I lied about Cecelia and Sherlock hanging in this chapter. There's at least one more chapter before that happens. But this chapter is extra long because John gets to confront Sherlock about being a wizard. So fun times? XD Anyway, thanks again for everyone's amazing responses to this, I really appreciate it. It's dreadfully fun seeing everyone's reactions. :) Let me know what you think!

Chapter Six

"Rennervate."

Sherlock slowly felt himself returning to consciousness, a bit fuzzy and uncertain of where he was and how he got there. After a few moments, he blinked his eyes open to meet John's, concern etched across his expression. From the angle where he lay, it appeared that he was spread out on the couch, though the last thing he remembered was being out in the park. With John. And the suspects. Shooting dazzling sparks of light at each other. With…sticks of wood?

"John," Sherlock breathed before his face screwed up in confusion. "What the hell was that?"

"Good morning to you too, then," John replied with a sigh, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the coffee table with a soft moan. "I take it you remember?"

"It's morning?!" Sherlock yelped and straightened far too quickly, causing the room to spin. John's hand shot out to firmly grasp his arm, steadying him and forcing his back against the armrest.

"Jesus, it was a figure of speech. It's only ten, relax, I've just come back from helping Harry take care of things."

"What on earth does your sister have to do with any of this? And what happened to the suspects? We need to contact Lestrade immediately!"

"Would you just bloody relax for half a second and let me explain?" John snapped with a chuckle and a grin. Sherlock sent him a scathing glare but remained quiet. "First off, no, not Harry my sister, Harry my friend. This one's actually a bloke and he's in charge of the Aurors, a sort of a wizard police force. They have the two men I stunned in custody, but we weren't able to catch the one who ran – probably Apparated the second he had the chance, he could be anywhere by now. And we will not be informing Lestrade because a) this isn't his case and b) I really don't feel like explaining everything to him as well as to you, at least not right now. You'll make it difficult enough on your own, thanks very much."

Throughout John's explanation, Sherlock's mouth gradually gaped open more and more in what would have been a comical manner if matters hadn't been so serious. Once John was finished, Sherlock blinked a few times in dazed confusion before clearing his throat. "I…did not understand some of those words, John; you may need to say that again." John wished he'd had a recorder handy for Sherlock's reply. He'd love nothing better than to toss out a reminder of the one time Sherlock admitted to not understand and encouraged repetition all in the same breath. Rather than asking him to say it again into his phone's speaker, John chuckled and got to his feet.

"If we're going to have this conversation now, I'm not doing it until I've properly checked that scratch of yours and made us an entire pot of tea. Stay there."

He left behind his wand on the coffee table when he set off into the kitchen, partially to see what Sherlock would make of it and partially because he was no longer used to walking about with it strapped to his side. Sherlock cocked his head at the wand with mild curiosity, fingers twitching out at it on the couch cushion, encouraging him to reach out and grab it. Unfortunately, the same moment he raised a hand out to do so was the same moment John returned to the living room.

"Ah, no, sorry Sherlock, I'm afraid not," John said smoothly, setting down the tea things and snatching the wand up. "At least not without a bit of background. Now give me your arm."

Sherlock offered the arm without protest, his interest apparently strong enough that it beat out the willfulness of his nature. In an automatic move that came from having his wand in his hand, John summoned his medic bag with a casual flick, sorting through it for some supplies to clean the area before inspecting it. It was a bit deeper than it originally appeared, but wouldn't have any lasting damages. John healed the outside with a quick, "Episky," that nearly caused Sherlock to launch off the couch in alarm.

"Shit, sorry, I forgot!" John grabbed Sherlock just before he headed for the floor, rubbing comforting circles into the side of his neck. "It's just a minor healing charm, Sherlock, relax. It's supposed to feel like that; it means the magic's working."

Sherlock jerked his head in an awkward sign of understanding as he shook under John's touch. Gradually the burning sensation edged into near freezing before tapering off completely. John waited until the shaking subsided before releasing Sherlock's neck, his cheeks tinting a soft pink at the intimacy of its placement.

"You did better than Harry did the first time I tried to heal her," John stated with a small smile as he gently wrapped a bandage around Sherlock's arm. "It was during Christmas break my fifth year of school; I remember because I'd just started studying with Madame Pomfrey the month before. I thought she'd blow my eardrums out with how loud she screamed, and she refused to speak to me for at least a week. Kind of nice, actually." He chuckled and ducked his head to catch Sherlock's lowered eyes. "How's that? Feel a bit better?" All Sherlock could do was nod.

John set about preparing them both cups of tea, making sure Sherlock actually took a sip of his before setting about building up a fire. By the time he finished, Sherlock was looking significantly less terrified, though he had brought his knees up to his chest to rest his teacup on them. John sat back down beside him on the couch and took a few sips of his own tea before finally asking, "Right. Better?"

Sherlock's nod this time was much more confident. "Yes. "But John…what exactly are you?"

"A wizard," John replied without preamble. "Technically a Muggleborn wizard, but still. Wizard all the same."

"A wizard." Sherlock could practically feel Sherlock's doubt fluttering in the air between them. "As in magic and fairy tales. That's not possible, John."

"What's that phrase you always use? Something about eliminating the impossible and what's left is the truth? Care to test out that theory here?"

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, but nodded his head in agreement. "You make a fair point, besides the fact that I've seen it. But it wouldn't be the first time I've been fooled into believing something spectacular that I couldn't explain on first sight. What's to say I haven't been drugged and am imagining all of this?"

"I suppose that's just something you'll have to wait and see on," John relented. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea, free arm slung over the back of the couch just barely out of reach of the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Does it feel the same as Baskervilles? Or, you know…before."

"Not at all, which is what makes it feel so peculiar." Sherlock's head zipped around to stare over at John so fast that a curl at the base of his scull just brushed along John's finger. "I've been drugged countless times, by countless means and substances, but beyond your claims, this is the least impressive feeling of being drugged I've ever experienced, if I am in fact drugged. It's a rather dull sensation, if truth be told."

John chuckled. "Sorry you're so disappointed in your potential drugging. I'm surprised you're latching on to that theory rather than asking me more questions though."

"I'm getting to that. Even if I am drugged, this is all rather much to take in." Sherlock returned his attention to John's wand, which he had placed on the couch between them. It was a fairly common looking wood, smooth until the last few inches where a crisscrossing design had been etched into it, and was as well taken care of as John's gun. Sherlock shifted just enough so that he could look directly over at John through his fringe, their eyes instantly meeting and holding. "What's it made of?"

"Cedar. It's nine and a quarter inches, with a phoenix feather for a core. Mr. Ollivander enjoyed pointing out the fact that it was an interesting sign that such a common wood held such an unusual core. Always thought he was a bit daft."

"It suits you – unassuming front holding a titan inside." Sherlock craned his head about to study the wand from a different angle, careful to avoid touching it. "I take it Ollivander is a wandmaker."

"Best in the UK. Nearly everyone at Hogwarts got their wands from him."

At the mention of Hogwarts, Sherlock's head shot back up once more. "Hogwarts is a school, then. I'd gathered as much from that McGonagall woman. It's the wizarding school you attended."

Though it wasn't actually a question, John answered it anyway. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yes. It's the only wizard school actually on the British Isles – there are a few more on the continent, obviously – but it's considered the best. I went there for seven years."

Sherlock's face screwed up in thought. "Seven, stereotypical number associated with magic. Bit of an odd number for years for schooling…you're considered an adult at age seventeen?"

"Right on. Students usually got their letters of acceptance around eleven and would finish up at around seventeen, just in time to get their Apparation license."

"What were you required to do to gain admittance?"

John shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his leg up to rest across his knee while he considered. "You didn't really have to do anything. Magic's something you're born with, and the Ministry knows if you're a wizard whether you've got a background in it or not. They send out the letters to anyone with the proper skill, regardless of whether the kids know it or not. Otherwise you'd never have any Muggleborns."

"Muggle." Sherlock tested the word on his tongue, grimacing slightly at the sound of it. "Those without magical skill, from what I understand. Muggleborn wizards come from a pair of Muggle parents."

"Exactly. Typically there is some magic back in the Muggleborns' lineage; Mum and I checked it out before she died and apparently we've got some great uncle twice removed or some such rubbish that was a wizard and it somehow managed to pass on to me. I'm the only living Watson who's a wizard, though, and the only one on either side of the known family to be one."

Sherlock's voice was almost too low to be heard. "I cannot imagine Harry's thrilled about that."

John sighed and finished off his tea, settling the cup on the table with a dull thunk. "That's one way to put it. Let's just say she and I have never really got on since I got my letter. She's had a rough time of it."

"You blame yourself for her alcoholism, since she didn't begin drinking until after you started school. You're so adamant to help her overcome it because, according to your logic, you were the one to cause it." Sherlock's eyes were sharp with veiled concern when they met John's. "It wasn't your fault, John. You cannot be blamed for being born what you are."

"Yeah, I know, really," John sighed. "Can't blame a bloke for trying, though."

They both fell silent, each ruminating on his own thoughts. The only sounds in the flat came from the fire and faint noises of Mrs. Hudson moving in her flat below. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees thoughtfully, curving mouth pinched into a frown. "There's still something I don't understand. Why are you here? Why would you be sitting on the couch of 221b if you're a wizard?"

John stared into the fire, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke in case he decided to read more into him than he was prepared for. "There was a wizard, years ago, that decided to try to take power over the wizarding world. Tom Riddle, more commonly known as Lord Voldemort. He was supposedly defeated once, back before I'd ever gotten into everything, by a man named Harry Potter. Well, I say man – at the time, Harry was only a one-year-old baby." John paused to crick his head thoughtfully, a furrow growing between his eyebrows. "Haven't really thought much into what that must have been like. I never met Lily and James, Harry's parents, but I know plenty of people who were close to them. It's strange to think of someone not much older than Cecelia managing to destroy the greatest dark wizard of our time." John shook himself from his brief reverie to continue. "Anyway, that was that, as far as anyone could tell, and a few years later I was at Hogwarts. I decided to train as a Healer, their version of a doctor, and was considering how to train as a Muggle doctor as well when he came back."

When John didn't continue, Sherlock shifted towards him slightly in a sign of encouragement. "But…you can't come back from the dead, at least not literally. Not even Moriarty was able to, although he did his best to make it seem that he had. You can't possibly have that kind of power."

"Apparently you can, though the work and sacrifices involved means that very few wizards have tried and succeeded." John rubbed a hand across his face as though he were scrubbing away the memories. "I don't know how it's done or care to know, but Voldemort managed it, back when Harry was in his fourth year. Dumbledore, the head of Hogwarts at the time, worked at building up the resistance to try and fight him off again. I was offered a place in the Order of the Phoenix, their group, but I didn't actually join until after my parents died."

Sherlock reached out in a quick movement to squeeze John's knee. Before he could move it, John snatched it up in a near crushing grip. "You don't have to share if you don't want to, John. I didn't intend to upset you."

"I want to." John stubbornly lifted his head to meet Sherlock's eyes, allowing him to see the pain etched into his expression. "I've wanted to tell you for a while now, pretty much since you came back. I…need to share this part of me with you." Sherlock returned the squeeze John gave his hand but didn't release it. John took it as a sign to continue. "Harry was out at the time, thank God, and I was the one who found them. They'd been discovered by some Death Eaters, Voldemort's followers. They tortured them, killed them, and etched the word Mudblood into their foreheads. Mudblood is an insult used by idiots and pureblood fanatics to offend Muggleborns." John swallowed thickly to stop the quivering in his voice. "It was one of their methods for threatening Muggleborns, killing their families and leaving that behind. I suppose they meant it to cow us, drive us into hiding or something like that, but it didn't work with me. I joined the Order the next day."

John shifted in his seat to hide the sniff he made to fight down his tears, clearing his throat as he moved to sit directly beside Sherlock. Their linked hands sat in the small space between them beside John's wand. "To cut an already long story short, a few years after that there was a battle. Harry destroyed Voldemort completely and we retook the Ministry of Magic to rebuild it. After the job was done, I decided to join the Muggle army in order to get the proper training to become a doctor."

"Two wars," Sherlock mumbled, and John could feel him shaking through their linked hands. "My God, John, no wonder you were such a mess when we met."

John let out a watery chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, I was in a bad spot back then, what with the friends I'd lost, both wizard and Muggle. The curse in my leg and shot in my shoulder didn't help."

Sherlock jerked away, but John was reassured that it was only so he could gape directly at him. "Curse in your leg?"

"Not so psychosomatic, is it?" John replied with a slight grin. "It was from a shot during the Battle at Hogwarts. I got caught between a few Death Eaters and got hit on the shin from a stray curse. I only had the time to do a quick Healing of it at the time and it tends to act up when I'm stressed."

"But I've seen your leg…there's nothing, no sigh of a wound – "

"Curses don't always leave physical marks."

Sherlock nodded and fell silent, staring across the room into the fire. John absentmindedly stroked a thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand, an unconscious movement to reassure the both of them. Eventually Sherlock let out a breath, part sigh and part grunt, and shook his head. "I still don't understand. After your shoulder injury and you were invalid back to London, you had no reason to cease using magic. Given your relationship with your sister, the most logical step would have been to reenter the wizarding world, particularly if this Voldemort fellow was gone for good."

John took a long moment to consider before he replied. "It was less difficult, coming back to the Muggle world rather than the wizarding one. I felt useless after I got shot – I knew it was too late after my injury to do anything magically to fix my shoulder and obviously the army didn't have Healers on hand to mend it when it happened. It was my dominant arm, both for practicing surgery and magic, so I felt like I had little purpose left in either world. And to be perfectly honest, it had been so long since I'd done any magic at that point…I wasn't even sure if I could anymore. What you saw earlier was the first time I've done magic since I joined the army."

Sherlock's fingers danced in John's grip, a waltz of reassuring touches. "Why now, of all times? You've had more than your average number of chances to use your magic again – "

"Because the last time I just sat by and let nature take its course, you died."

John felt Sherlock stiffen from the tension in the small space between their palms. "You would have stopped my fall, given the opportunity."

"Of course I would have – probably would have gotten in heaps of trouble for it with the Ministry, both for performing magic unasked on a Muggle and out in the open like that – but I would have done it anyway just to save you. But I wasn't carrying my wand with me back then…tonight was the first time I had in years."

"I…don't know what to say." Sherlock cleared his throat and refused to meet John's eyes. "Thank you, John. It would have ruined everything, but thank you for the thought."

"Any time," John laughed with a squeeze of Sherlock's hand. "It would have been worth the trouble to save you."

Abruptly, Sherlock snatched his hand away and shifted to fully face John, the excitement of a newly discovered experiment lighting up his face. "Would you show me more, John? More of what you can do?"

John sent him a half grin as he rose to his feet and snatched up his wand. "I suppose it doesn't matter much now that you know. What would you like to see?"

"Anything," Sherlock breathed. "Everything."

John's smile widened, pausing for half a second to consider. He turned to face the skull on its usual place on the mantle and, with the practiced ease of a man in his element, gave an arched swish and flick with a muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa." Instantly the skull shot into the air and floated to come and rest on Sherlock's lap at John's guiding. The childlike wonder that spread across Sherlock face caused a flood of warmth to spread through John.

"Astounding," Sherlock muttered, turning the skull in a careful grip to study it. "And no lingering side effects from the spell left over once it is complete. More!"

John chuckled and went through a series of basic spells, shooting water across the sitting room in an arch, causing Sherlock's laptop to disappear and reappear, and forcing the tea kettle to scrub itself clean. Each new spell caused a new wave of curiosity and delight in Sherlock, increasing John's enjoyment as well. John was surprised with the ease he felt in going through the once frequent motions, his wand familiar and comfortable in his grasp. On a whim, he said, "Orchideous Osiria!" and his grin broke out in a full smile as a bouquet of the duo-coloured roses grew from his wand's tip. He set aside his wand briefly to search out a vase, returning to the sitting room to arrange the roses on the mantle.

"You've always been more inclined toward that particular flower," Sherlock noted as he came forward to stand at John's side and stroke one of the petals.

"My mum's favourite. There's a forest right next to Hogwarts and these are the only Muggle developed plant to thrive on their own in there. They don't have a particular purpose in any spells, but I always saw Sprout giving them a particular spot of attention when she saw a bush of them. Even if they're not useful, they're fine to look at, and always remind me of my two homes, in the Muggle world as well as the wizarding one."

Sherlock gave a nod of agreement and eyed the wand now resting on the mantle. "I understand if you're not allowed, John, but if possible, could I…?"

"I was wondering when you'd ask, you git." John smirked at him as he picked the wand up and shoved it into Sherlock's hand. "Go on, then. Can't cause much harm if you haven't got the skill."

Sherlock raised the wand to eye level, balancing it on poised fingertips. He shifted it back and forth in his grasp, feeling along the wood's veins with gentle fingers and eying it from handle to tip. He spent a particularly long time studying the etchings on the base, following the outlines as they melded into smoothness to form the rest of his wand. Eventually he copied the way John held it, his grip loose but graceful as he gave it a slight swish. He jolted away as a few purple sparks erupted from the end, gaping as the wand clattered to the floor.

"That…wasn't supposed to happen." John blinked slowly up at Sherlock, whose round eyes were locked on him. He reached down and snatched the wand up to hold it out to Sherlock, who cowered ever so slightly away. "Go on, then, take it. I want you to try something."

Sherlock's gaze darted in uncertainty from the wand to John's face, eventually reaching out a hesitant hand to take it. John's eyes locked on the wand as he came to stand close beside Sherlock. "Hold it steady, no need for a motion on this one, and say Lumos."

Sherlock took in a shaking breath and said a small, "Lumos." The tip of the wand sputtered a bit in reply, but did nothing.

"Again, stronger. Say it like you mean it."

Letting out a huff, Sherlock steadied his grip and growled, "Lumos!" A shot of light lit up the sitting room, weaker than if John had done the same and flickering slightly but undeniably there. Sherlock's focus was locked on the ray of light, but John chose to watch Sherlock. His face was a mixture of confusion and amazement, the excitement of a young child radiating off of him in waves. The expression made him look years younger, smoothing out the lines that had begun to form along his eyes and forehead and enhancing his natural beauty. John caught the line of thought his mind was wandering down and shook it off quickly. His focus returned to his wand in Sherlock's hand.

"The counterspell is Nox. Give it a try."

Sherlock jerked a nod and narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Nox!" The light shuttered off like a torch with a dying battery. Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding and lowered his arm to send an incredulous expression John's way. "John, that was…God, that was fascinating. How did you do that? It felt as though I were doing it myself!"

John's eyebrows rose at the same time his mouth fell open. "I…didn't do anything, Sherlock, just gave you the words. I'm not good enough to do wandless magic, particularly with how long it's been. That was all you."

"That can't be possible." Sherlock's forehead knit in thought. "I never received a letter to Hogwarts. Before today, I never would have believed any of this possible and even now only accept it with proof."

"Didn't that one bloke out in the woods say something about a Holmes getting involved in the case? Maybe it's something you need to bring up with Mycroft. He's only, what, a few years older than me, yeah? And you said he went off to boarding school as a kid…"

"That can't be right," Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than John. He narrowed his eyes down at John's wand, still clasped in a loose grip in his right hand. "Mycroft couldn't be a wizard; I would have figured it out years ago when he came home from holidays. He must be involved somehow…" His voice trailed off as he swayed slightly, hand rising to rub at his head.

John shot out to him almost instantly, snatching at the wand and Sherlock's elbow to steady him. "Whoa there, Sherlock. Look, maybe you should head to bed. You've had a shock, and that Healing spell most likely took a bit out of you."

"No! I mean…" Sherlock's frantic response gave him away, both in regard to how tired he'd become to slip up and how worried he was about what he'd learned. John caught on instantly and sent him a reassuring smile.

"I'll still be here in the morning, Sherlock, I promise. We can talk more then, after we've both rested up a bit."

"That's…not actually what I was concerned about." Sherlock's voice was small and fragile, a frightened little boy inside an arrestingly impressive man.

"It's real, Sherlock, trust me. Kipping down for the night won't change any of this or take back me telling you."

"I can't possibly know that," Sherlock protested, his fear beginning to evolve into a tantrum. "For all I know, this has been a thoroughly elaborate dream brought on by excessive time spent investigating your past and an overzealous imagination."

"The fact that you can still spew that shit at two a.m. after what we've been through tonight…" John's sigh evolved into a chuckle and he started pushing Sherlock towards his bedroom. "Right then, come on, off with you. No way to know if it was dream until you go to bed and nothing you can do about it if it is." Sherlock fell over his book strewn bed and awkwardly climbed under the covers. John was just about to leave when Sherlock's hand shot out to stop him.

"You're staying?" John could almost see a younger version of Sherlock in the man's current position, possibly seeking out reassurance after a nightmare. He couldn't help himself from reaching out a hand to run lightly through his curls.

"I have to stop home to pick up some things and check up on Mary and Cecelia, but I'll be back, I promise. We'll talk more when you wake. Now sleep."

John could tell he still wasn't certain, but he gave a brief nod and shut his eyes. John couldn't help his grin as he carefully closed the door behind him and headed out to get what he needed.

Random end of chapter note - I put in a decent amount of research when I was attempting to choose what type of wood John's wand would be made of. I used the info that came from Pottermore to decide on one - I definitely encourage you to look up cedar wand woods to see if you agree with me!