…
" That made a deep impression upon the emperor, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought to himself, 'Now I must bear up to the end.'"
-Hans Christian Andersen, translated by H. P. Paull, The Emperor's New Clothes
...
King's New Clothes
…
Harry Potter sometimes made rash decisions. He always trusted his instincts. He believed that his continued survival was mostly due to his ability to follow what his gut whispered to him. Moving in with the strange genius-detective was a very rash decision. To his credit though, the little voice that had been his guide through life, had insisted it was a good idea.
So, after assuring Sherlock that he would be back shortly, Harry apparated back to Archer Street. He gathered his belongings (a single rucksack that had an uncountable amount of charms on it), and began to dismantle the wards he had placed on the house.
He found it truly baffling that anyone, much less a muggle, would have been able to penetrate the spells. The house being invisible aside, the curse he had placed to immobilize any intruders should have stopped anyone who came in. How Sherlock was able to do it, he didn't know.
Harry thought that Sherlock was beyond extraordinary, and for many reasons. His breaking into the house was the least of them. Harry had performed legilimency on the man, and found that his mind was unlike any other he has encountered. What Sherlock was able to reason out, given the most ambiguous clues, had been...almost magical. Harry decided that he quite liked the man. And despite the fact that he met him only yesterday evening, the little voice in his head was saying that he could trust Sherlock. After all, he was probably the only man in Britain that believed in Harry's innocence.
When he finished dismantling the wards, Harry began to vanish all the evidence of his stay in Archer Street. Dishes, candles, bits of rubbish lying around. A resounding 'meow' made him stop and spin around. The white cat that he had taken a liking to had materialized behind him. He didn't really have a name, so Harry had named him after the cat's favorite neighborhood to haunt.
"Archie! There you are. Listen, I have to move out of here..." The cat pranced up to him and rubbed his leg. Harry wasn't sure if Archie was a magical cat, but he could swear the animal understood him. Archie sat down in front of him, and looked up expectantly.
"You can come with me, it's a nice place with the nice man you met the other day. I asked if you could come, and he said you could. Would you like that?" The cat looked at Harry and gave another meow, decidedly sadder than the last one. The cat looked over to the window, and then back at Harry as if to say 'My home is here.'
"It would be a lovely place for you though. Central London, fancy alleyways and lots of other cats. And I would feed you very often. Come with me." Harry always felt a sense of embarrassment when he talked to the cat. He just knew the animal understood his every word, but that didn't mean it wasn't weird.
The cat looked over to the window again, and gave another meow, sounding something like human longing. Harry understood perfectly as well. Archie would not want to leave the place that was his home.
"Fine, if you're going to be like that, at least give me a hug. I'll miss you, you know..."
The white cat jumped right on Harry's jumper, and sunk it's claws into the knitting, giving him one of his 'hugs.' Harry reacted and grabbed the cat, wincing at his sharp claws. The cat bumped his head against Harry's chest a few times, and deciding that that was enough, jumped back onto the floor.
…
Returning from the Archer street hideout, and cementing his plan to take up residence at 221B, Harry started really looking about the flat. He rather liked the place. It was cluttered and very lived in. On first look, he thought it looked like a mess, but now that he could examine it, he found loads of books, a few sets of preserved insects, glassware, and even some weapons.
It reminded him a bit of Grimmauld place, after it had been cleaned up. Not that he expected there to be dangerous magical artifacts; but there was a skull, and that had certainly surprised Harry when he noticed. Keeping a skull was old hat for wizards (mostly dark ones, admittedly). He had no idea what sort of use a muggle would get out of keeping a skull.
He would very much like to ask Sherlock about the skull, but he seemed nowhere in sight. Despite the haphazard living room, Harry's first impression of the muggle's flat was decidedly positive. It seemed a bit odd, but then Harry had not much experience with how muggles lived. There were the Dursleys and the unhappy years Harry had spent there, but this place on Baker Street was about as a different from Privet Drive as one could get. Possibly this is precisely why Harry had such a good feeling about it.
Remembering the Dursleys, Harry felt a guilty pang. There was no reason for them to die, none at all. No, there was one reason actually: him. It was impossible that a wizard had randomly selected Harry's relatives as their victim. Sherlock had been right. It was almost certainly the same person that perpetrated the original bloodbath that had been blamed on Harry.
Harry didn't care much for his relatives, glad to see their backs in 1997. That didn't mean he wanted them dead though. The murder would be blamed on Harry, wasn't that appropriate? In a way, it was his fault.
He looked around the living room, at all the strange and beautiful items. Well, he didn't really want to mess with Sherlock's things much. Especially since the man seemed nowhere in sight. Instead, he decided to visit the kitchen and see if there's any more well prepared food that he could steal. He opened the fridge and looked in.
This is when Harry had come to the unsavory conclusion that he might have accidentally become flat-mates with a serial killer. This was not an unfounded suspicion in the least. Harry really didn't know what else to assume, after he found a severed head in the fridge, and a plastic bag full of...intestines?
The little voice in his head whispered that there was probably an explanation. But Harry was a little pissed at that voice, considering how wrong it had been in letting him come here in the first place. 'Look where you've got us now. We're sharing a living room with a mad muggle who collects body parts. Smashing, well done.'
Harry quietly closed the fridge and sat down. He didn't feel hungry anymore, and he supposed that was a small plus. On the other hand, he had no bloody idea about what to do with this whole 'potential maniac who butchers people' situation. His best course of action would probably be to call the police, but considering his own status, that was out of the question.
Harry heard a door slam downstairs, and footsteps on the stair case. Checking that he still had his wand, Harry drew a few big breaths and tried to steady himself. Figures, the first person to believe him about his innocence kept people's heads in the fridge. And his friend (John, was it?) had seemed alright, normal really.
Holmes was a bit strange, but he never guessed it was this strange.
Suddenly, he heard the door downstairs open, and a in a few moments Sherlock flounced in, hardly paying any heed to Harry, who was quietly sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock plopped down, acting as though he was perfectly innocent and carefree, and there were no mutilated corpse parts in his fridge.
Sherlock had a few paper bags in his arms and he dumped them on the table. He took out a newspaper from one of the bags, and sat down, opened it and disappeared behind it.
Harry watched him steadily. He decided that he would need to find out all he can about the owner of the head. The man might have had a family, there could be people looking for him. The traitorous voice in Harry's head softly said that it's also possible that Sherlock hadn't been the one to decapitate the man.
Harry considered how to approach this. He was afraid of asking straight up if Holmes was a murderer. He could find the answers in his mind obviously, as confusing and fast-paced as it was. And although Harry had a distaste for legilimency, sometimes it was necessary.
Legilimency with Sherlock was difficult, as Harry had come to find out yesterday. Half of the things that were in his head had made no sense to Harry, though he could guess they were connected to muggle science. And of course, the thoughts were all very fast, and Harry really had to try very hard to even catch their meaning in the first place.
Sherlock was reading the journal, and his eyes whizzing by on each line. Harry looked in his eyes, and tried to prod at what was going on inside. Sherlock was steadfastly thinking about what he was reading. Random flashes of corpses kept coming up to the forefront, and being discarded again. Harry's throat tightened.
This didn't bode well.
He couldn't see anything in Sherlock's head past what he was concentrating on: the newspaper. He would have to bring the dead man's head to the forefront of Sherlock's thoughts, somehow. Otherwise, it was useless. Harry gathered his courage and dove in.
"So, uh, there's a bloke's head in the ice box." Honesty was the best policy sometimes. Sherlock looked up at him with a blank expression. Not with a surprised 'what are you talking about, severed heads?' or a scared 'severed head, good god, really?' No, just a blank expression. As though Harry had just asked him if he had any milk.
Suddenly, Sherlock's expression cleared in comprehension and he gave a soft 'oh.'
"Yes, an experiment, nothing to worry about." His eyes went back to the newspaper. Harry was sure he was telling the truth. It was still not consoling, but very surprising.
"Experiment?" He choked out.
"Yes, I need to find out how blood coagulates in the mouth, given the temperature is close to zero centigrade." Once again, truth.
"I mean, where did you get it?" A bit more straightforward. Sherlock looked up at this, and studied Harry.
"Hmm, maybe some explanation is in order then... I certainly didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking. Judging by your pallor, and the fact that you're currently attempting to read my mind, yes, you were thinking exactly that. Perfectly honest mistake, what else would you assume?" Not only was Sherlock telling the truth, Harry could make out the purpose of the experiment. Sherlock was trying to catch a criminal at the expense of some poor sod's head.
"I should have warned you. You might find other experiments. You should know that I did not bring about the harm of any of those people." Again, all true as far as Harry could tell.
Harry had decided that was enough interrogation for one evening. He promptly pulled out of Sherlock's mind. An apology for the accusation and legilimency seemed a bit awkward. Luckily, Sherlock had seemed absorbed with the newspaper again, until he put down it down with a huff.
"All boring, all transparent. I'm glad I have you here; the criminals of London are being an extreme disappointment." Harry wasn't sure what to make of this, so defaulted to an area he was comfortable with.
"I'll make tea, then, yeah?" Harry pulled out his wand and got the kettle brewing with a few flicks. Sherlock lit up at this, as he had whenever Harry did magic. He couldn't blame him, since Harry had felt exactly the same way when he found out about magic. Plus, doing something nice was probably due after he (indirectly) accused his new flatmate of murder.
Making the pot and cups zoom over had apparently been enough for Sherlock.
"So you do a lot of...experiments?" Harry tasked timidly.
"Yes. Most of them I keep at Bart's, but sometimes I need to keep a closer watch on the data. Speaking of which, did you notice if there was a faint blue hue around the corners of the mouth?"
Harry only looked at him with wide eyes.
"Er...no, I didn't notice..."
Sherlock took a sip of his tea.
"It shouldn't be forming yet, I'll check on it later. I hope my experiments in forensic science didn't put you of your appetite? I got take out again."
Harry looked over to the brown bags with realization. He was feeling hungry, and now a little guilty as well. He opened his mouth to properly apologize, but Sherlock (who seemed to have an uncanny ability close to legilimency) held up his hands, beat him to it.
"Don't apologize. Most people would assume the same. In fact, most people I interact with never really stop assuming that."
Sherlock looked over to the bags.
"I don't usually eat very much, but John had suggested that I get some food for the both of us. Since I have you here for awhile, and we're not under any time constraints, I might as well. My brain does slow down with too much food. You're not leaving anywhere, are you?"
"Mmm, no, as long as you're offering your place as a hide out?"
"Brilliant! Now, can you heat up the food with magic?"
They were eating take-out (Indian this time) in companionable silence, and Harry was relieved. He was actually way beyond relieved. He was very, very glad that the first person who had extended anything besides an arrest warrant was also not in the habit of decapitating people.
…
Mycroft Holmes had a lot of little problems. Insignificant little bumps in the road, little setbacks, and worries. Most of them, he could solve rather easily, and with a minimum of effort. Korean elections, Middle Eastern radicals, and his ever annoying colleagues all fell into the category of 'little problems.' What Mycroft liked best about little problems is that after he had solved them, they didn't rise up again for quite some time. There were very many of these little worries, but that was fine, because he really didn't need to exert himself much to find a solution.
Mycroft Holmes also had one big problem. One giant problem that wore ridiculous coats (in the middle of summer), sometimes got stuck in opium dens, and was frequently in way over his head.
Mycroft's one big problem was also the one that mattered the most, which was irritating. He wished very often that he could simply not care about his brother, and thereby not get involved with all the harebrained adventures he seemed to attract.
It had been a rather quiet few months since Magnussen and that little fiasco in home front security. Since then, Sherlock had seemed unusually docile. He was hoping Sherlock would be happy for some time, just solving the little homicides and thefts that sprouted in London.
His hopes were all dashed when a few days ago his brother came into his office demanding to know anything Mycroft had on one Harry Potter. It took all of Mycroft's quick thinking and self-restraint to not be very obvious. His brother was not on his level of intelligence, but he could spot when people lied to him. And Mycroft had to lie to him, a lot.
He tried as hard as he could to make Potter's case into something simple, boring even. Mycroft threw in some mentions of irregularities in financial accounts, terrorist affiliations, in short things his brother couldn't give a hoot about. However, it seemed Sherlock wasn't letting on all that he knew about Potter. No matter what Mycroft had said, his brother remained resolute in chasing after him.
At the end of the interview, Mycroft had to simply state that he knew almost nothing about the fugitive, and couldn't give Sherlock any more information. This was almost true. Despite knowing what society Potter belonged to, Mycroft knew nothing about why or how this man was accused and on the run. He generally let them settle their own problems. They usually would, although not always as fast as Mycroft would have liked.
It was an interesting revelation, when Mycroft first found out about the wizards. The prime minister had chosen him as one of the dozen or so government officials 'in on the secret.' One of them had come and performed some impossible feats with twitches of a little wooden stick. It was baffling, amazing and in Mycroft's calculated mind, very dangerous. And now his brother was chasing one of them; perhaps the most dangerous one there is England. Fantastic.
Mycroft sighed and poured himself a bit more of the finely aged whiskey. Yes, sometime he really wish he didn't hold any regard for his brother.
Mycroft had tried as hard as he could to keep Sherlock from chasing a deranged wizard, so if anything happens it would be Sherlock's fault. Perhaps it would have been wiser to let Sherlock in on the secret as well? No, Mycroft though, if there's anything that would make Sherlock give chase faster it would have been the promise of magic, real and powerful.
He had even tried to warn him, before Sherlock left his office a few days ago. He had said not meddle with this case, to give it up. Sherlock rightfully looked suspicious, and John looked confused.
Suddenly his phone rang, and he heard Anthea's voice.
"It's your brother sir, he says it's urgent." Good, so he wasn't dead.
"Tell him to come up."
He only had a moment's notice that his brother was coming up. Then, his door banged open, and his brother flounced in with a great huff and swish of his coat.
He really did have a flair for the dramatic.
He strode right up to Mycroft's desk, pointed a long finger at him and proclaimed:
"You liar!" Then, Sherlock fell into one of the armchairs, and resolutely looked away. Oh, dear. This would be a long work day.
"Would you care to clarify?" Mycroft asked, Sherlock sneered in return.
"Why? Do you make a habit of lying to family, Mycroft?"
Sherlock was trying to go the guilt approach. Not that it ever worked. Mycroft carefully examined his brother. He had been eating again. This meant almost certainly that the case was off. Which indicated that...
"So you found Potter, then?" Sherlock looked up, and smiled.
"Yes, no help from you, thanks."
"In that case, Sherlock, I'm rather impressed. Where is he now? Did he give you the slip?" Mycroft didn't know everything about wizards, but he did know they can pop in and out of existence at will.
"No, no he didn't." Sherlock was still smiling at him, daring him to ask what happened. It was obvious this was a game to him.
Mycroft recounted the facts. Sherlock would have certainly figured out that there was something unusual about the man as soon as he had found him. He was sure Sherlock would now be (unintentionally) in the know about magic. He also probably realized that Mycroft had been as well.
"I'm rather surprised that you made it back in one piece Sherlock. I understand Potter would have had eclectic ways of defending himself?" This was perhaps the biggest worry on Mycroft's mind. He could just see his brother resurfacing in bits, hacked apart by a curse.
"He didn't try to defend himself." Ugh, Mycroft really hated when his brother knew more than he did. It didn't happen often, so Sherlock always lorded it over him as much as possible. Still in the armchair, Sherlock was looking at him with that annoying smile.
"That is surprising. If he didn't give you the slip, where is he now? Certainly you could not trust a jail to hold him...?" Mycroft was hoping his brother would finish with-holding information soon, and clarify some things about this situation. This question game was becoming tedious.
Sherlock jumped up and began pacing Mycroft's office.
"I would tell you Mycroft, but..."
"But what?"
"I'm just not sure I can trust you."
Mycroft sighed. His brother really was ridiculous.
"Why, because I couldn't tell you he was a wizard? Or that magic exists? Really, Sherlock, would you have ever believed me?"
Sherlock turned around, with a thoughtful look on his face.
"No, I probably would have thought you mad." Sherlock continued pacing.
Mycroft's patience was really wearing thin.
"So..." He began, but Sherlock interrupted him in a flurry.
"I'll tell you everything, but first I have to know if you trust me."
"Trust you with what? To stay away from destructive narcotics, or know when to back out of a case?" Sherlock frowned at him.
"If I were to say that the wizards are wrong in accusing Potter of murder, would you trust me?" Mycroft considered this.
"Yes, I trust your deductive abilities as only second to mine. Not to mention, the only other word I have on this is the few wizards I've met. And to be honest, Sherlock, the one's I've met are all idiots."
"That's disappointing." His brother frowned, but seemed to relax and flopped back into the armchair.
"Now that we have that established, where is he Sherlock?"
"Oh, Baker Street. Told him he could have John's old room."
Mycroft blinked. That was unexpected. He decided it was high time for a refill on his whiskey.
"What is he doing there, Sherlock?"
Sherlock gave him a long look.
"I'm rather surprised at you Mycroft. I would have thought you too would be curious when you discovered them. But I suppose you've never been the curious sort, have you?" Sherlock said.
Ah, so that's what was going on. Sherlock found himself a new toy. Mycroft smiled at his brother.
"So then, you found yourself a new goldfish? I was wondering how long it would take since the good doctor is no longer available 24 hours a day."
"Mycroft, only you think of people as pets." Sherlock scoffed.
"Of course, and you're the shining beacon of humane kindness and affection? I'm not chastising you, brother. This one is a magical goldfish after all. How exciting!"
He could see Sherlock was getting annoyed. Well, he deserved it after making Mycroft worry. This whole time, he and his new wizard buddy had been holed up in Baker Street, while Mycroft had people out looking for any sign of Sherlock.
Discretely of course.
"Hmph, the only reason I'm telling you any of this is because before long you will again poke your obnoxious nose into my business. It would be uncomfortable if you decided to phone the wizard cops before figuring it out."
"Wise move, little brother." Sherlock huffed at him, and stood up.
"Fine. I'm leaving." He turned around to make his point.
"Wait, Sherlock, won't you invite me with you? I would also like to meet your new...friend."
"No Mycroft, you know how dreadfully embarrassing you are." Sherlock retorted, chuckling. Mycroft swallowed the joke.
"Now, brother, don't you think you can benefit from a second opinion?"
"Mmmmm, no, I don't think so."
"Sherlock, I do trust you. But I need to see what you see. Otherwise, I would be doing a grave injustice to the English people, who I am sworn to serve."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"And if you decide that he's guilty?"
"Then perhaps he isn't your best bet for a flat mate? I've hardly ever been wrong, you know."
Sherlock huffed and gave a roll of his eyes that seemed to indicate 'if you must.' Mycroft smiled and ordered them a car.
Sitting in the car, Mycroft considered the new circumstances arising around his baby brother. A wizard at Sherlock's command could be formidable. There was the tiny problem of the wizard not being able to leave the flat, but nonetheless, Sherlock could be much more useful with magic at his aide.
Mycroft had already decided that the wizard was, as Sherlock had said, not dangerous. Sherlock's ability to read people had usually been on the mark. If Mycroft was honest, there were some discrepancies in the case that even he noticed. Mycroft had been giving the barest minimum of details pertaining to the Potter case. He briefly considered, then, to offer his help, but decided against it. He hated legwork, and chasing after a wizard would have included lots of it.
What he did want was to establish what kind of character Potter was, whether he could be trusted with his brother. Then, innocent or not, if he was a danger, Mycroft might have to break a few promises.
The drive to the flat had been wordless, each brother too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Stepping into the flat, they found an irate Mrs. Hudson, who had still not been allowed access to the top flat. Doing their best to sidestep the aging landlady, they made their way up to the upper landing.
Apparently, Sherlock had told Potter about Mycroft's visit. He was sitting there expectantly, and got up as soon as they entered. Mycroft thought he had a bit of a vagrant look to him, but he supposed being on the run would do that.
As soon as they made their introductions, Sherlock did his best to focus the wizard's attention on himself, and resolutely ignore Mycroft. Well, that was typical. Mycroft preferred to observe anyway.
It seemed Potter had been quite taken with Sherlock. He certainly indulged every time Sherlock asked him for magic. Sherlock, likewise had been very taken. With magic or Potter, it was unclear. Perhaps both. Potter also seemed about as dangerous as boiled turnips.
Of course, wielding magic in the first place made him more powerful than an average man, but Potter's personality didn't seem to have an ounce of aggression. Mycroft sighed internally. He hated when people were idiots, and the wizards were no exception.
Mycroft's attention came reeling back to the present when he realized Sherlock was doing his best to convince the wizard to hex him.
"You could give him some aspect of the Suinae anatomy, you said you could that?"
"Yes, of course I can, but I've only just met your brother, and have no reason to curse him, Sherlock..."
"Oh there's plenty reason. How about a longer nose, that's fairly harmless?
"Sherlock, no..."
Mycroft decided it was high time that he got out of here. Potter seemed to be holding up, but he knew how convincing his brother could be.
"Well, I've had a lovely chat. Sherlock, I'll be keeping in touch." Mycroft gave him a meaningful look, and Sherlock scoffed.
"Mr Potter, good to make your acquaintance." Mycroft held out his hand, with what he hoped was an affable smile. Potter stood up and returned the formalities. Mycroft noticed that he looked particularly guilty.
Leaving the flat, Mycroft entered the car again, where Anthea was still waiting. He took of his coat, and loosened his tie. Then, he noticed that Anthea was positively staring at him.
"What, what is it?" He asked.
"Sir, your vest." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. Anthea scrambled in her purse for a small black case, a compact as it turned out. She held it out to him, with the mirror up. Mycroft looked at himself and was surprised to notice that his vest changed to a particularly hideous combination of bright pink with lime green polka dots. Well, his brother was very convincing.
Fighting the urge not chuckle in front if Anthea, Mycroft returned her the mirror.
"You don't like it?" He asked, putting on his best mock serious tone.
"On the contrary, Sir, very dashing." She giggled, as they drove away from Baker Street.
A/N: As always, please take a moment to review if you liked the story. I love reading all your comments. It really makes my day!
