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"Science is always discovering odd scraps of magical wisdom and making a tremendous fuss about its cleverness."

― Aleister Crowley, The Confessions of Aleister Crowley: An Autohagiography

Occultism

...

The stone basin sat on Mycroft's desk, the eerie glow still throwing shadows on the grey walls of his office. The man who had come to collect it shook hands with Mycroft.

The man, Mycroft knew, had a senior position in the Department of Mysteries, which to his understanding was a research oriented branch of the magical government. He did not know the man's name, and did not care to to learn it. He could see in one long glance everything he needed to know.

The man had a vaguely rounded shape, and fair hair which was steadily growing grey. He was a widower. He lived alone, and devoted most of his time to his career. There were smudges of red ink on the sleeves of the man's, er, robe.

"Did you find the memories you were looking for?" The man asked, as he deposited the pensieve into a simple wooden box. Mycroft wondered why the man could presume to ask for such information. Nonetheless, in the name of courtesy, he replied.

"Yes." He said softly and fixed an unpleasant smile on his face, one which would hopefully hurry the man out. The man took his time, shrinking the box, and depositing it into his pocket.

"Curious why someone from your world would go looking for one of these." The man commented, almost to himself. Mycroft chose not to reply. There was a lilt of condescension in the man's voice as he said the words, and Mycroft knew this particular wizard did not think highly of non-wizards.

He could not fault the stranger for this, since Mycroft did not think highly of wizards. Indeed, his brother's entanglement with their world was a constant gnawing edge of anxiety.

Well, all Mycroft could hope for was that the situation resolved itself quickly and neatly. However, he knew nothing was ever quick or neat, when Sherlock got involved.

A lazy, orange light was pouring into the flat through half drawn curtains. It was eight o'clock as Sherlock slouched over to the coffee machine. He could hear muffled creaking coming from upstairs, which meant that the wizard was just getting up as well.

Sherlock was surprised that he had actually felt much better in the morning. Usually, mornings were difficult for him. Unless there was a case in which he was absorbed (and then, he would be sleeping very little), he always felt like the day would have to be traversed rather than lived; like walking through a swamp, or a strong current.

So, after realizing some rather uncomfortable things about his odd behaviour regarding Potter, he thought this morning in particular would be more difficult than others. But when he woke up, he did not feel daunted, as he had last night. Indeed, he felt quite the opposite. A rather cheerful mood had overtaken him, and he had the urge to either play the violin or take a stroll through London's more scenic districts. Perhaps he could take Potter along.

He had spent last night worrying over nothing, he told himself. The way forward was clear. It did not matter, one bit, if his errant 'lower-half' had woken up, unexpectedly. He could ignore it, just as well as he ignored the need to sleep or eat, when it suited him. It was, he knew, in the same spectrum of 'needs' which human beings deluded themselves into obsessing over. Sherlock knew better, though. It was merely function, as mechanical as the rotating chambers of a revolver.

He could understand now where his strange impulses were stemming from. Armed with knowledge, Sherlock was ready to suppress any sudden onset of temporary insanity. With this cheerful thought, Sherlock clicked the coffee brewer on.

There were steps behind him, and Sherlock watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Harry made his way downstairs.

The wizard greeted him with something ordinary, like 'good morning,' that somehow didn't seem to capture the scope of the moment. Harry said something else, something about breakfast, to which Sherlock nodded, since he was feeling hungry, and why not indulge a little?

He thought again of strolling through a summer-soaked London. The scant places where green things were able to thrive in the urban patchwork might be worth a visit. The flowers would be blooming. Or was that only in spring? He did not usually pay attention to the patterns of efflorescence.

The wizard passed by him to get to the stove, and Sherlock suddenly thought his kitchen was a bit cramped. They were practically on top of each other, as he poured out his coffee. His inexplicable good mood was still holding him high, but he still found his situation disconcerting.

He was feeling oddly out of place, in his own flat. Sherlock was the one who was a self-proclaimed sociopath, high functioning of course. Yet, he had to remind himself not reach out his hand as he passed Harry in the tight confines of the kitchen, and edged away towards the table.

Meanwhile, Harry seemed to be innocently oblivious.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as he watched Harry doing something domestic next to the stove. A sudden thought sprung up in his head. Did he know that the wizard was unaffected? It certainly seemed like it. But surely being a male and having matured past puberty, the wizard had some sort of interest, in someone?

Sherlock frowned. It would be just his luck to meet another asexual, right when his own asexuality was being questioned. But luck was just the stack of probability, one way or the the other. Since asexuality was relatively rare, the probability was low. Sherlock felt the familiar creep of curiosity.

He ought to know about the wizard's 'tastes,' so to speak. It could be an important piece of data. Rationally, Sherlock knew that this was not going to help him with suppressing anything, but as always his curiosity won out.

Sherlock was waiting, like a predator crouched in grass, his eyes sharply tracing the outlines of the wizard, while Harry settled himself with breakfast and coffee. Sherlock thought he ought to start the conversation in an innocent manner. A diversionary tactic. He could ask Harry about whether the morning was pleasant, or if the toast was burnt, or some other such rubbish. However, the detective was not known to be a patient man, and instead he decided to just jump in.

"So while you were on the run-"

He almost couldn't help himself, as the words slipped out. He felt an odd lurch in his stomach, that usually meant he was hungry or needed a cigarette.

"Did you have many romantic involvements?" he finished, trying for as casual tone as he could possibly manage.

"I don't think many people are actively searching for a date with a known mass murderer, do you?" Potter commented. Sherlock shrugged.

"You'd be surprised." he quipped, and Harry chuckled. "You obviously have disguises. I would think you would be smart enough to use them to your advantage." Sherlock prodded further.

The amused looked slid off Harry's face. He looked thoughtful.

"No, I never pursued anything, or- er, anyone." Harry stated with finality. Sherlock thought this might have been the wizard's way of giving him a clue that the conversation is over. He happily disregarded it.

"I find that surprising. Most men put an unnecessary amount of time and energy in pursuing women. Are you saying you've never pursued women?" Sherlock was very interested now.

"Well, yes, I suppose there was a time…" A barely noticeable blush was creeping through the wizard's face, as he stumbled for the words. Sherlock, on the other had, also noticed that the wizard did not dispute the women part. He knew he should be happy about this, as it put Potter comfortably out of his reach.

"But that was ages ago. Where's all this coming from, anyway?".

"I simply want to be aware if I am to expect overnight guests at the flat." Sherlock lied, with ease.

"No I don't think so. Besides, I'm not sure if this place would work out as a den of seduction; there's still traces of intestines in the kitchen sink, which by the way…."

"Those weren't even human intestines." Sherlock cut in.

Harry looked like he was on the verge of arguing. But with a little jerk of his head, he must have decided to concede the point. Sherlock looked down at his coffee. He thought that maybe that was enough answers, too many really. But the wizard took initiative into his own hands.

"How about you?" Harry asked.

Sherlock just arched an eyebrow in a silent question. Surely they've been over this.

"I mean, you've said your work prevents anything too serious, but when you were younger...you've probably had...before your work…" It puzzled Sherlock that sometimes Harry could express a thought in a clear and concise manner, and other times sound like he was just learning the English language.

"Did you ever, er, pursue anyone?" Potter finished.

"No." Sherlock answered.

"What, never?" The wizard looked rather shocked. Unexpectedly, it stung Sherlock's pride.

"No, never. I don't tolerate wasting time, especially in such a foolish manner." Sherlock felt, for a brief and fleeting moment, that he was an actor reading a script, one that he had written for himself a long time ago.

Harry looked like he was about to ask something else, but Sherlock avoided eye contact, and shifted his body away from the wizard. The conversation left a taste of something unpleasant. He should not have asked. What difference does it make which sort of genitals the wizard prefers to be in vicinity to his own?

Just then, he heard an electronic ring across the room. Sherlock loped over to the living room couch, where his phone was lodged between the two cushions. He really should keep the thing on his person, he reminded himself. With an annoyed expression he excavated it, and clicked it on. The number was Lestrade's.

"Yes?" he answered, with his usual curtness.

"Sherlock, you know I really don't like it when you withhold information which could be crucial to an ongoing investigation…" The DI began immediately, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I couldn't possibly not withhold information. The amount of time it would take to fill you in on everything you don't know might well exceed both of our lifetimes." Sherlock replied. He would not admit, but he didn't know exactly what information he was withholding, this time.

"Yeah, right, so why is that you brought a professor of the occult with you to Harlesden?" Lestrade asked. He sounded genuinely annoyed. Sherlock furrowed his brows. There was no practical reason for it. Only as a reference that only he and Potter would understand. Occult History didn't actually figure into the case. It wasn't even a real subject. Or so he thought, anyway.

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked.

"Laura Baskey disappeared from the hospital. We think she did a runner. Possibly because she was involved in her father's crimes, but that's why we need you here. We had a search warrant for her flat, and found some things that your professor should have a look at. Though maybe he already has, since apparently you've been doing your own investigating." The DI finished. Sherlock's eyebrows were raised in surprise. This was interesting. Here, he thought he was done with that case, and it suddenly bloomed into a much more complex puzzle.

"Send me the address, I'm coming." He said, and before the DI had a chance to reply, hung up the phone. He noticed Potter looking at him with curiosity.

"We need to go. Get ready. Quite quickly."

The address was in Central London, off Holborn road, and Sherlock decided to take a cab instead of relying on the wizard's apparition. There were few places that could be relied upon to be completely empty in the denser parts of the city.

The wizard was much quicker about disguising himself as 'Allen Dore,' and complained little when Sherlock requested that he change into respectable clothing, which he scoured from his own wardrobe. They were sitting in a taxicab in no time at all.

"So what did you occupy your time with for more than a decade?" Sherlock asked. He had been wondering since their conversation at breakfast. Judging by John's behavior, chasing the opposite sex took up a hefty percentage of leisure time. Since Potter had nothing but leisure time, it followed that he must have found ways to fill it. Sherlock was curious as to what those could be.

Harry snorted.

"It wasn't a very exciting decade." He answered.

"Makes up for the other one?" Sherlock asked. He had some idea of Harry's life, before the whole 'framed for murder' business. He was almost jealous. What an exciting life, to be part of an anti-terrorist movement at such a young age.

"Yeah something like that… I suppose I didn't really do much. Kind of like early retirement, really. Watched more muggle telly than anyone should in a few lifetimes. Practiced some magic, when I could…" Harry waved his hand in a gesture that suggested 'and that's about it.'

"What sort of magic?" Sherlock pressed further. He was sure that if he were forced to watch television for 14 years straight he would have gone insane, many times over.

"Oh you know, nothing too exciting. The stuff in the books I have. I don't know, not much else…" Harry said. Sherlock fixed an expectant expression on his face. There had to be more than that… Potter looked rather uncomfortable, as he searched for something else to say.

"I wrote a … I'm not sure what to call it. An article, or a paper, I guess." Harry finished, looking like he didn't know what else to say.

"I didn't figure you for an academic." Sherlock replied.

"No, well I'm not." Harry answered.

"Did you...submit it?" Sherlock, who had no idea how the wizarding equivalent of scientific journals functioned, was intrigued.

"In a way. I mailed it to St. Mungo's. That's the hospital, in London." Harry answered.

"What was the subject?" Sherlock wanted the wizard to be more explicit. He suddenly wished he could perform legilimency. It would certainly make things quicker, if nothing else. He was sure if he had access to that power, Sherlock would almost never actually talk with anyone, which sounded blissful.

"It was about…" Harry hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Souls."

The wizard obviously didn't want to talk about it. This made Sherlock all the more curious. Sherlock glanced outside of the cab window, and calculated that they would be arriving in just under ten minutes. Plenty of time, if only Harry would step up the pace.

"What about souls?" Sherlock asked, maybe a little on the brusque side. Harry looked at him with slight worry. Sherlock tried to peel apart his lips into a smile, to reassure him. It probably didn't come out very kind, or even human, because Harry suddenly looked more worried. Thankfully, that didn't stop him from talking.

"About splitting souls, and damaging souls, healing souls, phoenix tears...nothing really interesting. To be honest, I really doubt anyone's read it. As you said, I'm no academic." he finished. There was connection here, Sherlock knew, to something important. The wizard wasn't lying to him, but he was omitting. Or rather, not going into the subject in depth, because of...what?

It was something the wizard did frequently. He could prattle on for ages about certain subjects. In the case of one afternoon, soon after Harry had started living at 221b, Sherlock had spent an hour listening to a lecture on the dynamic architecture of Hogwarts, which granted, he did find interesting. However, some subjects, the wizard was frustratingly tight-lipped about. He recalled the wizard having the same disposition when questioned about his ability to see the murder victim, Eliza.

The subject of souls was certainly foreign to Sherlock. Indeed, if it had not been for the lingering soul of one of the Harlesden Ripper's victims, he might say he did not believe in their existence. It was now difficult to say what he 'believed.' Though, perhaps not very difficult. He believed, as always, in things he could quantify. So really, he believed the things he knew, and no more.

"Anyway," Harry piped up, "where are we going?" he added, in a clear attempt to steer the conversation. Sherlock allowed it, since he had no follow up questions ready.

"Do you recall the charming gentleman we helped apprehend in Harlesden?" Sherlock asked. Harry gave a slight, un-amused nod.

"His daughter appears to have run away from the hospital. Which, I'm sure you understand, seems suspicious. We're on our way to her apartment."

"The police don't suspect her to be involved, do they?" Harry asked.

"Of course they do." Sherlock answered. The wizard looked troubled at this news. It also seemed he had no more to say for now.

By the time they arrived, Laura Baskey's apartment had minimal police presence. It suited Sherlock, in that there was less annoying buzzing in his ear. He looked around, assessing what he could see of the young woman that lived here:

-not married, no pets, no children

-string of boyfriends, none serious

-works in finance

-boring, normal, tedious…

Except, of course, her father, who came to be known as the Harlesden Ripper. Lestrade suspected Laura was complicit in her father's crimes. Sherlock knew that was improbable. Even now, he could picture the murders in stark detail, and there was no evidence of more than one perpetrator.

But, he had to grudgingly admit to himself, it was possible that Laura Baskey at least knew about what her father did with his spare time. There is more than one way to be involved in murder. Her disappearance was very suspicious.

Lestrade met them at the door, and led them through the living room. The wallpaper in the flat was cheap, but rather new. If he had to guess, the flat was remodeled less than a month ago. Sherlock filed these details away for later.

As soon as Lestrade gathered them in the run-away woman's flat, he tightly crossed his arms, and fixed Sherlock with a glare.

Sherlock had categorized Lestrade's (rather limited) range of gestures, and he knew this look was used in two situations. Lestrade was either perplexed about a crime, and couldn't make heads or tails of it (more common, and very frequent occurrence), or he was beyond irritated with Sherlock. This time, it turned out to be a bit of both.

"I looked up professor Dore, here; called Cambridge, and asked after him." Sherlock froze, as Lestrade started speaking. He was immediately aware of Potter's presence, hovering behind him. This wasn't the time to think of Potter, he told himself. Not while Lestrade was figuring out that Sherlock had lied to him. Again.

"No one there by that name, they said." Lestrade continued.

"Then, I thought I'd ask about their department of Occult History; which does not exist. In Cambridge, or, according to the folks that I spoke to, at any self-respecting University." Lestrade took a pause to draw his breath.

"Sherlock, they actually laughed when I asked about it. You know, I hate to be made a fool." Lestrade pressed his lips together, which meant he was finished and now it was Sherlock's turn.

Sherlock opened his mouth, a comment that correlated Lestrade to foolishness ready on the tip of his tongue, but the DI must have sensed it coming, and snapped.

"Don't. Not the time. Who is he?" Lestrade pointed at Harry, who hadn't said a word.

"A professor of Occult History who is unaccredited, and therefore, not teaching at a self-respecting university." Sherlock retorted, and stole a glance at Harry, who he willed to keep his mouth shut. At least for now. He knew if he simply avoided the question, the DI would eventually give up, and let Sherlock keep the secret.

"Why did you bring him?" Lestrade asked.

"I thought I could use his expertise."

"And how did you know you would need it?"

"A hunch." Sherlock answered, nonchalantly.

He was eager for this little interrogation to end. Sherlock was still unsure how Harry's 'profession' tied into this.

Lestrade sighed and gave Sherlock a hard, long stare. It seemed to imply that the matter could be resolved later, but it will be resolved at some point.

"I'm going to assume you're not telling me because I'd rather not know. I'll trust you this time, but Sherlock, this better not come back to bite me." Sherlock remained silent. He just hoped they could all move onto the mystery, and quickly. Thankfully, Lestrade obliged his unspoken request.

"Laura Baskey, aged 28, disappeared from the hospital last night around 3 am. Reviewing the security footage, we found that she was alone, and not coerced in anyway, and that…"

"And what are we doing in her apartment? You would not have called me here if there was nothing unusual about it." Sherlock could barely keep the edge of irritation out of his voice.

Lestrade frowned, and motioned with his arm to the doorway of, what Sherlock assumed, was the only bedroom.

It was not an unusual room. White wall paper, a twin bed, and a few arrangements of furniture, and then Sherlock glanced down at the floor…

The floor was wooden, and old. Sherlock noted, perhaps the only 'old' surface in the entire flat. No doubt Laura was able to benefit from her father's remodeling business. He noticed the carpet lying in a heap, in the corner of the room, which was likely thrown aside by unscrupulous, and underpaid police grunts. The length and width of the carpet, Sherlock guessed, were perfect for covering the middle of the floor which-

He wasn't sure what to call it. A chart, or a picture, or a diagram of some sort was scratched and painted into the wood. Sherlock's hands immediately sought his magnifying glass, tucked as always inside his jacket.

The illustration had a roughly round shape. It was about three and half feet in diameter, though it was hard to gauge because the circumference was not regular. It featured many concentric circles and arcs spinning out from said center. There were words, here and there, (not in English, or any language he was aware of) and strange symbols in the spaces between the geometric figures. He had no idea what it meant, or what the writing was trying to signify.

He could ascertain other facts about the image however. The paint was regular acrylic, if he had to guess. It was painted into grooves in the floor, made with a screwdriver, judging by the harshness of the scratches.

The grooves were older than the paint on top, much older. The paint was not well worn and had to be fairly recent. He would guess that the artist was Laura, though it was possible the scratchings were not her handiwork.

"So what is it?" he heard Lestrade's voice above him, as he crouched over the floor examining the image. The truthful answer was that Sherlock had no idea. He had never seen anything like it. He did not want to admit this to the DI.

"What do you think it is?" Sherlock countered.

"It looks like some sort of witchcraft, doesn't it? Like something you'd see in a horror film." Lestrade answered, and Sherlock had to fight down a snort.

"It sounds like you have a theory." Sherlock said, as he was always in need of some good entertainment. And Lestrade's theories were always suitable in this regard.

"I do, yeah." Lestrade said, with what Sherlock knew was false confidence. Sherlock stood up to face the DI, and bid him to continue.

"I think they were both part of some cult." Lestrade started, hesitating at first, but gathering more steam as he spoke. "Maybe they were both brainwashed, both the father and the daughter were part of some sort of occult club. Baskey killing all those girls, maybe it was some sort of ritual, a sacrifice. If I'm right then we'll have to find this group as soon as possible because the other member might be dangerous as well…"

"If you're right, then yes." Sherlock replied, and went back to studying the diagram on the floor. Lestrade's theory was too much of leap, he thought, if all he was going off of was the enigmatic diagram on the floor.

"You don't think so?" Lestrade asked.

"No, I don't think so. We never once found anything like this at one of the crime scenes. We have no evidence to correlate Baskey senior and this...occult club theory." Sherlock said.

"So you think this is completely unrelated." Lestrade countered, gesturing to the floor.

"No, nothing's unrelated." Sherlock answered. He thought suddenly, of the fresh wall paper adorning the walls of the bedroom and the rest of the flat, when a sudden idea struck him.

"You've already assumed too much, and deducing facts from assumptions is like building houses on quicksand." Sherlock mused, as he loped towards one of the walls. He noticed Harry, who had briefly left his mind. The wizard was studying the diagram with a curious expression.

"We can only deduce from what we see, and from what we know." he said, and then gingerly pried loose a section of the white wallpaper from the bottom, where it met the baseboard. He worked slowly so as not to damage the walls underneath. The wallpaper was a thick ply, which masked perfectly the texture of the wall.

He heard a puzzled 'What are you doing?' coming from Lestrade's direction, but continued peeling. It took a few minutes for one strips of the white paper to be halfway removed, and the wall underneath to become visible.

There were scratchings, almost identical to the ones on the floor. Except where the image on the floor was depicting geometric patterns, the walls only had what could only be described as words and letters. Sherlock considered himself talented in linguistics, but he was sure he had never seen anything like it. He was very glad that Lestrade had decided to call him in. This, he thought, would be a fantastically exciting case. There was so much to learn! He was even grateful to Laura, for doing a runner and leading him, in a roundabout way, to her mysterious flat.

The DI was standing behind him now, also examining the wall.

"You think it's on every wall?" He asked.

"Likely only the ones in the bedroom, but it wouldn't hurt to check. answered Sherlock.

"Right…" Lestrade answered.

Satisfied with the peeled off section, and after laying the discarded paper to the side, Sherlock picked his phone from his pocket. He aimed it at the diagram on the floor, and snapped a picture; then moved around, and took another, making sure that all angles of the image on the floor were covered.

"I'll need photographs of everything on the walls, if you could." Said Sherlock to no-one in particular, though Lestrade understood it was meant for him.

"What is on there?" The DI asked.

Sherlock just shrugged.

"Well, what about your 'professor?' Isn't this his area of specialty? Maybe he knows what it is." Lestrade said, pointedly looking at Harry. Sherlock huffed. Neither Laura nor Walden Baskey were wizards, so it was highly unlikely that Harry would be any more knowledgeable on the subject than Sherlock.

Sherlock's thoughts were proven wrong when he turned around and saw Harry staring intently at the scratchings, his eyes moving side to side, as though he were trying to read. Interesting...

"Yes, what do you think about this, professor?" Sherlock asked.

Harry looked around, surprised at being addressed. He looked back at the wall, then at Sherlock, his face a look of concentration.

"It's…" he started, and gave Lestrade an uneasy glance.

"Well, it's Goetic." said Harry, as though that explained everything.

"You'll have to be more explicit." said Sherlock.

"It's a language…" Harry looked uncomfortably at the DI. Unfortunately, this time Lestrade noticed.

"Oh, no, no, no, you are absolutely not pushing me out again. Go on, you were talking about this gothic language? I can be privy to the details of my own investigation."

"Goetic. It's a language used to er, communicate with otherworldly beings." As Harry spoke, he kept throwing Sherlock pointed stares, which probably meant he wanted to speak with Sherlock alone. Well, there wasn't much Sherlock could do. Lestrade was pretty clear on the 'not being pushed out' front.

"Can you translate it?" Sherlock demanded.

"Of course not. I never learned Goetic." Harry answered, and unless Sherlock was imagining it (which he did very little of, since it got in the way of seeing the evidence of reality) the wizard was slightly off put by suggestion. He had the same subdued, hollow tone, as though the he had forgotten how to portray irritation.

Sherlock gave the room another searching look. The engravings would have to be deciphered later. Even though Harry could not translate it, he would probably be able to point Sherlock in the right direction. Sherlock thought it was wise not mention more in front of Lestrade, who was still unaware of what Harry was.

Lestrade was calling one of his underlings. Sherlock was glad to hear that the DI was following up on his request to have the walls stripped and photographed.

"Do you think this has a connection to your world?" Sherlock asked Harry in a low tone, while the DI talked on the phone.

"I don't think so. But it's hard to say." Harry said. Sherlock was really hoping that Potter had a better explanation which he simply didn't want to deliver here.

There was not much else he could do in the flat. Stripping the wall was a tedious task, that Sherlock felt could be better appropriated to someone else. He looked carefully through the room, noting the other items. Picture frames, books on micro-finance, a desk.

Sherlock checked the closet, then the drawers of the dresser. Nothing was standing out. He swooped down next to the bed, and lifted the blanket to look underneath.

There was a little suitcase, which Sherlock fished out and opened. It was neatly packed with essential clothing items, and a plastic bag full of hygiene products.

He took down all of his observations in a neat corner of his mind. He had no doubt they would come to be useful as the case continues to unfold.

Harry was still staring at the peeled back wall, Lestrade was on his phone, and Sherlock was ready to leave.

"Get in touch when you have those photos." He said to Lestrade, who nodded his accord mutely.

Just then a young police woman entered the room. She held out a coffee for Lestrade who took it, and continued talking on his mobile, which was now pressed between his ear and shoulder blade. She was blonde and Sherlock thought she looked somewhat familiar.

"Hi again." She said with a wide smile, and Sherlock was rather disconcerted (since they had never met and there was no reason to attach 'again' onto her greeting). That is, until he realised it was directed at Harry, who nodded, and greeted her back.

He remember then seeing this girl leaning into his wizard, and displaying her attraction in a rather blatant way. It was right after they found Liz, and before they cornered Baskey. Harry had looked uncomfortable then, and he looked even more so now.

"Right, we're off." Sherlock said quickly. He avoided the impulse to grab Harry by the arm, and lead him out of the room. It was unnecessary anyway, since the wizard eagerly followed him out of the flat, and out to the street.

...

AN(again): Another chapter up! I know this one had a long wait, but I'm glad I could get it out finally. Thank you everyone for reviewing. Reviews definitely keep me coming back to the keyboard, time and time again. So please leave one if you enjoyed the story, because it will probably make my day:)