Harry Potter, Sherlock A Curious Case

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

On what I thought was a day like any other, I found myself seated across the only consulting detective in London. It was two days after all hallows eve and we had just returned from a ghastly prolonged case in which a widower had been missing her deceased husbands' material possessions bit-by-bit for the past year. The sheer amount of things we had to recover made what Sherlock had stated as an uncomplicated inquest, into a week-long excursion. Her step-children, never approving of their late-fathers marriage to the widower, took it upon themselves to sequester the remaining possessions and divide it between them. The late Mr. Wentwick had eighteen children from his first and second marriages.

It was at this point of exhaustion that I found myself in a new undertaking as Mrs. Hudson informed us that we had a new visitor calling upon my friend. I looked to Sherlock, taking in his blood shot eyes. He, however, seemed to rejoice at the thought of another case and bid the landlady to show his visitor in. I took a glance at what could only be his personal syringe with seven-percent-solution peeking out of his Morocco leather case. He tidied it up, finding that he may not need it after all. I found I could no longer find the will to refuse him this case which came so promptly after another, if only to prevent his use of recreational drugs. I stood and moved towards the small kitchen where I may start the kettle. It seemed that rest would once again elude us both and it would be best if we had even the tiniest amounts of caffeine in our systems, lest we both end up unconscious during this new escapade. I made a mental note to inform Mrs. Hudson to search for his morocco case and throw away all that lay within it.

Mrs. Hudson returned a mere moment later with a woman who, in all intents and purposes, seemed quite uncomfortable with the amount of organized chaos that Sherlock had come to call our home. As the kettle called me to attention, I fixed the tea and headed over to our coffee table, setting three cups. I bid our visitor to sit on the most clutter-free surface (my chair), and merely sat on Sherlock's armchair. It smelled faintly like tobacco, reminiscent of his times before coming across nicotine patches.

"Mr. Holmes," she started, "I am here to employ your services due to an unusual and disagreeable situation in which I find myself."

Sherlock merely remained standing in the same place he stood when Mrs. Hudson first informed us of this visitor. I am glad to report that he had for once listened to my counsel regarding informing his new clients that he was, of course, aware of why they had come to 221B Baker Street and that they were wasting his time in the occasion where they informed him of such. 'Why else would a someone, not on a social call, come other than to seek my services?', he would argue. I had then informed him that it was social convention, for the guests, to inform him of their intentions in the visit.

"I see," I looked to the woman after taking a sip of tea, "please help yourself to some tea while you inform my companion of this unusual and disagreeable situation."

She eyed the tea a bit distastefully before fixing herself a cup.

"My sister and her husband have been murdered not even two days ago and I woke yesterday morning to find her infant son on my doorstep. I am a married woman with my own young son to care about and have no interest in raising another boy. My sister and I are... detached with each other, having not spoken since our school years. I am certain that I would be the last person to whom she would have wanted to leave her boy if anything were to happen to her and that good-for-nothing husband. All that was left with the babe, aside from his blanket, was a letter which spoke of threats if I were to give the child away to an orphanage or another family which would want it. I want nothing to do with the child and I came here first thing, after hiring a babysitter for my child and her babe, to call upon the services of a consulting detective to look into the options of removing this child from my home."

I stared at her, flabbergasted at her tale. This... woman, for I could not think of any polite word to describe her in the negative light which I found myself casting on her, seemed to want to _give away_ her newly dead sisters' child. Sherlock, however, merely continued staring at her with a pensive look on his face.

"Cause of death?", he asked her.

"I do not know. The letter merely stated was that she and her husband were killed within their own home. Murderer and victims had died, the incident leaving no one but the babe alive." Her face displayed a look of indifference.

Sherlock paced quite a bit, going over something in his considerable intellect, before speaking again.

"Do you have the letter with you?"

The woman shook her head as she took a sip from her tea. "My husband burned it right after I had let him read it."

"And what would you have me do, madam?" he asked her.

She looked Sherlock right in the eye as she spoke the matters that shook me to my core. "My husband is an impatient man, and does not like unusual and disagreeable situations. I do not care about the babe, but I fear that if he remains in my home my husband will himself become one of those criminals you always seem to run after. I want that child out of my house at the soonest possible moment, Mr. Holmes. I have no care of where it goes or who it goes to, as long as I never need to see it ever again. And I do not want those that wrote the letter to either seek my family's company or to return the boy to our... care. I want to wash my hands clean of the matter, Mr. Holmes, without retribution from those who threatened us after dropping him off at our doorstep."

I could only stare at her slack-jawed. This was quite an unusual case. It was not missing persons, escaped criminals, or even thievery. I was unsure of why they had come to Sherlock in the first place.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. He seemed to be contemplating the situation. He shook his head and uttered, "I accept."

The woman let out a relieved sigh.

"If you leave your home address with my associate here, I shall call upon your home tomorrow at ten o'clock. Do not touch anything which I may find of use. With minimal tampering, I may be able to discover the identities of the letter writers and their reasons for threatening you. My fee, however, will not change. I trust you know it by now, after being referred to me."

She nodded, left a slip of paper on the table before standing and leaving the premises.

I turned to Sherlock with a million questions floating about in my mind.

"We better get some rest, John. Tomorrow we shall discuss our undertaking for Mrs. Dursley." he was about to enter his room, but I stopped him.

"How did you know her name was Mrs. Dursley?"

He turned to me, a queer look on his face. However, he humored me and began to cite his methods step-by-step as he had done so many times before, "She had already stated she was married. She also had a relatively expensive stone on a white-gold ring resting on her ring finger. This suggests that her husband brings in a relatively good income, but is not on the top rung of his company. She is very concerned with how she appears to others, shown by how her stance has been a perfectly straight one as she stood, with a slightly arched back when seated. This suggested that she is not used to these stances, as she had trouble keeping it for a prolonged period of time. Her face gave away her slight strain. Her clothing suggests that she is not from London, style of dress stating that it was of an upper-middle class budget but from a year ago. The condition of the dress is one which has been seldom worn and is kept well. She wanted to impress me, especially if she had already known my fee. Her shoe has been shined with the same black polish with which I remember seeing on a certain individual from a drill firm. It is a locally made brand which comes from the country. But this brand has ceased production. To have a can of it would suggest that either they have a relative in the country or that they had stocked it up. Judging by the state of the polish, it seems to have been made recently from the scent I picked up from it. A Mr. Vernon Dursley has a sister in the country which he had told me, under disguise from a previous case. He is short-tempered, on the middle ring of a drill firm, and is married with a young child. I deduced that our visitor was in all probability, his wife. A Mrs. Dursley. The Dursley's reside at a suburban county, Surrey."

He turned to his room and shut the door, leaving me with Mrs. Dursley's half full cup of tea, my forgotten one, and Sherlock's empty cup. I sighed as I picked the trey up and placed it in the kitchen. I needed more rest than I thought if I would have to keep up with an energetic Sherlock. Before heading into my bed, I picked up the piece of paper where Mrs. Dursely had written her home address.

"_Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey"_

Sherlock really astounded me at times.

*~)=(~*

After a well-deserved bout of rest, I rose from the confines of my bed and moved towards the common area Sherlock and I shared. A cloud of noxious fumes immediately greeted my nostrils. I found Sherlock once again on the couch, undoubtedly his arm already covered in nicotine patches, and staring into space. His eyes were unblinking as his incredible mind was once again at work.

"I have been on a journey, John, one which brought me directly to Privet Drive," he stated as he sat up. "as I returned, I discovered that my arm is now utilizing three nicotine patches. I am not to be blamed. Oh, and that 10 year old whiskey you were saving up has now dried up unexpectedly. In other news, I have made up my mind that this case may very well prove to be more riveting than I originally thought."

As I moved to prepare myself and Sherlock some breakfast before setting out to Surrey, he continued explaining his findings.

"Mrs. Dursley's sister and brother-in-law were killed two nights ago, on all Hallows eve. After texting Lestrade, I found the police know nothing on a murder that night _anywhere_in England. Victims and criminal supposedly all found dead at the scene. But where and by who? And why not report it?Lestrade was adamant. No reports whatsoever in the police database on a murder that night. So we have unknown persons who picked up the sole survivor and whisked him away from an unknown location to Mrs. Dursley's residence. As Mrs. Dursley and her sister do not get along, we can only conclude that whoever the unknown persons are, they knew Mrs. Durselys sister well but not well enough to know about the sisters' spat. Still, why not report it to the police? This leaves us with the perpetrators being those who either are in a position of power over the victims, or who expected that the victims would be attacked and acted accordingly. I say, John, this case becomes more and more intriguing the more I think of it!"

I watched him continue to think while he ignored the eggs and toast I lay in front of him. I found myself wondering whether or not this was how his human skull 'friend' felt when Sherlock went on another tirade. I finished up my own breakfast before standing to prepare myself for our visit to Surrey. My bones were still tired from our previous case but this was one which Sherlock would not wait to crack, despite his own weariness. He was, after all, still in the same suit he wore the night before. He must have only rested a few hours at most.

At a quarter to ten, we had arrived at Surrey and were making our way to Number 4 Privet Drive. As his methods asked of him, Sherlock insisted we walk the neighborhood and he kept his trained eye scuttling from one detail to the next during our walk. We finally stopped in front a home with a well-manicured front lawn, a beautiful rose bush, and a shining number plate proclaiming it as number 4. Sherlock and I walked up to the front door and could already hear a screaming toddler asking for more "pow-taters!". We rang the door bell and patiently waited for the screaming to cease. Sherlock continued to look at the home before stepping on the doorstep. He asked me to do the same. Removing his magnifying glass from his pocket, he inspected the doorstep. He stood straight as the door started to open.

Mrs. Dursley stood in front of the door in a more common dress and ushered us inside. She pointed to the tea set in her living room and asked us to wait while she went back to a screaming child in the kitchen. We seated ourselves, just as she returned holding a large, round baby with blonde hair seemingly plastered on his round face.

"This is my son, Dudley." she informed them, a twinkle of pride appearing in her eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock said, with an uninterested tone, "where is the child of your late-sister?"

From proud to disgusted, her face showed clearly what she thought of her other charge. She pointed to a small door which seemingly led to a cupboard under the stairs. She sat herself down as she bounced her large child on her knee, he giggled.

"I did as you said and touched nothing of what you may gather clues from." she stated.

I stared at her, "Including the child?"

She nodded. I was horrified.

Sherlock stood and walked towards the cupboard. He pried it open and a puff of dust appeared. He crouched down for a while, I could not see what he was doing, but after a few minutes he removed what appeared to be a picnic basket from its interior. I stood and walked towards him, crouching down myself to look at what lay within it. The first thing that caught my attention was the putrid smell coming from the diaper which was strapped on to the child's bottom. Mrs. Dursley did not lie when she had said she had not touched anything which was associated with the case.

Sherlock picked up the child and quickly handed it to me. He began to inspect the basket. I look at the child now in my arms. My training as a physician came over me at once, though I was more used to adults than children. I asked Mrs. Dursley where I may find fresh diapers and a loo. She pointed me towards a baby bag in the living room and their guest loo. After changing the poor babe, I checked his body for any injuries he could have sustained during his parents' demise. His bones seemed all aligned and his body still held the infant softness that told me he was, at least, healthy. However, he had a curious scar upon his forehead that looked to have been carved there very recently. It was still red and had not closed up properly. Holding a tissue against it could still bring forth a few drops of blood. I was also afraid the child was mute since he had not made a sound our entire visit.

I made my way towards Sherlock and found he had already finished inspecting the basket and had moved on to the blanket. Mrs. Dursley continued to play with her son, leaving us with her nephew and his oddities.

"At least he is healthy, Sherlock. Except he has a curious scar on his forehead. It does not seem infected but is still moderately open. I've never seen such a scar. It should have closed by now."

Sherlock turned his attention from the blanket towards the babe in my arms. He picked the babe up from me and proceeded to turn it around in every which way. Finally, the first sound I had ever heard from it was produced. The child laughed.

"Yes, well. Mr. Potter seems to be an odd fellow." Sherlock concluded, as he returned the babe to me. He turned to Mrs. Dursley. "What else can you tell me about your late sister and brother-in-law?"

She scowled at the mention, but answered nonetheless. "She met him at a private boarding school up in Scotland which she attended from ages eleven to seventeen. They married soon after graduation and had that babe. I only ever met him once. He was a despicable fellow. Lily brought him over soon after she graduated from that wretched school to let him meet our parents and myself. He brought his three friends along. I don't remember their names. They made all sorts of fun of me and my parents. Rude bunch as they were. Soon after they had arrived, they had left and I never saw my sister again. I only heard she had gotten married to the oaf from a telegram she had sent. But I do know that the oafs name was James Potter."

"Lily and James Potter." Sherlock tested on his tongue. "And what of their son? What is his name?"

"Harry."

Sherlock nodded. "Would you happen to have the remains of the letter that your husband had burned?"

She paused, nodded, and then put her child down. She moved towards the kitchen and produced a black sheet of burnt paper. Sherlock quickly produced a plastic bag from his pocket and placed it inside.

"I wish to conduct an experiment, Mrs. Dursley. I will be leaving your home with young Mr. Potter. If I am correct, you may never see him again as you wished. I expect my fee to be due then. If I am wrong, you will find him once again on your doorstep and I may need to reassess the situation. Do not worry, Mrs. Dursley. I feel that your part in this is close to an end."

With that, Sherlock strode towards me, removed the babe from my grasp, placed the babe back in its basket with its blanket, and strode out of the house: baby and basket in hand. I thanked Mrs. Dursley for her hospitality and went after Sherlock, unconvinced that he had really hidden away that seven-percent-solution from last night without use after all.


End file.
