"I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;"

-W. B. Yeats, The Song of Wandering Aengus

Flying Away on a Bike

The cat gave a loud meow, turned tail, and ran up the stairs out of sight. Sherlock began creeping up the stairs, slowly and noiselessly, once again following the white cat.

Sherlock remembered the gun in his pocket. Now was the time to take it out. Reaching the landing, Sherlock saw a poorly lit dining room. There was a little table with two chairs, and a few half-melted candles. Another oddity.

Someone's shadow was on the wall. He could hear the footfalls of the man he was here to find. The last two days had been utter insanity. Sherlock was hoping this man, with a very strange house, would be able to give him all the answers he needed.

He could hear the footsteps retreat into a room further away, probably the kitchen. Sherlock took the opportunity to sneak into the little dining room. His gun was out, and he was pointing towards the other room, the other man. Sherlock felt the wonderful jolt of adrenaline, making way through his veins. This was really the best high for him. Playing cat and mouse with the most dangerous people in London is a risky game, but the most fun game that Sherlock has ever played. Even better than beating Mycroft at Operation.

"Meow!" Sherlock had almost forgotten about the cat. It had now joined the man in the kitchen.

"Oh, look who decided to show up again. You hungry?" A raspy voice answered. Male, but not the voice Sherlock had expected to hear. There was a note of something in it.

Something that reminded Sherlock of Mrs. Hudson, and his parents, and John. Something Sherlock didn't really want think about too much.

"Where have you been? It's been days you know. I get that being a cat you're independent, but I do worry." Was this man actually talking to the cat?

"Meow!" Oh, and apparently the cat was answering. Has the world gone mad in the last few hours?

"Yes alright, I think I have something for you, just let me look." Sherlock heard the sound of rummaging and couldn't help but thinking this didn't sound like the type of conversation a mad murderer would be having. Especially with a cat. Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind things were falling into place, and it would be only a matter of time before his brain produced some of its own answers. Until then, he needed this man to come out. His patience was running out.

As if in cue, his prey returned into the dining room. Sherlock's well trained reflexes snapped him up.

"Put your hands up Mr. Potter, or I will shoot!" Sherlock saw the dark haired man's momentary look of panic. Then, confusion?

"Is that a gun? Are you seriously hoping to get me with a gun? Well, I suppose it is a novel idea..." While speaking, the stranger slowly raised his hands. His eyes were darting from the gun to Sherlock's face. Sherlock was looking for all the signs he knew of impending aggression. The stranger's green eyes were excited, but he was remarkably calm.

The man had a pleasant face, older than what Sherlock had seen from the wanted poster. There were some stress lines, but in this moment, the man seemed almost ease. A small part of Sherlock was frustrated. Considering he was pointing a loaded weapon straight at the man's chest, at ease was hardly appropriate.

Sherlock met the man's eyes, trying for his best attempt at confrontational superiority.

Sherlock Holmes had stared down maniacs, criminals and notorious psychos in his life. He was not going to let this thin, cat-loving, bespectacled man get the best of him. Looking straight into the man's eyes, Sherlock felt something strange.

The man's eyes glittered, and Sherlock felt the curious sensation of being scanned, his mind probed and prodded. Odd words, that decidedly weren't his, floated in the back of his head, almost out of reach of consciousness. Hogwarts, and then, Where's your wand? Sherlock had no idea what to make of either. Since when did pigs have warts? And was 'wand' innuendo?

Sherlock broke eye contact, deciding that being careful was of higher priority than winning a staring contest. This man had access to mind-altering technology, and perhaps hypnosis played a part in his adventures earlier this night. He knew little of hypnosis, although he was sure that it was only possible with direct contact, and time.

"That was interesting," the stranger spoke again. He looked away, and had a look of consternation, as though trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

"You have a rather difficult mind, Mr Holmes. Admittedly, I'm a bit confused about some things." Well, that makes two of us. Sherlock supposed that while the stranger was inclined to talk, he might as well let him. He decide to ignore the edge of panic that sprung up when this man had said his name.

Suddenly the stranger grimaced.

"Sorry, I know it's terribly rude to just break in like that. Being a fugitive it pays to be cautious, but it's a rather unfortunate habit at this point."

Break in where? Sherlock thought with indignation, I'm the one that broke into his hideout!

"What I don't understand is why they would send a muggle after me. They must know very well it wouldn't be challenging for me to escape." Sherlock had no idea what this man just said, but he was still feeling very insulted. Perhaps noticing the look of annoyance on Sherlock's face, the stranger hurriedly added.

"Not that it's not impressive that you found me in the first place. In fact it'll be quite a joke on the lot of them. Almost fourteen years of highly trained aurors out for my blood, and a muggle with a gun corners me. They always underestimate you, you know. They have this condescending attitude, like 'oh look how quaint they are, compensating with their gadgets and gizmos.' But this will definitely show them!"

The man's eyes glittered with excitement, looking at Sherlock with a look of camaraderie, as though they were about to pull a prank together. Well, Sherlock was not in on it. He still had no bloody idea what was going on, and this man was not making any sense. Although it was good of him to admit that Sherlock was impressive, he was quite sure he wasn't a muggle, whatever that was. By the sound of the word, it was definitely an insult. Before he could begin his questions, the stranger spoke again.

"It almost seems a shame that I do have to escape. If it weren't for the threat of the kiss, I'd almost consider letting you bring me in. It would be hilarious watching the ministry officials as they realize a muggle policeman bested their own people." Right, that was the last straw for Sherlock. What kissing had to do with anything, he had no idea, but he certainly wasn't going to let this man escape.

"Mr. Potter, I have no idea who they are, and why they have such little faith in my abilities, but let me remind you that I am currently pointing a gun at you, and therefore your chances for escape seem rather slim." Sherlock put on his most acerbic tone, but the stranger merely tilted his head in, a universal sign of confusion. Sherlock decided to plow on.

"I have some question that you will answer for me, first of which is what the hell happened when I came in through the window?" Sherlock could feel his facade crumbling at the edges. All of this night's 'adventures' were piling up, and after all there's only so much a man can take. It was therefore highly infuriating that the man opposite Sherlock kept looking at him with a nothing more than tame curiosity. Suddenly, Potter's face cleared of confusion. He stared at Sherlock.

"You don't know do you? They...didn't send you?" The stranger spoke, with a look of awe in his eyes. Loathe as he was to admit it, it seemed Sherlock really didn't know. In fact, it seemed he didn't know what he didn't know, which was even worse. Well, at least it's a first, Sherlock huffed internally.

"Then this is most extraordinary!" Potter was back to looking excited.

"The fact that you were able to track me and find me, not even knowing what you were looking for, well it's simply amazing! I didn't even realize that the mugg- er, the police were attempting to find me. I'm not sure how you did it Mr. Holmes, but you have certainly earned my respect." Potter almost stepped forward in his excitement. Realizing what he was doing, he quickly withdrew, his hands still somewhat raised in mock surrender.

Sherlock considered all this. Potter was starting to sound surprisingly like John, what with all the flattery.

So, this man knew the police weren't looking for him. That was illuminating. Until his encounter with the Surrey chief the morning after the Dursley murder, he would have thought the police would be actively searching him out. This whole thing stank of conspiracy.

Reviewing once again the facts from the Dursley murder, Sherlock made the resounding conclusion that this man in front of him did not murder his relatives. It had been a long trail of evidence that lead to this deduction. Sherlock had suspected it, but it was always nice to be sure that you're right. The man responsible for their deaths was almost 7 ft tall. Harry Potter was slightly shorter than Sherlock, and decidedly not that giant. In fact, Harry Potter didn't seem dangerous at all. Slightly unbalanced, judging by the way he was talking, but not aggressive.

More facts and clues fell into their place in the back of Sherlock's mind, and theories formed. He decided to test one out. He suspected that Harry had not yet even known of his relatives' fate.

"I'm not with the police Mr. Potter. However, I am sometimes called to examine cases that are particularly difficult. When the police are baffled, I help them sort it out in their undersized brains. The reason I am tracking you is because two days ago I was called to Surrey..." Sherlock paused dramatically, seeing that his hypothesis was correct. Harry visibly blanched. He had not know about the murder, and he certainly had not committed it.

"What happened in Surrey?" The man asked, his voice strangled.

"A double homicide. A Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were found dead..." Sherlock paused, examining Potter's reaction. He expected cool surprise, maybe a slight twinge of sympathy, but not this. The man's face contorted in a grimace, like he was in pain. He tried to control it, and replace it with something. Potter was very upset at the news of his relative's deaths, and Sherlock had not expected that. Certainly not after what he'd seen at Privet drive.

"...were found dead under very mysterious circumstances." Sherlock finished, now more carefully gauging the man in front of him.

2 Days Prior

Sherlock and Watson stayed on the scene at Privet Drive after examining the bodies of the two elder Dursleys. Sherlock was convinced there were more clues waiting in the house, but he couldn't very well get to them with all these ruffians, -er police people, in his way. One or two of them attempted to politely tell Sherlock and John to clear off, but a few insults and deductions about their mothers and love affairs shut them up.

After making sure that most of the police were hurrying away, tail behind their legs, Sherlock began to examine the rest of the house. He was informed by the chief that the two Dursleys had a son, now mid thirties. He had moved out a few years back, and now resides in London. His old bedroom, just like his parents', was incredibly boring, and yielded no new information. The chief thought him a suspect but Sherlock announced immediately that the son's IQ was probably in the double digits, and perpetrating an impossible murder was far out of his capabilities.

Out in the hall of the second landing, Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to the other bedroom. It was apparently a guest room, but there were some details about the door that led to some disturbing conclusions.

"Why didn't you tell me there was a fourth person that lived here?" Sherlock turned his sharp eyes to the chief that was waddling after them, taking in all the information on his little notepad.

"There wasn't Mr. Holmes, just Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, and their son..." He stammered out, but was promptly cut off by Sherlock. Sherlock so loved cutting people off.

"There was another. Same age as their son, male. Family relation." The chief began to hurriedly shuffle his notes.

"No, Mr Holmes, no mention of them having another son, and none of the pictures show anyone besides the three Dursleys we know about..."Sherlock snorted. The chief was moderately clever to use the family pictures, which Sherlock had noticed. Somewhat clever, but wrong, Sherlock thought. He strode over to the door of the second bedroom.

"He lived here, in this bedroom. The Dursleys did their best to hide him away. Although I'm not an expert on matters of affection or lack thereof, I would guess the family held great dislike for the fourth resident of number 4 privet drive. So there's no surprise he's in none of the pictures." Sherlock knelt down. Well, this was getting interesting.

"There was a cat-flap in that door. They would lock him in here, feed him through that." Sherlock walked into the the bedroom and began to examine random objects. However, the more excited Sherlock became, John became more and more upset. He hated injustice in the world, and this was an extreme case. How could parents do that, the doctor thought to himself.

"Hang on, are you saying they did that to their own son? The locked him in here and starved him, while the other one got fat as a whale?"

Still rummaging about with the closet, Sherlock answered.

"No, not a son. Must have been a cousin or nephew. Yes, I think nephew fits. And yes, John, to everything else. That's not all..." He was standing next to a wall, and moved a tacky landscape painting out of the way.

"He was thrown against the wall here," Sherlock gently mimicked the action of being thrown, pointing out a slight indent in the otherwise smooth surface. Then he stepped over to the other wall, "And here. It was likely about twenty years ago since he's been here, so most of the evidence is gone. We can assume this was not the only instance of physical abuse."

John was gaping and shooting dirty looks at the wall. War and chasing mad criminals, with a madder detective, might have desensitized him, but he still thought child abusers were sick. Sherlock, seemingly unaffected kept rattling off facts about this other resident of number 4 Privet Drive.

"They were careful to keep him out of society, secluded. They didn't want people to know about him. He had a secret they didn't want anyone else to know. Hmm, this window..." He walked over to the only window in the room.

"They put bars on this window, several times. Somebody forcibly broke them, from the outside. He must have had an accomplice that helped bust him out." And here, John thought these Dursley people were a picture of ordinary, family life. Who knew they were the type that would imprison a kid? He felt a lot of his sympathy for their death flee him.

Sherlock was tapping on a floor board with his foot. Suddenly, he was moving the bed, and started prying open the floor.

"He kept his things here, the important ones. There's nothing left now, damn!" Sherlock supposed it wasn't so surprising, these people tried to wipe away every trace that their nephew had lived with them. They must have discovered his hiding spot and got rid of anything that was left. Or maybe the boy took everything when he cleared off.

Sherlock was beginning to feel excited. This was a very intricate mystery indeed. So that's what the Dursleys were hiding? A nephew with a secret. Sherlock momentarily considered that the nephew was very ill, and that was the reason for his forced seclusion.

No, an illness was unlikely. Perhaps it was a matter of the boy's parentage? He did not understand it, but Sherlock knew that sometimes people took great offense to children born outside of marriages. However, these were all guesses in the dark, and Sherlock needed facts.

Next course of action would be to question the neighbors. Hopefully, someone will remember the fourth and most interesting member of the Dursley family. They would need to visit the district's schools as well. He might have gone to school locally, so they would have records there.

"Right. John we're leaving." With a swish of his coat, Sherlock turned around and loped down the stairs, heading for the door. John, who was used to this abruptness, picked himself up immediately and ran after Sherlock. He was almost down the stairs when Sherlock halted in his tracks. John had a momentary struggle while grabbing the banister, to avoid running head first into Sherlock and falling on his face.

"Sherlock! What..." With a considerable degree of ire in his voice, John began speaking.

"The cupboard!" Sherlock exclaimed, then turned around and gave John the look.

"The cupboard under the stairs," Sherlock strode towards the small door.

"There's a lock on it. Oh, I was absolutely blind not to notice it before!"

Something cold writhed in John's belly.

"You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting are you?" John asked.

"Probably."

"They kept him in a cupboard?"

"Definitely. Until something happened to change their minds, and relocate him to the smallest bedroom. I have no idea what it could have been. Their attitude had certainly not changed. Perhaps someone else persuaded them?" Sherlock opened the little bolt lock and opened the door.

Looking inside, John realized right away that Sherlock was right, about everything regarding this nephew. Whereas the second bedroom was swept clean of any evidence that someone else lived there, the cupboard was completely intact, with kid drawings, toy soldiers, and a little bed-like nest in the corner. It was like the Dursley had never set foot in here, after it was vacated by its one miserable tenant. Probably didn't want to face their shame, thought John bitterly.

For the doctor, it was cases like this that were the hardest to handle. The contrast of the sleek, shining comfort of the Dursley house, and a cramped, dusty cupboard where a child was forced to live were infuriating. Sherlock was already inside, ducking and putting his magnifying glass to everything within reach. Right now, John didn't really feel like investigating.

He reached inside and yanked a drawing of the closest wall. The kid had some talent, John thought, almost fondly. You could clearly see two figures, one with a bushy beard, riding a motorbike. Apparently, this motorbike could fly, as they were zooming past little clouds and stars. Quite an imagination too, then.

"This is fantastic! Everything is preserved, almost perfectly. They must have never come in here." Sherlock was still engrossed in every detail of the tiny 'room.' John knew that his friend had a clear disregard for the emotional side of humanity. So, perhaps it was not surprising that he was yelling 'fantastic' while he uncovered this family's dark secret. However, the bars on the window, the cat flap, and now this ruddy cupboard were striking at something very painful and upsetting.

"Fantastic? Sherlock, this is a kid we're talking about. A kid that's been through..." John began to express, but of course, was cut off by Sherlock.

"He's not a kid, John. Remember, this all happened almost twenty years ago. He'd be our age now." John was about to retort, but found that what Sherlock said made him feel slightly less upset about the whole thing. He closed his mouth and walked away from the cupboard. Right. They were still on a case, trying to find the person that murdered the two Dursleys. Right. A sudden thought struck him.

"Sherlock you don't think it was the nephew..."

"That murdered them? No, highly improbable. Although, not for a lack of motive. The murders are too impersonal." Sherlock said.

They stayed at the house for a few more minutes while Sherlock upturned everything in the small cupboard. The chief had located them again, and gaped in surprise when he found the little space. Sherlock was looking smug that all of his deductions were proven correct. He informed the chief that they would be in touch when they uncovered more information. To John, he said that they were now leaving the scene, and would be doing some field work around Little Whinging.

John followed after his friend. He still had the little drawing in his hand when they left the house, and he absentmindedly folded it. The man that would be in his mid-thirties didn't concern him, not really. It was the little boy, that was lonely and unloved, and had lived here two decades ago, that John now felt a regard for. 'Parents should put up their kids' drawings.' He thought, as he tucked the yellowing paper in his pocket. John wished, really wished, that he would have come here those two decades ago, to save a little boy that dreamed about flying away on a bike, while he was locked up under the stairs.

"...were found dead under very mysterious circumstances." Sherlock finished, now more carefully gauging the man in front of him.

Sherlock thought it very surprising that the man had reacted so strongly. If it were him, he would be happy that a family who had cared so little, and done so much hurt were dead. Well, maybe not happy, but certainly not as unhappy as Harry seemed to be now. One thing was for certain though, Potter was even worse at hiding his feeling than John.

Everything seemed to be coming together in some corner of Sherlock's head. Everyone might think that human nature was a mystery to Sherlock, and in some instances it was, but he knew criminals inside and out. Looking at Potter, it was highly unlikely that he was the sort man who could commit murder. Then, there were the other facts to consider: the cat, reacting to his relative's deaths, the easy manner, and of course, the unmistakable signs of conspiracy overarching this whole case. It was Sherlock's personal opinion that whoever got saddled with all the blame in highly secretive cases was usually not the perpetrator. It was his opinion only, but it was proven right on too many occasions.

Now all Sherlock wanted to know is more about who was pulling the string on this whole affair. Undoubtedly, Potter had some idea. Sherlock had about a hundred questions, all lined up. It was no use though, if the man in front of him decided to 'escape.' Sherlock needed to gain his trust. Then, maybe he could unearth some answers that weren't incomprehensible gibberish. Well, in order to gain trust, he needed to give trust. Or, at least, appear to.

"Mr. Potter, you might think I am suggesting that you are a suspect in the Dursley case. Let me rephrase. I believe you innocent of their murders. I also have reasons to believe that you are innocent of the other crimes that are attributed to you." Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, marking the last bit with an invisible question mark.

The change on Potter's face was astounding. His eyes were suddenly filled with gratitude, and a trace of hope.

"You're not lying..." The man almost whispered. "I can't tell much else, it's all way too fast, but you're not lying. You really believe that."

Sherlock realized how absurd it was that he was still holding John's gun. Potter wasn't dangerous. Or, maybe he was, but not just right now, and not to Sherlock. Lowering the gun, Sherlock sighed, and sat down. Harry Potter's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he lowered his hands.

"Are you gonna offer me a cup? Since you're making some anyway?" Sherlock asked, remembering the faint whistling noises of vapor escaping a kettle he heard earlier. Potter smiled slightly, retreated into the kitchen, and came back with two steaming mugs that were mismatched. One, Sherlock noted, had curious little balls in yellow and red for a pattern. The yellow one had wings. Well, what could he possibly deduce from that? What sort of ball has wings?

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to properly help you Mr. Potter, considering I find myself completely unaware of the secret society you belong to." A stab in the dark, but a good one, thought Sherlock.

Apparently Sherlock hit the mark because Potter was now staring at him.

"Nonetheless, you seem to be aware of a lot, Mr. Holmes." Harry was looking at him with awe. Mixed with something. Sadness? He sighed.

"I don't think you'll be able to help me at all, Mr. Holmes." Well that was just rubbish, thought Sherlock. I'll be the judge of that.

"You don't know me very well, Mr. Potter, or what I do. Whether I can help or not depends on me, doesn't it. Unless you really are guilty?" Leaning on the pause, Sherlock was gleeful to see Potter rise perfectly to the bait.

"No! No, I'm not." Harry stammered out. Sherlock almost felt bad for him. It was painfully obvious how lonely the man must be, being on the run for more than a decade. He had probably not had a conversation with another human being in ages. It was a bit immoral to use that to manipulate him. But when Sherlock wanted answers, he was going to get them.

"Right then, first thing I want to know is what happened when I entered your window." This was probably not the most important question. However, the experience seemed to stick out in Sherlock's head, and he needed it to have a rational explanation.

Potter sighed.

"I don't think that is the first question you will want answering." Potter said dejectedly. His whole attitude seemed to have undergone a change. He was hunched, and not looking at Sherlock.

"Oh, and what question should I be asking then, Potter?" Sherlock was getting annoyed with this evasiveness. He was trying to help, after all. Harry looked, and held his gaze for a long time.

"I think even you asked them, Mr. Holmes, I would not be able to answer." Harry said, now looking at the floor again. "There are laws about telling an outsider about our society, you see."

"Although-" Potter was hesitating now, on the brink of some decision. He looked back at Sherlock, his eyes shining defiantly.

"I don't think I could be any more wanted than I am, so what's a few international secrecy laws?" Harry seemed to consider what to say next. Sherlock knew well enough to keep his mouth shut, for now.

"Fine, culpam caecirius was what was cast over the windows and doors. It's a ward that's actually meant to immobilize someone. I'm still rather surprised you got through." Harry said this all in a very matter-of-fact tone, as though it wasn't just gibberish again.

Sherlock was about to formulate something acerbic in reply, when he remembered that he needed to ask the right question. He pondered for a second on what that might be.

"What is it that connects the people in your secret society?" Seeing Harry's small smile assured Sherlock that this was indeed the right question.

"Magic, Mr. Holmes. It's magic." Right, that was not the answer Sherlock was looking for.

"Who do you take me for, Potter? What, is that supposed to be a joke? I don't know if you're mad or simply think I'm a complete..." Sherlock's voice went dead as he saw the two mugs of tea and the tea pot began to rise in mid air. The tea set was floating, right there in front of his nose, like magic. He barely registered that Potter now had a stick in his hand, similar to an orchestra conductor's baton.

Floating, the china was floating. No, no, not possible.

"It's no joke, Mr. Holmes. Although, whether I'm mad or not, I'm not so certain." Harry spoke, and lowered the wooden baton. The tea set gently clicked down.

"The thing that unifies my 'secret society' is the ability to wield and do magic." He finished, unceremoniously tucking away the stick.

Sherlock had got up, by reflex, and started pacing. He suddenly remembered that he was in the hide-out of someone who had access to mind-altering technology, or some narcotic, that had given him his bad trip earlier. Perhaps he was still being affected. In fact, he was almost certainly being affected. Was it the tea? No, Potter had drunk it too, and it was from the same pot.

Maybe Sherlock was still under the influence of whatever was installed in the window? Yes, that must be it. Unless...

Unless it was what, really magic? Don't be stupid. He mentally berated himself. But, another voice in his head insisted that it all matched up.

Every case could be explained by magic. It's hardly an explanation. As Sherlock paced up and down the small dining room, Harry sat there merely looking at him.

"I could do something more extreme. I just didn't want to upset you." He said, with worry in his voice.

Fine, if he was so worried and wanted to prove this magic thing, Sherlock would go about it the scientific way. Change up the variables. He could perform some parlor tricks here, on his home turf, but what about a change of location? One that wasn't doused in hallucinogens, as Sherlock suspect this place was.

"Can you do that anywhere?" Sherlock asked brusquely.

"Yes, of course. Well, anywhere without an audience." Harry replied, concern still evident in his eyes as he looked at Sherlock.

"Fine. Great. We'll do your magic thing, but at a different location. We're going to Baker Street." Sherlock made to leave for the door.

"Wait," Harry called out. "Baker Street, that's in central London, right? If we're going that far, we can take my way." Sherlock turned around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Look, if you think of the location very hard, I can take us there in seconds." Harry stammered out, nervous under Sherlock's penetrating gaze. "That is if you want." He finished lamely.

"You can take us to central London in seconds?" Sherlock asked with derision.

"Yes. I suppose it requires some suspension of disbelief on your part. Or we could do it the way you came, but I do have to be careful." Harry answered.

Alright, Sherlock thought, I'll bite.

"Fine. Take me to my flat in seconds, Mr. Potter." Sherlock tried for sarcasm, but it came out as curious neutrality.

Harry stood up from the table, and strode over to him.

"Think of the location." Sherlock did, and Harry looked into his eyes and nodded accordingly. Preposterous. As though he can read minds.

"Brace yourself, it's somewhat uncomfortable." Harry grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock wasn't prepared for that, but more so he was not prepared for the unpleasant and claustrophobic feeling of coming out of a thin straw. He closed his eyes against it. When the sensation went away, he opened his eyes and found himself standing in the living room of 221b, and Sherlock's disbelief was certainly being suspended.

After the proper excuses were made to Mrs. Hudson about the noise, they were free to experiment.

Sometime later that night, Sherlock sat cross-legged on his carpet as Harry was making almost every object in the living room spin, float, dance and wheel about. Sherlock was laughing, and it was getting undeniably hard to assert that magic was not real. Sometimes Harry would transform one thing into another, and sometimes he would change the color of an object, but Sherlock's favorite was when he summoned a flock of bluebirds from the tip of his stick (wand, he corrected himself). They spun a few circles across the room, and landed on Sherlock, singing a song much prettier than any real bird.

Looking around a living room that was literally dancing, Sherlock felt something very old awakening in the pit of his stomach. Some sense of wonder that he hadn't felt for a very long time. Something he felt when he was a child, with Redbeard running beside him, and all the houses were whizzing by too fast to notice, as he was riding so fast it had felt like he was flying away on his bike.

Please review, my lovelies :) Like it, hate it, let me know.