See, I told you I would hopefully be updating this fairly regularly! It helps that a lot of it was already in pretty decent shape to begin with. So right, we're hopping right on in to the gif set on Tumblr that inspired this story, the one where McGonagall visits John at 221b. Obviously this is headed in a slightly different direction, but the idea for this story sprang from all that. Come, enjoy McGonagall interacting with Sherlock with me, my friends. And definitely let me know what you think so far!
Chapter One
Sherlock sat hunched over the kitchen table, broad shoulders bent forward awkwardly with his elbows raised in a high, unnatural position above his head. Before him lay four flasks, each partially filled with a smoky white liquid. With painstaking precision, he let loose a single drop from the dropper grasped in his left hand, immediately following it with two drops from the one in his opposite hand. The liquid fizzled slightly, letting off the somewhat sticky smell of burnt toffee, and Sherlock's head slammed forward to hit the table. The glasses rattled precariously as Sherlock groaned, maneuvering the goggles over his eyes between the table's wooden edge and his face. Eventually one came free from the other, causing him to throw the goggles across the room until their progress was halted by the back of John's armchair. He sat like that for a few moments, silently fuming, before his drama required a vocal outlet.
"DULL!" he shouted to no one in particular, proceeding to thunk his forehead against the table repeatedly. "I need a case!"
"You've only been finished with your last one two days ago," came the scolding sounds of Mrs. Hudson. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen behind him, a tray containing tea and a handful of biscuits clasped in her hands. "You'd think you'd be ready for a break, what with all of that Moriarty business finally at an end."
"Dull," Sherlock repeated, raising his head only long enough to grunt at Mrs. Hudson's offering. "Group of idiotic admirers of his attempting to bring back his ghost, simply a matter of tracking the whole lot down. Though I admit I was impressed by how far their reach had gotten before they made their move, it's hardly surprising. My brother ought to have expected as much if he truly was paying attention."
"Regardless, I'm glad it's at its end," Mrs. Hudson replied with a nod, pouring out a cup of tea. "Have you tried giving John a ring? It's been ages since he brought the baby round."
Sherlock grunted again, somehow managing to shrink his lanky body into the chair even further than it already was. "Out of town. Went to visit relatives or something or other."
Mrs. Hudson paused before the fireplace in contemplation, teacup balanced in her fingers. She let out a sound of understanding before bringing the cup to the table. "Of course, this is the weekend he and Mary were planning a trip down towards Bristol. He mentioned something about visiting his parents' graves while they were out there."
"Exactly what I said," Sherlock replied, leaping to his feet and ignoring the offering of tea in favour of his violin on the other side of the room. "Regardless, dull. And pointless, considering it means John is not easily at my disposal."
"Sherlock, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Hudson cried, setting down the tea with an irritated chink and a sigh. "That poor man has had to put to rest far too many people in his life, yourself included. Show him your respect."
"I respect John Watson highly, Mrs. Hudson, but what is the point if he isn't nearby to appreciate it?" With that, the bow of his violin hit the strings, instantly breaking into a lament of a song appropriate for a man in such agitation. Mrs. Hudson sighed, making her way back down the stairs to her own flat. She was just about to enter her kitchen when the soft sound of someone knocking at the front door caught her attention.
The woman standing on 221b's stoop was elderly, even in comparison to Mrs. Hudson, yet held a muted spryness that became apparent in the strong way she held herself. Despite the warm mid-July weather, she remained smartly dressed in a long tartan dress and black overcoat. Her hair, long ago changed to solid grey, sat tightly knotted at the base of her scull in an immaculate bun. Though she greeted Mrs. Hudson with a smile, it was tight lipped and stern.
"Would this be the home of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?" the woman asked, her voice as strong as her bearing.
Mrs. Hudson continued to gape for a moment, eventually catching herself with a slight shake and a gesture behind her. "Ah…yes, well, one of them, yes. Come with me, dearie, he's just upstairs."
The pair made their way up the stairs, the visitor's heels clacking along with the creaks of wood as they climbed. The sounds of Sherlock's violin grew louder as they approached, drifting in a downward spiral from door Mrs. Hudson had left open when she left minutes before. Though their approach could obviously be heard from his spot standing before one of the windows, he ignored them, back facing away from the rest of the room as he continued to play.
"Sherlock, you've a visitor," Mrs. Hudson called over the drifting sounds of the violin. When Sherlock continued to ignore her, Mrs. Hudson threw her hands up with a sigh and turned back to the woman. "I'm dreadfully sorry, he's always in a bit of a strop without a case. I do hope you've come with something that will catch his interest."
"Not a case!" Sherlock suddenly cried, the bow jittering across the strings in an outcry of protest when he pulled the instrument away from his chin and finally turned to face them. His eyes narrowed in a glare that darted from one woman to the other. "You knocked rather than ring the bell, indicating that you are not here under distress, at least not for yourself. No stuttering down at the door in indecision, so obviously you came here with a purpose. Your face is agitated, but it's an expression of resigned concern – something's come up, something from the past that was assumed to be over and has proven otherwise. You purposefully asked for both myself and Dr. Watson, meaning that you either wish to take both of us on for a case, which is unlikely since your stance indicated the bearing of news of some sort rather than an outright question, or you wish to speak to one or both of us directly. Since you mentioned both names, I suspect you are looking either for the pair of us or John individually. Seeing as I have never seen you before in my life, I'm leaning slightly more towards just John. However, John Watson has not resided at 221b Baker Street for nearly two years now, leaving me to doubt how close a connection the two of you have – or, rather once had – if you haven't been informed of his most recent address, let alone the various supposedly significant life events that have occurred for him. Therefore, not a case." With that, Sherlock flopped himself down into his armchair, violin sprawled lazily across his lap.
"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson huffed with a shake of her head. "Must you be so rude to everyone who comes to call? Honestly, young man, what would your mother say?
"Most likely something along the lines of what you just said," Sherlock replied, a single finger dragging across the violin's strings. His eyes, currently a light blue in the sunlight filtering in from the window to his left, bore unblinking over his visitor's face, watching carefully for her reactions. She said nothing as he studied her, hardly moving as she studied him right back. The faintest of smiles, hardly more than a soft crinkle at the edge of one side of her mouth, was the only sign that she had even heard him speak. "Now then, what can I do for you, Doctor?"
"Merely a professor, Mr. Holmes, thank you," she replied, fully entering the room and settling herself on the very edge of John's armchair. "I'm afraid my field of expertise hardly ever goes on to the level of that sort of mastery."
Giving a sharp nod, Sherlock continued to watch her as he called out to a retreating Mrs. Hudson, "Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, what an excellent suggestion."
Mrs. Hudson paused on the stairs to call back, "Not your housekeeper, dear, not even when you've guests! Besides, I've just brought you a fresh pot not five minutes before, if you'd been at all bothered to pay attention." They heard the door to her flat shut with a determined snap, finally leaving the pair alone in their dueling observations. Sherlock pulled out one of his many charming smiles, gesturing a pale hand toward the kitchen.
"Might I interest you in a cup of tea, Professor?" he asked, a mockery of courtesy turning his deep voice almost friendly. The woman smiled stiffly back, hands folding together on her lap.
"That would be lovely," she replied, staring at Sherlock over the top rims of her spectacles. The two continued to stare one another down, neither moving in a silent showdown. Surprisingly, Sherlock found his eyelids fluttering downward towards the floor, an expression of reluctant submission falling over his face. He let out a loud huff of annoyance and jumped to his feet, tossing down his violin in his recently vacated chair and storming into the kitchen. He spent a moment fussing with the tea tray, organizing everything with an unnecessary loudness that carried nearly downstairs. Moments later, the readied tea tray sat between them, the woman with a slightly cooled cup in her frail hands and Sherlock returned to his seat, violin once more in hand. He glared over the tray at the woman as she took a sip, gaze eventually drawing back to his.
"How kind of you, Mr. Holmes, thank you," she said, her courtesy as true as his. She set aside the cup to fully return her focus to Sherlock, her face still as blank as when she entered. "You've deduced much of what I've come here for thus far…what more can you find?"
Sherlock's eyebrows rose into the fringe of curls on his forehead, eyes blinking a few times in surprise. He quickly took up the offered challenge, relishing the unexpected opportunity to study a willing participant. His eyes narrowed as he looked the woman up and down, taking a deep breath before he began. "You're a professor, as we've discussed, but do not have a doctorate, meaning your field is most likely one of lesser interest. You mentioned earlier that it does not offer doctorate programs, so your lack of that specific title is not due to laziness, though the chance of that to begin with is laughable. You're single, previously married, but the gentleman is long dead. You're content in your position but worn, on the cusp of retirement but unsure if you are ready to give up on something you obviously enjoy. Your clothing is a traditional Scottish design, but you were raised in England, probably residing in both places from the pitch of your accent. Though you appear quite old, your movements are certain, lacking in the usual discomfort of one of advanced years. I would consider you to be no more than sixty-five, seventy at the absolute latest, and in your post for most of your life. You have no children of your own, making your students the absolute centre of your life. You've been through much, possibly even – no." Sherlock jerked himself out of his endless diatribe, shooting back to his feet to circle the woman's chair. His eyes were nearly turned to slits as he knelt down on one knee before her, face level with her own. "You couldn't possibly have been in battle."
"You underestimate me, Sherlock Holmes," she chided, taking another sedate sip of tea. "I must admit that your prejudice toward the elderly surprises me."
"But how?" Sherlock muttered, head twisting in every direction in search of an answer. "Even the healthiest of individuals feel the limitations of the human body eventually, and the position of teacher hardly leaves one in the ripe physical state for fighting."
"Never doubt a woman whose students and home have been threatened," the woman replied seriously, causing Sherlock's rapid dissection to screech to a halt. "I'm certain if anyone could understand something of that sort, it would be you."
"We've never met," he said slowly, hand resting on the arm of her chair to balance himself.
"We have not, but even dead you made yourself well known." She took a moment to watch him as he moved back to sit on the floor, back resting against his seat. "You said John does not live here any longer. Would you happen to have his most recent address?"
"Of course I do, but it will do you little good," Sherlock replied, hand ruffling absentmindedly through his hair. "He's gone, out of town for the weekend. You're only here in London briefly. By the time he comes back, you'll be long gone."
"I have means to return," she said with a nod. "His address, Mr. Holmes? I'm afraid the information I have is of upmost importance."
"What reason do I have to trust you? What is to say you do not wish John harm? You haven't even given your name, Professor…"
"McGonagall. I knew John well once – he was a student of mine when he was young. The matter concerns the deaths of John's parents; I am aware of just how close the two of you are, but this is not information I am willing to give up for anyone other than the man himself."
"John's parents…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes settling on the fireplace. "I knew they were both dead, but beyond that, there's little he will say or I can deduce. What could an old schoolteacher of John's possibly know of his parents' deaths?"
McGonagall abruptly stood, readjusting her coat as she did. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes, and give John my regards. Tell him my Floo is always open if he feels so inclined to discuss the matter, and he is welcome back at Hogwarts whenever he pleases." With a sharp nod and a wish for him to have a pleasant day, McGonagall turned and started down the stairs.
Sherlock had sprung to his feet when McGonagall had, and now that she was leaving, he raced to catch up. "No!" he cried as he slid past her and blocked the way, the pair of them halfway down the stairs. "What is Hogwarts? What is a Floo?"
McGonagall smirked at him and rested a hand on the railing. "Can't you deduce it?"
"Not even I can see everything, as my darling older brother loves to point out," Sherlock scowled, impatience rising. "What are you refusing to tell me, Professor McGonagall?"
"If John hasn't informed you, I have no right to do it either." For the first time since they'd met, McGonagall shot him a pitying look. Frown lines creased her forehead, causing him to echo the expression. "I have no doubt that you and John Watson are very close, but if you truly feel for him what I suspect, you will let him tell you his secrets. His life has been a difficult one, like so many of his peers', and he was forced to grow up so much sooner than he ought. I will not reveal John Watson's past for him, particularly such a past as his. Besides, the chances of you believing anyone's words other than his own in this are doubtful."
When Sherlock simply stared up at her, McGonagall pushed past him with a gentle nudge, continuing down the stairs to pull open the door. Before she stepped back out into the street, she turned to study the man frozen on the steps. "It has been a fascinating visit, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for the tea, and don't forget to relay my message to John." With that, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Sherlock remained quiet and stoic on the steps for a few seconds that felt like half a lifetime. His mind raced through the conversation, storing away the significant information into their appropriate sections of his mind palace. With a start, he returned to the present, realizing belatedly that his most recent object of intrigue had vacated the premises. He bolted down the stairs to yank open the door, practically collapsing out onto the sidewalk and frantically shooting his head about for a glimpse of the distinct tartan. He caught it just as McGonagall turned a corner not far down the street, surprisingly going down an alley that he knew held little more than a few empty trash bins. He was dashing after her less than a second later, but when he entered the alley it was completely and utterly devoid of human life. Sherlock felt his jaw drop open slightly, his wide eyes darting across the entirety of the space but finding nothing. He took a few steps farther down the small space, noiseless as his bare feet trod across the grimy pavement. Quickly regaining himself from his surprise, he began to assess the area, taking in possible escape routes. The end of the alley stood blocked by a solid brick wall, newly renovated less than a year before from the solidity of the cement between the blocks. To both the right and left were the walls of the buildings at each side, no windows or doors leading out to the small area. From Sherlock's careful assessment, there appeared to be only one way in or out, yet the space was undoubtedly empty.
Sherlock made his way back to 221b, ignoring the burn of the sun baked sidewalk on the soles of his feet. As soon as he had returned to the living room, he dove for his laptop (actually his for once, as was more likely now that John had moved out) and settled into his chair. He pulled up a search and typed in Hogwarts, scrolling through page after page of random information leading him to nothing of use. The same resulted when searching for Floo and McGonagall's name, leaving Sherlock even more irritable than when the morning began. By the time he looked up again from the screen, darkness had fallen, dousing him in little more than the bright eerie glow of his screen and the dull yellow of the street lamps peering in from outside. He scrounged about in the cushions of the chair, eventually uncovering his buried phone, before sending out a quick text and leaping to his feet. Surely somewhere in the city of London he could find an open library or bookstore, possibly one that could provide more than the internet had. He tossed the phone onto the mantle before heading for his bedroom, intending to finally get dressed now that he had a proper reason to do so. The message on the phone's screen glowed on the scull's ivory surface from where they sat side by side, open for any to read.
Met an old professor of yours today. McGonagall. Investigating more. SH
Meanwhile, just outside of Bristol, John jolted awake at the buzz of his cell with a groan.
Chapter Two