"Human life occurs only once, and the reason we cannot determine which of our decisions are good and which bad is that in a given situation we can make only one decision; we are not granted a second, third, or fourth life in which to compare various decisions."
―Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
…
Foot in the Door
…
A warm May evening was drawing to a close, and the two residents of 221B Baker Street were lounging in the sitting room, and having what appeared to be a pleasant and easy conversation.
Well, it appeared this way, but Sherlock privately thought that it wasn't very easy, even for a man as capable as himself. He was rather straining his 'people skills,' trying to be as amicable as possible in the face of a magic wielding convict, who had proven himself more resilient to manipulation than Sherlock expected. And although he would call their conversation interesting, it wasn't easy by any means.
His initial suggestion that Harry atone by accompanying Sherlock on cases had been met with point blank refusal. If Sherlock Holmes was very honest with himself, he just wasn't very used to people refusing him anything. The wizard had apologized profusely of course, but stated that it was simply too risky to go out in public.
Sherlock wasn't even quite sure at this point why getting the wizard to agree was all that important. Since Harry couldn't exactly parade around the fact that he can alter the laws of physic with absurd ease, (at least not in public, and definitely not in front of Lestrade), his usefulness on a crime scene might be minimal. Perhaps at this point it was more battle of egos.
Sherlock wanted something, and he was going to get it, as he had always done.
After trying a few times to verbally coerce the wizard into becoming his new assistant (and getting the same apologetic answer), Sherlock decided to switch up his tactic. There was a multitude of things he needed to know about the magical world, and he might as well ask about those. And in the course of this interrogation, er, conversation, he could slip in his dire need for assistance in fighting crime in London, and bringing justice to the world.
Sherlock ran his mind through topic which were considered 'light' conversation. Usually he had a distaste for that sort of non-sense, and preferred to get to the point. But he needed context into Potter. That was one of the fine points of controlling people, Sherlock thought. He needed to know about their background, their 'story,' as John would indelicately put it. Then he would know where all the buttons are, and which ones to push, in what order.
Usually, he could simply deduce the context, with normal people anyways. He could see some details of Harry's life still present in the stitching of his sweater, and the white cat that he had chosen to lavish with care back at Archer street. But it was simply not enough to go on. Most of the details were obscure and he had no idea what they meant. Probably because he was not yet all that familiar with the wizarding world. Well, there was never a better time than now to get acquainted.
"I'm assuming most British wizards attend the same school?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, Hogwarts. It's brilliant. A castle up in Scotland. You go from ages eleven to seventeen."
"And there are houses? I wouldn't normally be interested, but if the whole of wizarding Britain attended the same school, those kinds of things have relevance."
"I suppose they do, but I think people put more stock in them than they should. So there's Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, named after the four founders."
"Do wizards still have preposterous names like that, or did that die out in the middle ages?"
"Oh no, they still come up with weird names. Things like Mundungus and Lucius. I don't really know what that's about. It's not like you have a common name either, though. I've never heard of a 'Sherlock' before."
Sherlock huffed a bit.
"It happens to be a very traditional family name, if you must know. So how are students assigned a house?"
"Well, at the beginning of every year, the headmaster brings out this talking hat. It welcomes everyone with a little song, which it composes over the course of the school year. Then each first year puts it on, and the hat looks in their head and sees what qualities they have, and which house they are most well-suited for."
Sherlock stared at the wizard across from him. Some answers that Harry gave him made Sherlock think that he was pulling a long running joke. Magic might be interesting, but some things were too weird. A talking hat that decides the future of a student seems like a practical joke. In that moment, Harry seemed to come to the same conclusion.
"It sounds silly when I put it like that, I suppose."
"Right. And what are these qualities that the...hat looks for?"
"It goes after what the founders valued. Hufflepuff valued loyalty and hard work..."
"Ugh, boring."
"Ravenclaw valued intelligence..."
"As they all should!"
"Gryffindor valued bravery..."
"Oh, and I'm sure those students caused no problems for the teachers.."
"And Slytherin valued cunning and ambition."
Sherlock considered this.
"That one sounds adequate."
"Also, most dark wizards come from Slytherin."
"The ambitious are often misunderstood... Which house was yours?"
"The hat did consider putting me in Slytherin first, but eventually decided on Gryffindor."
"Hmm, well you missed out, then." Sherlock chuckled. The house of bravery, huh? That could be used to his advantage.
"So the hat must have decided that you very courageous?"
"I don't know about that."
"Don't be modest. You headlined a magical war when you were just a teenager. You must have been considerably brave to do that."
Harry had a puzzled look on his face.
"So for a person who is courageous, and not to mention, hardened by combat, I find it difficult to see how you don't have the mental fortitude to withstand going out in public. In a disguise, of course.
"There aren't any interesting cases now anyway, so you don't have to worry yet. All I'm suggesting is that next time the Scotland Yard is duped by a particularly clever criminal, I'd appreciate your help in bringing him to justice."
At this Harry crossed his arms, and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock was about to speak up again, but stopped himself. He had made his point, the ball was in Harry's court.
Harry took his time answering. He was still staring at Sherlock as he begun to slowly nod.
"Hmmm, yeah..."
"'Yeah,' you'll assist me on crime scenes?" Sherlock asked, a bit of excitement leaking through his voice.
"No, I was thinking that 'yeah, you would have definitely been in Slytherin.'"
Sherlock had to stop his face from going into a full-on pout. That was not the answer he expected. Before he had a chance to retaliate, Harry spoke up again.
"Where did you go to school, then?" The wizard asked.
Sherlock did not want to have this conversation about himself. His life, pre-consulting, was rather boring. At least in comparison to that of a wizard. Not to mention, they would waste valuable time if Sherlock had to talk about himself as well. After all, he knew the details of his life, and he was in no hurry to rehash them.
"Posh boarding school, nothing exciting." Little white lie, but it would go a long way, decided Sherlock. He was really hoping to bring the conversation back to Harry. The wizard, however, seemed determined to turn this into a two man endeavor.
"What about your job? I gather you work for the police, but you seem to have rather flexible hours. Or are you on vacation?"
"I don't work for the police, I work with the police. It's a small, but ever important distinction." Sherlock considered with annoyance actually being on the payroll of Scotland Yard. They would probably fire him within a week, if he didn't off himself sooner.
Harry didn't seem to understand, as he was looking at Sherlock with a perplexed brow.
Sherlock sighed. He might as well explain the nature of his work. Especially if he was going to involve Harry in it.
"I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world. When the police are baffled, they consult me. When our esteemed government has misplaced highly secret weapons plans, unfortunately, they come to me. When someone believes their significant other has been cheating, they come
to me, but I usually show them to the door in that case."
Harry considered all this with a thoughtful expression.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"Yes. It's all I live for. My work is my life, is my work. Everything else is...secondary."
"So, you don't have a family, or..."
"No, heavens no. That's really not my area. It would complicate things "
It was clear by his still wrinkled brow, that Potter had not understood Sherlock's profession, and it's hold on his life, fully. But that was all right. Once Sherlock got his way, (and he eventually would), the wizard will be there along side him, playing the great game. Thankfully, for now, Harry chose to remain silent and not ask anymore questions. Sherlock used this opportunity.
"Tell me more about this 'Chosen One' thing. It doesn't sound like a very commonplace title. How is it that you were chosen?"
"I'm not exactly sure. It's rather complicated."
"Well since you remain obstinate on us not going out to help London's finest, we have all the time in the world to sit here and talk."
"Erhm, well, it was a prophecy..."
Sherlock stood up immediately.
"Prophecy?! As in a verbal message or warning of an event that would take place in the future?"
Harry nodded, surprised at the sudden reaction.
"Perceiving the future! Do you know what that implies? About life, about the very fabric of our universe! If everything can be foretold, nothing is decided by us, so we are simply pawns, and all our lives are predestined, with no free will, and..,
"I told you it was complicated!" Harry cut in.
Sherlock looked around. He had started pacing madly about the living room, and now found himself halfway to the kitchen.
"Sometimes they come true, but loads of times they don't. If I weren't a literal part of one, I would consider the whole fortune-telling business complete hogwash. And even so, they're self-fulfilling in a way. If anything, they rely completely on free will."
Sherlock sat back down, and searched Harry's face. There was something off, there.
"Sore subject?" He drawled.
"A bit yeah, but it's-"
"Well, that's fine, let's talk about something else." Sherlock put on a calmer expression, but had the distinct impression that it was perceivable forced. He wasn't apt to admit that the subject of prophecies had bothered him slightly. He would save that line of questioning for another day.
"Besides Hogwarts there must be some other magical landmarks, or locations where wizards congregate? I would think there must be some in London."
"Yes, there's Diagon Alley. Not far from here, just off Charring Cross. It's well hidden, obviously. It's sort of a shopping district."
Sherlock could barely resist beaming. He had been hoping for something like this.
"That is near here. How do you get there?" He asked, hoping he wasn't giving much away.
"The entrance is through a pub. There's a charm on it so muggles can't see it. Like that house on Archer. Anyway, I haven't been there in ages. I don't even know what it looks like now."
"You don't fancy a daytrip, do you?" Sherlock tried to keep the tone joking. Despite the fact that it would be much easier if the wizard took Sherlock there, the detective had an inkling that Potter wouldn't be up for it.
Judging by the stern look Harry gave him, and the curt 'No,' Sherlock's inkling was correct.
For now, Sherlock filed the information away. There would have to be a stake out later, in order to learn the exact location of this magical shopping district. With or without the wizard, Sherlock was going to visit this Diagon Alley. He needed objective information, one that could be gleaned from a personal investigation of a magical area.
Sherlock felt that perhaps he had extracted enough context from Harry for the night. With an abrupt 'Goodnight,' muttered somewhere in the direction of Harry, Sherlock stood up and left the room. He had only a brief glance of Harry's confused face before he departed. Well, the wizard wasn't used to him yet. That would change.
…
The next morning Sherlock woke up with a clear purpose. He was privately very grateful that Lestrade seemed to be holding his own against the criminals of London for once, because Sherlock Holmes had way bigger fish to fry.
His conversation last night with wizard didn't go as well as he had hoped. He still had not convinced Harry that his best use of time would really be as Sherlock's assistant.
What Harry did reveal, about the wizarding district that had been under Sherlock's nose this whole time, was much better. Sherlock decided then, that with or without Harry's help, he was going to Diagon Alley.
He considered his plan. First thing he would need is a disguise. Sherlock had seen only a few people he conjectured to be wizards, but he had a faint idea of what they might dress like. Ostentatious, and a bit old fashioned, and the weirder the better. His wardrobe could certainly provide for all of those.
The first thing Sherlock immediately searched out was a fleecy, Victorian shirt, with ruffles in the most unlikely places. A souvenir, as he remembered, from a case where a man was killed during a play in the theater. He had kept the shirt then as evidence, and very nearly forgotten about its existence. It was fortunate he hadn't chucked it out, as the shirt very much deserved.
Next, in his closet, he dug out the longest coat he had, one that he hadn't worn in years. Sherlock decided that it very nearly resembled a robe. Its hem nearly swept the floor, and had once or twice tripped him up when he was trying to give chase to some criminal or other. It wasn't very practical, and Sherlock hoped that he wouldn't need to do much running around today.
Finally, he found a very silly colorful scarf that Mary had given. He examined it again, with his face scrunched in distaste. It had large purple flowers emblazoned on it, and was made of a flimsy silk-like material. He was very nearly sure that it was some sort of gag gift, as he could imagine no circumstance, other than this one, where he would ever wear it.
After the assemblage was complete, Sherlock looked himself over in the mirror. He decided not to look too long, as his appearance offended him greatly. Exiting his room, Sherlock took great care not to run into Mrs. Hudson on his way down. There were some things he had rather not live with.
…
After leaving his flat, Sherlock quickly hailed a cab to the area that Harry mentioned last night.
Making his way down Charring Cross, now on foot, Sherlock began scouting the location. It was not exciting work, but worth it if the place he was looking for was anything like he imagined. And the first step to reaching it would be to simply follow a wizard or witch through the entrance, whatever that may be. It would only be a matter of time before he saw another strangely dressed person that he could track.
Trying to be as discreet as possible (a difficult task, considering he was dressed as oddly as he could manage), Sherlock wondered up and down the streets and alleyways around the square. Some people passing by gave Sherlock strange looks, but most seemed too busy to even notice.
The May morning was turning into noon, and Sherlock sincerely hoped he would spot a wizard soon. His heavy overcoat became heavier by the minute, and he was growing rather bored of just walking. It had seemed like hours of pacing up and down the various streets, until he finally spotted his prey.
An older man was ambling up the street wearing normal pants, a normal-enough jacket, but what was unmistakably a woman's nightdress, tucked underneath. Sherlock wondered briefly if perhaps the man was not simply touched in the head, and no wizard at all. If so, following a mad person around London might not be the most proper use of his time.
As the man came closer, Sherlock was able to properly identify other details about the aged man's appearance. His hands had a few splotches of ink (although he was definitely not working in the press); his jacket sleeves had flakes of dried wax, and his jacket pocket had the silhouette of what might be a wooden stick, around 11 inches long.
It took Sherlock some self restraint not to jump up, but rather to remain out of sight in the shadows. The observations he made about the man might as well have been a neon sign that flashed: "Wizard!" The hardest part is done, Sherlock thought. Now, all he had to do was follow him, and watch carefully as he goes into this pub. Sherlock hoped that his keen senses would be able to follow the subject past the "anti-muggle" charms.
Sherlock began trailing the man as closely as he could. Thankfully the old man was preoccupied with his own thoughts and hardly noticed the tall shadow following him. He seemed to mutter something under his breath every now and again, and Sherlock could just barely make out the phrases "toad spleen," "eight sickles," and "they've gone daft." Sherlock made a mental note to ask Potter what these sickles were, and whether they had any relation to communist symbolism.
The man ambled down the street at what Sherlock thought was an agonizingly slow pace. Even worse, the old man stopped a few times to peer into shop windows that Sherlock knew could have nothing to do with magic. The old man stood a particularly long time in front of a store selling cellphones, looking at the items on display with a curious, though suspicious expression.
The man paused again in front of a big book shop, and a Thai place that Sherlock remembered to be a record shop, years back. Sherlock had visited both places and had no recollection of anything odd that might point to them being a gateway to the wizard world. However, it was at this point that Sherlock noticed the man in front of him looking up and down the street.
The detective's body tensed. He estimated that they have arrived at the pub, and Sherlock has yet to see past the enchantments on it. He fixed his eyes squarely on the man's retreating back, hoping this would work again. The man ambled to the place between the book shop and Thai cafe, which Sherlock assumed must be the entrance. He assumed this, because all he could see was just a stretch of plain brick wall.
Suddenly, a loud honking noise down the street immediately drew Sherlock's attention. A double-decker very nearly collide with another car, but both managed to swerve away just in time. It was a split second that the detective lost sight of the subject, but apparently it was enough for the old man to disappear into whatever place Sherlock couldn't see. The man was nowhere to be seen, and Sherlock was left on the street.
Sherlock swore in frustration. He'd been at doddering after the old man for nearly an hour, just so he could lose him because a bus driver was mildly incompetent, and decided to honk right that second. It seemed very unfair. His hopes deflated, Sherlock almost considered putting off this plan altogether and just grabbing lunch at the Thai place, that he WAS able to see, thank you very much.
He was in the middle of ripping off his stupid scarf, (and maybe binning the shirt while he was at it), when Sherlock saw him. Another man was approaching from the other end of the street. The man had absolutely normal clothes, and nothing about his appearance was "magical." He had a normal hair cut, there were no wax drips on his clothes, and he wasn't blubbering about eccentric ingredients.
But Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and casually tucked his scarf back into place, with a small smile. The one thing the man did have, was a homemade sweater of exactly the same stitching pattern as that hideous thing he saw Potter wearing. Indeed, Sherlock could just make out, over the man's buttoned jacket, the top of a letter 'C' or 'G,' stitched in the front.
The man, who Sherlock noticed had blazing red hair, seemed much more aware of his surroundings, than the old man with the nightdress. Sherlock crept back a bit, out of the view of his new subject, but his predatory eye was absolutely fixed. He didn't care if the trumpets of the Apocalypse were to sound, there was literally nothing that would distract him now.
The man-with-the-jumper paused in front of the same stretch of wall and looked both ways. Sherlock's eyes might have been popping out of his skull, with how concentrated his glare was.
Finally, Mr. Jumper but his hand on the wall, and Sherlock saw a little door knob, attached to a scratched up wooden door, that was part of a tiny facade that had the words "Leaky Cauldron," in curly golden script above the entrance. The detective's face split into a grin. He had done it!
As it happened on Archer Street, it seemed that the two shops scooted over to accommodate the new pub front that was there. Sherlock thought that he might be able to see it now, even if he turned away, but he didn't risk it. Keeping his eyes on the door, through which the red-haired man had already disappeared, Sherlock casually strolled toward the door.
He put his hand on the faded gold door knob, and felt a spike of adrenaline. He was half afraid that he might be subject to the same delirious hallucination that happened when he sneaked into the house on Archer Street. He pushed at the door, and it yielded. His heart hammering, Sherlock stepped through into the dark pub.
..
.
The pub was cramped, and a bit dirty, but Sherlock liked it immediately. It reminded him, in a strange way, of his flat; especially if he'd been in a morose mood, and didn't clean up after himself. It was small, but looked sort of comfortable, and there were odd assortments of objects everywhere. Sherlock especially took a liking to the floating candles, which sadly, his flat lacked.
He would ask Harry if perhaps he could permanently levitate a few light bulbs.
Sherlock could barely control the tide of sensory information that his trained senses were sending him. There were so many details, intricacies, it was impossible to take in all at once.
There were about a dozen magical folk scattered through the pub. Sherlock noted that his clothes had fit in somewhat with the others. Hopefully that meant he wouldn't draw much attention.
Sherlock headed for the bar, trying his best at a casual stroll. He passed by a table of three witches, loudly arguing about the merits of using horned slugs in skin cleansing potions. They had tall, slender glasses of a what looked like condensed, swirling smoke. Whatever it was must have been potent, because the witch that had almost finished hers had been talking the loudest.
The bar keep was a handsome black man, about Sherlock's age. He was leaned over and speaking softly to a woman with glossy brown curls, and a purple cigarette. The woman,
Sherlock observed, had been married for six years, and the barman had recently divorced, with two kids. The woman was twirling her hair, and pitching her chest forward, in a glaring sign of attraction. Affair, two years, still undiscovered. Briefly Sherlock was reminded that wizards were people too, and therefore still odious.
Sherlock quietly took a seat at the bar, near the corner. He noticed a few patrons had coins out on the table, that did not resemble British pounds. With a jolt, Sherlock realized that the wizards must have their own currency, and he probably couldn't buy anything here with his bank card.
Sherlock had a moment of panic. He needed time to figure out how this place functioned as a gateway to an entire district. He needed time to figure out what to do next. It might be suspicious if he simply sat at the bar for ages, without ordering anything, and speaking to no one. Thankfully, the barman was still preoccupied by his 'secret' lover, who was now blowing out smoke rings shaped vaguely like daisies. Sherlock inwardly scoffed, as he thought of a million better uses for magic.
Sherlock surveyed the shelf behind the bar, and took great pleasure in reading the labels of the bottles on display. Among Muggle classics were bottles of wizarding liquor with names like Burma Banshee's Howling Gin (a pitch black bottle that trembled on its own), and The Russian Werewolf (the label picturing a slightly swaying wolf in an ushanka).
Sherlock thought he could stay here for hours, admiring all the foreign objects that he had never imagined existed. On the bare brick wall, there was a painting of three ladies, who not only were moving, but winking and calling softly to some of the customers. It was difficult to focus, even for Sherlock Holmes.
The detective needed to concentrate. He turned his body in the stool, so that he could have a view of nearly the entire pub. It consisted of only one room, and a little dark hallway that led off to what he assumed were the water closets. He knew, from his detailed mental map of London, that this building butted up against the back of another building, and there was nothing in between. He had to observe the guests, and quickly figure out which way the actual entrance was.
The only problem was that none of the guests seem to want to go just yet. They all remained stationary with their glasses, and their companions. He noticed the old man with the night dress, who was now sporting dark blue robes, chatting amicably with an old woman.
Sherlock was very glad when one of the matrons with the smoking glasses stood up.
"Enough chatter with you old bats. I came here to go the apothecary, and I intend to do so." This was Sherlock's cue. As casually as possible, he allowed his keen eyes to follow the woman's movements, as she headed towards the little hallway. Momentarily, Sherlock was puzzled. Could the entrance to this wizarding district be found in a toilet stall? He would be forced to credit the wizards with a sense of humor, if it were.
Exactly fifteen seconds after the woman disappeared, Sherlock stood up to follow her. The hallway took him to two doors, with aging signs reading 'hags' and 'warlocks.' But he had heard the woman go around the corner, and there he noticed another door. His excitement rushing him on, he strode towards it, and went through.
Suddenly he was standing in a small courtyard, with a few rubbish bins, and a brick wall. His logical sense was telling him that it was impossible for this little pocket of air to be here, but he reminded himself, it was also impossible for him to have traversed his living room in a flying armchair.
The witch must have been faster than she looked, because she was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock tried to understand where she could have gone. It's not like she could have flown away. He had to remind himself again, that yes that was a possibility, but a rather illogical one.
Why have a secret back alley, if one is meant simply to fly over it?
Sherlock looked around in consternation. Why did these wizards have to be so damned secretive? Why couldn't there just be a giant archway, with the word Diagon Alley spelled over it?
Sherlock spent the next few minutes pacing up and down the small paved courtyard, putting his brain to figuring out any possible solution. He counted the bricks in the walls, and calculated if there were any mathematical patterns to their placement. He examined, with a coroner's eye, the rubbish bin, and it's contents, only to find that it was a perfectly ordinary rubbish bin. He even examined the little dandelion that grew between the cracks of the paving, to see if it was the solution that would get him across. He tugged on it, and then simply plucked it, wondering if maybe it functioned as a lever of some sort.
The only thing that was even slightly out of norm, was a little indent in a brick above the trash cans. Sherlock, excited when he first noticed it, pressed it any which way he could think of. When nothing happened, he was forced to the conclusion that it was simply an slightly indented brick, and had no meaning.
Sherlock kicked the wall in frustration. He knew the answer was in front of his nose, but he couldn't see it. But now, he had no idea what to do, and he was facing a literal brick wall, unyielding and obstinate.
The door behind him creaked, and Sherlock spun around, his heart thumping. Great, just what he needed. A meddlesome wizard to come and bust him as he was trying to breach their secret world. Sherlock's muscles tensed instinctively, as he prepared for confrontation. His mind conjured a picture of a tall, hulking man, wielding a wand, which would be an impossible weapon for him to counter.
However, through the door came a slender woman, dressed in a smart business suit, with her brown hair done up in a modern twist. Looking up her eyes widened, as surprised to see Sherlock he was to see her. Sherlock took in her appearance: the few strands out of place, the tiny scuff marks on her shoes, and the miniscule pieces of lint on her clothing. She was approximately in her mid thirties, had a somewhat powerful position in the government (magical ministry, Sherlock reminded himself), and had just come from a stressful meeting. He observed that she had one child, but has been divorced for some time.
Her eyes were brown, and Sherlock noticed right away, had the glint of someone too clever to manipulate easily. Well then, Sherlock thought, he had better put on his best game. A plan formed in his head, quick as lightning. His brain really did work faster when under pressure, he mused.
The woman chose to lead with a warm smile, but Sherlock noticed her slightly veiled eyes, which signified suspicion. He quickly recited standard Slavic pronunciation in his head. Russian, his accent would be Russian. Well, Eastern European to most British ears.
"Hello...?" The woman chose to lead again, the slight tilt on the word signifying her question as to what he was doing here.
"Hello, miss... I vas vandering, if you could assist me into Diagon Alley. I was pointed to dis Pub as the entrance, but I do not see..." Sherlock let his sentence hang. Sherlock considered his accents very good, and saw some comprehension dawn on the woman in front of him. He also noticed her gently touch her ring finger. If he assumed correctly (and he nearly always did) her ex-husband was also from Eastern Europe. That was either very lucky or unlucky, depending on how the two parted.
"Oh, I see. New in London?" Sherlock could still see the suspicion clouding her eyes, but her face was still a pleasant mask and revealed nothing. She took out her wand from the inside of her jacket, and led over to the wall by the bins.
"It's just three up and two over." She said, pointing her wand at the bricks. Sherlock felt a swoop of excitement as her wand pointed over the indented brick he had noticed earlier. He had solved the puzzle after all, he just didn't have the proper tools to unlock it.
She rapped the brick with the tip of her wand, and Sherlock watched in amazement at the long awaited reveal of this secret entrance. The bricks, as though hooked up to an intricate mechanism began to move and swivel out of the way. In less than five seconds, a huge archway formed that revealed Diagon Alley in all it's splendor.
If Sherlock thought he was overloaded in the small pub, he had no idea what was in store for him. It was shocking to see a place that was so alive and vibrant, but yet like nothing he had ever encountered before. The sensory input of so much new and interesting information had made Sherlock speechless, and even worse, unable to make any deductions. There was simply too much to take in! Despite this handicap, Sherlock felt the wonderful thrill of new knowledge, new adventures before him. There was a new world that awaited him, one that was eccentric and unpredictable, and one Sherlock realized he desperately wanted to be a part of.
As he stepped through the archway, his brain grounded him in reality immediately. For a few small seconds he had forgotten about the woman that had accompanied him there. He looked around and realized that she had been looking at him this whole time. Her eyes held even more calculating suspicion, although the warm smile was still plastered on her face. Sherlock also realized that he grinned like a fool upon seeing the Alley reveal itself. He tried to quickly correct his mistake.
"It iz, er, very impressive." he said, nodding towards the street.
"Yes, I thought so too when I first saw it." She said, through that damned smile. "If you would like, I can show you around? It must all be very foreign to you." Her tone was perfect neutrality, but Sherlock felt slightly chilled. There was a predatory glint in her eye that reminded him too much of the woman.
Turning around he realized with a dropping feeling that the archway had become a brick wall again. Without a wand, he was basically trapped in here. A cutting panic cut across his previous excitement.
Sherlock studied the woman that was still expecting an answer. He could ask her, perhaps, to open the archway again, which would be a very plausible request. She would probably oblige, and he could go home to Baker Street, and play his violin, and be bored again. Or he could jump in headfirst, as reckless as ever, and follow the woman. Well, let it be at least said that Sherlock Holmes was no coward.
Smiling a predatory grin of his own, he squared off against Ms. Business-suit.
"Yes, do show me around. I vould like that very much."
…
A/N: Like it? Hate it? Let me know! Reviews keeping my hands clacking way faster over my keyboard ;) And I really love hearing what you guys have to say.
