"Mycroft: Well then, Sherlock. Back on the sauce?

Sherlock: What are you doing here?

Watson: I phoned him.

Mycroft: The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though in many ways cross dressing would have been a wiser path for you."

-BBC Sherlock

...

Family Matters

221b Baker Street had always felt like refuge for Sherlock. Even when the entirety of Scotland Yard had gathered there to search for narcotics, (all because of one measly, missing, pink piece of evidence), Sherlock was calm, because he had always felt rather safe between his wallpapered walls.

Perhaps there had been times before when he had to leave the place immediately, or risk going insane; but that was largely due to boredom, and had nothing to do with the walls of 221b. However, now Sherlock wished to be anywhere but his flat for an entirely different reason.

His near-possession, or perhaps full possession, had left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The detective was still very unaccustomed to sick feelings, and indeed feelings in general, though the last few months had been full of strange new ones. In response, he tried very hard not to think on it, and instead concentrated on the what he intended to get done.

He decided to visit his uncle immediately, and if that happened to take him away far from his flat, it was a fortuitous turn of events.

He brought up a map of northern Yorkshire on his laptop, and had the wizard point out places he was familiar with. It was the only weakness of the wizard's appiration: he had to have been at a location to be able to teleport there. Eventually, the pair of men had figured out that the closest point they could apparate to was Leeds, which was an easy drive from their destination.

The location that Harry chose to apparate them was a disused custodian's room, in the middle of Leeds train station. Sherlock grumbled his disapproval as he exited the small, dusty closet, brushing cobwebs off his shoulders. It was a simple enough affair to rent a car, and shortly, the two men were off to a small parish called Norwood, where Mycroft had placed their uncle in a private clinic.

Sherlock, who was really too impatient for automobiles, had worried Harry immensely in their 40 minutes of driving. If John had been present, he could have perhaps prevented the detective from this dangerous escapade by driving himself; but alas, John was safe in London with Mary, and his toddler.

Harry had almost offered to drive the black Peugeot on a number of occasions, even though he had never so much as sat in the driver's seat of a vehicle. The wizard still had the impression that perhaps he might have gotten them to their destination a little safer.

Sherlock waved him off, as he took the car through twists and turns in the morose, rain-sodden countryside at breakneck speeds. The wizard now understood why Sherlock had him cast a notice-me-not charm on the car; any decent copper would have stopped them immediately.

Instead of paying attention to boring things like road signs and other cars, Sherlock kept up a lively conversation with the wizard.

"You'll like Uncle Rudy, I think. He's my favorite relation. He was always a bit too eccentric for my family, which is really saying a lot. Never boring though, old Rudy." Sherlock said with cheer.

"Sherlock, perhaps when passing the other cars, you could do it not quite so close to them." Was all Harry managed to squeak out in response, as Sherlock overhauled a silver Mercedes, missing the other car's side mirror by an inch.

"My reflexes are as sharp as ever. There's nothing to worry about." Sherlock said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, which really ought have been on the steering wheel.

"Why couldn't we take a taxi?" Harry asked weakly.

"This far out of the way? I'm not made of pound notes, you know." Sherlock replied.

"Merlin, I would rob Gringotts again to avoid this." Harry said under his breath. Sherlock was very close to asking Harry how he managed to rob the wizarding bank, but looking at Harry's distressed form decided that it could wait.

"We're almost there. Perfectly safe and sound, if I might add." Sherlock said, and turned off onto a narrow, dirt road.

At the end of the road was a handsome building that looked more like a large country estate, than a medical facility. Sherlock screeched into a parking space, and thankfully, their journey was over.

Washburn Clinic was a hospice, with none of the grim atmosphere usually associated with places where people were waiting to die. It was not an uncomfortable place, or subpar by any means, but because Mycroft had chosen it, Sherlock felt honor-bound to resent it.

The two men quickly made their way inside. A nurse escorted the pair to a well lit corridor, where all of the rooms had handsome oak doors.

The nurse stopped, and pointed to the room, and told them they could go inside. Visiting hours were until eight in the evening. They had plenty of time. With a smile, she was off, probably to tend to other patients.

"I'll just head to the tearoom." Harry said, but Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, and steered him towards the door.

"Come along. This shouldn't take long." Sherlock said.

He wanted to show Harry to uncle Rudy. His favorite relative was always worrying about Sherlock's habit of living alone, and he wanted reassure his uncle that he was getting along quite well. In the same way, he often showed John off to his relatives and acquaintances, as though to say 'see, someone can tolerate me just fine.'

Sherlock led them through the wooden door, and into a small, bright room. It only had one bed, which was surrounded with beeping medical equipment. Uncle Rudy was asleep on the bed, and thankfully, he looked alright. Not about to die, Sherlock decided. In an offhand manner Sherlock noted that Harry's footsteps behind him stopped.

Sherlock came up to his uncle's side. The man had thinned out considerably in the last few years. His dark hair was all but grey now, and the laugh lines around his eyes were a mess of wrinkles.

"Could you wake up now?" He said. This action had the desired result. Uncle Rudy opened his eyes, and smiled when he saw his nephew standing over his bedside. Then, looking behind Sherlock, his uncle looked puzzled.

"Ah yes, this is Allen Dore; he's my new..." Sherlock began to say, as he turned around to invite Harry to come closer. Instead, he caught a glimpse of Harry making a run out the door, which certainly sent the wrong message about the whole 'people capable of tolerating Sherlock' business.

Sherlock let out a stream of curses that he undoubtedly learned from John. How rude of the wizard.

"My apologies, I'll be one moment." He quickly said to his uncle, and followed Harry.

Sherlock ran out to the corridor, hoping Harry had not gone far. He spotted him immediately.

Harry was leaning against the wall, and he looked positively deranged. He was trembling, and looking around wildly, as though he had forgotten where he was. Worst of all, his disguise seemed to have malfunctioned again, and he was back to his natural appearance.

Not good.

Sherlock privately thanked Mycroft for putting Uncle Rudy in a small, private hospital. The corridors were, at the moment, blissfully empty. He approached Potter cautiously. The wizard didn't seem to know he was there, until they were barely a foot apart. Then, finally realizing that Sherlock was there, Harry grabbed hold of him by the shoulders. His eyes were wide with panic.

"Who are you?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper.

Sherlock was not amused.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. You've been living with me for nearly two months." Sherlock said brusquely. Harry flinched at his words. The look of fear remained. This was mad, Sherlock thought.

"You've been in my mind. You know who I am. Now stop this!" He growled. Harry shook even more.

"Yes, yes I know. I believe you. I just… I don't understand…" He said, looking between Sherlock and the door to Uncle Rudy's room.

Well, it seemed Sherlock didn't understand either. What if Mycroft was right, a snide voice in his head drawled. What if he's truly mad. Sherlock dismissed the thought. Even if he was, Sherlock thought to himself, did it matter? Sherlock sighed, and realized that no, it didn't matter one bit.

"Come on." He said, grabbed Harry's hand, and led them to the men's lavatory, which was thankfully very close. He shoved Harry through into the small room. He needed a few seconds to think.

The strings of information intertwined in Sherlock's head, and he could see a conclusion, though one not as detailed and clear as he would have liked. Somehow, Harry knew his uncle, or at least, he knew someone who looked like his uncle, and whoever they were scared the hell out of the wizard. Only two options were available for explanation. Either his uncle was somehow involved in the magical world, or Harry's perspective on reality had become irreparably skewed. Sherlock hoped it was the first one.

He surveyed the wizard. He was still trembling, and absently looking into space.

"Go back to Baker Street." Sherlock commanded.

"No! I can't leave you here with him." Suddenly, Harry snapped out of his daze, and was looking at Sherlock with intensity in his green eyes. He had his wand out, presumably to defend Sherlock from the invalid who was confined to bed rest.

"He's obviously not who you think he is." Sherlock said, in a placating manner, motioning vaguely in the direction of Rudy's room.

Harry shook his head.

"I know that face, I know it…" Harry said. "Rudy-is that short for….Rodolphus?" He asked. Sherlock had to restrain his features in order not to show his surprise. The wizard should not have been able to guess his uncle's full name. It was not exactly common. Sherlock could see that the wizard would never leave if he told him the truth, so he decided to lie.

"No. It's short for Roderick." He said smoothly.

Harry visibly deflated. "Maybe I was wrong."

"Maybe." Sherlock agreed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a scene, it's just that he looks exactly like someone I know... And that name, and Yorkshire... I must have gotten confused." Harry said.

Sherlock held up a hand. "It's fine. I'll finish up here. You go back to Baker street."

"But how will you get back? I'm fine Sherlock, I'll go in with you." Harry said. Sherlock knew that was a bad idea. He was sure the wizard would have another panic attack once he saw his uncle again.

"No. He saw you with dark hair. I can hardly explain how your appearance changed so suddenly." Sherlock thought that was a pretty good reason, and so did Harry.

"Mycroft can give me a ride back. I need to talk to him anyway." Sherlock added.

Harry nodded but still looked reluctant. Sherlock was about to leave, but Harry stopped him. The wizard dug in his pockets and took out a 50p coin. Harry closed his eyes for a few moments. Then he pointed his wand at the coin.

"Portus mundialis." He said and the coin briefly glowed blue.

"Here, if you get in trouble, hold this in your left hand and say Baker Street." Harry offered the enchanted pence coin to Sherlock, who took it and examined it. It was essentially the same.

"Alright. Thank you." Sherlock said, holding back a torrent of questions. He had never witnessed this particular spell.

Looking more reassured, Harry disappeared with a pop. Sherlock immediately took out his cell, and typed out a quick message to John. Hopefully his friend would be willing to help.

As soon as John got Sherlock's text he was on his way to Baker Street. The self-possessed detective usually did not sound so urgent when he asked John to do something, so John was expecting the worst when he got to 221b. When he walked up the stairs, rushing past Mrs. Hudson, he discovered that indeed there was no need to have rushed. The wizard was quietly sitting in an armchair, and looking out into space.

"Hullo! Just here visiting. Is Sherlock in?" John said, trying to be cheerful. Harry looked up with an expression that said he didn't seem up for cheer.

"No." The wizard answered simply.

"Oh well, if it's no bother, I'll hang around a bit. Maybe he'll show up soon." John said.

"You're here to mind me, aren't you?" Harry asked, with a hollow tone. John was taken aback. That was, in essence what Sherlock had asked of him. He wondered what had happened between the two men, but decided not to ask yet. Or to answer Harry's question.

"Ahem, I'll put on some tea?" He offered instead. The wizard did not react.

"Maybe something stronger?" John asked weakly. It was early afternoon, and day drinking wasn't really his forte. Thankfully, the wizard agreed to tea, and John bustled about preparing it. He was unsure of what else he could do.

After setting out a meticulously arranged tea tray between them, John was unsure about how to proceed. He settled with sipping his tea very slowly, and waiting for the wizard to initiate something. Fortunately he didn't have to wait long.

"John, you've known Sherlock a long time. Can I ask you a question?" The wizard asked tentatively. John was reminded of the first time he had talked with the wizard alone. The prevalent subject was also Sherlock. It was amazing, John thought, how Sherlock could so easily become the centerpiece in their lives. Well, it wasn't that amazing. It was actually quite natural.

"Of course, go ahead." John said,

"Is he a good man? I can usually tell, but with him..." Harry said.

John thought about this question. It was a question he had asked himself many times before. It was obvious to anyone that Sherlock was a great man. There had never been a man like him, John supposed, and never will be again. John thought of all the events that had transpired with his wife, and Magnussen, and Sherlock, and decided on his answer.

"Yes. The best I've ever known. Though sometimes, it is difficult to see it." John answered simply.

"Hmm," was all the wizard offered in response.

The two were back to sitting in silence. John had a fleeting impression that he was failing the mission that Sherlock had assigned to him. So, the doctor decided to do what he did best: regale the wizards with his tales of crime solving adventures. He was a good storyteller, after all.

He started with the first one, of course. At first, Harry didn't seem that interested. However, by the time that John began to explain how Sherlock encountered the cab killer with the two bottles of poison, the wizard was intently listening.

"So how did he figure out which bottle had the poison in it?" Harry asked.

"That, I don't know. Someone shot the rogue cabbie before Sherlock had a chance to down it." John explained. He didn't feel like it was necessary to add that he was the one who had shot the killer.

When John concluded retelling Harry the case which he dubbed 'A Study in Pink,' he continued with the other cases. It was, he decided, better than sitting in silence and staring at each other.

"That sounds brilliant." Harry exclaimed, when John was telling him about the Baskerville hound.

"Except for the bit where I cowered in a cage thinking there was a spectral beast after me, I suppose so." John allowed.

...

When he saw Harry apparate away, Sherlock quickly made his way back to his uncle's room.

He stepped through the door, and noticed that his uncle was still awake, with his hands neatly folded on his lap, and he appeared to be waiting for Sherlock.

"So," Sherlock began.

"So." His uncle echoed.

"I thought I was your favorite nephew. How is that you never told me about magic?" It was a gamble to start like this, but one Sherlock was willing to take. He half-expected his uncle to look bewildered and ask what he meant, but instead Rudy seemed mildly surprised.

"Well, you never asked." Rudy said, in a matter-of-fact tone. Sherlock pursed his lips, and narrowed his eyes at his elderly uncle. Rudy simply shrugged his shoulders.

"That's not a sufficient explanation." Sherlock said, and sat down at his uncle's side. His mind was working quickly to connect his eccentric, old uncle to magic. Considering everything he knew about Rudy, it really wasn't a far leap. He was irritated that it had not occurred to him before now..

"How is it you know about magic Sherlock?" Rudy asked.

"My flatmate is a wizard. I'm working on a case with him." Sherlock replied simply.

"Ah, was that the fellow who ran out of the door? I barely had a good look at him." his uncle said with an annoyed tone.

"Hmm? Yes. Something pressing came up." Sherlock answered.

His uncle looked vaguely concerned, but decided not to question Sherlock further. The detective sat silently for a few moments, trying to come up with his next question.

Perhaps uncle Rudy had sensed that he was about to be interrogated, so he spoke up.

"Sherlock, by any chance, did the young wizard depart so suddenly because of me?" Rudy asked.

"Yes." Sherlock admitted. He didn't see a point of hiding it. Perhaps his uncle knew why Harry had behaved so strangely. "Though he didn't tell me why-"

His uncle sagged in his bed, and looked out the window with a forlorn expression.

"I think I might have a clue." Rudy said.

Sherlock perked up. He didn't think it would be this easy. All he had to do now was control his rampant curiosity and allow his uncle to tell him what he knew.

"I was born...a wizard," Rudy began, but Sherlock immediately interrupted.

"Meaning you aren't one now?" He asked.

"Well, I suppose I am, but I don't practice magic; I haven't in many years."

"So you are still a wizard. It's a matter of capability, not choice-" Sherlock added.

"Okay, yes, who's telling the story here, detective?" His uncle chastised.

Sherlock made a gesture with his hand that indicated his uncle should proceed.

"So, I was born a wizard, into a family that had been magical for a very long time. I guess I could tell you about my childhood, and growing up with my family, but judging by your expression it would be a waste of time? Well, to put it simply, I did not agree with the ideals that my family held. And, I found some of their practices...repugnant. My family were, even by the loose standards of the time, very dark wizards."

Uncle Rudy paused, and Sherlock had the impression that it was meant to be a dramatic revelation. Really, he didn't care at toss whether Rudy's biological family were dark wizards, light wizards, or wizards of any other color. But he did see a connection; since Harry had spent his younger years fighting dark wizards, perhaps Harry was acquainted with his uncle's original family.

"They were an awful bunch, really." Rudy continued. "I know it's not good to talk ill about your own blood, but that's the truth… They hated anyone that wasn't like them: other wizards who opposed them, wizards who had muggle parents, and especially they hated muggles."

It didn't take long for Sherlock to deduce the rest of the story in his head. He decided to speed up his uncle.

"So you rescued aunt Eleanor from them?"

"Alright, yes. You're making this a little difficult, nephew. My father, he was a terrible man. He kidnapped young muggles and, well, he made sport of them, shall we say. Your aunt was in my family's home for three days before I decided I could no longer tolerate her situation. That's when I fled, with her in tow." Uncle Rudy paused again. This time, Sherlock decide not to interrupt.

"The last magic I ever did was erasing Eleanor's memory. I didn't want her to live with what had happened to her. Ever since then, I've been living in this world." Uncle Rudy finished.

Sherlock thought about his late aunt. She had only died a few years back to a particular aggressive type of cancer. He remembered the way aunt Eleanor would constantly forget where she left the keys or whether she had left the kettle on; he remembered the way his aunt's hands shook when she smoked a cigarette. Well, being kidnapped by wizards was probably the root of many of his aunt's nervous traits, even if she did not remember any of it. And perhaps the magical alteration to her memory had permanently made her a touch forgetful.

Where Sherlock was completely oblivious to magic only a couple of months ago, now it seemed to be everywhere, seeping out of every seam in his life. Mrs. Hudson's sister, his own uncle… he had an impulse to phone and ask Mycroft about any other wizards hiding in plain sight.

"Does Mycroft know about all this? Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. I never told him." Rudy replied.

"Thank you for your information, uncle." Sherlock said, "However I'm still at a loss to why you scared the wits out of my assistant. Might you have any insight?"

Rudy looked thoughtful for a moment.

"My brother resembled me when we were growing up. Perhaps he thought I was him?" Uncle Rudy suggested.

"No, I don't think so." Sherlock said. Harry had known his uncle's unusual first name, and Sherlock did not believe that it was a coincidence.

"Did you by chance re-enter the magical world around the time of the second war with Voldemort?" Sherlock asked. He needed to be as straightforward as possible, so he could gauge whether Rudy was hiding something.

"Blimey, there was a second war? No, I did not Sherlock."

Sherlock examined his uncle's face. He was telling the truth.

"What did you do with all of your magical belongings? Do you still have your wand?" Sherlock asked.

"I left everything behind when I fled, except my wand. I wanted to have some protection in case my family came knocking. I keep it in my house." Rudy answered simply. Sherlock nodded. He decided this conversation was a dead end for now.

"Now that's all out of the way, how are you?" Sherlock asked awkwardly. This was supposed to be a social visit after all. He could endure a few minutes of pointless niceties for his uncle's sake.

"Fine, getting better. Doctor said I can go home soon." His uncle answered with a light smile.

Sherlock sat silently for a minute. He was unsure of what else people said in a situation such as this. Enquire after health: check. Enquire after health of spouse: irrelevant, aunt Eleanore is dead. Enquire after health of relations: that would be paradoxical since Sherlock would be enquiring after his own health. In result Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, and failed to make any relevant speech come out of it.

Uncle Rudy chuckled lightly. Perhaps sensing Sherlock's difficulty, the good man decided to take matters into his own hands.

"This wizard friend of yours, have you known him long?" His uncle asked.

"Ah, yes. We've been acquainted for a month and a half." Sherlock answered. He was relieved that he was answering questions now.

"Well, I would say that's not long, but you do move fast." Rudy commented. Sherlock did not think he was picking up the whole meaning of the comment, but decided to dismiss it.

"Mycroft still causing trouble?" His uncle asked with a conspiratorial air.

"I believe I'm the nephew who routinely causes the trouble." Sherlock quipped.

His uncle smiled warmly.

"Yes, that's right. Now with magic in the mix, that should brew up some very interesting trouble." Rudy said. Suddenly his expression altered, and he looked very seriously at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, be cautious with wizards. Some of them are good, but the bad ones...you don't want to run into those." His uncle said gravely.

"There are bad people who are not wizards as well, you know." Sherlock answered.

"Yes, I suppose. Still, just be careful won't you? I don't want anything bad to happen to my favorite nephew."

"Ahem, yes. Will do." Sherlock replied. He did not know what to do with overt sentimentality.

Sherlock decided to conclude the visit. He stood up and said his goodbyes to uncle Rudy. Overall, this visit had turned out great, perhaps minus his wizard going momentarily crazy.

"Uncle, before I leave I have one more question. What was the surname of the family you ran away from?" Sherlock asked. He would need a starting point if he intended to connect uncle Rudy with Harry's case.

His uncle frowned.

"Sherlock, do not go looking for them." His uncle said.

"I intend to avoid them, but I can't very well do that if I don't know who I'm trying to avoid." Sherlock said simply.

"Very well. It was Lestrange."

Once Sherlock was outside of the clinic, he realized he had three ways to reach his destination, which was naturally Baker street. He did need to talk to Mycroft, but he did not actually want to see his brother. So asking him for a ride was out.

He had the magical 50p coin, which seemed like the obvious option.

Sherlock glanced at the black Peugeot he had rented. Last time he had abandoned a rented vehicle the company had been beyond irritating, sending him all sort of notices and fees… John had become upset by the whole ordeal, which was ridiculous since he should have understood it was imperative to the case they working at the time to leave the car behind.

With a groan, Sherlock decided now was not the time to bring the wrath of a rental car business upon his head, and settled into the sleek automobile. With a further, more aggrieved groan he realized that the notice-me-not charm had worn off, and he would have to drive...normally.

"Hello, brother. How did the visit go?" Mycroft's voice sounded through the car, as Sherlock took it through a lonely country road. His phone was plugged into the computerized display on the dashboard, and the sound system magnified his brothers voice through small sedan.

"Well enough. Contrary to what you said last time, Rudy's health seems to be returning." Sherlock answered.

"How splendid to hear it." His brother replied. "Is he still up to his more... peculiar habits?"

"I have no idea. The dressing gowns in the clinic aren't gendered." Sherlock replied, with a roll of his eyes. He never understood why his brother was so strangely judgemental about their uncle's habits. They did not harm anyone, after all. Suddenly, he remembered how his uncle explained himself.

"It's not about wanting to dress like a woman, you nitwits, it's about getting some legroom!"

It seemed like an odd excuse, but if uncle Rudy had grown up a wizard, perhaps he was used to wearing robes instead of trousers. The fact that Mycroft thought it was an odd personality trait meant he did not know about Rudy being a reformed wizard. Mycroft had no idea. Fantastic.

Just then a loud honk sounded behind Sherlock. It could perhaps have been the beige Toyota he had cut off very brusquely and suddenly just a second ago. Though it wasn't Sherlock's fault if the driver of said vehicle did not have the wits to slow down properly.

"Are you driving?" His brother asked in disbelief.

"Don't remind me." Sherlock said. He didn't know how people endured it. Following the rules on the road took every ounce of joy from operating the black automobile. He thought about speeding up, seeing how fast he could make the little car go, but he also knew he did not need to get stopped but the local authorities. Lestrade couldn't do much all the way from London.

"I'll be sure to keep an eye on the Yorkshire traffic report." Mycroft said.

"Go ahead and do that. However, I do need to ask you some questions. Will you be capable of multitasking?" Sherlock said.

"I think I'll manage. Though let me say, it's quite refreshing that you're finally asking your older brother for help." Mycroft said, and Sherlock could hear the smirk through the phone connection. He resisted the impulse to hang up.

"You thought Potter was a fine flatmate for me in the beginning, and then you almost decided to call the wizard cops on him. What made you decide he was guilty?" Sherlock did not care for any more banter, and wanted to get to the point.

"I didn't say that he was guilty. You're the detective, isn't it your job to figure that one out?"

"I am figuring it out. I just want to know how much time I have before you decide to become an uninvited participant in the investigation." Sherlock answered.

"As long as you're moving forward, I will keep out of it. That is what I said, no? As to Potter, I had access to some memories which changed my opinion of his mental stability, thus I decided he might pose a danger." Mycroft answered.

"You viewed memories? Of what?"

"His trial and incarceration."

"Do you still have access to these memories?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"No. The wizards were barely cooperative when I asked for them the first time. I doubt they'd let me have another go. My power only extends so far, you know."

Sherlock swore under his breath.

"Could you give me the highlight reel?" Sherlock winced at how desperate he sounded.

"Hmm, the wizarding justice system is hilariously outdated?" Mycroft said. This information did not surprise Sherlock. The people still used owls to send messages to one another.

"Beyond that, Potter offered no resistance to his sentencing. When asked about the crime, he admitted that he was guilty...but I doubt whether the admission was genuine." Mycroft finished.

"You think he lied about having done it?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I don't think Potter knew what he was saying or what question he was answering. I'm not formally trained in psychiatric evaluation, but I don't believe Potter was aware of his surroundings." Mycroft finished.

"Psychosis?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, probably. Do watch out for that, brother. It might sneak up on you. Or, him rather." Mycroft said. Sherlock considered the day and realized that it already sort of had. Of course, he knew that Harry never posed any danger to him, mentally stable or not.

"Right, thank you for your input." Sherlock was about to hang up.

"One more thing brother- they want to visit London again." Mycroft said gravely.

"Oh, god again?! When was the last time? It can't have been too long!"

"What do you expect? They're retired." Mycroft said.

"We need to find an occupation for them. This is getting ridiculous!" Sherlock exclaimed. His parents were much more manageable when they both held jobs. Maybe he and Mycroft could find them a time consuming hobby instead.

"Yes, I agree. Keep me posted if you have any ideas on that. Oh, and it's your turn to take them to a show. Thank your lucky stars that Le Miz isn't playing…" Mycroft said, and with that, he hung up.

...

Having returned the black Peugeot to a small parking lot in Leeds, Sherlock decided to dig out the magical 50p and give it a try. He did not have the patience to sit through a two and a half hour train ride to London.

Sherlock found a narrow alleyway, and crouched behind a dumpster. He was confident that no passerbyers would be able to spot him from the street. Though he supposed it didn't matter much if they did, since he would be gone and would not have to deal with any repercussions.

He clutched the coin in his left hand and said Baker Street loudly. Immediately, he felt a strong pull at his navel that was exceedingly uncomfortable. He was spinned around and around, and landed in a heap on a dusty floor, in the middle of an empty room. The journey was short, exceedingly unpleasant, but at least it had worked...mostly. He was standing in the middle of the living room of 221C, which looked gloomy and uninviting. 'Basement flats', he thought, and quickly made his way upstairs.

While Sherlock was gone, the whole merry crew had congregated in his living room and were happily watching re-runs of game shows. Mrs. Hudson, John, and Harry were calling out answers to the question on the telly. The three of them were all dead wrong.

"Tetrodotoxin." Sherlock said, as he walked in the room. The game show host echoed his answer a few seconds later.

"Of course you would know about poisons, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said warmly. "Let me put on some tea." She said, as the show cut to a commercial break.

Sherlock pulled up a chair to sit next to the others. He would probably not admit it, but seeing the three of them there had dispelled any of his earlier unease about the flat. He did not need to fear the thing he had tried to summon. Sherlock was sure that the wizard would look out for him; and so would John, and so would Mrs. Hudson. Though, the expertise of the latter two would probably not do much against the Goetic being which had possessed him.

He glanced over to Harry to see if he was in a better state than when he had left Yorkshire. The wizard caught his glance and looked embarrassed.

"Sorry about earlier." Harry said.

"It's fine." Sherlock answered simply.

Mrs. Hudson came back with a tray loaded with biscuits right as the show announced they were back, with another round of questions.

"Now Sherlock, remember the rules. You can't call out the answer until we've all had a try." John said.

"But if you're wrong…" Sherlock started.

"We might not be!" John argued.

"Very doubtful. Your success rate with guessing answers peaked at a measly 18%. Mrs. Hudson's has never been above 5%, and that's only because she always gets the dull ones about pop culture." Sherlock said.

"Aha, but now we have Harry. So combined, we might have a roughly 30% chance of getting it right." John continued.

"Harry's been on the run for a decade. I doubt he'll know anything about...the study of fossilized plants? They're giving these away!" Sherlock exclaimed when he read the question on the telly. Nonetheless he waited a couple of seconds for the other contestants in the room to have a go, before he confidently stated 'paleobotany.' It was correct.

AN: Guys! I've made it over 100,000 words. Is that crazy or what? Well , it is for me. I never expected the story to get so long when I first started writing it, but it's been an amazing experience. And it will continue. There's a very clear end in sight, but it might take some time to reach it. Meanwhile I hope, you guys keep enjoying the journey. And…

I've also reached 400 reviews! (shout out to whysosiriusumbridge, my 400th reviewer) Thank you all so much for leaving your kind thoughts and words. It really helps keeping me going. The story is super fun to write, but like many of us, I have a job and life that constantly compete for my attention. Knowing what you guys think really helps to motivate me and gets me back into the writing mode. So please, if you like the story keep sending me your thoughts on it.

Thanks everyone!