"At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love―just enough to feed the birds."
-Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
…
Chemistry
...
A black Mercedes was waiting just outside of 221b. Parked illegally, too. He opened the door and got in. Mycroft climbed in after him. The driver pulled away, and started making a lazy, circular path through London, not going anywhere in particular. There was a screen between them, presumably so that the driver doesn't overhear their 'private conversation.'
"So, what is this crucial family matter, of which I need to be so immediately informed?" Sherlock started. Mycroft frowned and rearranged his suit, pulling on the sleeves, and straightening his tie. Anyone else might have said it looked like he was nervous, but Sherlock knew better.
"You're in danger." Mycroft started, in a cautious tone.
"Practically all the time, yes. Probably something to do with my occupation." Sherlock answered, impatient to get on with it.
"I've been doing some research, Sherlock, about your flatmate." Mycroft continued. He sounded unsure of himself, which Sherlock also guessed was ingenuine.
"Hmmm, find anything interesting?" Sherlock asked lightly.
"Interesting...no, not particularly. But something which will require a certain amount of cautious intervention." Mycroft wasn't looking at his brother, but rather at his own sleeves, as he kept fiddling with them. Sherlock frowned. He didn't like the sound of this. If he was reading the subtext correctly, Mycroft was talking about getting Potter out of 221b. Not good. Also, not going to happen.
"And what is that you learned, then?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft drew in a long breath.
"That I was wrong in my earlier assessment." Mycroft was talking about his earlier assessment of Potter, and whether or not the wizard posed any danger to Sherlock. Not that it mattered much, what Mycroft thought. Just that it made everything easier with his brother out of the way, so to speak.
Sherlock saw this situation spiraling out of hand. He didn't need any intervention from his brother. Even if Potter was dangerous (the very idea was absurd), he was certainly going to keep him around at Baker Street anyway. He lived with danger, he didn't mind it. If anything, he courted it. The wizard was staying, and that was that, thought Sherlock. But he also knew that Mycroft was going to be hard to convince. Before he could think of his next strategic answer, Mycroft cut in.
"I'll be taking the situation out of our hands, shortly." Mycroft answered, gravely and with finality. The subtext of this was obvious, he's calling the wizard authorities, who will be equipped to handle capturing Potter. Sherlock froze in his seat. He couldn't let his brother do that. Under any circumstances. He tried to come up with a reasonable answer, but he felt panic rise up instantly at Mycroft's words.
"Have you called them already?" He asked instead, his tone hoarse with fear.
Mycroft looked at him with a surprised arch to his brow.
"No, I was letting you know first. Also getting you out of there so that you are not complicit." Mycroft said.
Sherlock blew out a breath. He needed to think clearly, but this seemed to to be next to impossible in his current state. Indeed, he was not even questioning why the panic had risen so suddenly, just that he needed to Mycroft to understand.
"You're not calling them." He said, trying to make his voice low and dangerous. It wasn't working properly.
"Don't be difficult about this." Mycroft replied, then continued in what he probably thought was a soothing tone. "There are other wizards, you know. I'm sure I could put you in contact with someone who would be more than happy to …" Mycroft started, but was promptly interrupted by Sherlock.
"Mycroft," he growled.
"If you do this, know that I will never forgive you." Sherlock knew that Mycroft could read between the lines, too, and that 'I'll never forgive you' also meant 'Your next glass of whiskey will likely contain a deadly organic toxin.'
Mycroft was visibly taken aback. It took him a few seconds, but eventually his expression shifted. He smiled slightly, with a dangerous edge which Sherlock didn't like one bit.
"Ah, so this isn't a simple matter of curiosity, then, is it?" he said with a drawl. Sherlock chose to remain silent. Mostly because he did not know how to answer that. Was it not just curiosity on his end?
"It seems you really are unable to learn from your mistakes. Or have you forgotten your introduction to narcotics? I believe we can draw some parallels between the two situations, no?" Mycroft commented, snidely. Sherlock stiffened. What Mycroft was referring to what had happened ten years ago. Usually, his brother was tactful enough not bring it up. Mycroft was really going after blood, then.
"What was that young man's name again?" Mycroft asked, though Sherlock knew he remembered it perfectly.
"Pierce." Sherlock replied, with a hollow tone. Pierce, the talented, blonde chemist who had introduced Sherlock to the beautiful and horrible world of mainlining cocaine. The same chemist who had suffered an overdose, which left Sherlock's world in shambles. He hadn't thought about his old friend in years.
"Yes, that's right. How did that work out for you?" Mycroft asked, the snide quality in his tone grating on Sherlock's nerves. You know bloody well how that worked out.
"This isn't the same at all." Answered Sherlock, with a measured quality. "Potter doesn't have a drug problem. I'm not even sure if there's an equivalent in the wizarding world so…" Sherlock waved his hand around as though to signify 'so your question is pointless.'
"Yes, but you've chosen to attach yourself to someone whom you know very little about. Someone who could be dangerous, and once you do become...attached, you tend to ignore the warning signs."
"I'm not attached." Sherlock said, putting the same disdain on the word with which Mycroft treated it.
"Then why not acquaint yourself with another wizard." His brother countered.
"I've promised to solve his case." Sherlock answered simply.
"How much progress have you made in this case, then, Sherlock? You've been letting him live with you for over a month now." Mycroft continued.
"I've been busy." Sherlock chose to answer succinctly.
"You've only had the Harlesden Ripper case, which you solved in a day. You can't have been that busy."
"I don't need to tell you how I spend my time, thanks."
"Try to look at this clearly, brother. What happens if, during the course of your investigation, you find that he was guilty after all? Would you continue protecting him, with all of your non-attachment?"
"Of course not." Sherlock answered. As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock realized he was lying. Strange. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to have believed him.
"If I were to be honest, I dearly regret Dr. Watson's marriage." Mycroft said, almost to himself.
"Please don't. Be honest that is. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock commented. Mycroft frowned, and looked to be deep in thought.
"You know I cannot simply ignore this." he finally stated.
"Well, try your best, then." Sherlock said.
"Perhaps it would make me feel more comfortable if you were actively working out the case." Mycroft said, with a shrug. Sherlock scowled. He didn't like giving in to his brother. But he supposed it was better than having the wizard cops showing up and rampaging through his flat.
"Perhaps it would make me feel more comfortable if my brother did not actively interfere in business which does not concern him." Sherlock replied childishly. But he knew the conversation was over. The ultimatum was simple. He needed to get on with solving Potter's case, and in exchange, Mycroft would not call the magical world's authorities. Mycroft understood this too. Presumably, he also had no plans for getting poisoned this summer. With a resigned air, he knocked on the barrier separating them from the driver, and told him to return to Baker Street.
...
The car pulled up to the door of 221b, and Sherlock practically jumped out. His brother might have been trying to say something, but he quickly slammed the car door. Entering, he took the stairs one at a time, ignoring Mrs. Hudson, and ran into the living room.
Harry was still there, sitting in the same armchair. His expression was miserable as he looked out of the window. Sherlock slowed his pace, and walked to the other arm chair. Harry barely acknowledged him, when he plopped into it. Sherlock wondered what was on the wizard's mind. Surely, the presence of his brother, though odious, couldn't have affected the wizard this much.
The silence stretched on between them, with Sherlock thinking about Mycroft's request to re-commence working on Potter's case. He supposed his first step would be to contact Granger again. He was just about to take out his phone, when suddenly Harry spoke up.
"So, when are they coming?" He asked so nonchalantly that at first Sherlock thought he might be talking about some dinner guests he'd forgotten about. Were John and Mary on their way?
"Who?" Sherlock asked. Harry turned to him with a crooked smile, that seemed somehow bitter.
"The aurors." Harry answered simply. Sherlock found himself unable to immediately respond. So Harry knew. He knew that his brother had planned on ambushing him here, in this flat.
"How…" Started.
"Your brother, I read his mind." Harry answered. Not surprising. But Sherlock still couldn't understand.
"Why are you still here, then? Why aren't you running?" He asked. Surely, if Harry knew the wizard cops were on their way, he would be smart enough to grab his ancient and battered knapsack, and make a quick escape.
"I don't know. I suppose… I'm tired of running." Harry answered, looking out the window as though he expected the authorities to show up just through the panes. Sherlock felt himself getting angry again. Or perhaps, he was still angry from his conversation with Mycroft. Either way, Potter was being stupid. How could he, Sherlock, protect the wizard if he was so ready to be caught.
"That's completely idiotic." Sherlock hissed. Harry looked over to him with a puzzled expression. "There's no one coming by the way." Sherlock waved at the window, as though to prove his point.
"But if there were, I would expect you to run, do you understand?" Sherlock found himself leaning out of his chair, glaring at Potter. Potter looked at him with a softly puzzled expression.
"No one coming?" He repeated, in a dull tone.
"No. I was able to convince my dear older brother that we don't need his assistance." Sherlock clarified. But he was not satisfied. Once again, though he was blind to his own motivations, he needed Potter to understand that if he had to run, he had to run.
"If you think they're coming, run and don't look back." Sherlock commanded. All he got in terms of response is a small nod, and a crooked smile from Harry. Sherlock leaned back into his armchair. He hoped this settled the matter. He didn't need the wizard acting exceedingly foolish, for no discernible reason. Tired of running? Indeed, he'd been sitting squarely in that armchair for the last hour, so physical exhaustion seemed like a preposterous excuse.
Sherlock huffed under his breath. Between Mycroft being unbearable and Potter being unreasonable, he was beyond agitated. He decided that he would settle in for the evening, and retrieve his violin.
When he got the case out, he noticed Potter had a horrified expression, but Sherlock just smirked and decided to play in earnest this time. Might as well let the wizard know that he was capable of producing real music. He saw Potter shift uncomfortably, as though ready to make his escape.
He started with a short waltz, meandering through the notes, improvising when he felt the need. When he began playing, he heard Harry suck in a breath, and sit back down in the armchair. That's right, thought Sherlock, smiling internally.
After he had finished the waltz, he paused, thinking of the next piece.
"That was lovely." The wizard across from him commented.
"Thanks." Sherlock said, and continued playing. It was easy to let his thoughts drift while he was occupied with the music. He didn't choose any particular strand to pull apart, rather let them all flow through. John had called it meditation, much to the ire of Sherlock. Meditation was for New Agers who believed in crystals and chakras, which was absolute rubbish. John had then told him that his 'mind palace' and his journeys therein, could also be considered meditative. He thought of all the things he needed to do: tell Lestrade to keep an eye on Laura Baskey, visit Uncle Rudy (who was by far his favorite uncle), re-open his investigation into Potter's case, make sure his brother did not attempt to interfere again.
Sherlock thought of his conversation with Mycroft. The music took an agitated turn, the notes coming out sharper. His brother was hardly ever wrong. What would happen if it turned out that Potter really was guilty? Sherlock imagined the scenario and thought that the best outcome would be to actually call the aurors. As soon as he let his mind play through this decision, seeing in his mind the aurors taking Harry away to prison, he knew that he would never do that. Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. Was his brother right? Did he, unwittingly, form an attachment to the wizard?
He glanced sideways at Harry. He was sitting peacefully, and seemed to be enjoying the music. Sherlock thought then that it was irrelevant, whether he was attached or not. He would do what he had to do.
However, the thought of his attachment, or lack thereof, kept plaguing him. He could not turn his mind away from fiddling with the idea. He used to consider himself unable to make attachments, but he knew now that this was false. The case with Magnussen had proved only that he would do anything to keep John (and by extension, Mary), out of harm's way. Then there was Pierce, but that had been ages ago. Despite what Mycroft thought, Sherlock had learned his lesson.
Sherlock abruptly ended the music. There was some connection of which he saw the briefest glance. Potter, and him, John and attachment… Well it was gone now.
His mind was spinning around and around, not coming to any conclusive answer. He opened his eyes, intent on putting away the instrument. Potter said something in the way of a compliment, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. There was some connection that he needed to make, but couldn't find it. He allowed his mind to wander of its own volition, but it still danced around the same subjects, with no new insights.
Potter had moved to the kitchen table, and was back to fiddling with charts and lightbulbs. Sherlock found himself observing the wizard. Harry had an incandescent bulb pinched between his fingers. He was referring to some notes, and looking back at the bulb. The filament produced, for a second, a dim, orange glow, then flickered out.
He had told the wizard (after his excursion to Diagon Alley, of which Potter was still unaware) that it might be nice to have floating lights. The task had been tricky, according to Harry. Things that ran off electricity did not respond well to magic. Sherlock thought it might be a great area of study, combining technology with magic. What he would give to have a magically enhanced laptop!
Suddenly, the bulb in Harry's hands began to glow again. It got brighter and brighter, until it was producing more light than a halogen lamp. Then, abruptly and without any forewarning, the bulb shattered.
The wizard uttered a quiet 'Damn,' and banished the shards with his wand. Sherlock chuckled, and thought that perhaps experimenting on his laptop would have to wait.
The wizard reached into a cardboard box he kept near, to produce another light bulb. Sherlock stood from his armchair, walked closer, and leaned against the fireplace mantel to watch Harry's second attempt. There was a mirror hung just above the mantel. His thoughts drifted away from him, and he found his mind pleasantly fill with a sort of buzzing, which he could not identify.
Harry was holding another bulb, and this time he started with an unbreakable charm. Sherlock recognized it by the faint wavelike pattern, which appeared on the glass for a moment. After he learned of this charm's existence, he had Potter place it over all of his glassware (which, Potter had commented, was a hefty collection). Concentrating, the wizard repeated the procedure, and again, the bulb began to emit a dim, flickering glow. The light's intensity gathered, but this time Potter was quick with a stasis charm. The bulb continued to emit a soft glow, and gave no apparent show of wanting to shatter.
Given his expression, the wizard seemed to be surprised by his own success. Gingerly, he let go of the bulb. It hung in midair, and continued to give off light. He turned to Sherlock, and gave him a brilliant smile, which Sherlock returned, lazily. The wizard scratched something on the charts, and dug out another bulb. Presumably, he wanted to see if he could reproduce the same result. Sherlock watched the already hovering bulb illuminating the wizard's pale face, which was again, a mask of concentration. He felt the same, now more familiar, tug at his navel, and thought he would like nothing more than to stand closer to the wizard; perhaps place his hand on Harry's shoulder, as he worked. A part of his mind whispered that he made a resolution to repress these ridiculous fancies, but it was difficult to care when his thoughts were drifting away from him like smoke. He was about to follow through, when he quickly glance at himself in the mirror.
He did a double take.
There was something wrong with his reflection, Sherlock was able to note, but it was difficult to think further, with his mind still chugging along at a sluggish pace. He observed his face, which showed a slight smile slowly disappearing, but otherwise was normal. His hair, still the same curls. He almost turned away, when he noticed his eyes. His pupils, which should be constricted considering he'd been looking at a lampshade-less bulb, were not in fact, constricted. They were much larger than they should be, given the bright lighting in his apartment.
How odd.
He had half a mind to ignore it, but decided he should investigate. If there was something wrong with his eyes, he ought to know. His sharp sight was an exceeding useful tool for his work. Sherlock walked out of the living room, and into his bedroom. Changing the environment, seeing if variables respond. Neatly, he sat on the edge of his bed, and looked into the small mirror above his dresser. Even from a distance, Sherlock could see that his pupils had returned to normal.
So there was nothing wrong with his eyes, if they were able to constrict and dilate when necessary. He was about walk back out to the living room, but something scratched at the back of his mind, and kept him seated.
Pupils dilate...with fear. Panic causes dilation, heightened breath, heightened pulse. No, that can't be it. He was not at all scared, in fact the opposite. He was rather comfortable and content. What else?
Certain drugs dilate pupils; LSD, MDMA, and of course cocaine. But he had not consumed any drugs. Surely he would feel the effects. Unless Potter was slipping him something? No that's ridiculous, Sherlock would have noticed. That, and he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, so why would the effects be felt now? However, he thought it must somehow be related to Potter. Sherlock was observing him, when his eyes decided to go against the basic rules of chemistry and physiology.
If it was related to Potter, perhaps it was related to magic? Maybe, it was his body's way of responding to the electromagnetic changes that magic wrought? That seemed like a more reasonable explanation.
Happy with his conclusion, Sherlock stood up, and started making his way towards the door. He should have Potter place the floating lightbulbs above his desk, which he always thought could use more lighting...
'Because I took your pulse-'
Sherlock paused with his hand on the handle of his bedroom door. The memory of his own words had wafted through his mind so vividly, it was as though he had heard them. Irene Adler. Winning her game. He remember her, kneeling on his rug, wearing his dressing gown; he had taken her pulse. He had told her later, in Mycroft's office, and guessed the password on her phone.
'-elevated. Your pupils, dilated.'
She was on her knees in front of him, while he sat in his armchair. Maybe she was asking him for dinner again. He reached out, and took her offered hand. Yes, her pulse was elevated. Her pupils, though there was plenty light from the fireplace, were dilated. Like his were, just now, when he was looking at Harry, because-
'the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.'
Sherlock stumbled back towards his bed, and sat down. Something in back of his mind was clicking into place. The chemistry, which produces large pupils and fast heartbeats, which he exhibits, is a result of-
Sherlock chuckled out loud. Surely not! How silly his own conclusion sounded. He wasn't attracted to Potter. That was preposterous. Almost without his bidding, his mind jumped back several minutes, when Sherlock wanted to stand closer to Harry, wanted to put his hand on his shoulder as he worked…
Yes, but that was a friendly gesture, he reminded himself. Nothing in that spelled attraction. His mind countered by replaying the incident under Harry's invisibility cloak, where Sherlock had placed his hand on the wizard's hip. That… that was harder to explain.
He placed his hands gingerly on his knees. In an offhand way, he noticed that they were slight tremors in his hands. Not good. He couldn't be attracted to Potter. Not that he was unable, he supposed he was. Just that he could not allow it. He closed his eyes. He imagined that Harry was sitting, just a few walls away, at the table, with his wand out. He let his subconscious play out the scene. If he was infatuated, he needed to know.
Sherlock could see himself approach. Harry, looking up, stood facing Sherlock. He was smiling the same brilliant smile. Sherlock saw himself place his hand on the wizard's shoulder. Nothing wrong with that, he thought. A perfectly normal gesture. Suddenly, Harry moved in closer, and placed his hands on Sherlock's chest.
'Oh.' Sherlock thought, but let the scene continue. Sherlock could feel his pectoral muscles respond to the touch, imaginary though it was. His abdomen, as well, tightened, and he could feel his pulse steadily climbing higher. He saw himself lift his other hand, and place onto the wizard's hip, as he had once, in reality. Harry moved closer, until their chests were almost touching. Sherlock was a few inches taller than the wizard, and he was looking down at Harry's face, which was slightly tilted. Tilting his own head, Sherlock lowered it until… Sherlock's eyes flew open, his heart hammering away in his chest.
'Oh, no.'
…
The halls of St. Mungo's were considerably quieter in the evening hours. There were only a few healers, walking by with clipboards and perpetual frowns, and some straggling visitors hurrying out. There was also one witch, who strode purposefully forward. Hermione carried a bouquet of daisies and a scowl, as she traversed the labyrinthine halls of the wizarding hospital.
When she finally reached the room number that had been given to her by the Welcome Witch (who was, traditionally, not very welcoming), not even bothering to knock, Hermione pushed on the handle and entered the little room.
The room was illuminated by dim, blue orbs, which clung to the ceiling. There was only one bed, and it was occupied by her oldest friend. Looking down at him, Hermione sucked in a breath.
She had hardly believed it, when George called and told her. But the evidence was right in front of her eyes. Ron was lying in the bed, looking for all the world like he was just asleep. Poisoned, was what George told her. Lethal poison, in fact. One that should have killed him. The healers had told George, who told Hermione, that the only reason it didn't, was because Ron had mysteriously developed a slight resistance to this particular poison.
Hermione remembered that Ron had been already lethally poisoned once, in their sixth year. Thankfully, Harry had his wits about him, and shoved a bezoar down his throat before Ron died. Hermione wondered if it was the same poison that laid Ron out this time. It would make sense, she reasoned. Even a single exposure to a lethal potion heightened a subject's resistance. So really, Ron was lucky that it was this specific poison, out of so many, which his would-be-killer chose. Last time it was Malfoy, but somehow she doubted he was involved.
She wondered who it was that tried to do Ron in. Truthfully, there was quite a large field of suspects. Ron had made it to Senior Auror, and was rumored that in a few years, if he played his cards right, he might even make Head. There were, in short, a lot of people who wanted Ronald Weasley to die. It came with the territory.
But he didn't die, and he wouldn't, George had said. Though, whether he would wake up or not, was still undetermined.
"What are you doing here?" came a sharp voice, from her right. Lost in her thoughts, Hermione didn't notice the woman sitting in the corner of the room, reading a novel. Charlotte. Hermione thought of something nasty to reply with, but decided instead to play nice. She didn't really have a right to be here, unlike Charlotte Weasley.
She held up the daisies like a talisman of protection.
"Brought these." She said, with a slight smile. Charlotte did not reciprocate. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at Hermione, waiting for her to say something else. Hermione was struck again, with the familiarity of the situation. She remembered herself and Lavender Brown, having a spittle over Ron in the Hogwarts infirmary. She thought to herself 'Poor Ron, having all these girls fighting over him, but only while he's unconscious.' She had to school her expression, in order not to giggle.
She must have given something away, because Charlotte's eyes narrowed further.
"Fine. Leave them." Charlotte said tersely, pointing to the flowers. The command was in her tone was obvious. You need to leave, too. Hermione frowned. This woman was being very antagonistic. She had wanted to sit down for awhile, next to Ron; maybe talk to him, though of course he wouldn't say much back…
She placed the flowers on the table, turned on her heels and left. She was in no mood to trade blows with Ron's wife. She briskly walked back the way she came. In a few minutes, she arrived in the apparition chamber, where she apparated to her flat.
Once home she immediately put the kettle on. She almost considered something stronger, but decided against it, as it was getting late, and her work was waiting for her the next morning.
She sat at her table in a strange stupor. She could barely believe the fact that Ron was on death's threshold. And had been there for almost a week, as she found out. At first it was classified, since he was an auror who was injured on the job, but then… Well, she couldn't blame Charlotte for not wanting to call her, right away. The woman always suspected that there was something going on between the two old friends, no matter how many times Ron told her that it had been over for ages.
Then, there was the whole fiasco in Surrey. Hermione's head hurt just thinking about. They sent aurors out to investigate, which in her opinion, they didn't. They simply confirmed that yes, these are Harry Potter's relatives, and as such, their deaths must have been Harry's work.
Amid all of this, was Sherlock Holmes, who she had met briefly, and had perhaps given too much sensitive information. Perhaps. And, of course, he hasn't returned any of her texts for weeks now. She had read the blogs detailing his adventures, and from what she could tell, forgetfulness was not out of character for the strange detective. But she was so hopeful that he would take on Harry's case! Or at least the case in Surrey, where he believed Harry to be innocent.
She had been thinking about the detective a lot. It must have been difficult for him, being a muggle, trying to solve a magical case. Well, Hermione thought, if he is as brilliant as he thinks, he should atleast try. She had been thinking about the detective, and had come to a decision: she would hire him, formally. She had the funds to pay him. She would hire him to solve... was it Harry's case, or the attack on Ron? Though, she had no rational reason for this, Hermione had a feeling, deep in her gut, that the two could not be completely unrelated.
She took out her phone, and decided that there was no time like the present. It was late evening, but hopefully, Holmes would pick up her call. She found his contact, and clicked dial.
"Hello." A voice on the other end greeted her. It was hollow, and seemed almost surprised to be speaking. It barely sounded like the detective she remembered.
"Er, hello, Mr. Holmes? This is Hermione Granger, we met at… Diagon Alley?" she started, suddenly nervous.
"Oh, yes, I remember." The voice answered.
"Well, I was hoping I could arrange a meeting with you Mr. Holmes. I would like to formally hire you to investigate Harry Potter's case." She said.
"Harry?" The voice, which she was sure was Sherlock's, answered.
"Mr. Holmes are you alright?"
"Yes, fine. I need to speak with you anyway. When can you meet?" He asked her, some of the curtness she remembered entered his tone.
"Tomorrow, I work until five…" She started, but Sherlock cut her off again.
"I'll be at your home around seven. Text me the address." The detective, said, and then the line went dead.
…
Sherlock tapped the 'End Call' button. He had lost of track of how long he had been sitting in his bedroom, looking at the door. Well, that was one thing taken care of. He had to meet Granger anyway.
His mind kept trying to trick him into thinking about the wizard. But Sherlock was smart, and knew how to distract himself when needed. Instead he busied himself with playing repetitive flash games on his phone.
Unfortunately being repetitive meant that they also became dull rather quickly. So, once again, he had nothing to do but think about the wizard. Once or twice, he almost worked up the courage to exit his room, and confront Potter. Though what would he say?
How dare you be attractive? Did you cast a love spell on me? Have you been slipping me narcotics? All of it was stupid, and Sherlock was tired of thinking on this subject. Frustrated, he crawled into his bed and fell asleep.
...
He was not in the labyrinth, and this was a relief. Instead, Sherlock was seated in his own living room, next to a roaring fire. Ah, how nice he thought, as he stretched himself out.
He felt very comfortable, until he saw the occupant of the other armchair. Irene Adler sat there, hugging her knees to her chest. She was completely starkers, though this in itself, was no great cause for alarm.
Sherlock noticed that there was a tear, perpetually flowing from her right eye.
Suddenly she turned to him.
'Now you have fun with it.' She said, her tone bitter. Sherlock noticed that her pupils were rather large, and he thought he must know what that meant.
'You trying playing the game while...compromised.' She wiped at her eyes. Sherlock noticed that her pupils were growing and growing, obscuring the rest of her iris. They did not stop at the edge, and continued, until there were no whites to her eyes, just two black holes, which he knew to be a matter of simple chemistry...
…
AN:
Please review! It takes so little time, and it really makes my day! Thanks for reading!
