A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Thirty: Fissures
John woke up to a sudden chill and Mrs. Holmes commanding: "Calm yourself, Sherlock, and then explain."
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Sherlock snarled as he paced furiously. "How could he commit such an elementary mistake? Mother, what tipped you off? No, don't tell me, it was the scar wasn't it?"
"It was actually the mole on his neck. It switched from left to right."
"Of course it was."
"You realize I have little idea of the true nature of the situation."
"But not completely without a clue."
"Mycroft warned me there is more to Harry than meets the eye. I didn't realize he meant it this way."
John brought back the covers Sherlock had flung off in his agitation. "What's going on?"
"Harry decided to go on a joyride up in Hebrides!" Sherlock shouted.
It took a moment for John to unravel the statement.
"Gone up to meet Julia, has he?"
Both Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes stared at John in astonishment. John looked balefully back.
"I heard Harry phoning his friends almost every night," John explained. "Advanced levels of cabin fever, constant boredom, and teenage immortality syndrome usually equal some form of delinquency. Given Harry's track-record, my bet is skiving to meet friends, one whom which spent a holiday in Hebrides and enjoyed it very much."
The corners of Mrs. Holmes' eyes crinkled.
"I'm starting to see her charms, dear."
Oh, gee, thanks, John didn't say. "So how did you figure out Harry is in Hebrides? GPS chip in his shoe?"
"Knowing Mycroft's latest projects on the matter: doubtful. I'm inclined to think he replaced one of Harry's pills."
John prayed for strength.
"Right. I'm not going to comment on the sheer creepiness of what you just said. Can you please give me a moment? I need to calm myself before I commit some serious acts of domestic violence. And for G-d's sake, Sherlock, wear something!"
Mrs. Holmes courteously left the room. Sherlock did no such thing.
"What made you think to eavesdrop into Harry's phone calls?" Sherlock asked, throwing on some clothes.
"He was restless and rattling the house by the sheer force of his sighs. It was only a matter of time before he did something stupid to amuse himself. In case you've forgotten, Sherlock, 'Army Doctor' covers most of my CV."
Sherlock looked confused.
"I gave up the notion young men twenty-years-old or younger can be sensible after I saw a group of Privates in their twenties try to skateboard on tent tops," John look at him pointedly. "Canvas tent tops."
"But considering what was going on each night—"
"Sherlock, you can't distract me by your physical attributes alone because you're not my type at all. I prefer men more rugged and the size and stature of Lestrade."
John laughed at the expression of pure affront on Sherlock's face.
"Lucky for you, I don't rank physical charm high up in my evaluation of men. Their suitability for relationships was usually inversely proportional to their level of physical attractiveness."
Sherlock continued to look offended and even slightly hurt. John could come up with no good reason while looking a pair of socks. Didn't Sherlock always maintain his body was only transport? John shrugged and finished dressing.
"Okay. I'm going to beat up your brother now. Want to join me?"
Sherlock looked slightly mollified when they left. Right outside in the hallway, they accost Sherlock's father. He looked rather lost blinking at a painting he couldn't see. Sherlock pushed John ahead, ignoring him as always, and Mr. Holmes ignored them right back.
They found Mycroft in the private library. Mycroft shut the hardcover he was reading with a theatrical snap and put on the most supercilious smile. He retracted it when John pointed his umbrella at him (they'd picked it up on the way).
" 'There is more to Harry than meets the eye'?" said John as the opening liner.
"I have thought you would be more concerned about his activities than about this," said Mycroft.
"There's thing called texting. Friends use it to communicate each other and, if they have children, gossip about their shenanigans."
"Ah, yes, the Detective Inspector," Mycroft sniffed delicately. "I do believe he is currently apoplectic with rage and shouting abuse at his brothers-in-law for putting dangerous ideas in his daughter. The two young men in question are bemused and appear to be taking the incident as though the children had snuck off to ride a bicycle."
"From their perspective, it may as well be."
"And your perspective of the incident agrees with theirs." Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, "How interesting."
John folded her arms and waited. Both Holmes brothers studied John carefully.
"It's a matter of cost-benefit analysis," said Mycroft at length. "The status quo has been in place for so long that even though the secret is no longer such a complete one as it was a decade ago, it is far more costly to do something about it than it is to not."
"Like Bond Air?" Sherlock mocked.
"Yes, like that particular fiasco you almost completely botched had not John intervened," snapped Mycroft.
John let out a loud sigh to interrupt the cat-fight. "What do you want from him?"
"Who is this 'him' you speak of?" asked Mycroft coyly.
John tapped the umbrella against the floor rather forcefully.
"Why do you think I want something from him?" Mycroft retorted. "I have determined long ago that he is quite unsuitable to my line of work. He cannot lie, not convincingly, and his forthrightness makes him an appalling politician. He is very much like you, John, and his earnest desire to become more like you has exacerbated the disappointing state of affairs."
"Stop saying such horribly short-sighted things, Mycroft. Harry is a godsend."
The three of them whirled around and found Mr. Holmes seated at the chair next to the door with his wife at his elbow. John had no idea how they got in so silently.
"Must you?" Sherlock groused.
The cocked eyebrow and condescending gaze (albeit blind) Mr. Holmes put on was so like Sherlock when he interacted with the police, it was terrifying.
"Time to improve your spatial awareness, don't you think?" drawled Mr. Holmes.
John grabbed hold of Sherlock's bicep before he could start a tirade. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Holmes laced his long fingers at the tips and brought them to his chin.
"The Others are an ignorable if irritating problem as long as they are content to keep to themselves and our own kind have the necessary self-absorption to let them be. But the Others have been infringing upon our society since the Cold War. There have been hints of this during the Second World War, but that was before my time and more concentrated in the Continent. The invasion I observed was far more insidious. The number of people that died or vanished alone outstrips the victims from the War by a considerable amount—and this is just Great Britain. How many was it, dear?"
"Acton, McDougal, Timberlain, Williamson, Lewis, Lewis, Peters, Phelps…"
"…I asked for a number, dear, not a list of names."
"Oh, hush, you know I never remember numbers and figures. Just names and faces. Oberstein, Freeman, Wallington, Gordon, Beecher, Marvell, Cushing, Moffat…"
"You remember all of them?" asked John wonderingly as Mr. Holmes sighed impatiently and Mrs. Holmes continued to list names.
"Only the ones he was called to investigate," said Mrs. Holmes, poking her husband's shoulder. "That's how we met, by the way. Caleb got too close and returned one day without his sight or memory of the whole incident. I became his eyes, and then his wife."
"Okay. So when you said 'War', it was…"
"The Cold War. The invisible Other War. It doesn't matter either way," said Mr. Holmes dismissively. "I got off lightly. My fellows were not so fortunate. Holdhurst spent the rest of his days thinking he was a chamber pot."
John winced.
"But the gross infringement died down for the last decade," said Sherlock. "It must have."
"Yes, after a week of shooting stars in Kent, flocks of owls travelling to and fro across the country in broad daylight, and men and women in cloaks, robes and witches hats wandering the streets celebrating about twelve years ago," said Mycroft sardonically. "We do keep track of these things."
John felt cold. Not because Mycroft knew about the Magic world, that was expected, but because every time Mycroft put his sticky fingers into something, all the wonderment and joy seem to vanish at its wake. The thought of wizards and witches like Arthur and Molly forced to dismantle their culture to avoid Government sanctioned witch hunts was too horrible to bear.
"Right," said John, squaring her shoulders. "Cost-benefit analysis: It's extremely difficult and costly to dismantle a whole group of people very determined to keep their way of living, who also have to ability to fight back. Best to leave them alone as is as long as they stay out of trouble. Perfectly sound and understandable decision."
"But," Sherlock said.
John wasn't aware there was a 'but' to belabour, but it made her rethink.
"You don't think the status quo can continue."
"Naturally not," said Mycroft. "CCTV alone is quite difficult to deal with."
"Yeah, but you're already doing something about it. Otherwise the internets would've blown up by now," said John. Then something clicked. "Sir, you said the, um, Others are an ignorable if irritating problem as long as they are content to keep to themselves and our kind lets them be. The Others are keeping up their part of the deal. Does this mean …?"
Mr. Holmes nodded. His vacant eyes were very unsettling to look at; they were so clouded over, it was as if he had neither pupils nor irises, just whites.
"One of the consequences of our current day's thorough-going scepticism and disinclination to think carefully is that the common person is sceptical of even ideas on which he or she could get a sense of their own identity. The problem, then, is not that the person believes in nothing—"
"—but they start to believe in anything, which is far worse," said John, completing the sentence.
Mr. Holmes gave John a one-sided smirk, just like his sons were wont to when John had done something unexpectedly clever.
"You are not as limited to popular literature as I was led to believe," he said. "But yes, that is quite true — and G.K. Chesterton remains prophetic as always. Now here is the fallout based on the current cultural climate: Is there not a term for a certain internet phenomenon? 'Going viral,' I believe it is called. It would only take one video — just one — to 'go viral' and trigger a cascade of reaction all around the globe. More witnesses will come out of the woodwork and enflame sentiments. Some will welcome the Others the same way some people welcome the notion of ghosts and UFOs. Most will react in fear and lash out. There will be great division of opinions. Mediation will be impossible once certain religious groups get involved. The Others will scramble to stem the tide, and if they use their usual method of hiding — and there is no reason to think they would not — public opinion against the Others would increase exponentially as those who initially welcomed them would feel betrayed, and hell hath no fury like those who feel as though their 'friends' had betrayed them. Also, the whole point of thorough-going Scepticism is that one violently rejects the idea of an external party 'forcing' its ideals on oneself — as if it doesn't occur every time you view media, but nevertheless — and believe the right to believe in whatever one wishes, no matter how foolish. That the Others can and will remove one's memory as if it were pesky rubbish, and have means in which to implant false ideas into one's mind, will not go over well. At which point the Government will have to take very forceful measures."
John said nothing. The bleak picture Mr. Holmes painted was all too plausible.
"The best way to counter this pre-emptively before it happens," Mr. Holmes continued, "Is to make the gap between the Others and Us shorter. A cultural revolution, where the Others start to look and act more like Us. It need not be as thorough. A change in attire alone would be quite helpful."
John thought of the various ways in which inexperienced magicals had tried to pass themselves as non-magicals and involuntarily snorted as the image of a pair wizards, one who wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes, and his colleague, in a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume, sprang immediately to mind.
"You want a Cultural Icon," said Sherlock, his face mask-like.
"One whom people wish to imitate," Mycroft agreed. "The younger the better—the young are more easily influenced."
John knew exactly where this was going. "No."
"Be reasonable, John," Mycroft crooned. "You don't want the worst case scenario to happen, now, do you? Harry is in the best position to become one. He is already very important to them."
"No," said John stubbornly. The idea of making Harry a wizard teenage idol of sorts was not just absurd—it spelled certain disaster. John still had nightmares of examining the cupboard under the stairs where Harry had spent nine years of his life like some forgotten boot. The smell inside there alone had brought flashbacks of Iraq; John had had to sit down to quell the urge to vomit or whip out a pistol and start shooting things. The memory of rocking Harry to sleep when he was still a tiny wisp of a boy who barely weighed anything and his height at the very bottom of the growth scale still burned brightly in John's mind. Even now, John thought bitterly, for all the recovery he'd made and all the growth he achieved, Harry was still short, skinny and hesitant around a crowd full of strangers, preferring anonymity to acknowledgement because any and all attention he received most of his life was negative. Forcing him into the spotlight and media scrutiny would damage him beyond measure. No—just no.
"It is also a matter of International importance," Mycroft argued. "Surely you see some sacrifices must be—"
John snapped.
"Well, F— you, I'm his mother," John glared at the Holmeses, all shocked to a person. "Go find someone else. I'm done here. Nice talking to you."
John marched out.
Sherlock caught up outside the house, where John was heaving with fury.
"Don't listen to Mycroft. He only thinks he knows best," Sherlock said.
John calmed down a bit. "Right now I hate your brother with a passion of a thousand burning suns. It's just my luck personal dislike has no bearing when it comes to how I ought to treat people."
Sherlock huffed, "You and your morals."
"F— you too," snapped John without any bite. After drawing a huge breath, John changed subjects. "Better go find the spot Harry summoned the Knight Bus. Think you can track it down?"
"Of course."
"Let's go then."
They headed off to the moors. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's parents standing shoulder to shoulder by a window, watching them. For once, John could see what Sherlock was seeing—the years in the army weren't spent just doing MO things—as they tracked Harry's walk into a densely wooded area where it abruptly ended in front of a set of bus tire tracks. John figured Harry came here in the early hours of the morning, and planned to return at around lunchtime to pretend he'd been out on his roaming walks as usual. They had a couple of hours until then, so John and Sherlock sat under a tree.
"Harry may not have much choice in the matter," said Sherlock abruptly after a period of silence. "Voldemort is still alive out there, scheming for a comeback, unrelenting even after spending over a decade as a disembodied spirit. If his ideology weren't so vile, I would've been tempted to admire his sheer tenacity."
"Don't," John pleaded. "I'm not denying it, okay? I'm just saying we don't have to deal with it right now. We can deal when the time comes. Let him enjoy life for once, and just worry about stupid things like homework and music lessons and maybe a crush or two. Just not now."
They fell back into silence. Sherlock, incredibly, fell into a light sleep of sorts with his hand curled around John's elbow. John basked in the sunlight and listened to the birds sing.
Right around noon, there was a huge BANG and an outrageously purple triple-decker bus appeared out of thin air several stone throws away. It rolled to a heaving stop after a few yards. The side-door opened, and Harry stumbled out, carrying his broom on his shoulder and his jacket bulging where he'd stashed his invisibility cloak.
Harry paled when he noticed John marching towards his direction. As John stopped in front of him, arms crossed, John realized with a pang there was only an inch difference between her and Harry. When did you grow up so much?
"Errr," Harry stuttered.
"Young man," John interrupted. "You are in a biiiig trouble."
-oo00oo-
"Sorry, I have to take this," said Lestrade to the doctor Donovan was discreetly ogling. His mobile had flashed John's number just as he led the young man inside his office after Lestrade found him wandering around the lobby. The man made beeline to Lestrade saying he was a doctor and had a serious situation to report. Normally he'd let John wait without guilt, but Lestrade wasn't sure how long he was going last without the Baker Street duo when there was a prison escapee who had a gun the Home Office was very keen on catching on top of the usual workload and his ex-in-laws fighting each other daily.
The last bit made Lestrade wilt like … like something. Metaphors were not his forte. All he could say was that these days he felt like fleeing with his ears covered whenever he stopped by Jackie's place, normally a place of refuge (once you got over the I'm-going-to-get-killed feeling at the driveway). Just this morning the three Shin men aligned themselves against Jack, whose health had deteriorated—again.
"Take it off," Jack had demanded from the sofa where she'd been convalescing for the last three days, referring to the Langlock curse one of them put on her to make sure she wouldn't verbally agree to any suggestion that remotely let the Ministry of Magic have control over her magical mobile phone related inventions (a brilliant piece of work, it really would be a shame if the government screwed it over, but was it worth Jack getting sick over?).
"No. Not unless you promise not to hand over MMN to the Floo Network Authorities," growled Jeremy.
Jack's lips drew into a thin line.
"I'm not some wind toy you can shut the mouth of whenever I say something disagreeable to you," she snapped.
"That's not why I did it!" Jeremy shouted. "I'm sick of you giving up before trying!"
"So you force me to not 'give up'."
"We wouldn't have to do this if you didn't fold every time you deal with people," Jeremy snarled. "Stop being such a coward and just face them!"
Jack went white at the cruel jab. Lestrade felt torn between wanting to break Jeremy's nose or just cringe.
"Of course. You're right," Jack muttered, turning away from her brothers. "I'm a complete utter coward. Thank you for the reminder. I'll make sure you remain correct and be so cowardly that I'll refuse to change for any reason."
Jeremy shrank and Mr. Shin sprang to his feet. For a good reason; when Jack threatened to do something, she did it.
"Sorry, that was uncalled for," Jeremy muttered.
"You were just speaking the truth," said Jack, facing the sofa back cushion.
Jeremy winced. "I said I was sorry."
Jack didn't turn around. Stalemate.
"Look, we can talk about this later," said Jason desperately. "The next hearing isn't until mid-August. You need be ready for that. You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Please…! You're fifteen pounds underweight! Just eat something— anything!" Jason begged.
"Not. Hungry."
Jason swallowed. "Nuna—"
"No," Jack said between gritted teeth.
"All you've been doing is drink water," Jason whispered, on a verge of tears. "Or eat a bit of gruel. You—"
"I don't have an eating disorder!" yelled Jack, lashing out, a very rare thing indeed, and her trembling increased because of the amount of effort it required. "And don't even mention Magic Enhancement Therapy! I'd rather die than go through that again!"
Lestrade fled as soon as he saw the look of despair on his father-in-law's face, because he was an utter coward when it came down to it. Everything he knew about keeping good family relations he'd learned from the Shins. What do you do when that very family was having relational troubles? He had two failed marriages and didn't have a proper family growing up. All he'd done in the past—and still would do, knowing him—was flounder helplessly as his latest family disintegrated.
Lestrade forced the painful remembrance away as he opened the line, "Yeah?"
"Incoming," said John without ado, "Himself wants to know more about Sirius Black."
"Tell him I want to know more about him too," Lestrade growled. "The Super is breathing down all our necks and the Home Office sounds like an overturn beehive."
"Read the Prophet lately?"
"I object to things that move when they're not supposed to."
"Only in your limited mind, Lestrade," he heard Sherlock say.
"Shut up," Lestrade snapped. "For that I'm going to make you wait. Don't enter my office until I'm done."
"We'll be there in two minutes," said John after a swift slapping sound and muffled giggles. Lestrade felt his heart sink when he realized Harry was with them. That meant only one thing: Wizards. Why did it have to be wizards?
Lestrade ended the call, stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and let out a soul-wrenching sigh.
"Sorry about that. So you were saying?"
The doctor, a rather handsome fellow who really didn't look much like a medical professional to be honest, more like someone who ought to have been born five hundred years ago as a samurai, slowly tilted his head to one side and studied Lestrade intently. Lestrade had a feeling he was being x-rayed.
"You haven't been sleeping and your sugar and caffeine consumption doubled," he said in a American accent.
Lestrade coughed awkwardly. "Yeah, well, it's been busy around the office."
"In other words, you did what needed to be done," said the doctor, tilting his head to the other side, staring at him unblinkingly.
"About that situation you wanted to report?" asked Lestrade loudly, before the doctor would announce he should expect the onset of type II diabetes and hypertension the way he was going.
The doctor sat up straight. "Someone is poisoning the patients," he said in quiet indignation.
"Okay," said Lestrade, pen and notebook out. "Please give me the details."
The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but his office door flung open and Sherlock swanned in like he owned the place. Lestrade swore under his breath.
"You are lying to me," Sherlock accused like a vengeful god.
Lestrade was about to tell him to piss off, he was doing no such thing and he had no time for this, but the person who entered after Sherlock halted them all in their tracks.
"Robert?" John breathed, shock and raw emotion bleeding out of each syllable.
The silence that followed felt like a courtroom after a death sentence was announced.
The doctor—Robert—stared at John like he'd seen a ghost. John stared back, looking pale and vulnerable. Harry switched between staring at John, Dr. Robert, and then back again, looking curious and deeply uneasy. It was hard to decipher the look on Sherlock's face except for one thing—he looked like a lost and bewildered child.
Lestrade set his pen down and covered his face in his hands. He then prayed to the God he knew existed but never paid much attention to because he was a prat like that.
Please, no more drama. Please, please, please, no more drama…
-oo00oo-
Harry saw the moment John shrug off whatever earth-shattering shock that rocked the foundations. It was impressive to witness the transformation; a brief intake of breath, closing of eyes, standing in soldierly attention, and then setting the expression to a guarded but friendly look.
"I thought you were at Johns Hopkins," John said.
"You Brits invited me," said Dr. Robert. Something about his expression strongly reminded Harry of Mr. Shin.
"A lot of desperate patients?" said John lightly before turning to Mr. Lestrade and Sherlock. "Everyone, this is Dr. Robert D. Ju. Best damn doctor in the world, full stop. Robert, do you want to know who everyone is?"
"No," said Dr. Ju without rancour or missing a beat. "I have patients who are dying."
Sherlock looked at Dr. Ju keenly. Mr. Lestrade looked startled.
"I see your priorities haven't changed," said John. "Go on. Tell Lestrade how they are dying. Lestrade, you better listen, because he's going to be right."
Mr. Lestrade hastily retook his pen.
"First, there's been a slew of regular theft in the pathology department," Dr. Ju began. "Skin samples, from eight different patients. Date of thefts: Tuesdays and Thursdays each week, dating back to the first week of June. The thief never took entire samples, but for each theft the necessary preservative was taken too. Second, all the aforementioned patients' conditions deteriorated rapidly, though their skin quality improved. One of them actually died. Here the obituary." He slapped a newspaper clipping on the desk. "All the patients were getting ready for a skin graft. The dead one had soft-baby skin before she bit the dust, which, of course, doesn't make any sense."
"Go and make your arrest, Inspector, he practically solved the case for you," drawled Sherlock. "It looks like there's a killer among the staff. Regular dates suggest shifts. Ability to properly handle the transport of samples without suspicion implies lab technician. Examine the shift schedules and you'll have your culprit."
"Circumstantial evidence," Mr. Lestrade pointed out.
"Strong circumstantial evidence," Sherlock argued back.
"The name I wrote down on the back of the clipping may interest you," said Dr. Ju. "I need you to find out who, why, how and what. I'd rather do it myself, but I'm just a guest doctor; I can't demand a tox screen for patients not assigned to me."
"Why not?" said Sherlock.
"I know, right?" Dr. Ju exclaimed, flinging his hands up. "You'd think the hospital would be more reasonable about it. Like, hello, why would I ask for a tox screen if I didn't think the patient was being poisoned? But noooo, all they do is give me is this look: please stop nosing into other doctor's business and do your own job please, Dr. smelly cow poo, and Iiii wouldn't do that if I were you," he said suddenly to Sergeant Donovan, who'd walked in to pick up printouts. "You don't want to touch ink before you go— find Nemo between the trenches."
Mr. Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan stared at Dr. Ju incredulously. Sherlock, on the other hand, his eyes were sparkling.
"It doesn't help the poison isn't the regular kind of poison either, and I don't mean depleted uranium," Dr. Ju went on, switching gears abruptly back to the topic of dying patients. "Go to the hospital and you'll know what I mean. Okay." He stood up. "Hi, nice to meet you. What are your names?"
Dr. Ju stood with his hand outstretched for three stunned seconds.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Sally Donovan, Harry Watson, Sherlock Holmes," said John, pointing out people and saying their names.
"Pleasure, charmed," said Dr. Ju in twitchy sort of monotone. He looked at Sherlock, "New boyfriend? He's not your usual type."
"No, that's not it," said John, raising the left hand. "We're married."
Dr. Ju turned his face to John a tiny fraction at a time, his large eyes framed with ridiculously long lashes blown wide and blinking for each minute turn of his neck. He looked up for a moment and a tiny frown wrinkled his face, like he just remembered something. Then he jerked his attention back to John.
"Congratulations? Yes, congratulations. For the—marriage," Dr. Ju screwed his eyes shut, like he was trying to figure out the exact wording he was supposed to use in a foreign language he was only half-familiar with. "I wish you many happy years and … nice children and—"
"Okay, you can stop there," said John. "You're getting better at normal human interaction."
"You're a liar, but a kind one."
"You're even started harbouring sympathy towards mankind, too."
"I'm not!" exclaimed Dr. Ju, looking very disgusted.
"Being the best doctor in the world doesn't make you like the patients—or people in general," said John by-way of explanation.
"You would despise the great mass of humanity, too, if you really know what's going inside their heads," Dr. Ju muttered. "That's all. Now excuse me, I want to tarnish my soul with some therapeutic swearing. Bye."
He lunged for the office door, like he couldn't get out fast enough. But then Dr. Ju stopped abruptly right outside the glass wall office, and backtracked a few steps.
"Hailey, start your son on a light cardio regimen, it will help his asthma. Don't worry about your sugar intake, Detective Inspector; you really are doing what needs to be done. Just substitute the sweet pastries to chocolate and you'll be fine. And you," Dr. Ju pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, "start on a good marathoner's diet. The irregular meals are actually turning you stupid. Okay, I'm really leaving now. Peace!"
Then Dr. Ju went on his way.
As soon as he vanished from the premises, everyone stared at John.
"Yeah," said John, nodding. "He's always like that."
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I have a bit of a dilemma: Shorter chapters (3000 to 4000 words), but quicker updates (three days), or extremely long chapters (11k+ probably) with eight to fifteen days between updates? ASIM-PA has a very complex plotline, with shorter break down in plot points than ASIM-CS. This means very long chapters if I keep a weekly-ish schedule. Let me know!