"Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst of it is that he's sometimes unexpectedly mortal—there's the trick!"

― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

Liz

The building Sherlock led him to was grim, and had a shabby look to it. It was brick, but Harry thought it might have been painted white at some point, long ago. Heavy clouds hung low over the roofs of Harlesden, and promised bad weather in the coming hours.

Harry wasn't sure what he was doing here. Besides being able to apparate the detective, he didn't know what other contributions he could make to solving a crime. He knew nothing about laws and procedures in the muggle world. He didn't even know much about wizarding laws, if he were honest. He ought to, considering he had spent so much time running from them.

He watched in a daze as muggle policemen swarmed the building, barely giving him a second glance. His paranoia spiked, but he reminded himself that none of them would recognize him. Nonetheless, he stuck close to Sherlock's side, feeling oddly safe with the detective beside him.

Unlike the rude woman outside, Harry decided he liked Lestrade. At least he was treating Sherlock like an actual person. The DI seemed harried, as though he was rather tired of his job. Harry thought he could understand this. Dealing with murderers wasn't easy business. Unless you were Sherlock, who apparently lived for it.

After Sherlock introduced him as a professor of 'Occult History,' Harry tried hard not to chuckle. It was, perhaps, the closest they could get to telling the DI about who he really was. The two of them carried on a conversation about the Harlesden Maniac, of whom Harry truthfully never heard.

Sherlock and Lestrade made their way to the upper landing, and Harry trailed close behind. He could see the open door, and he caught a glimpse of a body on the floor. His blood ran cold. Sherlock however didn't seem bothered in the least as he entered the room, and began to prod the body this way and that.

Harry knew that muggle investigation relied on physical evidence still present on the body, but it was still unnerving watching Sherlock. He edged towards the corner of the room, trying to take up as little space as possible. Meanwhile the detective examined the girl's fingernails with a little piece of glass that Harry was mildly confused about. He tried to avert his eyes from the corpse.

That's when he saw her. She was standing in a corner, looking dispassionately at her body laying on the floor. Her blonde hair was pulled behind her in a ponytail, and she had on worn jeans, and a crumpled shirt. Her outline was smudged, as though he was seeing her through a sheet of rain, or fog, and her form kept flickering at the corners.

She took a drag of her cigarette, and her eyes slid over Sherlock and Lestrade, as they kept working and talking, oblivious of the girl's presence. She caught his glance, and tilted her head in question. No doubt, he was the only person to pass through here that could see her.

Harry had no idea what he could do. He couldn't very well just start talking to her. He didn't know how he could explain this to his detective, much less the DI who wasn't even in the know about magic. He wasn't even sure if he should talk to her. He had no idea what he could possibly say. How does one comfort a teenager, who'd been violently murdered?

He noticed then that Sherlock was giving Harry a curious look, and glancing in the corner, where the girl still stood, occasionally blowing out smoke puffs. Sherlock, the genius that he was, had somehow caught on to the situation. Though, Harry reasoned, probably not the entire scope of it.

Sherlock jumped up, and started herding Lestrade out of the room. He practically shoved him through the door, as the DI yelled something about 5 minutes. Sherlock looked hungrily at Harry, anticipation etched on his face. Harry decided that if they were going to do this, he might as well take a step to make the conversation private. He swept an arc over the room, to cast a silencing charm.

"What is it, what do you see there?" Sherlock asked, a rather hungry edge to his voice.

Harry opened and closed his mouth. The dead girl, whose naked body is laying split open in front of them? A spirit that hasn't yet passed, likely due to the violent and gruesome way she met her end? Which one was the right answer?

He turned back to the girl instead, who was looking at him as well, her eyebrows raised, no doubt expecting him to acknowledge her.

"I'm so sorry." He said. The girl nodded, and looked at her lifeless body.

"Yeah, me too." She said. "It's Liz, by the way." She scrunched up her nose, and took another drag of a cigarette. No matter how much she smoked it, it didn't seem to burn up. It was still exactly the same length, the fiery cherry caught in the middle.

"I'm so sorry Liz..." Harry said quietly.

"It's not your fault though is it? Are you two trying to catch whoever did this?" She asked, pointing towards her corpse. She seemed very detached, as though she was asking them if today was a Monday or a Tuesday. They usually were Harry thought. The dead hardly cared anymore about what happened here, where things were bloody and messy, and sometimes so awful. It was so unfair, Harry thought, that something like this happened to a 15 year old girl.

"Yes." Harry replied. He decided to let her lead the conversation. It was frightfully rude to pry, he reasoned, even if the person you were talking to was dead.

"It's a shame, you know. I didn't particularly want to die. I just started seeing this boy, his name is Mark. Goes to school with me..." She stopped, and took another drag. Harry had the stupid urge to tell her off for smoking, but then quickly realized that it wouldn't make much of a difference now.

"I suppose I won't see him again?" She asked, though not really looking at Harry.

"You will. Maybe in some time though." Harry answered.

"It's sort of weird, isn't it? Looking at my body like this? I feel like I ought to be self conscious... I'm not; It hardly seems to matter. Though I could have done without that one poking at my chest..." Liz gestured towards Sherlock. Harry stayed silent, and felt a small blush creep up his cheeks.

"I thought it would be different than this," Liz spoke again, waving her hand around the room to imply her situation. "Like a tunnel with light at the end, or some nice place in the clouds?" She looked at Harry this time.

"It is very nice. You just have to let go first."

At this Sherlock perked up.

"Not before she tells us what happened! First: what's her name and address." Sherlock said, in his rather demanding manner.

Liz looked at Sherlock with amusement. Harry was just dumbfounded that the detective had figured out what was happening. Especially considering that Harry had not said anything to him. The detective seemed to be taking it rather well, too. It's not everyday you stand over the body of a murdered girl with her ghost hovering next to you.

"Well, if it helps to catch him, I suppose... My name is Eliza Monahan. I live with my mum on Greenhill Road." Liz said, looking between Sherlock and Harry. Harry recited the information back to the detective. Sherlock looked as though Christmas came early. Harry grimaced a bit. It wasn't on to be so happy in this kind of situation.

"What happened last night? What time did she get taken, what street was it on?" He asked, vaguely in the direction of where Liz was standing.

"It was around 11 at night. I was walking on Craven Park, on my way back home, and then someone grabbed me. Then I woke up...dead." She said. Harry found it odd to be playing translator between the detective and the victim. Nonetheless, he recited her words back to Sherlock.

"Where on Craven Park? Did you see where your body was taken? It was placed here later, she must have seen where the murder took place." Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"I don't know where exactly. Somewhere between St. Thomas and St Mary's street. And I woke up here standing over my body. I didn't see who grabbed me either." She said. As Harry finished saying all this to Sherlock, the detective put his hands over his mouth in a steeple, and with furrowed brows looked at the corpse.

Liz took this silence to look back at Harry.

"Is he your boyfriend, or something?" Harry could feel himself flush. Where would she get that notion from? He stammered something about 'Of course, not' but the girl didn't look convinced. Well, teenagers would be teenagers, Harry thought.

Sherlock suddenly gave a yelp, and jumped up. Apparently he had figured something out, because he looked ecstatic.

"Yes, thank you Elizabeth, you've been very helpful." He waved again towards the direction of the girl.

"It's Eliza," Liz scowled. "How are you hoping to solve my murder, if he can't even remember my name."

Harry shrugged. Leave it to Sherlock to irritate the dead.

"Don't mind him. I'll remember. Eliza Monohan. Boyfriend: Mark. Lives on Greenhill Road with her mum." Harry said. She looked slightly mollified at that.

"Is this when I should go on?" She asked.

"If you want. I'm sure there's people waiting for you on that side."

Liz nodded, and fell silent. Harry could see the smudged edges of her form become more and more transparent.

"Good-bye, Liz." She smiled a bit, and then was gone, her outline disappearing with the smoke from her cigarette.

Sherlock could feel three successive, noiseless vibrations against the door. That would be Lestrade, and they were out of time. He gave a motion to Harry that seemed to suggest he should sweep the place clean of his charms. Potter seemed to understand, and swiped his wand across the room. Noises from downstairs poured in again, and Sherlock opened the door.

Lestrade was standing behind it, with a fresh coffee.

"Learn anything?" He asked.

"Loads." Sherlock replied. Obviously he couldn't tell the DI that about what just happened, unless he wanted to end up in a home. Even Sherlock was still trying to process it. He had guesses though, and his guesses were generally on the dot. He did need to give the police some information. Sherlock considered how to go about this.

He could tell Lestrade that he deduced all of the relevant data, but that somehow felt like cheating. Not that he opposed cheating. Cheating was a perfectly reasonable action, as far he was concerned; especially when it concerned school subjects like Literature and History, which were dull, tedious, and largely useless.

But this felt like taking credit for something that wasn't his work. Granted, it wasn't exactly Harry's work, but it was close enough. Sherlock strode over to Potter, and wrapped his arms around the wizard's shoulders. Potter scrunched in on himself, but Sherlock ignored it, as he gave Lestrade a wide grin.

"Mr. Dore here has been quite an asset in..." Sherlock paused, trying to find a way to put exactly what Harry had done, "in illuminating the evidence."

There, that was enough credit given to the wizard.

"Is that right? Well, good, good, what have you learned then?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock let go of Harry, who slunk away from him, looking uncomfortable at the mentions of his contribution. Sherlock let him go, as he informed Lestrade of the girl's identity, and all the relevant data he had gathered. While he spoke to Lestrade, Harry exited the room. Sherlock assumed he didn't really want to stare at the body any longer than he had to.

"-and be prepared to respond, when I call or text. I expect to bump into him sometime today. It would be beneficial to both of us, if you were nearby to make the arrest." Sherlock finished.

"The Harlesden killer? You expect to bump into him?" Lestrade had that irritating quality of repetition. Sherlock scowled.

"Yes. Remain in the area, if you will."

Without hearing the DI's response, Sherlock made his way downstairs to join Harry, who he assumed was waiting for him outside. The wizard looked slightly troubled when he left, which he supposed was natural.

Exiting the building Sherlock saw something that made his stomach jump up, and attempt an escape through his mouth.

A junior police officer, one whose name Sherlock had no record of, was cornering Harry. She was the blonde one, ambitious and pretty, the one that irritated Donovan almost as much as Sherlock himself. She had her hand splayed on Potter's chest, and standing very close to him.

Sherlock thought at first that she might be threatening him, but it turned out to be just overly aggressive flirting. She smiled, and giggled, but Potter simply looked very uncomfortable.

Something about that struck Sherlock, but he didn't know, or even care what it was.

He strode over to them, grabbed Potter by the upper arm, and made off toward Craven Park.

It wasn't a very long walk to the stretch of street where Eliza was taken. Sherlock started his search, spanning the length of the block, carefully observing everything around him. It would be only a matter of time before he found something just a little out of place.

He decided that meanwhile, he would question Potter about what had just transpired at the crime scene.

"So, you can speak with the dead?" Sherlock looked over at Harry. Even under the magical disguise, Sherlock could see the wizard's face tighten, and his mouth turned downwards, as he gave a tight nod.

"And is that common?"Sherlock asked, pausing at a records shop, examining the door handle, and then abandoning it, as it was not at all what he was looking for. They kept walking.

"All wizards can see and interact with ghosts." Harry answered. Sherlock turned to look at him. It wasn't a lie, and he wasn't telling the truth. A half truth, more like.

"So Eliza was a ghost?"

"Not exactly. She was a spirit, just lingering before moving on. A ghost sticks around longer. Possibly forever, I've never really asked one." Harry answered, slowly and deliberately.

"Ah, and can all wizards speak with spirits? Ones that are on the verge of moving on?" Sherlock asked, and saw that Harry's face tightened further, his features set into a grim frown.

Harry shook his hand, and gave a short 'no.'

Well, of course not. If every wizard could see and talk to a murder victim, there would never be any murders. Or at least, unsolved ones.

"Are there any other wizards that can?" Sherlock asked, a small smile playing on his lips. Harry wasn't particularly talented at hiding things from him.

The wizard gave a deep sigh.

"No, Sherlock, to my knowledge there are none." He said, his tone very sad. Sherlock couldn't understand why the wizard was bothered by this. Having talents others didn't wasn't a thing to frown about. He was about to tell Harry this, when he realized he might have found what he was looking for.

The detective had a rough idea of how the killer operated before, but with the help Eliza was able to provide, he now had a much clearer picture. He stood at the entrance of a small alley, next to a rundown office building. He could see that the second floor has been recently vacated, and was even more recently put up for sale, which was what he was looking for. This must be it.

There was a back door, from the alley. Sherlock dashed towards it, vaguely aware of the wizard ghosting his steps. The door was locked, but had been recently scratched, probably from a key inserted in a distracted, or hurried manner. He knelt down, examining the steps, and the trodden weeds that grew near the door step. There were a couple of drops of something reddish-brown on the concrete steps. A predatory smile played on his features. He hardly needed his magnifying glass to identify it.

He reached for his lock pick, when he had the sudden realization that magic could be used for more than speaking to the dead, and instant transport, which was tremendously useful in its own capacity.

"Can you unlock the door?" He asked, not looking at the wizard. Harry must have complied, because there was a click, and the door swung open. Magic was great. That's five minutes that the detective didn't have to waste trying to pick a lock, that would no doubt be rusty and difficult.

Sherlock slipped through the doorway. It led to a set of narrow stairs, that went straight to the second floor.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" The wizard had also entered, and was looking about with apprehension. He didn't seem too comfortable with breaking into a private property.

"I'll explain later. Come." Sherlock quickly locked the door again, and dashed up the stairs, with Harry following. The second floor only held an office space, which was for sale, and currently vacated.

By the meager light coming through the dusty, plastic blinds Sherlock could see that the office was once an old tour agency. There was a large poster that advertised guided tours of Barcelona, Madrid, and Majorca, on the opposite wall. Sherlock took a quick survey. Filing cabinets in place, but computers and other electronics cleared out. A few desks had been recently moved, to make a clear space on the floor. The clearing had been recently swept and mopped, while the rest of the office had a fine layer of dust. Yes, he thought, this was certainly the place. It was almost too easy now.

He could do a simple search on Google, to find the killer. Whoever was selling the office, had killed Eliza Monohan, in this very room. Or, he thought, it might be even easier if he found his identification here, maybe on one of the desks, or in a cabinet. You never know what evidence is hiding, until you examine everything.

He began dashing about, lifting papers, and going through drawers. Harry, who Sherlock was barely aware of, stood close to the door, like a sentry.

He was ruffling through old receipts and travel deals, when he heard it. Sherlock froze. His sharp ears had heard the unmistakable sound of a click, then the door being opened. Silently, he congratulated himself on locking the door again, as the person now coming would have no idea they were here. And he knew exactly who was coming.

He grabbed Harry, and breathed into his ear, as quietly as he could manage.

"We need to hide. Now." Harry's eyes widened, and, standing so close to him, he could feel the wizard's heart rate spike. Sherlock had no time for panic just now. Still having a hold of his upper arm, he took them to the corner of the room that had seemed the most concealing. There was one filing cabinet there, and he thought maybe they could not be seen behind it. He tried to pull Harry along, but was met with resistance.

Harry was fumbling with something in his coat, and seemed uninterested in what Sherlock was doing, crouched behind the filing cabinet. He produced an odd, silver cloth, certainly one that Sherlock had never seen (and he was an expert on cloth, fibers, and their origin).

Quickly, Harry stepped over to Sherlock and put his arms above both of their heads, draping the strange cloth around them. With his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, the wizard crouched a bit, effectively taking Sherlock with him. Sherlock was against a wall, and Harry was practically on top of him, his hot breath falling on Sherlock's cheek.

The detective knew he ought to be listening for the footfalls falling on the stairs, but time suddenly slowed down. Sherlock knew he had a plan, surely he had a plan, but his thoughts were drifting away from him like wisps of smoke, and dissolving. It seemed like a lifetime between each thump of his heart, and the now perceptible rhythm coming from the wizard's chest. He was suddenly aware of every inch that was pressed against Harry, and felt the warmth of the man's body temperature against his own limbs. His nervous system buzzed with an odd anticipation.

There was more hot breath falling on his skin, and now a low noise, right next to his ear. It registered, a split second later, that Harry was saying something to him.

"Invisibility cloak." Oh, Sherlock thought with detachment, that would explain a lot. They were crouched down, so that the cloak would cover both the tall men effectively. The wizard was hiding them, like Sherlock told him to do. That was marvelous. He was certainly a competent assistant, thought Sherlock. His lips twitched into a crooked grin, as he thought how lucky he was that his new friend could do magic.

The wizard's face was slightly turned away, but Sherlock's eyes found the stretch of skin that spanned from Harry's jaw to his shirt collar. Harry was under his magical disguise, and it was odd knowing it was his wizard there, but having a mass of auburn hair in his line of sight. Sherlock, with his sharp eye, could still see the physiognomy of the wizard. He could pick out the angles of the facial features underneath the magic. He also spotted a small, dark birth mark, right under Harry's jaw, that was all Harry's, and not part of the magical illusion.

He felt the now familiar tug of his strange madness. He had wanted to reach out for the wizard's thyroid cartilage last time. This time, the small joint of neck and jawline was calling for Sherlock, and he felt a pull on his hands. He wanted to place them, just there in that crook, and then maybe run them back into the hair, that was the wrong color. Or perhaps he ought to investigate the coiled muscles in Harry's arm, that one that was still resting on Sherlock shoulder.

A part of Sherlock's mind screamed that this was neither the time, nor the place, to indulge in his new-found insanity. Sherlock happily ignored that voice, as the rest of his mind was happily clouded in a childish curiosity of what would happen if he gave in.

Harry shifted, a millimeter, but Sherlock felt the wizard's knee bump into his own leg, and a strange tingling rushed up his thigh, and settled in his stomach. It hummed there, and seemed to take control of Sherlock's muscles. His body twisted, and shifted a bit, to mirror Harry's, closer to the feeling of warmth he felt coming from the wizard. More of his nervous system became aware of the body leaning against him, and Sherlock felt a strange swoop somewhere in his mid drift. Their chests were touching, and a length of Sherlock left leg was against Harry's.

Looking down, he found that his own hand was resting only inches from where Harry's thigh met his hips, and Sherlock's insanity instantly focused on that, as its object of fascination. His hand twitched, eager to place itself on the junction of bone and muscle. It was a very short distance from his hand to Harry's hip, after all.

The voice in the back of Sherlock head was now screaming obscenities, as his hand raised itself. It hovered a millimeter above Harry's hip, feeling the slight change in temperature, as he got closer to his body. Sherlock gingerly placed it, right on the hip bone, feeling the bone through the fabric. He traced the bone upwards, until it disappeared under muscle of the stomach, which were softer, yet still tense. How fascinating. Sherlock certainly knew the anatomy of human body well enough, but it was worth specifically documenting the wizard's form separately. Indeed, he really did need to gather data on the rest of Harry's anatomy, and preferably without the magical disguise.

The door to the office swung open, and Sherlock was thrown back into the present. His insanity fled as suddenly as it had come. He immediately withdrew the offending hand, as his mind cleared.

Oh, right.

Harlesden.

Maniac.

Murdered girl.

Her ghost and Harry talking to it.

Sherlock's hand on Harry's hip.

What?

There was no time to question it, as a man in his late forties entered the office. He was very plain looking, with light brown hair, and a smart suit. Standing only a foot away, he stared directly at where Sherlock and Harry were hidden, and then kept looking around. Sherlock felt a rush of gratitude for the wizard's quick thinking, and the invisibility cloak. He had some time to reformulate his plan.

He examined the man, from his vantage point. Briefcase, likely holding the murder weapon. A square outline in his pocket, that held his passport and travel tickets. A suit he had no time to have dry cleaned. Then... a black hair, long, near the buttons of his jacket. Sherlock sucked in a breath. That meant there was another victim. Possibly still alive.

Sherlock had two choices: either he could attempt to follow the Harlesden killer, and he would undoubtedly lead him straight there, or he could attempt to extract the information of the victim's whereabouts through force. Following would be easier, and much less messy.

The killer made a round around the room, as Sherlock watched from under the cloak. He looked very concerned, as he placed a hand on a desk drawer, that Sherlock had opened and rifled through. Sherlock could see the realisation dawn on the man's face, as he understood that someone had been here. He was caught and he knew it. Panic settled into the killer's eyes.

That's plan A out the window. No chance to follow him if he decides to run. Extraction through force it was then, Sherlock decided.

Quieter than a shadow, Sherlock ducked under Harry, and sneaked from under the cloak. A few long, noiseless strides, and he was right behind the killer. Sherlock jumped on the shorter man, grabbing his arms from behind, attempting to put him in a choke hold. The man yelled out, and with the desperation of a cornered animal, tried to fight off the detective. His briefcase clattered to the floor, and Sherlock kicked it away, and under a desk. Sherlock nearly succeeded in subduing him, until one of the man's arms got loose, and dove straight into his jacket. Sherlock saw the glint of a revolver.

Before the killer had a chance to raise the weapon, it flew from his hands with unnatural force. The man cried out in surprise, as heavy ropes wound around his torso, pinning his arms more effectively than Sherlock's hold. Sherlock turned around, to find Harry standing there with his wand out, and pointed.

"You could warn me next time." Harry said, still pointing his wand at the bound man.

"I had faith in your ability to follow my lead." Privately Sherlock thought that binding him with ropes right away would have taken some of the fun out of it.

The killer was looking between Harry and Sherlock with malice etched on his face. He had an oddly distorted face, which clashed with his casual and neat appearance.

"You can't do this. I have rights! You can't just attack me like this!" Sherlock ignored him.

"He has another victim. She might still be alive. We need to find out where she is." Sherlock's first thought was to extract the necessarily information through force, but then he remembered that his wizard could read minds. That would involve less of a legal hassle.

"Since I doubt that he'd simply tell us, perhaps his mind could show us?" Sherlock tried to imply what he wanted from the wizard. Harry gave him a nod, then stepped in front of the killer, making eye contact.

"Legilimens." The killer's face slackened, and his eyes became blank. Harry's on the other hand, looked intense, as he concentrated. Sherlock took advantage of the momentary pause to fish out documents from the man's pocket. The magical ropes were tight, but after digging around a bit he came up with a passport and a plane ticket to Berlin. Flicking through the passport, he found the man's name was Walden Baskey.

Sherlock looked up when he heard Harry stumble and give a yelp. He was panting, and looking away. His auburn hair was growing darker, and the beard had disappeared from his face. His magical disguise must have malfunctioned. Sherlock wandered what brought that on.

Baskey was looking between Harry and Sherlock with panic.

"What was that? He's all different now, he looked different just a moment ago! Who are you people?" Sherlock ignored Walden Baskey, as all of his focus was on his wizard. His breath was ragged, and when he looked up, Harry's face was filled with so much revulsion that Sherlock was rather taken aback.

"How could you? Your own family, how you could you do that?" Harry's voice was strained with pain, as though it was his own family that Baskey had threatened. Sherlock fought very hard not to scoff. His wizard could be so overly empathic sometimes.

"Care to enlighten me?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at Harry.

"It's his daughter. The things he's planning... he wants do it to her, his own daughter!" Harry was clearly upset, but just now, Sherlock had no time for it.

"And is this daughter still alive?" He asked, now looking at Baskey. Walden's angry twitch told him, that indeed, she was. They'd interrupted him here before he finished his business.

"We need to locate her. Any chance you saw her whereabouts?" This time Sherlock addressed Harry, who shook his head rather violently.

"You'll need to investigate again, in that case." Sherlock commanded, pointing his finger at Walden's head, clearly ordering Harry to get back to it. The wizard looked up with a pleading look, obviously not wanting to look into the mind of the killer again. Sherlock wondered what that was like, to rifle through the memories of someone who made sport of young girls.

The wizard gathered a long, shaky breath, as though he were about to plunge in cold water. He repeated the spell, but this time, Sherlock only had to wait a few seconds before Potter delivered the information.

"A room, very plain, hotel by the look of it. Number 17, somewhere in London, street named...Bridgewater..." Harry struggled out.

"That's all I need." Sherlock snapped up. Harry, with a look of relief, ended the spell. Walden was still looking between them with malice and panic. No doubt he had no idea what was going on. And he wouldn't, Sherlock decided.

"Can you cast a memory charm on him? And also put on your disguise again?" Sherlock asked. Harry looked surprised as he patted his face, and noticed the absence of beard. Nonetheless, he did as Sherlock requested. Walden Baskey slumped a bit, an empty look in his eyes.

Sherlock took out his phone, and sent two texts, both to Lestrade. One informed him of the hotel, which he recognized from his detailed map of London. The other demanded that the DI make his way here immediately, to make the arrest. He informed Harry that the police would be arriving soon, and the wizard answered with only a small nod.

Walden Baskey had passed out, perhaps as a result of the spells. This left Harry and Sherlock practically alone in the room. He heard a few rumbles of far off thunder, and he noted absently that it would be raining soon. Sherlock strolled to an empty desk, and hopped up on it, trying to look as casual as possible.

Sherlock's earlier experience under the wizard's invisibility cloak came rushing, and clamoring to the forefront of his mind, and the inside of his head was whirling around. Of course, none of this was visible on the surface.

He could still feel heat on his hand, the one that had been placed over the wizard's hip bone. How strange. Mostly, how dreadfully embarrassing. He knew that at some point the wizard would demand an explanation for his behavior. Well, Sherlock thought, Harry was out of luck. Sherlock had no idea why he had done it. He recalled thinking something about the dire need to study human anatomy, as he followed Harry's hip bone with his fingers. This was a preposterous notion, however. Sherlock knew human anatomy as well as he knew tobacco ash, and as intimately as he knew the map of London. Harry didn't sport any obvious mutations either, so the need to study his anatomy specifically was completely unjustified. There was nothing special about the wizard's body, Sherlock told himself.

He chanced a glance at the wizard. He was leaning against the wall, his long legs crossed, and resolutely not looking at Sherlock. This caused a mysterious flare of anger. Wasn't Harry even curious as to what Sherlock had done, then? Sherlock felt his temper roil. He expected the wizard to at least ask what Sherlock had meant by groping him, but it looked like the wizard was much more interested in the old advertisement posters hung about, than the killer or Sherlock.

"You need to be more careful, if your disguise can falter this easily." Sherlock did not mean to say it with such venom. Harry looked surprised, his eyes widening when they found Sherlock's. Then, he looked down, blushed a bit and stammered out an apology. God damn him. Now Sherlock felt guilty, which was just as unreasonable as being angry. Where had all these sudden frustration come from?

Sherlock crossed his arms, and looked away. He was most certainly not going to apologise. He would just sit here, in silence, until Lestrade finally came. He wished the DI would hurry. He could hear rain begin to splatter outside. At least the wizard could take them back to Baker Street quickly, and neither of them would have to get wet.

Sherlock felt himself almost say something, either an apology or further criticism of the wizard. He caught himself every time though, and not a sound escaped his lips. There was tension in the room, but Sherlock was well adept at dealing with tension. Practically everyone felt awkward around him, 24/7.

Harry also seemed happy enough to stand quietly, though Sherlock did spot him open his mouth a few times, and then hurriedly close it. On the one hand, Sherlock had never wanted more to know what was going through another mind. On the other hand, he really didn't want to acknowledge the wizard's questions, which of course, had no answers.

It felt like blessed relief, when he heard the sirens. Lestrade busted through the door, soaking wet from what was now a downpour, and followed by about fifteen other armed policemen. Sherlock merely gestured to the knocked out Walden Baskey. Lestrade quickly informed him that Laura Baskey, the intended victim, was found drugged to her eye balls in a hotel room, but was now on her way to a hospital.

When they'd taken Walden away in handcuffs, Sherlock jumped into his prepared explanation for Lestrade, making sure Harry was in earshot. The wizard, he noticed, hadn't moved from his place by the wall.

"Unlike other killers, who take great pains to smuggle their victim as far away as possible from the place of abduction, Baskey operated in an entirely unique manner. He rather relied on speed. His victims, a we've noticed before, were completely random, and had no connection to him. This was, in part, why he was particularly difficult to catch him.

"Baskey was in the business of purchasing real estate, cleaning it up, then reselling it at a slightly higher value. This office had recently been purchased by him, and tomorrow would be remodeled, then, put again on the market. It was this business that enabled him to commit his crimes with such efficiency. Whenever he had a space he was reselling, he would utilize it for murder. It was simple enough, he would hang about in the vicinity and grab anyone that happened upon him. The murder would be committed in less than an hour, as all he had to do was drag each victim to the adjacent building of which he was a temporary owner.

"Once I figured out where the relative area of the crime took place, I simply had to find a flat, or an office, or any real estate for sale. It was rather clever, too, that all the evidence left at the scene of the crime was always destroyed when the building was remodeled..." As Sherlock spoke, he occasionally glanced Harry's way. The wizard, who looked awkward and rather sad before, now looked mesmerized. Sherlock smiled inwardly, until Lestrade interrupted him.

"But how did you know it was in this area, where he killed the girl?" Lestrade asked, with furrowed brows. Sherlock couldn't exactly tell him.

"Deductions I made when examining the victim. Details such fine and capable detectives as yourselves should have seen." He drawled. Lestrade looked like he was going to question further, and Sherlock needed to draw attention somewhere else.

"You'll find the murder weapon, or at least one of them, in the briefcase here." He pointed under the desk, where Baskey's tan, leather case had been cast during their struggle. This sufficiently distracted Lestrade.

Sherlock decided he was done here now, and he motioned for the wizard to follow him, as they exited the little office, and onto the street. Harry did follow, and soon as they were far enough away, Sherlock asked to be apparated back to Baker Street.

"Won't Lestrade have more questions?" Harry asked, perplexed. They were outside, and both were getting wet from the rain. Sherlock was almost going to complain, but found he rather liked the way the rain was making Potter look. The auburn hair looked darker, and more like his natural tone. Sherlock could see much clearer the face of the wizard underneath the disguise.

"Oh, no doubt. However, I don't make it a habit to explain him everything. He does occasionally need to do actual police work; it's good for him."

Harry chuckled, grabbed Sherlock's arm, and took them back to their flat.

A/N: As always, please review! It makes me super happy, and super motivated!