Chapter 21: The Search for Sherlock

Mycroft's fingers trembled slightly as he typed in the pin code to Eurus' room, the keypad beeping softly with each press. He leaned in, allowing the scanner to read his fingerprint, the light flashing green as it accepted his access. Mycroft pulled at the door, but it didn't budge.

"Stand aside," Harry said, his voice calm but urgent as he stepped forward, raising his wand. With a flick of his wrist, he uttered, "Alohomora."

The lock clicked, and the heavy door creaked open, as if it had been resisting more than just a mundane lock—magic had been in play here. Harry cast another spell, his wand glowing with a faint blue light as he scanned the room. His eyes darted back to Mycroft.

"There's someone inside," Harry said tersely. "Stay behind me."

Harry moved forward, his Auror robes billowing behind him with each step. Mycroft followed closely, his mind racing through the possibilities. He had been meticulous in his arrangements, every detail checked and double-checked. For Eurus to have outmaneuvered him—and to have involved Sherlock and John—suggested a level of desperation that Mycroft had not seen from her before.

Inside the room, the air was cold and stale. The only furniture, a small bed, a simple chair, and a desk bare of any personal touches. In the dim light, the sight of John Watson sprawled on the floor sent a jolt of alarm through Mycroft's chest. John's face was pale, and his body lay at an awkward angle, a few feet inside the door.

Harry rushed to John's side, kneeling quickly as he checked for signs of life. With a deft flick of his wand, he whispered, "Enervate."

John's eyelids fluttered, and he coughed as he blinked up at Harry and Mycroft. Confusion clouded his face as he struggled to sit up, rubbing his eyes.

"Harry? Mycroft? What—what the hell?" John sputtered, his voice hoarse. He glanced around the room, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Where am I? Where's Sherlock? How did I get here?"

Mycroft helped pull John to his feet, his grip firm and uncharacteristically gentle. "There's no time, John," Mycroft said, his usual aloofness tinged with urgency. "We need to leave. Hermione—her life is at stake."

At the mention of Hermione, John's memories surged forward, the fragmented images and panicked thoughts converging in an instant. His heart raced as he thought of Hermione's fragile state, of the baby she was carrying, and the terrible stakes that hung over them all.

"Is she—what happened?" John asked, his voice rising with fear. "Is the.. is she alright? I'll do whatever it takes to save her—just tell me what to do."

Harry nodded, his expression a mix of relief and determination. "There's no time to explain everything here but we know about the baby. We need to get back now. We can still save her."

John straightened, adrenaline propelling him forward. "Okay. Okay. Sherlock would understand. He'd want us to save Hermione first," John said, more to himself than anyone else. He followed Harry and Mycroft quickly, his steps fueled by the urgency of their mission.

Harry led the way, his wand lighting the path as they navigated the maze-like corridors of the facility. Mycroft struggled to keep pace, his breaths coming in short, labored bursts. Running was never his forte, and the pressure of the situation made every step feel heavier.

"Only the father can anchor Hermione for the spell to succeed," Harry explained between breaths, glancing back to make sure John was keeping up. "She needs the magical connection, the bond. Without it, the spell won't work."

John nodded as he ran, his mind still whirling with the pieces of the puzzle that had yet to fall into place. They neared the exit, the dim light of the facility's entrance just ahead. But as Harry reached for the door, John suddenly stopped, his mind clicking into focus as the implications of Harry's words settled in.

"Wait," John said, his voice sharp with realization. "If only the father can save her—why are we leaving Sherlock behind?"

Mycroft and Harry exchanged a startled look. Mycroft's face paled, and he stumbled back a step as if the weight of John's question had struck him physically.

"You're telling me…" Mycroft's voice faltered, the truth unfolding in his mind. "Sherlock, my little brother, is the father?"

John stared at them, the truth slowly sinking in. It made perfect, improbable sense. If Sherlock had allowed himself to care deeply for anyone, to connect on such an intimate level, it would be Hermione. She challenged him, stood as his equal, understood the depths of his intellect and the complexities of his emotions.

"Mycroft," John said, his voice more controlled now, yet urgent. "I think I know where he is." His mind having cleared of the fog that lay over him following his period of unconsciousness.

Harry and Mycroft looked at John, their eyes filled with a mix of hope and dread. Time was slipping away, but now, perhaps, they had the missing piece that could save Hermione—and the unborn child whose existence hinged on finding Sherlock.

"Lead the way," Harry urged, his wand at the ready.

John nodded, determination hardening his features. There was no room for doubt. They just had to find Sherlock.