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 Forty Two: About Human Nature
Lestrade called Donovan on his way to the ladies, and she hovered next to John with a water bottle ready while the latter puked into a sink. From the muffled words and beeping noise that filtered through the door, Lestrade knew Donovan was texting everyone and soon the entire station would know Sherlock Holmes was about to have a baby.
Sure enough, a sizeable crowd started loitering in front of the toilets where Lestrade was standing guard, talking about the News amongst themselves and asking/demanding Lestrade that he confirm the News.
"Don't you guys have work to do?" he shouted at the milling crowd.
"And miss congratulating Dr. Watson in person? Hell, no!" shouted Gregson from somewhere.
The crowd murmured in agreement. Then they continued to talk about the horrible things they were going to do to Sherlock when he deigned to show up next time. To prevent the women officers from entering the toilet, Lestrade took out his baton and waved it at the group, telling them he was an equal-opportunity fighter and not afraid to prove it.
The lady officers were entirely unimpressed at Lestrade's stand. To show it, they sicced the (terrifying) ladies from Admin at Lestrade to deal with him.
Lestrade was two seconds away from being flung to the side and trampled underfoot by the ladies from Admin, when a popping noise far too similar to gunfire came from inside the lady's toilets. The special firearms officers barged to the front at the sound, and everyone else moved out of the way in a coordinated fashion to let them through.
Then the door swung open, and Culverton ran out of the lady's toilet. He rammed right into Firearms and Admin and staggered back several steps.
"GET HIM!" Donovan screamed, brandishing a Taser, while Smith lay twitching on the tiled floor beneath her feet.
A bit apart from Smith was John, who was slumped on the floor beneath the sinks. She wasn't moving.
Firearms and Admin took one look at John and descended upon Culverton. All cautionary thoughts of police brutality scandals were clearly driven out their minds because batons and fists were flying indiscriminately. To make sure neither wizard carried out any bright ideas, Lestrade joined the fray and tased both Culverton and Smith with the modified Taser his father-in-law gave him for 'emergencies'.
When Firearms and Admin were finished, Culverton looked like a gigantic bruise.
"You're arrested … for illegal … everything!" shouted Stella Hopkins from Special Ops.
"Creeper!" screamed Edith from Admin.
The other women cried similar abuse. Donovan alone joined Lestrade at the floor next to John. John looked unharmed, but she wasn't getting up either.
"Donovan, get the EMT, call them now!" Lestrade shouted.
Donovan nodded and then dashed off, shouting orders over the noisy scuffle that was commencing around Smith. Several Uniforms were wrestling Smith to the ground as he screamed hysterically it was gone, his magic was gone, his wand wasn't working. He kept screaming and fighting the Uniforms until Anderson stabbed the back of his neck with something. Then he went limp and quiet.
"Psychotic break?" said Anderson shakily.
"Looks like it," said Lestrade, feeling just as shaken if not for the same reasons as Anderson. "Put him through a tox screen. I want him on around-the-clock guard until we can lock him up properly."
The Uniforms roughly carried the limp Smith away. The EMT came around after they left. Anderson told them what they needed to know: ex-service person; likely has metal shrapnel inside body; at least 6 weeks pregnant.
Lestrade texted Sherlock in the meantime:
Get your arse over to St. Thomas's. John unconscious & not getting up.
Lestrade rode the ambulance that drove John over to the A&E. Half of the jumbled thoughts that rampaged inside his brain were murderous and featured Sherlock as the victim. The other half desperately pleaded for John and baby to be safe.
When Sherlock finally did show up, John was blinking awake and Lestrade was shocked out of his bloodthirsty mood when he saw Mycroft Holmes tailing after his brother.
Sherlock hovered just outside the screens for a long time. He looked both younger and older with his face bleached out of colour in stark contrast to his ridiculous signature coat that had its collar propped up.
"…John," he eventually asked in a low voice. "Are we good?"
John let out a shuddering sigh. "Yes. Now get over here."
Only then did Sherlock walk over to John. Lestrade soon found himself unceremoniously tossed outside the A&E. He was grateful for it. Sherlock appeared to be moved to the point of tears and John was tremblingly reaching out to him, whispering: "I was so scared…" One didn't stay present in such private moments, especially for those two.
Lestrade waited with Mycroft in the waiting lounge. Lestrade felt especially awkward standing next to Mycroft Holmes, who looked calm and immaculate with all his hair in place, and wearing a tailored pinstripe suit, Italian leather shoes and carrying a handcrafted umbrella. Lestrade, out of nerves, kept running a hand through his hair, making it stand further on end, and fretted inside his rumbled clothes that bore all the stains of daily police wear.
"Congratulations, Inspector," said Mycroft out of the blue.
"For what?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, you don't want me to go over all the reasons, now, do you?" said Mycroft phlegmatically. "And thank you."
Lestrade stared as Mycroft strode back inside the A&E without a backwards glance.
-oo00oo-
"So how did you know it was Culverton and Smith?"
That was the first question John asked after both she and Sherlock composed themselves enough to stop crying and Sherlock stopped pawing at John to assure himself that John—and Benedict/Beatrix—was alright.
"Lestrade frequently complained about Smith's egregious wizardness and his utter lack of effort to stifle it," said Sherlock. "Even reporting him to his superiors and providing a uniform for him to wear didn't stop him. Why such a stubborn refusal to change? There were three possible explanations: Smith is unprofessional, prejudiced, or he had a more sinister reason to keep up his fashion faux pas. I might have considered the first two options had it not been for the fact his partner Culverton had no such troubles. Culverton should've at least voiced token protest if only to make his own self look good. But he didn't. If anything, he aid and abetted Smith by failing to report his behaviour to the Magical Law Enforcement. The two were in it together, then. I realised the scheme the moment Lestrade told me Smith had been erasing DI Morton's memory on a daily basis: Smith kept his seeming lack of expertise in Muggle dress to give himself an excuse to Obliviate the Muggle lead investigator and stall his progress."
"And it would've worked if it weren't for Lestrade," said John. "Most Wizards assume Muggles simply don't see anything worthwhile. They wouldn't have even blinked if Morton's investigation came to nothing."
Sherlock nodded. "And the truth was only kept hidden for so long because the investigators of the Magic and non-Magic worlds weren't aware of each other. When someone who had access to both worlds—Lestrade— took charge of the case, solving it became a matter of tedious legwork: he eventually discovered one of the victims had a wizard cousin, who will receive half a million pounds thanks to her death. That cousin, incidentally, is Smith."
There was a moment's silence.
"All those deaths just for half a million pounds," said John, shaking her head. "I'll never get it."
"People have done and will continue to do heinous acts for things that can't love them back. You know that, John."
"I do. Makes you wonder why more people don't believe in the innate sinfulness of man."
"Most would rather delude themselves into believing they possess innate goodness because they are not as evil as they can get," Sherlock sniffed. "The Embalmer case was one such travesty. Neither Smith nor Culverton could bring themselves to murder their victims in person, but had no problems killing them indirectly via poison. Perhaps they assuaged their consciences with the idea they were at least making the already dying victims' last moments painless and beautiful, unlike a proper serial killer."
"That might be true for Smith, but not Culverton," said John. "I think he was well on his way to becoming a real serial killer. The way he was eyed anyone who fit his cultivated MO … he wasn't exactly hiding it. Thank God he was too stupid to keep at it for long."
Sherlock clutched John more tightly.
"I refuse to be thankful for someone else's stupidity," he snarled. "I'll rather thank Anderson."
"Really?" said John sceptically.
In response, Sherlock promptly made a call on speaker phone. The silence that prevailed over the line and the room after he finished talking was very telling.
Then there was a sound—the sound of exchanging hands.
"Freak," said Donovan's voice. "I've seen you work for the last four years, and … you're not. A freak anymore, I mean. You're still weird as hell, but a psychopath can't raise happy, healthy kids. Harry, case in point. So, um, good job. We're really proud of you. And congrats."
The only time Sherlock was surprised and moved by the softer human emotions than that moment was the time he decided to propose to John, minutes before he went to confront Moriarty.
"…Thank you," said Sherlock. Then he looked away, blinking. "Thank you."
He hung up abruptly. A few moments later he was the cold and practical thinker once more.
"Now only the Sirius Black mystery remains. We just have to figure out a way to contact him."
-oo00oo-
Harry couldn't say why he thought it was a good idea to follow Crookshanks after curfew. From the anxious and disapproving looks Hermione was throwing at him, Harry could tell she was harbouring grave doubts over the idea. Nevertheless, she joined Harry and Ron's discussion on how to go about it.
They went to bed at the usual time, and waited until Dean and Seamus finally went to sleep. Then Ron, Harry and Neville got up, got dressed again, Ron and Harry threw the cloak over themselves, and Neville pretended to go to the toilet as they slipped outside the dormitory. Hermione was waiting for them with Crookshanks in the empty common room. She quietly joined Ron and Harry under the cloak and together they slipped outside.
Walking very close together so that nobody would see them, they crossed the hallways on tiptoe beneath the cloak, and then walked down the stone front steps into the grounds. The sun had set hours ago and the castle lent very little light. Once they passed the sloping lawn, they could barely see a foot ahead of them.
"Lumos!" Harry whispered, pointing his wand forward.
The wandlight showed him the ghostly sight of a solitary willow tree: the Whomping Willow. Crookshanks ran right towards it. They chased after him. As they got closer, the Whomping Willow started to stir; its branches creaked as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop anyone from going nearer.
"No!" Hermione whispered frantically, dancing uncertainly on her spot. "Crookshanks, please, it's too dangerous!"
But Crookshanks darted forward. He slithered between the battering branches like a snake and placed his front paws upon a knot on the trunk.
Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to marble, it stopped moving. Not a leaf twitched or shook.
"How…?" Hermione whispered uncertainly, grasping Ron's arm. "How did he know—?"
"Never mind that, you reckon he wants us to go in?" said Ron, pointing at Crookshanks, who was now standing on top a large gap between the roots.
"I think so," said Harry grimly.
They covered the distance to the trunk within seconds, but before they had reached the gap in the roots, Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his bottlebrush tail. Harry went next; he crawled forward, headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the bottom of a very low tunnel. Crookshanks was a little way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry's wand. Seconds later, Ron and Hermione slithered down beside him.
"Where does this tunnel come out?" Hermione asked breathlessly. "It was marked on the Marauder's Map, but it goes off the edge…"
"Maybe Hogsmeade?" whispered Ron.
"It ends at the Shrieking Shack," said Harry, setting off, bent-backed, after Crookshanks. "And don't worry, it's not actually haunted," he added when he heard Hermione's frightened squeak. "People only thought it was when Lupin started using it for his werewolf transformations as a student…"
They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double; ahead of them, Crookshanks' tail bobbed in and out of view. On and on went the passage, and before long the three of them were drawing breaths in sharp, painful gasps, running at a crouch…
And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it twisted, and Crookshanks was gone. Ahead Harry could see a patch of dim light through a small opening.
He, Ron and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging forward. They raised their wands to see what lay beyond.
It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as though somebody had smashed it. The windows were all boarded up. Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, both who looked very frightened but nodded.
Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around. The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood open, leading to a shadowy hallway. His eyes fell on a wooden chair near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it; one of the legs had been ripped off entirely. The rest of the furniture inside the room had a similar look about them— torn and shredded as though a beast ripped them apart with its teeth.
Harry briefly imagined a young Lupin locked up here during the full moon, tearing at the furniture and his own body because he was separated from humans he could bite; then surveying the carnage he created after the full moon, alone until someone could escort him back to Hogwarts (Madam Pomfrey, perhaps?). What kind of thoughts went through his mind? Did he, like the anonymous author of Hairy Snout, Human Heart, loathed that new side of him that was destructive and mad? Did he feel a sense of abandonment and alienation that he couldn't describe in words?
I felt so alone, every time the full moon waxed and waned…
At that moment, there was a creak overhead.
Something had moved upstairs. The three of them looked up at the ceiling. Hermione suddenly grabbed Ron's arm again, very tightly. Ron raised his eyebrows at her, and she nodded again, letting go.
Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where there were two sets of paw marks. One belonged to Crookshanks, surely. But other set belonged to something much larger than the cat.
They reached the dark landing. Only one door was open. As they crept toward it, they heard movement from behind it; a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring. They exchanged a last look, a last nod.
Wand held tightly before him, Harry slowly opened the door.
On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings laid Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them. Next to Crookshanks sat a strange man.
A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. It was Sirius Black.
For a while it felt as though time had stopped. Harry just stood there, frozen, with his wand outstretched, as the final, missing pieces of the puzzle slotted themselves into their spots. All those attacks Crookshanks lay upon Scabbers … how Sirius Black managed to get into Hogwarts undetected … why Crookshanks knew Black was here on this particular night … why Peter Pettigrew, a friend of his birth father, was an Animagus…
Sirius Black stared up at him out of those sunken eyes.
"Going to kill me, Harry?" he whispered.
Harry belatedly realised he was pointing his wand at Sirius's chest. He quickly whispered, "Nox" and put his wand away.
Then Harry drew in a deep breath.
"I know the whole story," he started. "My old dad — James Potter — switched Secret Keepers the last minute; it was Pettigrew instead of you. Pettigrew sold my parents to Voldemort, but it backfired on him. Pettigrew framed you and pretended to be a rat all these years. Fudge gave you a copy of the Daily Prophet last summer that showed a picture of Ron and his pet rat. You recognised the rat in the photo was Pettigrew. You … got angry."
Sirius gaped at Harry. He looked like he was driven speechless.
"'Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is much more vicious motivator'," said Harry, remembering Sherlock's words. "You hated Pettigrew for making you lose everyone you loved. This wasn't something positive, so the Dementors couldn't take it away from you. The moment you knew where to look, you were able to take actions. I suppose you're an Animagus like Pettigrew … you transformed and escaped as an animal. Dementors can't see, so they wouldn't have been able to tell. What is your form?"
"…A dog," said Sirius slowly. "I can transform into a dog. But how…?"
"I've been reading about werewolves," said Harry. "They're only dangerous to humans. Animals are okay. If you knew Lupin's secret and you cared about him, then you would've tried to make him feel better about the werewolf thing — make him feel less lonely. That's why you, my old dad and Pettigrew decided to become Animagi, right?"
Sirius nodded.
"Your Animagus ability came in very handy after you broke out of Azkaban," Harry continued. "You kept yourself hidden by staying in your dog form. You tried to catch Pettigrew, and somehow got Crookshanks to help. You've been in communication with him all this time. When the Dementors started to look for you in Hogsmeade, you holed up here in the Shrieking Shack, waiting for the right time to enter Hogwarts again…"
There was a long pause. Sirius was slumped forward, staring at his feet, like he couldn't bring himself to believe what he just heard.
"You—don't have to hide anymore," said Harry. "Pettigrew is gone, but everyone knows about him now."
"Yeah, and the Ministry is reinvestigating your case," said Ron. "It's been all over the Prophet. Someone found video footage of Pettigrew killing all those Muggles with a Blasting curse … our kind is screaming for your freedom, you know. They're angry that you didn't even get a proper trial."
"If you can't believe us, go look around for wooden crates in the Forbidden Forest," said Hermione. "Hagrid and our music teacher, they've been leaving them out for you. There's food and blankets and copies of the Daily Prophet in them. You can read it yourself."
Sirius continued to stare at his feet. Harry raked his brains for something else to say—something that would move this man to believe him.
"Baker Street," said Harry abruptly. "I live in 221B Baker Street. London. When … this is all over, when you have time, come visit me."
Sirius looked up.
"I'll wait," Harry promised.
-oo00oo-
John was resting on the couch a few days after the overnight stay at the A&E. As John listened to Sherlock putter around the kitchen, a rip appeared right in the centre of 221B's sitting room. This kind of seemingly impossible things happened all the time, so John didn't even blink when the rip opened and a man dressed in an off-white suit jacket, white unbuttoned sleeved shirt, and a black T-shirt that had ornate flower patterns drawn with fluorescent gradient lines peered half-way out of the elliptical hole.
"Hi, Robert," said John, side-eyeing the eye-burning T-shirt.
"Hiiii," said Robert, waving and grinning goofily. "So how is the bun in the oven?"
"How does everyone know?" John grumbled. "Well, I think conception happened around Christmas or the first week of January, so…"
"…You're about 10 weeks pregnant," said Robert, darting his eyes around the flat as he did the calculations. "That means you're due late August or early September."
"Yeah, that sounds about right."
Robert nodded as he slipped out of the hole. He was wearing grey trousers that looked like bellbottoms, and John was pretty sure the beltline reached his navel. The Sperry's on his feet were lime green and pink tartan.
"That is the most tragic outfit I've ever seen," John declared.
"Is it?" asked Robert as he put down his portable wooden chest of drawers. "Jacqueline said the same thing."
"Oh, yeah, you work for her, don't you?" said John, grinning. "Isn't she cute when she's upset?"
"Like a tiny irate kitten," said Robert, nodding. "And I don't work for her anymore; I got fired last night."
"Sacked, you mean. So what did you do? Wore your shinny mirror suit to work?"
"No, I…" Robert blushed a bit. "I asked her to marry me."
There was silence for a span of a minute.
"…Okay, back up," said John, making backward flapping gestures, while Sherlock came to her side with a look a deep intrigue on his face. "How did this happen?"
"When you got shipped over to the A&E, Jack dragged me over there to visit. We met a friend of Sherlock's there."
"You mean enemy?"
"Archenemy."
"Yep, I know exactly who you're talking about. Let me guess: he offered her money to do some research for him."
"No resources spared, and whatever price she asks," Robert confirmed. "Apparently Jacqueline's been scrubbing the Internets and removing compromising digital data since 2008; how Mr. Archenemy knew this, I have no idea. But he said she must've developed it when a teacher friend of hers told her a bunch of kids took humiliating photos a poor kid they'd singled out for bullying and worried they might post them on Facebook. Well, next thing we know, all the data is gone. Like, vanished. Without a trace."
"Yep, sounds like something she'd do, sneakily without telling anyone," said John sagely. "I suppose Mr. Archenemy wanted whatever it is she made so he can maintain the Muggle-Magic status quo and do some clandestine cyber warfare on the side. What did she say?"
" 'Your money is very impressive; your job, not so much.' "
John almost fell off the couch laughing, and Sherlock rumbled with gleeful chuckles.
"Oh, Jack," said John, wiping her eyes. "She's growing quite a spine. Use to be such a pushover."
"I don't think she was ever a pushover, to be quite honest," said Robert wistfully. "But can you blame me for thinking there can be no other woman for me?"
"No," said John. "So you did what you usually do when you're not in doctor-mode: just blurted everything out. Is that how you got sacked?"
"She thought I was joking at first. But when I insisted that I'm always completely serious…"
"…Chop," John finished. "You poor, socially-stunted bastard."
"I didn't know what else to do," said Robert, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "I've never pursued someone before. How did you do it?"
The last question was tossed at Sherlock. Sherlock, true to form, simply ignored it. So John answered instead:
"Made me worry about him constantly by catching the eye of a criminal mastermind, dragging me to a bunch of crime scenes and offending everyone there, and almost getting killed and publicly disgraced by aforementioned criminal mastermind. Then whilst staying underground to ride out the media shat storm that followed his fake suicide, he took me a series of dates without actually telling me that they were dates. They were so awkward and stupid I knew he was actually serious about the marriage proposal, which he used to shock me to sleep so he could confront criminal mastermind alone."
Robert stared at John for a long time.
"…You're not lying," he declared. "How is that even possible?"
"Welcome to my life," said John dryly.
"You're not here just to learn about our marriage story, surely?" Sherlock groused.
"Of course not," Robert huffed. "First off, a bit of news: Sirius Black turned himself in and his trial is scheduled to happen as soon as the reinvestigation to his case is over. He's under house-arrest at the moment. He might come over to visit if/when the Wizengamot declares him innocent of all charges. As for me, I'm here to follow up on the potions Severus Snape gave you. He's a very good potioneer, but he's not actually a healer."
Sherlock turned inscrutable after the last statement. Robert donned latex gloves and pulled out sterilized acupuncture needles from one of the wooden drawers. He also pulled out several bottles and vials from two different drawers.
"Is magical acupuncture different from the non-magic ones?" asked John, looking fascinated.
"Well, the basic idea is the same," said Robert. "Use needles to stimulate the body and trigger healing."
"But," Sherlock said.
"There's magic involved," said Robert. "And we don't actually insert the needles."
Sherlock and John stared as the needles floated over to John's abdomen and arranged themselves in a row about an inch away from the skin. Then what looked like currents of electricity started to thread between the needles. Once all the needles were connected, the tips glowed and emitted beams of light.
"The minor part that got lost in translation," said Sherlock, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "How does it feel, John?"
"Tingly and warm."
"How very descriptive."
"Shut up, it's hard to explain."
Robert worked silently while Sherlock loudly demanded more details. He blew gently over the needles a few times and every time he did so the heat that pulsated inside John intensified for a moment. Then he dipped his nose almost directly on top of John's stomach—but never touching—and inhaled deeply. Something like silver vapour poured out of the needles and flowed into his eyes and ears.
"You're okay," Robert concluded, cutting off the magic current and putting the needles back into his wooden chest with a casual flick of a hand. "Looks like he bombarded you with the most potent restorative potions he could brew up for the last three years. Rough, but it did the job. Your kidney was a bit misshapen and your digestive tract got a bit pushed to the side, so I corrected that. Call me if your morning sickness doesn't go away."
"Great. Thanks."
"Take a mouthful of this twice a day," said Robert handing over a vial full of golden liquid, "And this once every other day," he handed over a small bottle of transparent potion, "and make sure you take your prenatal vitamins."
"What are the rest?" asked Sherlock, while John checked the labels.
"Cleaning solutions," said Robert seriously. "Your apartment is a dust heap; bad for baby."
He then rolled up sleeves and marched into the kitchen, carrying the bottles with him.
"Helpful," said Sherlock, nodding, while Robert sprayed a potion on their countertops. "I see why you found him endearing."
"I suppose you like him now that he took over your cleaning duties," John mocked.
Sherlock glared briefly. They both turned to stare at the kitchen when a contained explosion suddenly lit it up like a furnace. They stared some more when white steam started billowing out through the slide doors.
Once the steam cleared, Robert left the kitchen holding up a huge greyish-green brick.
"This is all the dust that's been sitting around in your kitchen," he said indignantly. "Clean more often."
John promptly threw up.
Robert cleaned up the sitting room after banishing the bile and resulting dust bricks (even bigger than the one he made from the kitchen dust). After throwing on the walls something that looked like coarse sea salt except the grains dissolved immediately upon contact, he hung up a bundle of red chili peppers tied together with rope on the kitchen doorpost.
"What is that for?"
"Oh, this is just tradition," said Robert. "From my neck of the woods, we hang up red chili peppers when the mother is having a boy."
John blinked at him.
"We're having a boy?"
"Mmn," said Robert, nodding jerkily.
John mouthed 'boy' as she texted Harry the news. Sherlock stared at John's tummy as she did so. Then he squinted at the bundle of chili peppers.
"…I'll never be able to look at chili peppers the same way ever again," he complained.
-oo00oo-
Severus was having an exceptionally bad first week of March. Sirius Black had turned himself in by knocking on the door to Hagrid's hut the one Saturday morning he'd decided to sleep in. Dumbledore escorted Black to the Ministry of Magic immediately, and kept the news to himself all day until the Evening Prophet proclaimed it. The students would talk about nothing except Black from thereon out.
On top of that, Potter suddenly exhibited the same level of incompetence as Longbottom.
"Orange, Potter," barked Severus, ladling some up and allowing to splash back into the cauldron, "Orange. Didn't you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed? Didn't I state plainly that a dash of slug juice would suffice? Where have you placed your feeble little mind?"
Potter blinked at him with mooncalf like simplicity. It was as though he hadn't understood a single word he just said.
Severus had just bent down to say something vicious directly in Potter's face when the boy muttered in voice so low only he could hear:
"I'm going to have a baby brother."
It took a while for the sentence to properly percolate through Severus's head.
When it did, Severus was so derailed, he … well, he had all the proper snide words floating around in his head, but he couldn't seem to get them out to his mouth. Severus could almost feel the curiosity levelled at him as he continued to fail to speak.
"…Detention," he finally snapped.
Potter just shrugged and continued to stare in a daze.
When class was over, Severus went inside the room where he kept his private potion ingredients and pulled out his old Muggle mobile phone. As he pondered how to word the message, he wondered which potion he'd sent over the years had finally done the job of re-growing Watson's missing organs.
So which one was it, the Cura Expus or Draught of Recovery?
Watson's reply was prompt as always:
No idea. But the empty vials always remind me you're not an utter bastard.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Thus ends POA. Phew. It bears little resemblance to my original plans, but hey! It worked.
I have no idea if detective sergeants are allowed to carry Tasers. As recently as 2008 the home secretary announced that 30,000 non-firearms officers would be allowed to carry them. If all else fails, call it dramatic license ™.
I have this idea of Sherlock and John fostering kids for emergency placement when Harry is off at Hogwarts. Those kids would later form the contemporary equivalent of Baker Street Irregulars (in addition to Sherlock's Homeless Network). I couldn't cover the idea here, but perhaps, after I gather the necessary info and find the time, I could write a side-story about it. Aaaaah the avalanche of ideas…