We're really starting to get into the plot of the story with this chapter. I had lots of fun writing Mycroft - I think I just enjoy writing the somewhat stuffy characters who have a knack for sass and wit. XD Also, this chapter gets us started into the case; the fic itself isn't necessarily what I'd call a casefic, but the case is a decently significant plot point that I wanted to make sure I developed fairly well. Before anyone says anything, yes, I borrowed a bit from the movies here. I'm fully aware that an offhand comment John says later on is something that only happened in the Deathly Hallows movies rather than in the books, but it worked really well with my plot so I went for it. Yesterday's Pottermore info was surprisingly well-timed to be helpful here, particularly in that it reminded me of some things on the Leaky Cauldron that I didn't remember. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Chapter Three
Sherlock hadn't heard from John since his initial reply on Saturday morning, resulting in him spending the entirety of the next two days digging up as many bits of information on the few clues he had been given that he could. He'd been unable to truly get anywhere the first night of his search; though living in the capital of the United Kingdom, not to mention one of the most populated and active cities in Europe, there were few bookstores or libraries open at three in the morning. Fiery with impatience and irritation, he meandered the streets of London in a stroppy huff until finally he was able to gain admittance somewhere. He spent the day jumping from one pile of books to another, his irritation growing with each unsuccessful hour that passed.
As though his time and mind weren't being abused enough by such a particularly determined mystery, an even more unwelcome guest paid 221b a call on Sunday afternoon. After physical books led him nowhere, Sherlock delved back into the internet, scrounging deeper and deeper into the depths of the human interaction in search of answers. He just began to feel as though he was gaining ground when the heavy footfalls of an outrageously expensive pair of dress shoes tapped up the stairs, accompanied by the monotonous tick of metal against wood. Sherlock chose to ignore the man as he strode into the living room and stood before him, blank eyes studying the piles of notes and books that lay scattered across the short table before the couch. Sherlock sat on the floor, back resting against the lower portion of the couch and legs contorted beneath the table's low legs, and typed furiously at the keys of the laptop that was directly in front of him. His jaw clenched around the pen resting in his mouth, irritated both with his search and his visitor.
"Are we enjoying ourselves, baby brother?" Mycroft inquired, his voice smooth and completely lacking in any sign genuine curiosity. Sherlock huffed and snatched the pen from his teeth, eyes still glued to the computer screen.
"Whatever it is you've come to ask, Mycroft, the answer is no. I've more important tasks at hand than to once again act as your minion."
"So little respect given what I have done for you," Mycroft chided, making his way over to the fireplace and choosing to take a seat in John's armchair. His long fingers locked over his knees once he lowered himself down, umbrella placed with delicate care at his side. "Aren't you even going to try and pretend to be courteous and ask if I require tea?"
"Get your own bloody tea, I'm busy," Sherlock growled in reply, one hand reaching up to ruffle at his curls. From their particularly maddened appearance, it was clear to see that personal hygiene had been forgone in the excitement of the chase.
"Has it even occurred to you to inquire from me about what you're looking for?" Mycroft asked with an air of doting frustration he often found himself using around his brother. "I am, as you do so love to point out, a minor figure of the British government."
"You are the British government," Sherlock corrected, mouth contorted into a frustrated scowl as his hands scurried about in search of a particular piece of paper. His eyes narrowed down at it once the piece was found, pupils racing across the page as he read. "I may be distracted, Mycroft, but I am far from stupid."
"I never said otherwise." They continued without speaking for several minutes, Sherlock grumbling to himself as he ducked between the laptop and his mass of notes and Mycroft merely watching. Eventually he cleared his throat and stated, "I normally am one to encourage enthusiastic research, as you well know, but in this instance I'm afraid I'll need to discourage your venture."
"And what could possibly make you think I would listen to your advice now given all of your previously unsuccessful attempts?"
"Because this time it is for John's sake." Sherlock's head shot up for the first time since Mycroft entered, his eyes narrowing at the man with suspicion. Mycroft held his gaze, his expression as serious and closed as ever. "If you truly care for Dr. Watson, Sherlock, you'll let him alone in this one thing. If John had wished to disclose this information regarding his past with you, he would have by now. Listen to me when I say that you are delving into information far beyond your current understanding."
"What would you know of it?" Sherlock snapped, untangling his long limbs and rising to his feet. "What could this possibly be about for John to discuss it with you and not me?"
"Drop it, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, mirroring Sherlock to stand. "This isn't some game for you to learn everything you can before the timer runs out; this is a human being, John Watson to be precise, and his past. If you truly care for him as I suspect you might, you will allow him to speak on his own terms in this one thing, if nothing else."
Sherlock slowly approached, eyes slinking across Mycroft before he came to stand right before him. "You know more. More even than John, or more than he realizes you know, I'm beginning to suspect. But what, exactly, is there to know? And why would you, of all people in John's life, need to know it?"
"I repeat, baby brother: drop it. I have no doubt Dr. Watson will explain all, but give him the proper chance to do so. This is far too deep a pit for you to be exploring without the proper light." Mycroft snatched up his umbrella, sent Sherlock a quick nod of farewell, and was down the stairs and out the door before Sherlock had the chance to think of a response. Eventually he turned to glance back at his research, a small frown on his face, before giving out a huff and storming into his bedroom.
John finally got the courage to call on Sherlock later that week. After the disaster of seeing Harry at the cemetery, he had been more than ready to return back to London and the clinic. They'd been dealing with a fairly stressful time – one of the doctors was on vacation for the week and London's youth had, for some reason, decided that it was the ideal time to break as many bones as possible – but he could only delay the inevitable for so long. He was actually surprised that Sherlock hadn't been texting him constantly to question him. The man's silence could mean one of various possibilities had occurred, and John could only hope that he had done the unthinkable and forgotten he'd even asked about McGonagall in the first place.
He stopped in to say hello to Mrs. Hudson before continuing up to the flat, determinately denying to himself that it was a tactic to delay the inevitable. She asked after the baby and he happily replied until even she could tell that he was stalling. Sending him away with the promising message of Sherlock acting anxious ever since that strange woman had visited while he'd been away, John was forced up the stairs to face the madness.
Shockingly the flat appeared much as it always was. The clutter, organized in precisely the way that Sherlock saw fit, still lay scattered throughout the room, the scull still on the mantle, the furniture amazingly intact. Sherlock himself was buzzing with restless energy, just finishing buttoning his suit jacket as John entered. He paused in his pacing when he noticed John, currently stormy grey eyes lighting with excitement.
"Ah, John, excellent, I was just about to text you," he declared, scooping up his cell phone and pocketing it. "Lestrade has a case, at least a seven, possibly even higher from what I can tell. He needs us immediately." He dashed down the stairs, John following close behind, and called out a farewell to Mrs. Hudson as they left. John hardly had the chance to catch up before he was climbing into a cab and they were off.
"So what have we got, then?" John asked, settling back into his seat. The excitement radiating off the other man was infectious, and John soon found himself echoing Sherlock's smile.
"A triple homicide," Sherlock crooned, unable to keep still as they darted between cars. "A local found the bodies in an alleyway when he was taking out the trash. Lestrade mentioned something about unusual markings on their foreheads." The cab came to an abrupt stop and Sherlock tossed a few bills at the cabbie before vaulting out, John right behind. He froze in his tracks, however, when he realized exactly where they were.
John usually tried to avoid Charing Cross Road, having no immediate reason to travel down there with its inevitable excess of unwanted memories. In fact, the last time he'd been on the street, and this pub in particular, was over twenty years ago, back when he still needed to visit Diagon Alley for the proper school supplies. Sherlock ignored it as he marched down the alley to the pub's left, his more astute than normal eyes darting across the Leady Cauldron's magically protected exterior without a second glance. John attempted to remain unphased, but he couldn't help the chill at the coincidence as he followed close behind.
"Took you two bloody long enough," Lestrade called from about halfway down the alley. Police officers littered the entirety of the small space, scrounging about in the semi-darkness caused even early in the afternoon from the pair of tall buildings at either side. From afar, the bodies seemed fairly standard – laying side by side in crumbled heaps, they appeared to have tiny scorch marks covering nearly every exposed bit of skin, though each piece of clothing remained fully intact. Sherlock stepped forward to kneel by the first body, eyes darting over it as Lestrade continued. "Like I told you on the phone, they were found about an hour ago by the shop keeper next door. They can't have been here long, given he was the first to notice, but we've got no idea how they got here without at least someone seeing or hearing something." Sherlock snapped on a glove from his pocket and turned the dead man's head gently, rubbing a thumb across his forehead. As John caught a brief glimpse of the white skin, he was forced to stifle his gasp.
Across the man's forehead was a faint etching, hardly even distinguishable between the other more random scarring. John knelt on the opposite side of the body, fingers desperately groping in his pockets for his own set of latex gloves. His hands visibly shook as he took the man's face out of Sherlock's grasp, pushing up the scraggly brown hair on his forehead and leaning in closer. Written in a jagged scrawl, John could just make out a word scratched into the man's flesh.
"Mudblood," John whispered, voice quieter than a release of breath. He scrambled over the body and dove at the next one, ignoring Sherlock's inquiries as he sought out the scarring on the other victims. The other two, another man and a woman, each bore the same word as the first man, the insult burned deep into their skin. John sat back on his ankles, hands shaking slightly while Sherlock fought to bring him back to reality.
"John? John! Come on, John, I need you to come back to me. What's a Mudblood? What does it mean? JOHN!"
He jolted at the noise and fully collapsed back into a sitting position. He peeled off the gloves and shook his head, attempting to physically force the creeping terror from his mind, before finally blinking a few times and meeting Sherlock's worried eyes. "Right, yeah. Sorry. Just…I've seen this before. More than once, actually."
"What is it, John?" Sherlock continued to encourage, a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder as he knelt on one knee at John's side. "Does it mean something specific?"
"I…I dunno," John lied, unable to do much more than shake his head again. He fought down a wave of unusual nausea as memories flooded him. "Sherlock…"
Sherlock caught his meaning and hauled John to his feet, slinging one of his limp arms across his shoulders. "Out of my way!" he snapped as he half carried John out into the open air, helping him sit on the kerb shakily. John's head hung between his knees as he fought to take in deep breaths, his eyes and jaw both clenched shut. "My God, John, what the hell is this to turn you so out of sorts?"
Eventually John's breathing evened out enough for him to raise his head, though his face was still startlingly pale. "I've seen this exactly twice," he managed to blurt out, his voice thick with disgust. "The last time was when a young woman had the same word burned into her forearm as a form of torture. The other was when I found my parents."
Despite himself, Sherlock felt his mouth gape open in shock. He'd known that John's parents were dead, but beyond that, there was little John would share about them beyond very passing comments. This new bit of knowledge of John's past raced through the pathways of his mind palace into the area reserved specifically for John, filed carefully into the gradually growing folder regarding John's childhood. His forehead furrowed in consideration as his mouth closed into a tight, thin line. "Mudblood…obviously derogatory, meant as an insult, most likely in regard to the individual's upbringing or lineage…but I've studied your family tree, John, there is no obvious reason why any of the typical prejudice groups of society would be inclined to insult your – John!" Sherlock was interrupted by John jumping to his feet and dashing towards the Leady Cauldron. "John, what on Earth – "
John ignored him to yank the Leaky's screeching door open, darting into the abrupt semi-darkness and blinking through the adjustment to search for the barkeep. Tom still ran the place the last time he'd visited, but the man was old and it had been years. The large, welcoming room was fairly empty, most likely cleared of the usual lunchtime crowd a while earlier, but the few individuals present jolted around in surprise at the sudden noise.
Sherlock, meanwhile, found himself once again gaping after John, watching in bemused confusion as he darted off in the direction of the abandoned building on beside the alleyway that held their crime scene. Between one blink and another, John had darted inside what had abruptly become a fairly unimpressive pub. Sherlock blinked in stunted confusion at the sudden change, gradually approaching the entrance John had left open to peer inside. He reached out a hand to run a finger down the door, finding rough yet solid wood under his touch. He reached forward with more confidence to fully grasp it and tentatively entered after John, eyebrows rising so high on his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his curls.
John stood at the edge of the bar, talking with a tall and completely bald man who leaned heavily against the counter. The two appeared to be getting on well, the man friendly and open as John spoke. Sherlock slowly made his way to John's side, eyes darting about at a dizzying pace as he attempted to take everything in at once."
"…just out in the alley. Did you hear anything out there this morning or have any rough folk pass through?"
"None of my folk have said anything about it, no. Corner's a bit daft, but he's not entirely stupid. He'd know better than to let something happen without telling me or contacting Hannah about it. But you know how it is now, John – we're hardly as careful as we were before, and most of his folk are locked up or long dead. Mudblood on their heads, you said? Are you certain?"
John gave a jerk of a nod, mouth pressed into a tense line. "I'm positive, Tom. I've seen this before – this is Death Eaters, and ones who have been at it before."
"John?" Sherlock finally spoke, his confusion radiating out in waves just through the single word. "What is this?"
Jolting around, John could hardly do more than gape up at Sherlock while the man at the bar said, "Oh, pardon there, sir. I'll just be with you in a mo."
"Hold off, Tom." John waved a hand absentmindedly at his companion, walking up to Sherlock with uncertainty in his eyes. "Er…Sherlock? How, erm, how exactly did you, well…get in here?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded, his irritation flaring in the unfamiliar sensation of not understanding. "I followed you in, John, what do you think?"
John's jaw worked silently, eventually able to let out a single syllable. "What?"
Sherlock sighed, his usual air of being highly put upon by the stupidity of humanity radiating from the sound. "You heard me, John, and you know how tedious I find repetition. Now kindly elaborate on just how a dilapidated, abandoned building somehow transformed into a slightly less dilapidated pub."
"Wait, is he a – " Tom interrupted himself to stumble around the counter, wrinkled hands groping about for a wooden cane that stood close by. "Bloody hell, John, you know you can't just go round bringing Muggles in! You've been out of touch for a bit, but you can't have forgotten that!"
"But I didn't bring him in," John mused, a faint crinkle of a bewildered grin at the corner of his mouth. "He just followed. Sherlock, you just followed."
"Tedious. What did you call me?"
John's face turned stern and his shoulders set themselves in a sturdy pose, his head bobbing in a nod to himself as he met Sherlock's eyes. "No, not now. We've a case on now. Focus, Sherlock – dead bodies, remember?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered. With a reluctant sigh, he turned back to Tom to question him. "This isn't over, John Watson. Now, do you own this establishment?"
"Not anymore, but I keep things orderly when she's off at school," Tom replied, his hairless, wrinkled head cocked to the side in confusion. "I'm afraid I didn't notice anything off. Just the usual crowd about today, and most came and went through Diagon Alley."
"Diagon Alley?" Sherlock turned to a thoughtful looking John. "I've never heard of it."
"Probably for good reason," John muttered with a shake of his head. "Mind stopping out with us to see if you recognize the victims, Tom?"
"Not at all. Oye, Corner!" A brown haired head popped up from the other end of the bar, the man quickly shooting John and Sherlock a hello as he approached. "Mind the bar for a bit? I'll be back in a tick."
They led a hobbling Tom out to the alley, where he carefully looked over the trio of bodies. He rose back to his feet with a creak and a groan, shaking his head. "Sorry, John, I've never seen them before in the Leaky. Are they some of us?"
"We're not sure of IDs yet, as far as I know," John replied before Sherlock could respond. Despite the fact that the case had the potential to draw even Sherlock's scattered attention, the constant allusions to John's unknown past caused his well-organized mind to refocus itself constantly. The words were like being thrust into a new country and forced to learn the language through interaction, some of it mixing together into a semblance of understanding but most of it meaning nothing without further context. He itched to learn more, to sit John or even Tom down and interrogate them like one of his suspects until they cracked. The lack of understanding was as uncomfortable as needing a fix, causing the same churning of anxiety and turmoil to simmer low in his stomach and make its way out until he felt as though it would burst from his fingertips in an attempt at escape. The feeling hadn't quite reached an uncontrollable state yet, but the buildup made Sherlock long to be done with the case so he could properly focus on it.
He was shaken from his thoughts by John saying his name. John's face slowly came into focus, the familiar half smile that crawled out at the left corner of his mouth making Sherlock rush back to the present even more quickly. He shook away the irritating rush of warmth that smile always caused to focus on John's words. "Ah, there he is. Enjoy that little trip into your bloody mind palace, did you? What're you thinking?"
With a huff, Sherlock replied, "Irrelevant. Send your friend back off on his merry way; he's of no use to us. He can hardly see a foot before his eyes, you can tell from the state of his trousers." He spun about to begin studying the bodies once more, vaguely hearing John apologize to the barkeep. By the time John's attention had properly returned to Sherlock, Tom was back in his inn and Sherlock was spouting out a string of deductions. "This first one lived in the neighbourhood, single bedroom flat, modest for his otherwise impressive occupation of business owner. T he woman and the other man were an item, friends of the first, all together for a small celebration between the three of them over the couple's recent engagement. None of their personal items were removed from the bodies, unless our murderer has a doubtful inclination towards OCD tendencies and ensured the bodies were returned to their former state of dress before they were disposed of. If you ask Lestrade, you'll discover this isn't the case, as his imbecile people pawed at the bodies in search of their wallets, which are in custody. Though the term etched into their foreheads is one I'm not familiar with, it was certainly meant to insult, a warning to others of similar dispositions to beware."
"No matter how many times I see it, it's always brilliant," John replied with a chuckle, instantly causing Sherlock to smile in reply.
"You flatter me as always, John. Now, what do you make of these burns?"
John let out a grunt as he lowered himself to his knees, jacket brushing Sherlock's shoulder on the way down. The pair stared down at the bodies, John reapplying a pair of fresh gloves to turn one of the blank faces in their direction. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone other than Sherlock that John was forced to take a steadying, deep breath before looking down into the face of the victim. "Not quite deep enough to be third degree, but a few in spots might be close. They're precise, probably done while they were passed out since there are few signs of any struggle on any of them. The burns aren't the cause of death, though."
Sherlock grunted his agreement, leaning forward until he was nose to nose with the dead man. His head cricked to the side, eyes squinting down at the etchings across his forehead. "Mudblood," he murmured, climbing over the dead man in a shadow of a gangly curly haired black widow. "Mudblood. What does it mean? What makes you worthy of the insult?"
"Oye, Sherlock!" Lestrade called out from the sundrenched opening to the alley. "You get anything out of that barkeep? And finish up in there, my people need to do their jobs!"
Sighing, he rose to his feet and breezed down to Lestrade. "By all means, your people are welcome to resume desecrating the crime scene. I've gained everything I could for the time being. What are their names?"
"The woman was Jemma Albright, and the men were Andrew Saxby and Colin Moore. All between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-two, locals of the area but originally from various towns about the country. Moore's place is just around the corner a bit – we're working on securing a warrant – and Albright and Saxby lived together not too far away. I've got people contacting friends and family to see what they might know."
Sherlock nodded and headed for the street, arm poised to call a cab. "Let me know as soon as you have that warrant. I want to be there when you search the flat." His eyes fell on John as the cab pulled up. "You aren't coming."
John jerked his head in the direction of the Leaky, stuffing his hands down deep into his trouser pockets. "Not now, no. I figure I ought to stop in for a bit, give Tom a proper hello since it's been so long. I'll be round later to see if I can help. I imagine you've mostly got a few hours of mind palace thinking on now anyway."
Shooting him a distracted nod, Sherlock climbed into the cab only to immediately roll down his window. "By the way, John, don't think this gets you off for your real reason at 221b. Particularly after this enlightening case of ours." Before John could reply, the cab took off.
"What was that all about, then?" Lestrade asked from John's shoulder. John breathed out a sigh, running his palm roughly down the side of his face.
"Long story. You set here?"
"Sure. I'll let the two of you know as soon as we get anything more. Say hello to Mary and Cecy for me, will you? I keep meaning to stop by and haven't been able to find the bloody time."
With a nod and a wave, John turned about and reentered the Leaky Cauldron, a mixed feeling of anxiety and fear running through him as he faced back into his past.