observe Harry Potter. I would like to do so and find out what the two of you find so objectionable about the way he was raised." John heard Mycroft say. "And there is another matter I need to speak to him about."

"No," Sherlock said grumpily. "I won't allow you to upset him just before we leave. You are not going to meet him today. If you're nice I might allow it when we come back."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply and John heard the tap of his heel as he stepped towards the door. Sherlock moved to block him. "Let me in!"

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, back and shoulders tense. "No. Nope. Not happening." Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started warningly. "There are matters I must discuss with him pertaining to the Statute of Secrecy and other such political dealings between our worlds. Do not allow our petty feud to come between Mr. Potter's need for privacy and the good of both our worlds."

"This has nothing to do with you and me, or our feud," Sherlock nearly growled. "Harry is becoming something along the lines of my friend and I will protect him. You can have nothing to say to him that is so important that I will lay aside his wishes."

"I simply must see him," Mycroft insisted.

"Then send him a message and ask to meet with him after we get back," Sherlock suggested. "There is no way I'm going to let you in to see him now."

"His homicidal rage has caused his government to find the need to obliviate an entire village!" John knew Mycroft was scowling and he couldn't believe Harry had done anything to cause what Mycroft claimed.

"Harrymine doesn't wear Homicidal Rage," Luna said from behind Mycroft. "He wears Resigned to Violence sometimes but I've only ever heard of him wearing Homicidal Rage once and even then he only had it on for a moment before he switched to Grief-Stricken to the Point of Madness."

Mycroft spun around, displaying his surprise for the first time in Sherlock's memory. He recovered quickly though. "Ah, Miss Lovegood. It is nice to see you again. I was quite dismayed when I heard the news of your father and you have my condolences. Are you going to be taking over his publication?"

Luna gave him a shrewd look. "You know very well that it is Mrs. Potter now, Mycroft Holmes. It's not so lovely to see you again. Daddy lived long enough to see me happily married which was all he wanted before he joined Mummy. And yes, Harrymine and I have resumed publishing The Quibbler as you should know since we sent you copies of the last four issues which we printed together."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, quite. Where is your husband this lovely morning? I had expected him to be here."

"Hello Sherlock Holmes," she said brightly to Sherlock. "Hello John Watson," she called up the stairs. "Harrymine heard from our wyvern that Mycroft Holmes would be here and so we're to meet him at the Rookery." She turned those big, protuberant gray eyes on Mycroft. "If you will excuse us, Mycroft Holmes, we really must be going. Harrymine is waiting for us and we wouldn't want to miss our train."

Sherlock moved slightly to the side to allow Luna to squeeze past him. "I really must speak to Mr. Potter about the events in Little Hangleton last night." Mycroft said sharply.

Luna slowly turned to face him from the first step. "Why would you want to do that?" She asked shocked, though it was hard to tell with her normal expression being one of surprise. Only the slight change in her voice gave any indication that Mycroft's claim had surprised her.

"Because he caused an entire troop of obliviators to modify the memory of everyone in the village when he destroyed the Riddle House," Mycroft said exasperated. "The entire village saw it explode."

Luna tilted her head to the side. "Why would he do that?"

"What do you mean?" Mycroft spluttered.

"Harrymine hasn't been back to Little Hangleton since the one and only time he was there," Luna explained. "He has no interest in returning to the place where he was tortured, not even to destroy it. He told the Minister so when Kingsley Shacklebolt asked him to perform the spell to hide the graveyard and house as he's the only one powerful enough to do so."

Mycroft frowned disapprovingly at her. "You mean you are trying to tell me that Mr. Potter had nothing to do with a massive explosion in the gas lines around the Riddle House?"

Luna nodded and smiled brightly. "You really are very smart, Mycroft Holmes. Harrymine was home all night and the house elves will verify that should you wish it. He had a headache from dealing with Ron and Ginny yesterday and went to bed early. It was a very old house. And not in the best repair from what I've been told. Maybe it really was a gas line."

Mycroft looked at her assessing her veracity. "Fine," he bit out, knowing there was nothing more he could do to convince her. "Tell Mr. Potter I will expect to speak with him when you return."

"I will tell him," Luna promised. "I can't say that he'll see you; he doesn't like you, Mycroft Holmes. But I will tell him that you wish to speak with him."

"I suppose I must be satisfied with that," Mycroft nodded to her and turned back to the black car that had brought him. "A, make sure to up the cameras on 221B Baker Street until my brother and Dr. Watson return." He said loud enough for the others to hear.

"Yes sir," floated out from the depths of the car.

Mycroft gave his brother one last, long, irritated look and then stepped into the car. Sherlock watched impassively as it drove off down the street and then turned and bounded up the stairs.