And so begins the crazy long chapters. This chapter has a lot of conversation going on, but we'll get some more action in starting in the next one. Also, WOOOOO John's house is revealed in this chapter! I see debates over whether John should be a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff all the time, so you'll just see my personal opinion of which one he'd end up in, as well as where he speculates Sherlock would be. Additionally, this chapter gives the introduction of another lesser-known character that I got to play around with a bit. Most of the information I discuss about metamorphmagi (including that plural version of it) is stuff that I made up, just so you know. Oh yes, and I'd apologize for the cliffhanger ending, but it was inevitable that it would happen eventually with something I wrote. XD Let me know what you think!

Chapter Seven

When Sherlock blinked his eyes blearily open, it was to a wispy sounding flash of something darting over his head. He shot upward only to have the object collide with his cheek and fall with a clatter into his lap. It gave a feeble jerk before unfolding from its shape, which with some consideration appeared to be a child's paper aeroplane. Written on the slightly crinkled sheet was a message from John.

Sherlock, just in case you wake up before I'm back, I figured I'd leave you this. Hopefully it will do the trick to help you believe this all actually happened. Come on out to the living room when you're up – I've got some things to show you. John

He clamored out of bed like a child at Christmas, yanking his dressing gown over his clothes from the day before. He'd only managed to drag a single arm through a sleeve before he skidded to a halt, eyes growing enormous at the pile of books John left on the coffee table. His knees folded under him as he knelt on the floor before it to pull them forward, carefully sifting through the pile to study their titles. John, meanwhile, lay snoring on the couch on the opposite side, the blanket from over his armchair draped across him. He quickly twitched awake at the sounds of Sherlock shuffling through the books, blinking over at him with a grin.

"Got my message, then?" he asked, his voice gruff with sleep. Sherlock ignored the shiver the voice sent down his back in favour of shifting through the tomb open on his lap. "Still believe it was a dream?"

With most of his focus on what he was reading, Sherlock replied, "Yes, very clever, if juvenile. Hogwarts is split into houses?"

"I should have known you'd be starting me off right away with questions." John stretched, a tiny sliver of skin showing at his midriff as he reached up to release a crick in his shoulder. He tossed his blanket aside and strolled into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. "Yes, there are four Houses – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. They're named after the founders."

"Hmm," Sherlock acknowledged, eyes racing across the page. "Which House was yours?"

John grumbled under his breath, something that sounded a bit to Sherlock like, "It's too early for this," before shouting back to the living room. "You're the detective, deduce it!"

"Not enough background yet, John!" Sherlock frantically flipped back to scan the table of contents. "I need to know the requirements for each, which character traits favoured you between one House and another!" He let out a cry of success and raced to the appropriate page, twisting around to lean back against the coffee table's sharp edge to read. John managed to not only finish making his tea but also set himself up with a decent breakfast without further interruption. He set a steaming cup of tea out to Sherlock's shoulder on the table before sitting back down on the couch to tuck in to his meal. Halfway through, Sherlock's voice rose from between the book's pages. "Gryffindor."

"Hmm?" John glanced up from his plate. "What was that?"

"Gryffindor. Your House." Sherlock craned his neck around to stare at John. "The House of bravery, known for their need for action and to bring on justice. Also because of their apparent rashness in manner, which I am forced to admit you tend towards on occasion."

John cricked his head to the side thoughtfully. "Fair points, but no. Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff?" The sneer Sherlock sent him was a mixture of disbelieving and condescending. "But I was under the impression that House was left for the remainder of people who didn't fit elsewhere. You're far too interesting to be a Hufflepuff, John."

"Oye, those are my people you're mocking. And you can't just judge your ideas on the House from Hogwarts, a History." John quickly finished his meal and set the empty plate aside. "Hufflepuff is about acceptance, sure, but it's more complicated than that. There's a focus on loyalty, on sticking to what you believe in and standing behind your friends when they need you. It's not giving up just because of what others might say or because it's too hard – quiet dedication, I suppose, or doing a thing because it's right rather than for the attention. We favour putting your all into whatever you do, whether you succeed or not, rather than who makes the most noise while doing it or managing to get it done the fastest or best way. We give everyone a shot."

Sherlock's nose crinkled in thought before he nodded. "I stand corrected; that fits you quite well. I suspect I myself would be in either Ravenclaw or Slytherin."

"Most likely," John agreed. "I suspect you'd lean more towards putting yourself in Ravenclaw, but I've always seen you as a bit of a Slytherin. Ravenclaws tend to miss a bit of the exuberance and ambition that makes you you."

Sherlock cocked his head at the comment. "Making me out to be a future dark lord, are we, John?"

"Not all Slytherins are evil. Not all Sherlocks are psychopaths. Or sociopaths, for that matter."

John watched the surprise in Sherlock's eyes meld into a pleased warmth. His lips formed into a tentative smile that John couldn't help but return. They watched each other silently for a few moments before Sherlock broke their contact to clear his throat and study his bare feet. "Thank you, John. Despite everything, you still manage to find the best in me." He gained back a bit more of his natural confidence by the time he continued. "I need to get in contact with Mycroft, as loathe as I am to admit it. I need to find out more about the Holmes those men mentioned last night. You contacted Harry Potter after I passed out, I'm to assume?"

"Yeah, Harry came down with some Aurors and brought the two we got back in to the Ministry. I warned him you might try and force yourself back into the case. Not gonna happen, I'm afraid. Now that the wizarding authorities have got them, you won't be allowed anywhere near them."

Sherlock waved a distracted hand at John and shoved the book from his lap to stand and pace. "No matter. An unfortunate thing that I couldn't question them first, but I know well enough without it. I need everything, absolutely everything, you can bring me on your parents' deaths, John. Between that, seeing our three current victims, and your word on it, it should be ample information to begin an investigation."

"Investigate…Sherlock, are you trying to take up the case of my parents' deaths?"

"Certainly not, John." He turned to shoot John a sly grin. I've already taken it up, don't be ridiculous. Now can you get me the information I need or am I going to have to call Harry Potter myself?"

"Of course you fucking snuck his number from my phone, you cock." Though he was shooting insults at him, John had broken out into an enormous grin. "God, thanks, Sherlock. Seriously. I…it just means a lot, having you do this."

"Naturally." The warmth stayed in Sherlock's eyes even as he motioned John off. "Now go. Get me everything you can. The game is on."

A week passed with Sherlock spending half of his time investigating the Watsons' deaths and the rest of it learning everything he could about the wizarding world. John doubted that, under normal circumstances, he would still be a free man given the endless number of Muggle protections laws he most certainly broke in providing Sherlock with the information, but there were certain advantages to working through Harry Potter himself. If anyone had been able to fight off the effects of a memory charm, it would be Sherlock, so attempting to keep him away from the truth after being given a sliver of it would have been pointless anyway. Besides, having someone to speak with about the other half of his life, particularly when that person was Sherlock, gave John an enormous sense of relief and ease. Of his many friends and acquaintances he could have told, the first that came to mind was Sherlock. The fact that he hadn't figured it out himself sooner still surprised him greatly.

John spent every possible free moment at Baker Street, answering questions Sherlock shot out occasionally and helping him dig through the complicated materials. Given the time period when the deaths occurred, the information on the case was scattered, as disconnected as the Ministry itself was at the time. The only reason the case was even recorded in official Ministry paperwork was because it happened before Voldemort was able to infiltrate it, and it thankfully had been saved from being carelessly destroyed over an obsession with getting rid of anything Muggleborn related. Not even Death Eaters could be minded with those who were already dead and out of the way.

An unfortunate side effect of the investigation, however, was the resurfacing of memories. When he was with Sherlock, John usually found himself able to disconnect, able to separate his private emotions from the puzzle to be solved. It was just another case with him, unfortunate in the loss of lives but a case nonetheless. The sensation never lasted outside of 221b, unfortunately, and thoughts often bombarded John as soon as he returned to Mary. Distractions such as work at the clinic and caring for Cecelia worked for a time, but his job always ended and Cecy slept. After a few days' sleepless nights, he wasn't surprised at Mary questioning him.

Somehow, despite all of the work he and Sherlock were putting into the investigation, John never found the means to tell Mary the truth. He easily could keep the wizarding aspect out of his explanation; it wouldn't be the first time he altered the story for the sake of concerned Muggle friends. But sharing the sordid details of his parents' deaths with her, not to mention the evidence coming out to suggest that the same individuals were at it again, seemed like an unnecessary burden to place on her. Harry and Sherlock were already taking care of it and, if he were to be completely honest with himself about it, he never fully trusted her after what had happened the year before. It seemed like far too much of a risk to share this new information with her, particularly when at his core John would prefer that she not be involved.

The next Saturday after the incident in the park, John was off at the clinic, so he offered to bring Cecelia along to Baker Street while he and Sherlock continued their investigation. Opting to take a taxi to save uncomfortable time on the Underground with an infant meant he got to the flat quickly, Cecelia dozing on his chest and more books slung into the bag across his back. Not even Mrs. Hudson was up and about in her flat yet, leaving John to pass over leaving Cecelia for a visit with her adoptive aunt and favourite napping partner. He headed straight upstairs and unsurprisingly found Sherlock awake and active, pacing a dizzying path from his bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the living room. John caught him muttering to himself as he passed by, climbing across the couch in his progress. He didn't even acknowledge John's presence until he set the books down in his path, blocking his way.

"Metamorphmagus!" he shouted, his expression somewhat crazed. John motioned for him to lower his voice with a wave of his hand and a gesture down at his chest. Sherlock's eyes widened as he spotted the tawny head from amongst the folds, his hands instantly reaching out to snatch the bundle from where it lay wrapped around John's back. With a grin, John deftly removed the wrap and transferred it and Cecelia to Sherlock, finally bringing his manic energy to a standstill. Cecelia was the only thing beyond death (which, even in Sherlock's case, was only a slight difficulty to maneuver) that seemed to bring him into an almost sedate state. Mary often claimed it was the Watson blood running in her that could still and soften the great detective, but John suspected it was the honest curiosity and open mind she had as an infant new to the world that cooled his own racing thoughts. Regardless, John knew that he wouldn't have to worry about Cecelia being well taken care of when she was at Baker Street.

"When's the last time you ate?" John asked in a low voice as Sherlock lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the couch. His eyes remained fixed on Cecelia's head poking out from the silver and black fabric Sherlock had chosen himself. The wrap was one of various necessities that came from an overly invested Sherlock in the months leading up to Cecelia's birth. He dove himself into dedicating all of his free time towards baby research until he was satisfied that Baby Watson would only have the best. The wrap, a shimmering black that almost appeared dark blue, was spotted with stars echoing the night sky and had been one of the more useful items Sherlock purchased during his enthusiasm.

"Two, three days ago, I suppose," Sherlock muttered, running a single finger over Cecelia's eyebrows. The soft touch made her squirm in her sleep, letting out an inquiring coo that brought a delicate smile to Sherlock's face. John chose to ignore the fluttering feeling of happiness that nestled comfortably in his stomach whenever Sherlock looked at Cecelia in that way.

"Before we do anything, you're having a cup of tea and at least a bit of toast," John replied as he headed for the kitchen. "You're not carting my daughter around the flat without a proper dose of blood sugar in your system."

Sherlock grunted, but didn't actually protest, his focus more on Cecelia. Once brewed, John added a spoonful of the protein powder he kept hidden in a back cupboard to Sherlock's tea. He suspected Sherlock was on to him and had found the powder ages ago, but apparently from his lack of irritation and the fact that it remained in its original spot he didn't mind. He balanced both their teas and toasts back out into the living room to be greeted by a newly awake baby.

"Well, good morning, my lass," John commented to her, stopping as he passed to plant a quick peck on her head. He smiled at her happy murmurings in reply and passed Sherlock his tea. He downed nearly half of it in a single gulp, ignoring or indifferent to how scalding hot it still was. John munched his own piece of toast thoughtfully while watching Sherlock inhale his, somehow managing not to shower crumbs on Cecelia's head. Without a word, John stood to prepare her morning bottle, handing it over to Sherlock in a manner that felt far more natural than it ever did with Mary. Sherlock deftly rearranged her to create better access between bottle and baby. "Now, you hollered something when we got here? Something about metamorphmagi?"

"Is that the plural then? Hmm." Sherlock's eyes remained locked on Cecelia, watching her mouth and throat work at taking the milk down. "But yes, metamorphmagi. You said McGonagall told you that they suspect a metamorphmagus may be behind the deaths."

"Yeah, which is both a help and a hindrance."

"How so?"

"Well, there aren't many of them – it's a rare gift to have, and I've personally only known two of them, and even then they were related. So it theoretically should be easy to narrow down which one it is, but because of the skills they have, if they want to hide…well, it's pretty easy for them to do."

"All of my digging and I can't find a thing on them!" Sherlock complained, but without his usual vigour due to the baby he held. "There's absolutely nothing about them in any of your books! I need more, John, and none of this is helping!"

John turned thoughtful. "Like I said, they're not common and the last I knew we didn't know much about them. But I may be able to get you a firsthand account."

Sherlock's eyes nearly bugged out of his head from excitement. "John…are you saying…"

He shifted in his seat to pull his phone out of his pocket. Scrolling through his contacts, he pulled up the name he wanted and sent out a message. When he finally looked up, Sherlock was still watching him intently, Cecelia's empty bottle held aloft above her face. Cecelia, in turn, stared up at him curiously, hands grasping up to try and pull it down. At John's raised eyebrows, Sherlock shook himself a bit and set the bottle on the coffee table. His body automatically set about preparing to burp her, but his attention was focused on John. "You said you knew two metamorphmagi."

"I do," John nodded in agreement, but a frown quickly crossed his face. "Well, did. Tonks was one of my best friends at Hogwarts. I think she would have frustrated and intrigued you all at the same time."

"Tonks?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled as he cringed. "That's not a name I've come across in the books, at least not yet."

"Understandable – I've only got older books, ones that were available when I was still a part of the wizarding world. I imagine if I'd found you something more recent, there would be mentions of her. She and her husband Remus were a huge part of the resistance. But her dad was a Muggle and Tonks was her surname, so you wouldn't have found it anywhere. Her mother was a Black, if that rings a bell."

"Black I've heard of," Sherlock agreed. "They're a rather prominent name. Principally a pureblood family, the majority of the members inclined towards the Dark Arts. Rich, overly confident, influential. Your basic overrated and overpowered gentry who suffer the consequences of their arrogance."

"Oye, not all Blacks are bad news. I was mates with Sirius after I joined the Order. I'll admit he was a bit rash, particularly when it came to Harry, but he went through hell and came out of it with most of his senses still intact. I still can't believe he managed as long as he did around those Dementors without more side effects."

The motion was small, but John could tell that Sherlock began clutching Cecelia slightly tighter at the mention of Dementors. "I can unabashedly say that I can happily go my entire life without meeting one of those particular creatures."

"They're bastards, they are," John agreed. "I've only seen them once and that was enough. Apparently they got rid of them from Azkaban after Voldemort was gone." John's phone vibrated next to his leg, causing him to snatch it up and read the incoming text. "Ah, perfect. Teddy hasn't left for the continent yet. I wasn't sure when he and Vicki were planning on heading out, since she's got to be back by September for Hogwarts." At Sherlock's questioning expression, John smirked. "Well, I did say I knew two."

Before John could reply, a sharp crack echoed through the flat, causing them both to jump. Sherlock hunched over the edge of the couch, using his chest and arms to shield Cecelia. Cecelia, meanwhile, let out a joyful squeal at the sound, tiny hands clapping and pointing at the figure that had suddenly appeared in the room. John recovered from the shock next, jumping to his feet to seize the young man into a tight hug. The hug was returned with enthusiasm and a laugh that caused Sherlock to finally glance up.

The young man suddenly standing in the sitting room was tall, perhaps a bit shorter than Sherlock, with shoulder length hair pulled back into a casual ponytail. Sherlock swore when he first saw him that his hair was dark, but as he examined him closer, he began to realize it was a light brownish blonde, similar to John's but without the gray streaked throughout. As the two pulled away from each other, Sherlock caught a flash of navy eyes identical to John's, and if he didn't know enough about Harry Watson, he would have sworn the man was John's nephew.

"My God, Teddy, you can't actually be that tall," John said as he gaped up at the man. The smile on his face was so large that it was a surprise he could talk through the contortion of it. "Tell me you haven't actually gotten that much taller than me."

The man let out a surprisingly light chuckle. When he spoke, his voice was far more soft and melodic than Sherlock expected. "Yeah, 'fraid so. For a while Gran thought I wasn't going to stop growing, and Harry still thinks I'm putting him on that this is my real height. Not much use, though, making myself taller or shorter, besides not being as much fun. I do like to keep some bits actually my bits, plus Vic likes how I tower over her." He finally turned enough to spot Sherlock and his eyes widened. "Merlin, you mean I really do get to meet him? You weren't just putting me on?"

"Of course not – Teddy, this is my best friend, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Teddy Lupin."

Teddy had just reached a hand out to shake Sherlock's when he abruptly stood, still cradling Cecelia. "You're the metamorphmagus John was talking about. But there's no sign of it, no outward way to tell which parts are you and which are a disguise."

"That's part of the point of it, I believe," John chuckled as Sherlock began circling Teddy and studying him intently. He sent Teddy a reassuring grin when he was sent a baffled and slightly alarmed glance. "And you did say you wanted to know more. What better chance have you got if not a source himself?"

Sherlock gave a muffled sound of agreement as he squatted down on one knee on the floor, eyes narrowing as he studied Teddy's arm. In reaction, Teddy snatched his arm away and scrubbed at it as though that would remove the bizarre sensation of being at the heart of Sherlock's focus. "Right, you weren't exaggerating, Uncle John. But this is getting kinda creepy."

In a single smooth move, Sherlock stood and spun to stand nose to nose with Teddy. His hair abruptly flashed from John's shade to a bright ginger red in his surprise, and Sherlock leapt backward at the sudden change. From on his chest, Cecelia gave off a high-pitched giggle that brought John's attention back to her. "Come on, wee lassie, time to give your how do to young Ted. He isn't the only one who's done some growing, hmm?" John maneuvered her out of the wrap without Sherlock paying much attention, his focus completely centered on Teddy. Teddy, meanwhile, broke off his stare with Sherlock at the appearance of Cecelia and reached his arms out eagerly for her. With expert grace, he took her from John, allowing his hair to melt back into a dark brown. The sight caused Cecelia to giggle once more and reach out a fist to snatch up a handful.

"Effected by sudden, unexpected actions, triggered by emotional stimuli." Sherlock marched back into Teddy's personal space, but this time it was expected. His hair remained unchanged for the moment, but his eyes soon shifted to mimic Sherlock's, a misty green that day. "I suspect it takes a fairly long time to learn how to control the changes."

Teddy nodded. "I'm still rubbish at haunted houses – Uncle John learned back when I was a kid that it was a bad idea to bring me to the Muggle ones. Most of the time my reflexes can catch the changes, but every so often something slips through."

"You aren't actually related." It was definitely a statement, but John answered it regardless.

"Teddy's called me that ever since he could talk. Even though I was off in Afghanistan when he was still small, I rang him up when I could and sent letters. I still have a collection of all the pictures he drew to send over to me. It just became natural for him to call me Uncle John, particularly after I got back to London and could see him more often."

"You've just graduated from Hogwarts this year." Sherlock continued his pacing, his hands resting loosely clasped behind his back. "No immediate plans quite yet, but not too concerned. You obviously have some sort of part time job, as well as an incredibly steady girlfriend, to keep you close to home for the time being."

Grinning sheepishly, Teddy couldn't stop the blush that brought a soft dusting of pink across his cheeks. "Er, yeah, I suppose you could say that." He stuttered into silence as Sherlock snatched up one of his hands from around Cecelia to study it. Sherlock straightened and released his hand with a sharp nod.

"Stop dithering about worrying if it's too soon, for God's sake. You've been friends since she was born and seeing one another since she began attending Hogwarts roughly five years ago, give or take a few months. You already know she'll say yes; what's the point in getting yourself all irritable by waiting?"

John gaped at Teddy, who stood part stunned and part amazed watching Sherlock as he strode over to situate himself in his armchair. "Right, that's creepy," he remarked with a snort. "Awesome, but mostly creepy. Seriously, I haven't even picked out the ring!"

John barked out a laugh and pulled Teddy into another hug, slightly less firm than the first due to the baby between them. "You fucking aren't," he muttered in Teddy's ear, though Teddy could tell from John's tone that he was more surprised than disapproving. "We've all been waiting for this for practically fourteen years!"

"No time like the present, then, I guess," Teddy replied, the half grin on his face morphing into a beaming smile. "You don't think we're too young?"

"It's a hell of a lot more common for wizards to marry young," John said as he pulled away with a shrug. "As long as you wait until she's had the chance to graduate as well, I don't see the problem with it. Like I said, more than one of us was expecting it." His gaze shot down to Cecelia staring up at him. He reached a hand out to lay it gently on her head." "Sorry, Síleas my girl. Just don't go blabbing to your mum about Da's sailor mouth."

"Mary is well aware of it and doesn't mind as long as it's not often," Sherlock called, steepling his fingers under his chin. "But if her first word is anything at all relating to a swear word, I cannot guarantee I can stop her from murdering you."

"Of course," John chuckled. He gestured Teddy to his armchair and pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to sit beside him. "Anyway, this isn't just a social call. We really do need your help on this, Ted."

Teddy nodded and gestured his head at Sherlock. "How much does he know? About us, I mean?"

"Enough that your question is idiotic," Sherlock interjected, face visibly displaying his irritation. "Your mother was Tonks, the other metamorphmagus friend John had. You inherited the characteristic from her. Are there other ways to learn it?"

"Variations, but not anything exactly like actually being a metamorphmagi. Polyjuice potions and being an animagus are about the closest your usual wizard can get, but they're rough illustrations of what having the skill is like. I can tell a metamorphmagus from someone under a Polyjuice potion any day."

Sherlock's eyes shot up in interest at that statement. "You're able to tell when another wizard is like yourself? Is it innate or something that takes development?"

"Innate, definitely. It's a sort of a sense of connection, I guess, or a kind of scent without it actually having a smell. It's hard to describe, but I've never been wrong in picking out a fellow metamorphmagi."

Nodding, Sherlock reached over the arm of his chair to snatch up a book and began rifling through it. "I'm aware that animagi are required to register with the Ministry of Magic, but I see nothing about whether the same is true for metamorphmagi."

"It's not a requirement, but usually it's general knowledge anyway. As infants, we tend to have almost no control over our changes, so it's pretty easy to tell right off if your kid's a metamorphmagus or not."

"I remember that, back when you were a baby," John interjected with a faraway smile. "Tonks and Remus asked me to look after you for an evening so they could take care of some Order business. I think your gran was grateful for the break; you were on a bird kick and it was a bit hard to keep control of you when you weren't even on the ground."

Teddy grinned in return. "I do not pity anyone who has to deal with a metamorphmagus child. It was bad enough when I had temper tantrums later on; I can't even imagine what it was like when you couldn't even ask me what was wrong because I wasn't old enough to talk."

"Are there ways to distinguish someone as a metamorphmagus other than being one?" Sherlock prodded, leaning forward in his seat. "A spell, a potion, something of the sort beyond seeing the individual change?"

"Not as far as I know, but John might know more on that. I haven't had the reason to do anything beyond seeing them to figure it out, and I've never had anyone try and use anything on me other than just asking me."

"I've never heard of any ways to check other than just asking a person," John replied thoughtfully. "I mean, it's rare enough that you don't exactly go out of your way to ask every witch or wizard you meet if they're a metamorphmagus. It just sort of came up with Tonks – one day she went to bed with short brown hair and came down the next morning with long blue hair. Naturally we were all a bit confused, and she just told us what she was upfront."

Sherlock's lips contorted into a scowl. "There must be a way to find the differences, something in the DNA that indicates a metamorphmagus versus your typical wizard. Honestly, there should be some sort of sequence that designates a magical being over a Muggle. I ought to be able to formulate some sort of system to figure out if an individual has magical skills, or even just a relative in their genealogy that had magic…" He trailed off and meandered into the kitchen to dig through some of his current experiments. Teddy watched him go with raised eyebrows and a slightly gaping mouth. John chuckled at the sight and gave him an apologetic smile.

"He does that. More often than not, actually." His smile turned soft as he glanced down at Cecelia still in Teddy's arms. "I'd be careful, he's likely to come back and snatch her away from you. He claims he can think more clearly with her nearby."

Teddy gave her a gentle rub across her back. "Has she started showing any magical ability yet?"

John heaved a sigh and shook his head. "Not that I've seen, and Mary hasn't mentioned noticing anything off. My parents used to tell me that I started acting a bit off as early as six months old, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see. With the fact that I'm a Muggleborn and Mary's a Muggle, the chances of her being a witch are probably pretty slim. Honestly, I'm not sure which I'd prefer to happen – being able to share the wizarding world with Cecy would be amazing, honestly, but is it bad for me to think it would be easiest if she wasn't?"

Teddy was in the middle of shrugging when he gave a jolt. Sherlock reached over his head and snatched up Cecelia, shooting him a dark scowl for holding captive his tiny inspiration. Cecelia squealed happily in reply, babbling up at Sherlock as he carried her with him back into the kitchen. Once the pair was settled, Sherlock balanced on the edge of his seat to lean over his notes on the table and Cecelia curled into his elbow to curiously watch. Teddy turned to shoot John a half grin. "It's strange to see him…I dunno, so natural at taking care of her. I mean, obviously I only know what you've told me and what I've seen on your blog, but it just seems so out of character. How'd he get so good with kids, anyway? For Merlin's sake, she adores him as much as she does you, and she's not even a year old yet!"

Chuckling, John shook his head with a grin. "Honestly, I couldn't say. The first time I saw him with a kid was at my wedding, and it's bloody amazing how he interacts with them. At least part of it is how he treats them, I suspect – he talks to them instead of at them, just like he talks to an adult. He told us right off when we found out that Mary was pregnant – well, when he sprang the news on us – that we were already naturals because we took care of him. I suppose he just connects with them easier, and they can sense that in him."

"Well, whatever it is, he was made to be with kids." The two continued to watch as Sherlock spoke quietly to Cecelia, lifting papers to gesture at something on them and add commentary. Although there was no way for her to understand the scientific gibberish he spoke, she watched intently as though completely riveted, occasionally murmuring back and attempting to grab at the sheets. Sherlock always managed to keep them just out of reach, shooting her a warm smile at every attempt. John felt himself echoing the smile without intending to, enjoying the sight as though she actually were Sherlock's own. Though unrelated biologically, John had considered Sherlock as a secondary parent to her since they discovered she existed, holding just as important a role in Cecelia's life as Mary or him. He wasn't entirely sure how healthy such an idea was, but it was true all the same.

Teddy interrupted John's thoughts with a prod at his good shoulder. "So all this metamorphmagus discussion is about that case Harry's on, right? The one that they think is connected to your mum and dad's deaths?"

The smile on John's face quickly slid away to be replaced with a furrowed brow and a small frown. "Yeah. The most they've got is the fact that someone involved is a metamorphmagus, plus the wand and two wizards we managed to catch. I hate to ask, but do you have any idea of who the metamorphmagus might be?"

"I actually only know maybe one other, to be honest," Teddy said with an apologetic smile. "There's a kid at Hogwarts who's a metamorphmagus, a couple of years below me. Nice kid, Hufflepuff, quiet, keeps to himself mostly. I can't imagine a thirteen-year-old is involved in this, though, and he obviously didn't have anything to do with your parents."

John let out a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't be much help on that bit. It's just such a rare gift, you know? It ought to be this great help because of that and it just isn't working out that way."

They were interrupted by the sounds of footsteps climbing up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's gray head peering in through the open front door. "You hoo, boys! So sorry to interrupt, but you've – why, goodness! You already have a guest!"

Teddy leapt forward to shake Mrs. Hudson's hand, shooting John a questioningly raised eyebrow as he did. John gave him an almost unnoticeable shake of his head, correctly interpreting Teddy's unasked inquiry of 'witch?' Teddy's beaming smile never faltered during the exchange. "Edward Lupin, ma'am, a pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry I didn't stop by to say a hello on my way up; I didn't want to bother you. I'm a friend of John's."

Mrs. Hudson rested a hand on her chest and matched Teddy's smile. "Well, aren't you just the charming young man! I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear, it's wonderful to meet you. Any friend of our John's is more than welcome at Baker Street. But I was just coming up to tell you both you've got another visitor."

Mary's blonde head popped suddenly over Mrs. Hudson's far shoulder, shooting John a grin and a wave. Rather than wait for Mrs. Hudson to move, she shifted and opened the kitchen door, swooping in directly behind Sherlock and Cecelia. At the sight of her mother, Cecelia squealed and reached her stubby fingers out to her. Sherlock reluctantly attempted to pass her over, but Mary swatted him away. "Go on, Sherlock, you're fine. She sees me nearly twenty-four hours a day, I think I can afford to have her favourite not-quite uncle for a bit."

While Mrs. Hudson returned downstairs to her flat after a smile at her boys, Teddy reached out a hand to grab hold of John's arm. John's brows rose as he allowed Teddy to pull him aside and deeper into the living room. He could see him shaking almost imperceptibly and reached out a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Ted…lad, what is it? Are you feeling okay? Jesus, you're pale…what happened?"

"John, I need you to listen to me carefully," Teddy whispered, his eyes currently blue and blown huge. "That woman…I don't know who she is, but if she hasn't told you already…John, she's like me. She's a metamorphmagus."