A/N: Still laying the groundwork. I hope it's not too disjointed. I feel disjointed myself, after another nearly 60 hours work week. I hope this makes sense.

Never British, a detective, a doctor or a witch. -csf

2.

Diary of JHW's Magical abilities, day#1

John has birthed a chick from a supermarket egg. The creature was fully formed, breathing, pecking and healthy to all appearances and lasted 8 seconds before vanishing back into the reformed egg shell. No traces of magic were left on the scene (221B, kitchen – see architectonic layout in Annex 1; analysis on the albumen content of the other eggs in Annex 2; Annex 3 showing the structural integrity of the table). Note: John complained of a mild headache on the aftermath of his action. SH

.

'What do you think you're doing?'

Sherlock looks up from the blowtorch switched on in his hand and the magic book on the stove top being burnt.

'Oh, hi, John, good of you to come back from work! How were the sickly ones?'

John just stands there, incredulity etched into every muscle in his body.

Sherlock looks absolutely puzzled.

John pointedly looks at the torch and the book.

Sherlock looks on over and says 'oh.' As if nothing much. As if someone just pointed out that his shirt his white or that his trousers are black. 'It's fine, John. The book is fireproof.'

'Fireproof?'

'Also, waterproof, knife-proof and acid-proof so far. It really is quite a remarkable feat, John.'

John decidedly walks on over to the gas stove, atop which the book stands harmless looking, and turns he stove on. Flames lick at the binding, not taking hold. In fact, said flames look to slightly change colour around the book, seemingly pink, or purple around the leather.

'Oh' he too says.

Sherlock looks on to his torch as an overkill (at last) and extinguishes it.

Yesterday, John wanted to study Lestrade's book. He wasn't fully sure he could trust what he thought he had witnessed, or if it was a Wednesday again and Sherlock had poisoned him with some mind-altering substance. So John really wanted to read the book. But as it turns out, Sherlock was not ready to relent and allow his flatmate to grab hold of the book.

First, Sherlock was determined to run multiple laboratorial analysis on the book to disprove its authenticity as some sort of hoax.

Apparently burning the witch book is part of Sherlock's Scientific Method of Analysis.

John turns off the stove and rescues the book. It feels cool to the touch, adding to the feeling of insanity around the exercise.

'I don't know how,' Sherlock mentions, impossibly reading John's mind further. John feels like his grip on reality is seriously skewed. 'But I will find out, John.'

John listens to those words as a promise that he is not alone, facing this volte-face. He's just John, not some… witch.

'More like a warlock or a mage, really, but I'm not one to insist on labels.'

'But Sherlock, I never… was that thing even a chick?'

'I approve of your first choice of incantation, by the way. Necromancy, John. It really is your style, really telling.'

'Stop it.' The doctor is standing dangerously still, trying to reign in his temper. A former army soldier, a killer and a healer; and just a touch sensitive to the idea of dead being returned to life after St Bart's.

'I won't. You're a natural, John. Teach me.'

'I don't even know what I've done!' he shouts angrily.

Sherlock sighs with long-suffering, in an inference that John Watson is panicking again. And that he must be patient. Which, of course, he's not.

'I studied your words and grammar, and I repeated your incantation. It didn't work for me – why?'

'Because it should never have worked for anyone in the first place!'

'You are special, John. I always knew that. Yet again you surprise me with an innate ability. Your marksmanship—'

'I practiced that in the army, you know?'

'Your medical knowledge—'

'Plenty of mulling over medical textbooks, ta.'

'Your generosity—'

'Are you trying to get me to make you a cuppa again, all you need to do is ask!'

'Your tenacity and resilience—'

'I had to survive, it's not like I had a choice, mate.'

'Even your ability to live here in 221B, John. You are constantly surprising me. I will be terribly disappointed the day I find you to be commonplace and boring, John, and I suspect that will never happen.'

'Sherlock, flattery will not get you special treatment with my sudden magical powers.'

He smirks. 'What will get me special treatment then?' he goads John along. He gets a stare back.

The recalcitrant magician takes a deeper breath, searching for grounding. 'Sherlock, I need your help. Have you ever considered how bloody frightened I am of this thing now? For all we know by this time next week 221B might be more full of chickens than a chicken coop!'

'Nonsense, John. Mrs Hudson would never approve.'

.

Sherlock returned the book late the next morning, frustration etched in the creases of the investigator's shirt, the same Sherlock had been wearing the day before and all through the night he spent reading and analysing the contents of the book.

John is patiently updating his blog while in his armchair, no longer expecting the release of the hostage texts on magic and incantations and is fully surprised as he accepts the book – undamaged, not for the lack of trying – and also the two thick bind folders of annotations and studies performed on the texts by the scientist himself.

'John, I want you to try new spells.'

The doctor takes these words in cautiously.

'I suppose it's only the right thing to do. Under controlled circumstances. I bet you already know which spells I should try first.'

Sherlock nods eagerly, sits on John's armchair's arm and leans over. John tries not to get distracted by the sandalwood aftershave, the warmth from the man coming closer, nor the undertones of pure Sherlock that envelop him. He never had noticed how well he knows the breathing patterns of the taller man, how he could trace blood thrumming through the blueish veins on the exposed pale arms, or how familiar those dark curls are when they brush the side of his face, as Sherlock reaches over to the book on John's lap, dictating the pages to open on.

John takes a deep swallow and readjusts his seat. Predictably, Sherlock ignores all that.

'Try this one,' he demands of John.

Being like this, the full centre of Sherlock's attention is intoxicating, and John realises that he wants to follow the instruction, even if just to be this important in Sherlock's life for just a bit longer. The consulting detective is a bit like a magpie, his attention always refracting after another shinny object, and John craves this much single focus attention on him a while longer. Only Sherlock can chase away the loneliness like this.

'Yeah.' His voice is croaky.

'Well, go on then!'

'Wait, it's a flame alighting incantation. Isn't that dangerous?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes but in the same beat he leans over and grabs a fire extinguisher from under the side table, that John did not see there before.

'Hmm.'

'John, we have a fireplace, could you light the fire in the fireplace for us?' Sherlock suggests, looking too innocent for him not to be up to no good deed.

The doctor doesn't answer immediately. He pours over the texts, under his friend's impatient huffs, then finally he nods to himself and stands up. Sherlock nearly topples over as the chair tips to the side from the weight imbalance, but John is no longer paying attention. He is standing before the fireplace and holding the book in his hand. Slowly, tentatively, John mouths the first words. Nothing happens.

'Again, louder!'

John reproaches his impatient friend with a glare over the shoulder then takes a deep breath and recentres himself on the edge of the Persian rug, in front of the cold logs in the fireplace. His voice deepens as he fully commits to the words. He kinda wants to impress Sherlock.

A spark of flame scintillates over the logs, but immediately disappears.

'Well, don't stop now!'

John nods, mostly to himself, and turns the words into a mantra, repeating the instruction with persuasion and calm. Behind him, Sherlock falls strangely silent. John takes this as a good sign. Closing his eyes, he deepens the command to the logs in the fire to burn, repeating the words rolled in with his breath.

'Wow.'

John is caught off-guard by such a sound from his friend and he opens his eyes. What he sees is a perfectly nice warm fire in the hearth, only with a slight tell that it is not fully natural.

It burns pink or purple as the flames flicker over the crackling wood.

John shrugs. He supposes that true magic needs to leave an imprint of its making on objects.

He takes purple fire as the best sort of fire he can get today.

John nearly loses his balance as he returns to his seat, gladly standing back while Sherlock desperately tries to analyse the flames, and burns his fingertips as a proof that it is indeed burning hot. The scientific method of a toddler.

John shakes his head, makes a mental note to keep another first aid kit in the living room, and closes his eyes to focus on a command to the fire to cease to exist.

Sherlock grunts, still on all fours in front of the fireplace, a hand reaching out to the logs. 'Why did you do that?' he accuses, reading full well John's mind once again. Or maybe it is the guilty look on the doctor's face as he sees the disappointment in the younger genius.

John rolls his eyes and, in the calm underground currents of his mind, commands the fire to restart.

He shivers deeply, feeling suddenly oddly drained.

'John?'

Sherlock's attention is no longer on the purple fire – dismissed as less than a priority – as he senses John's sudden discomfort. 'Stop the fire. Now.'

'Will you make up your mind?' John stops it.

'The chick creation incident. You had a headache afterwards. And now, you are swaying on the spot. John, what is happening?'

'I'm just tired, that is all.'

Sherlock's face distorts into bitter guilt.

'What is it?' John asks. 'You didn't do this to me.'

'There's a caution, at the beginning of the book. The energy used to grow the chick, to start the fire… I didn't get it when I read it, what it meant.'

'Go on.'

Sherlock hesitates and gets to pacing the rug in tight circles. Only Science can make sense of this and he desperately seeks calm logic and order to be restored to his known universe.

'Energy cannot be created or destroyed, John. Activation energy was needed to start the combustion in the fireplace, John.'

'Yes?'

'That energy came from you.' And suddenly Sherlock is, jittery and unsure, jogging to the kitchen, volunteering tea and a biscuit, if they have them.

It's an odd turn of events and John smiles through the lethargic exhaustion that weighs his body down against the armchair's padding.

He bets Sherlock is mildly impressed.

.

Diary of JHW's Magical abilities, day#2

John has successfully ignited combustion of firewood in the hearth – location: 221B, living room – and was capable of turning it on and off. The fire burnt purple. No potassium metal was present in the surface of the logs to justify the tinge of the flame. SH (the taker of these notes) set alight the wood the traditional way and it burnt in a safety yellow flame. John was weakened and tired looking after the enchantment.

Hypothesis 1: Magic requires the expenditure of energy that comes from the spell caster.

Hypothesis 2: Purple is a signature of the Magic being performed.

Imperious that more tests are done in order to confirm hypothesis 1. SH

.

At first, they put the Work on hold. Partially because Lestrade insisted that Sherlock and John needed a break after the last case, that the cold cases file was looking particularly bare when it came to Lestrade's office, and that John's newfound gift needed to be reigned in. After a week of casual but insistent experimentations on all sorts of incantations from the book, John starts to control natural phenomena as a predilection, and Sherlock notices that London's weather patterns are becoming attuned to John's moods – correlation and causation – and he worries as he sees John's power becoming bigger than they can conceal in 221B.

He therefore completely lies to the detective inspector and states that John's powers have fizzled off after a promising start. And, because it is such a disappointment to John, John should have a reprieve from his loss, and Lestrade should let them in on one of their cases. Win-win situation.

That is how the three of them find themselves involved with a ring of terrorists operating from a warehouse at the Thames front, one dusky evening, the fog from the river rising and making the stake-out a harder job than it should be, as they expect the terrorists to start loading a recreational boat with the fresh batch of explosives.

'What's the weather like tomorrow, though?' the inspector wonders.

'John?' Sherlock passes the question on, with a sly smile.

John blinks, hesitating. Is this a question on his mood swings (he's dealing with a lot right now, alright?) or a request for some weather patterns modification? John is seriously starting to wonder if he's just about wiping out one or two of London's species by manipulating the local climate.

'John,' Sherlock demands, with just that word. Sherlock always demands the full extent of John's abilities.

With a frisson of exhaustion running down his back like a cold shiver, John relents, as John always does. 'Are you asking for a sunny day to tackle the bad guys?'

'God, no. I'm asking for enough rain to cover our movements so we can disable the boat's engine. They are getting ready to depart tonight. No time to wait for backup either, Lestrade, your police force will take too long. Reduced visibility. Natural camouflage, sounds just like the sort of thing a friend of mine could arrange for...'

The doctor smiles warmly, at the mention of being Sherlock's friend. In fact, he's more than a little proud of that. Over the years, Sherlock's vitriol has mellowed somewhat but one can still use the fingers in one hand to count his true friends.

'Okay,' John finds himself promising. 'I'll make it rain.'

.

Sherlock hisses under his breath as he takes the boat engine apart. They still need to get out unnoticed for the plan to go right. Time is running out. 'John, that rain?'

John bites his lip. Incantations under his breath have not got them much more than a fine drizzle, hardly enough to water a lawn, let alone provide them concealment from the enemy.

The doctor quickly looks around searching for privacy. He finds a space on the deck, behind a wall of wooden crates, a recess where he can stand tall and still see the sky.

'Cover me,' he directs, without giving the two other man time to react. He gets up and jogs towards the recess even before Sherlock has fully understood the request. Then are spotted by the enemy, that seeing intruders in their boat, take violent exception, guns out and firing.

'John, come back!' Sherlock calls from the cockpit hatch. Maybe a hint of panic in his voice.

'Nope.'

A shower of bullets follows him to safety, making wooden flakes burst out the crates on impact of a dozen bullets.

'Amateurs,' they hear the former army doctor mutter, amused.

And immediately they start hearing John's voice lowering as he starts to speak out ancient words, barely decipherable, chained as beads in a prayer to the elements.

Greg is instantly transfixed over the transformation of the army doctor. He stands tall, arms to his side, palms out, eyes closed, and his mouth moves to the hypnotic rhythm of the incantation mantra. Suddenly a full body tremor chases his body from head to toe and muscles lock into position, unseeing eyes open to the sky, and his voice speeds up, over and over again, demanding the power of the rain to follow his lead. The rain droplets, Greg notices, enlarge.

'Well done, mate!'

But John is not done yet, another body spasm and the words melt into one another, his body rising towards the sky as John lift his heels from the floor in what could be described as ecstasy, but there is a hint of vulnerability to John's features now as the spell gains its own strength and takes over the body of John Watson, draining energy from the deeper reserves to supply the rain over them all.

'John!' Sherlock spots the mistake first. The instructions, too vague – it's raining hard all over England now, how can John sustain this energy drain? 'John, it's taking up all your energy! Rain only over London, do you hear me? John!'

Something flickers in John's creased brow as he sways on the spot, and the doctor forces his mouth to slow down, and he gasps the containment words through spit and sweat, just as his knees buckle and he falls kneeling to the ground, his palms still turned upwards to the relentless rain.

Somehow, it's scientifically impossible but it still happens, John's rain invocations still swirl around the riverside and yet he clearly is heard saying: 'Now, Sherlock. Run. Take Greg with you. Go now. I'll follow.'

'John...'

Sherlock hears it for what it is, a brave plea for the magic to stop draining out him, for his friends to be safe, as John Watson reaches the core limits of his energy reserves.

The detective runs under cover of a positively torrential rain towards John. His John. The man whose energy is draining too fast. He grabs John and drags him along. He's not even surprised to see Greg Lestrade gripping John firmly from the other side.

'Well, tell it to stop now, no need to drown us!' Sherlock hisses, desperate to cut through the trance-like state of his best friend.

A flicker of recognition in John's near lightless eyes and he tries. New words are added to the hypnotic incantation. As soon as John stops talking, all rain ceases abruptly, and all light eclipses from John's eyes. John stumbles forward, listless, and if not for his friends' support, he'd keel over on the spot.

'Jeez, John!' Lestrade tugs at John's arm around his neck, practically carrying, or at least dragging, the doctor to safety. John is practically unconscious.

Sherlock silently vows to teach John the importance of being quite specific while spell casting, dammit.

.

TBC