Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

Collisions & Compromises

Chapter 1

by ~chicadoodle

Author's Notes: I'll admit, this plot bunny has been rattling around in my head for ages now. It just won't let me go! In some versions Harry was still only a child when he and Sherlock first met, in others Sherlock had always been a part of his life but was unable to care for him as a parent full time. In the end, though, I decided to introduce Harry and Sherlock as strangers until Harry tracked him down as a teenager. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and hopefully I get enough positive feedback that I will post the next couple of chapters - which I already have planned out in my head, I admit.

... ...

The discovery of his mother's diary had sent the world of one Harry James Potter reeling. That his mother had even _kept_ a diary had not been something the young man had even considered; that she had kept a series of them from the time she had learned to write was even more confounding. But it was one surprise that he was more than happy to have thrust upon him.

Those first diaries were filled with childish drawings and the hopes and dreams of a child who knew nothing of the wizarding world - dreams of being first a veterinarian and later a teacher.

Pleasant surprises. Like learning that his aunt had not always been afraid or resentful of magic - that there had been a time when she had found her sister's tales of magic and the wizarding world to be enthralling. A time when she had encouraged Lily Evans to pursue her charms work beyond the school's curriculum, when she had been the elder sister who was supportive of her younger sister's dreams and ambitions.

Tales of his father's antics in school, of the way he had won the heart of Lily Evans over years of boyish charm and slowly unfolding good looks. The happy, blushing bride writing about her wedding the day after.

And then the not so pleasant surprises. The young woman who had fallen out of favor with the family of her husband after only a few short months. The sleepless nights waiting up for James, only to have him stumble in after a night of drinking with Sirius and a few of their auror friends. The young wife who was _so certain_ that he would come 'round, if only she gave him time, gave him the space to grow and have his moments with the boys.

The nights he would come home smelling of perfume cheaper than the firewhiskey he imbibed. The stories she only half heard from the aurors when she would bring him his lunch - anything to get a few moments with a sober James.

Meeting Sherlock Holmes. Befriending him - seeing the same loneliness in him that existed in her, even if he would have denied it with his last breath. Conversations over tea as he became bored with his university work, far too simple for a brilliant mind like his. Never mind that he was a muggle - she certainly didn't mind. He listened when she talked, challenged her to rediscover her old curiosity.

And then it wasn't just James stumbling home after a few too many drinks - it was Lily, too. Harry blushed at the thought of that - his sweet, red-haired mother drinking, enticing a man who was not his father to dance with her. Spending nights in another man's room, even if they were strictly platonic friends.

Drinking too much, not remembering the events of a night, and then two, and then three. But knowing that she had been safe - after all, she was with Sherlock, a man who had insisted on their first meeting that he was not interested in any sort of a sexual relationship. He didn't understand love, he had insisted. And he certainly had no interest in lust.

Discovering that she was pregnant. Not understanding - she hadn't been with James in months. Hadn't been with anybody. Questioning Sherlock, having him admit that he remembered something along those lines happening once, several weeks ago when they had drunk too much. Admitting that he had been high on other substances, as well.

Harry's mind couldn't quite grasp the implications of that at first. A first child, before him - that had to be it. She had obviously terminated the pregnancy, he told himself. She had reconciled with James - with _his father_ - before he had been born.

But the dates didn't fit. The date that this child have been coneived - it matched too neatly with what he might imagine his own conception date had been. This child would have been born too near to his own birthday.

Tearfully recounted arguments with James, a decision to leave. Even if Sherlock would not claim the child as his own - she dared not even ask, she admitted to the diary - she could not force her husband to claim a child that was not his.

Several blank pages later, Harry despaired of discovering the truth. Only to come upon his mother's neat handwriting once again, writing about her happiness at finding herself pregnant with James' child. Her confusion, as to why she had not written in this diary before. Her words were a confused jumble Harry had encountered before, though normally they were spoken and not written.

The words of one who had endured a memory charm.

. . .

It took Harry only three days to track down the only Sherlock Holmes who had ever attended a university in the London area. The only Sherlock Homes he could find anywhere on the internet.

THe man's website he completely ignored; at first glance he could already tell that it held nothing in the way of personal information. And he couldn't care less about the different types of tobacco ash.

Crime scene reports. Mentions of Sherlock Holmes in the media. Consulting Detective - lived in a flat with another man who may or may not have been his lover. But all of that was speculation from the media - and Harry had enough of that to last him a lifetime.

But those same media reports held something that Harry latched onto like a starving man at a banquet hall. Pictures. So many pictures. Pictures of Sherlock leaving his flat in London clad in nothing but a towel. Sherlock with his flat mate; a smaller man with dirty blonde hair that somehow reminded Harry of Remus, never mind that the man was not a werewolf and neither did he sport a mustache.

The looked alike. Harry hadn't been expecting that, somehow. Had expected that whoever had placed the memory charm on his mother had done something - some complicated combination of charms and potionwork. In retrospect, he should have known that his mother would fall for a man who resembled her husband.

He looked more like Sherlock Holmes than he ever had James Potter. The same jaw line, the same cheek bones, the same shape to their eyes. He got his eye color from his mother - that could not be disputed. But nearly everything else really had come from his father - and for once in his life, he could see it.

William Scott Sherlock Holmes. That was his full name, and Harry had little doubt that he was the same man his mother had mentioned in her diary. Still, there was the chance - however slight it might be - that he had the wrong man. So he brought the journal along with him that warm day in July, buried in a backpack along with a change of clothes and the key to his gringotts vault.

The day he went to confront his father.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N : Wow, I really didn't expect the massive response that I got to this story! This chapter has been technically ready for a while, but it took me forever to clean it up. This chapter was a b*tch to write, and I really hope that I kept Sherlock in character through out.

For those of you who asked, this story starts off in the last episode of Sherlock Season 3, taking up partway through it. Mary's duplicity has already been revealed, and Sherlock has been released from the hospital into John's care. There is a gap in the episode of several months where we don't really know what happened; this story takes place during that gap. If Mary and John weren't on speaking terms, I highly doubt that they would have been living together! All of this is explained in the story, of course, but I thought i'd make note of it here.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never been in love. It was, in his estimation, a useless emotion and a waste of energy best spent elsewhere. He had found himself interested in the intellect of certain individuals, of course, and some of them had been women. The first of these had been the fiery Lily Evans Potter - a women he thought little of in recent years.

Lily Potter had been in his life only a short period of time, but it had been long enough to leave a lasting impression. She had been passionate and intelligent, but woefully uneducated. Her schooling, she had insisted, had been of a very targeted nature, and he had found himself almost personally affronted at the very idea that subjects such as Chemistry and even basic English and Mathematics courses had been deemed unneccessary by the establishment she dared to refer to as a school.

In over a decade and a half Sherlock had not had any reason to think of the fiery young woman, however. The fact that she had been pregnant with his child had been evident, but he could only assume the young woman had chosen to terminate the pregnancy - especially if the reaction of husband had been as woefully inadequate as he had been informed. It had seemed for a time that he would become a father, and while the idea had been daunting he had been certain he could rise to the occassion. The idea that Lily would call upon him for any sort of support - aside from that of a monetary nature - had seemed unlikely, however. She had certainly assured him enough times that she understood he had no interest in being a father. And she had been right.

When she had cut off all contact with him, he had thus understood. If she had terminated the pregnancy - which seemed likely given the circumstances - then she would obviously not wish to continue their friendship. Particularly after it had been interrupted in such a way.

It had never crossed the detective's mind that she may have kept the child and given it the name of her husband. James Potter had certainly never proessed an interest in claiming the child as his own, especially when it had been so blatantly obvious that the child was another man's - that his wife had been unfaithful in the most basic of ways.

So when one Harry J. Potter appeared at his front door, Sherlock Holmes was woefully unprepared.

... ...

Harry had not debated his next move very thoroughly. Truth be told, he had outright refused to think about what he was about to do. Perhaps some part of him had known that, if he thought about it too long or too deeply, he would lose his nerve.

So when he was confronted with the older woman who greeted him at the door and assumed that he was a new client for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, he had not corrected her. He hadn't been sure how to, honestly. He had simply allowed himself to be led upstairs to the flat where his father resided with one John Watson - and wasn't that still an odd idea? That his father lived somewhere - anywhere. That his father had a flat mate, that he had a father he could talk to.

John Watson met him at the door at the top of the stairs, ushering the older woman away, and Harry allowed himself to be led into the cluttered room and settled into a hard backed chair that he could only imagine was reserved for the clients of the two men. Still the charade was kept up - he settled himself on the chair, settled his backpack to the side, and wiated for , the man to make himself comfortable.

But his eyes were trained on Sherlock Holmes. The curly-haired man was moving around the flat in a frenzy of energy, pacing back and forth as he waited to hear the details of whatever case had been brought before them this time.

"So, why don't you tell us what brought you here" John Hamish Watson. Harry had looked him up, too. Doctor, Army. Afghanistan. That information had been easy enough to come by. Previously a onfirmed bachelor, no previous marriages. Married to one Mary Watson. At least according to the news article Harry had been able to dredge up. The papers were quite interested in why he had all of a sudden chosen to move back in with his former roommate and leave his very pregnant wife behind, but Harry had long since learned not to pay attention to gossip and journalists whose very occupation centered around creating a scandal – even when one did not exist to write about.

Harry drew a deep breath, his eyes flickering to Sherlock before they focused on John once again. "I -" Quite suddenly, Harry turned in his seat. "Do you remember Lily Potter?"

The question was directed at Sherlock, and it took a moment for the taller man to process the fact that he was being directly confronted. Harry's sudden change of tactics had been quite sudden, however, so the teenager supposed he could forgive the man for his bout of confusion.

The name rung a chord with Sherlock, and it took him only a handful of seconds to place why it sounded so familiar. During his University days, one of his few friendly acquantances - to be honest, she had been his only friendly acquantance - had been Lily Evans Potter. Though not actually a student herself, she had been moderately intelligent and quick witted - a far sight better than many of his classmates. After she had left, however, he had spared her nary a passing thought - particularly given the circumstances with which they had parted ways.

Giving the teenager his full attention now, Sherlock took in the messy black hair, green eyes that could only have come from Lily (balance of probability), the pale skin and short stature. Right handed. Athletic, but only in his upper body. Underfed. Bag is small, but not packed heavily; filled with soft materials, possibly clothing. Expects to be gone at least overnight. Posture betrays his nervousness, actions betray his directness. Not a smoker, no signs of excessive alcohol use. Possibly fourteen years old, though the malnourishment may be affecting his apparent age. All of this Sherlock had gotten at first glance when the teenager had been shown into the flat, but now he focused on only certain aspects of those initial observations.

The teenager's dark, unruly hair reminded Sherlock superficially of his own, and his eyes were unmistakably the same startling shade of green that Lily Potter's had been. He had her short stature as well, though Sherlock couldn't discount the possibility that part of that may have come from the boy's poor eating habits. He was bone thin, but Sherlock really wasn't one to talk - he himself had been unhealthily thin on more than one occassion. Not that he minded, of course; his own body was simply transport for his intellect. Still, he had learned long ago that such physical signs could lead to deductions of the boy's mental status and physical daily life, and so he filed the information away for later perusal.

In short, the teenager had all the physical characteristics that could lead one to believe that he was the child of one Lily E. Potter and Sherlock Holmes. And while there was the very large possibility that the teenager might be attempting to capatalize on that chance in order to coerce monetary compensation from him, the fact remained that few people had even been aware of his relationship - such as it had been - with Lily Potter. Of those who had been aware, even fewer had been made aware of her name. The majority of their time had been spent in the solitary confined of his single occupancy dorm room, after all, debating any number of subjects without the distractions of the utterly mundane and boring students he was forced to interact with on a daily basis.

Coming to stand behind his own chair, Sherlock placed his hands on the back of it, leaning his weight slightly forward as he locked eyes with the teenager at long last. "So. She didn't terminate."

... ...

By this time, John Watson was thoroughly confused. Sherlock's first spoken words only served to confuse the former army doctor even more. And though John couldn't even begin to guess what his friend meant by "terminate", the young man before them seemed to instantly understand.

"I - No. She never even mentioned it. In her journal, that is." In a frenzy of movement, Harry was suddenly digging into his backpack, before pulling out a weathered leather bound journal.

The leather bound journal had seen better days, damaged as it had been by the elements and repeated handling by both Lily Potter in earler years and Harry Potter in more recent ones. Harry held it gently in his hands now, as though he were afraid it would break if he were too rough with it.

And for Sherlock Holmes, that in itself was telling.

"When did she die?"

Harry paused, frowning, before he answered. "When I was a baby." He opted for silence now. He had read about the man's ability to read a person like a book, of course, but he had never been subjected to it before. Hearing about it and experiencing it were two different things.

Still, it wasn't as daunting as he had been expecting. He certainly hadn't been insulted to the point that many journalists seemed to claim he treated prospective clients.

"That journal is the only connection you have to your mother." Sherlock stated flatly, his dark eyes boring into those of his son. His son. The thought gave him pause, but only for a moment. Paternity tests aside, he was beginning to believe the young man's claim, and there was no logical reason to refer to him as anything other than what he appeared to be. "This suggests that you either were not raised by relatives or friends of your mother, or that they refused to speak of or allow you near her former possessions."

Harry stiffened slightly at that, and instantly wished that he hadn't. If these few moments with Sherlock Holmes had taught him anything, it was that the man would instantly notice - and read far too much into it.

"You guard this singular possession carefully; this suggests that you expect it to be taken from you. The latter, then." Sherlock pushed himself away from the chair, clasping his hands behind his back and taking the few steps that would allow him to settle his tall, lanky body into the chair properly. Crossing one leg over the other, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers against the arm rest, continuing his scrutiny of Harry in silence for a moment.

Just long enough for John to speak up. "I'm confused."

. . .

For the past several months, John had returned to the apartment at 221b Baker Street with Sherlock. The other man still wasn't completely well after a gun shot wound that had been delivered by his own wife - his own pregnant wife who had lied to him about every aspect of herself and her history. A wife he hadn't spoken to in in several months..

Sherlock had only recently returned home from the hospital, and then it had only been because he happened to live with a doctor who could watch over his recovery from the relative safety and comfort of his own home. Personally, John was of the opinion that the hospital staff were simply tired of putting up with Sherlock's antics and constantly having to track the man down after he had attempted - and usually succeeded - at another escape attempt. His recovery was taking much longer because of these excursions, but Sherlock seemed willing enough to remain in the apartment as long as he was given some sort of work to occupy his mind.

But John hadn't been expecting this. It wasn't a case - and Sherlock was being almost _nice_. Not nice compared to other people, perhaps, but for the esteemed Sherlock Holmes it was as close to "nice" as John had ever seen him behave. It reminded the doctor, suddenly, of Sherlock apologizing to Molly. It had seemed so out of character, and yet the man had been sincerely apologetic for the way he had hurt the young man - a young woman who so obviously cared for him.

Harry turned his attention to John, though he didn't seem as grateful to focus on the doctor as many of their clients generally were. If anything, John thought he had detected a flash of irritation in the teenager's eyes. But that couldn't be right.

"I'm sorry. My name is Harry Potter. Sherlock - that is, Mr. Holmes …" Harry paused, unsure how to frame this politely, but Sherlock saved him in the end.

"He's my son."

Hearing it said out loud like that, Harry found, was almost earth shattering. Having somebody actually claim him like that … it was different from when Hermione or Ron would claim him as their friend, even their best friend. This was a parent, a member of his family who didn't automatically hate or distrust him. And that was something he had never experienced before.

"I'm sorry, what?" John had physically turned his body toward Sherlock now, and the other man gave John a withering stare.

"Really John, it isn't that difficult. Biologically, Mr. Potter would appear to be my son. The evidence is quite strong, though of course a paternity test will need to be conducted."

Sherlock leaned forward, ignoring for the moment John's dumbfounded stare. "What I want to know, is what you're doing here."


	3. Chapter 3

Collisions & Compromises

Chapter 3

by ~chicadoodle

"I— I don't want anything from you, if that's what you think." Harry hastened to assure the man. "I only just found my mum journal, and I wanted … I guess I just wanted to meet you. Everybody always told me my father was James Potter, y'know." Harry paused, considering saying more, but decided against it. Pursing his lips together, Harry regarded his father uneasily, ignoring for the moment the thrill that raced through his system once again at the thought that _he _could interact with his father.

"I — Maybe this was a mistake." Harry hedged, stuffing the journal back into his backpack. As he did so, John couldn't help but notice the clothes he had carefully folded inside of the bag. Worn clothes, just like the ones he was wearing. The oversized sweater and baggy jeans were disconcerting on one so skinny; the types of clothes that one would expect from a runaway teen living on the streets. _Was _he living on the streets? Was that why he had come here? But if that was true, where had he found the journal?

"You are underfed." Sherlock observed, and John closed his eyes. He knew what was coming - and he also knew that there was nothing he could do to stop the other man. "Your attire reflects a lack of the monetary means to dress appropriately. You have not showered in several days. You are not uncomfortable with this arrangement, however; this is a situation you have faced before."

All evidence that the boy was living on the streets was suddenly bared for all the world to see, contrary to his claim that he lived with his aunt and uncle. "You claimed when you came in that you lived with your aunt and uncle. You also claimed that they would be concerned with your whereabouts, You are unwanted by the relatives you were left in the care of." Sherlock continued, and with every word Harry seemed to wilt even further, slumping down in his chair and casting his eyes to the side, away from both Sherlock and John.

Sherlock said nothing more, falling silent as he scrutinized the young man before him. Harry, for his part, stayed silent for several moments before changing a glance up at Sherlock. He was less than reassured by the look of scrutiny on Sherlock's face, however, or by the way his eyes were so intense as he stared back.

Sherlock suddenly smirked, and something in Harry rose up in response. Straightening suddenly in his chair, Harry shot to his feet. "You're one to talk." He fired back, though he hadn't raised his voice. He rarely did. He simply became more intense, more focused, and perhaps his Slytherin side was let out to play with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.

"You live alone, save for a man who won't even speak to his pregnant wife." Outside of Harry's line of vision, John stiffened visibly. Harry, however, wasn't one to stop once he got started. His interactions with his Aunt Marge since becoming a wizard had certainly shown that. It took a lot to get the dark-haired teenager fired up, but once it happened it was quite the sight the behold. "You're grossly underweight yourself; the state of your kitchen shows your utter lack of concern when it comes to your own health, or that of your companions. You're so obsessed with the results of your scientific experiments that you fail to pay attention to the sanitary conditions required for those same experiments!" Harry finished this sentence with a sharp swipe of his hand in the directino of the kitchen, where those same 'experiments' could be seen, in all their glory. "You are a glory hound - even an idiot can see that. More than half of your antics are done for the sake of your public image; why else would you have worn that idiotic hat for your first confrontation with the press after your 'return from the dead'?" Harry questioned.

He would have gone on, except that Sherlock's smirk had blossomed into a smile and he had even let out a sharp laugh. Dumbfounded, Harry watched as Sherlock rose from his seat and came to stand in front of him, though the man made no attempt at initiating contact.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock congratulated him, shocking Harry with his sudden use of the man's own last name. Laying claim to him, Harry suddenly realized - he was laying claim to Harry as a member of his family. He was given little time to mull over such details, however, as John spoke up.

"As far as paternity tests go, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that one was particularly traumatizing." There was humor in the man's voice, however, and Harry spun around to face him with wide eyes.

"What?" He asked, dumbfounded, and John shook his head with a smile. He was obviously amused, but Harry was too confused to decide whether he should be insulted or not.

"Why don't you sit down, Harry." John gestured to the seat Harry had only recently vacated, and the teen did as instructed, dumbfounded. What, exactly, had just happened?

"You reacted according to expectations for my biological offspring." Sherlock commented, stepping past where Harry had previously been standing to move toward the door. "Come with me. The sooner we get you to Molly, the sooner we can get the matter of your paternity hashed out." Sherlock instructed, causing John to sigh loudly.

"Give the boy a minute to adjust, Sherlock. You weren't exactly ... _delicate_ with your earlier statements."

Sherlock turned to face the two - Harry, still reeling from _whatever_ that had just been, and John, standing over him and glaring at Sherlock, though not with any particular strength behind it.

"No, I - you were waiting to see how I would react. You wanted to see if I was anything like _you_." Harry spoke up from behind John, before standing to his feet and grabbing his bag. "It's fine. I'm ready."

"Leave the bag." Sherlock commanded, gesturing dismissively at the bag held loosely in Harry's right hand.

Harry hesitated, causing Sherlock to sigh loudly. "It will be fine. John will make sure no harm comes to your precious journal."

John winced, but Harry simply nodded and carefully set the bag back down, tucked slightly underneat the seat he had just vacated.

...

By the time they left St. Bart's, Harry was in no better shape than he had been at 221B Baker Street. To say that Molly Hooper had been confused as to why Sherlock Holmes had wanted her to complete a paternity test would be an understatement - her shock when she had finally understood was almost comical. Not that Harry particularly felt like laughing at the moment.

Aside from Molly's lively chatter, the entire affair had been depressingly silent. Sherlock had remained largely silent through out the entire ordeal, paying more attention to his phone than he did Harry.

_Probably because he isn't showing off_, Harry reflected morosely. As soon as Harry's blood and saliva had been drawn, Sherlock had been quick to brush Molly off and herd Harry back into the nearest available cab, and the trip back to the flat had been just as quiet.

By the time they entered into the flat, Harry was exhausted both physically and mentally, and was not particularly looking forward to the trip back to his aunt and uncle's house. They would be less than pleased to see him after an entire day of missed chores, he was sure - he could only hope that his uncle wasn't in one of his _moods_, and that he was able to make it out without any physical bruises to show for it - even if they _did_ double his chores for tomorrow as punishment.

John was at the table with his laptop when they entered into the flat, and Harry didn't even bother with polite pleasantries before he made a grab for his backpack, turning around to leave the flat. Sherlock stopped him quite effectively by blocking the only exit, however, making Harry frown.

"Look, I really need to get going. My aunt and uncle -"

"Abuse you." The words were so sudden that it took Harry a moment to puzzle through what, exactly, Sherlock was attempting to say. When he did, however, his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to spew forward the normal protests. It was automatic by now, after all.

"Oh, don't be an idiot." Sherlock sneered, causing Harry to start in surprise - and shock. Sherlock rose one dark eyebrow, causing Harry to flush guiltily. "Save us both some time and do away with the normal pleasantries you feed to the authorities." Sherlock stepped around Harry, closing the door behind him. He had little doubt that he could stop the boy from leaving, if he still attempted to do so.

"Obviously, staying here is out of the question in the long term. You can keep John company until the tests come back."

"I don't need - my school starts up soon, so I'll be off to Scotland soon." Harry blurted, flushing when he realized that he wasn't being particularly articulate at the moment. "I'll be fine until then - I've learned how to ... deal with my relatives."

"No, you have not. You wouldn't be returning to their _care_ looking the way you do, if you had." Sherlock fired back, moving into the kitchen. "Go take a shower - I expect my house guests to remain well groomed."

Harry was left to stare after the older man, dumbfounded, He turned dazed green eyes to John, who simply nodded his head once in the direction of the shower, and Harry moved in that direaction as if on auto pilot.

. . .

After Harry had made his way into the shower, John moved to join Sherlock in the kitchen. "Sherlock, was that really necessary?"

"Yes." Sherlock said shortly, gathering up the remnants of his most recent experiment in what, John realized with a jolt, was an attempt to clean.

Sherlock didn't clean. Ever. Truth be told, John hadn't been certain that Sherlock knew _how_ to clean up after himself. Sherlock had always seemed disconnected from most polite actions that other people took for granted - and that was not only confined to conversation. Keeping a clean house was certainly among them, as were any actions that did not immediately benefit him in some way. (And for a man who saw his body as merely transport for his intellect, that invariably included doing the grocery shopping.)

When it became apparent that Sherlock had no intention of continuing to speak, John bowed his head slightly and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, sighing heavily. "Sherlock ..."

Sherlock proceeded to ignore him, and John leaned against the doorway to watch his friend move around the room, albeit a bit more slowly than he normally would. John had the sinking suspicion that this was not because Sherlock was being careful, but because his injuries had left him more fragile and winded than normal.

. . .

When Harry emerged from the shower some time later, he discovered that his backpack had been emptied of all but the journal from his mother and his wand, which he had hidden in a side pocket in case he was searched by the muggle authorities - or worse yet, the magical ones. He knew how he dressed, and knew fully well that it was easy to mistake him for a delinquent. There really wasn't much he could do about it, though - if he dared to show up at his aunt and uncle's house with new clothes, he knew fully well that they would go out of their way to gain access to the money his parents had left behind - even if it _was_ tained in their eyes.

The words from his father earlier still stung, But Harry steadfastly ignored the hurt as he flung the bathroom door open, a scowl on his features. He must have looked like an idiot - he certainly felt like one, standing there in naught but a towel wrapped around his waist.

The first person he caught sight of was John, walking from the kitchen to the sitting room carrying a plate of biscuits, and Harry rounded on the man, furious. "Where are my clothes?" He demanded, crossing his arms over his chest in an effort to hide just how uncomfortable his current situation made him. Hell, he was uncomfortable enough without the added strain of being essentially naked in front of a man he barely knew.

John was pulled up short by the sight that Harry made, and he blinked in surprise for only a second before he sighed. "Sherlock happened, I assume." The older man seemed anything but amused at fisrst glance, save for the small twist to his lips. He seemed more annoyed than anything, however - or, perhaps a better term would have been exasperated.

Harry allowed himself to relax slightly at that realization, though he kept his arms crossed over his chest.

John shook his head, setting the biscuits down on a bit of clean space on the coffee table before moving toward the stiars. "Just give me a second - I'll find you something to wear until we can get this sorted."

Five minutes later found Harry huddled under the man's too-large bath robe, curled up in Sherlock's chair John was tapping furiously at his mobile phone, and Harry frowned as he watched the man. "What are you doing?"

John glanced up, that small twist to his lips back. "Texting your f- . . . Sherlock." Obivously flustered, John turned his attention back to his mobile.

"Texting?" Harry asked, trying the unfamiliar word out on his tongue. As John finally turned an incredulous expression his way, however, Harry immediately knew that he had said something wrong.

"Really? I thought all kids your age had mobiles by now." John queried, and Harry flushed hotly. Was this one of those things he would have known if he had remained in the muggle world, ignorant of the wizarding one?

Flushing hotly, Harry slumped down in his seat - taking a moment to frantically make certain that the robe was still covering him, but steadfastly refusing to meet the other man's eyes.

John felt a thrill of alarm race through his system, as he considered another prospect that he hadn't even entered into his mind until now. Though there had been no obvious bruising on the boy's torso when he had come out of the bathroom, there still existed the possibility that Harry's relatives had abused him in another way.

"Harry, who is the current Prime Minister?"

Harry glanced up in surprise, opening his mouth to answer - only to realize that he had no idea what the answer to that particular question was. John seemed to have expected this, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

John said nothing more, however, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he really _had_ dodged a catastrophe this time around.

For his part, however, John was quietly reviewing everything that he had learned about the boy since he had appeared at their door earlier that day.

Harry was a teenager, which meant she should have been enrolled in highschool - whether locally or a boarding school. Though Harry had mentioned a school, he hadn't mentioned whether he lived with his relatives or elsewhere while he was attending said school. But he _did_ attend a school.

Sherlock had insisted that Harry was unwanted by his relatives, had insisted that he was abused - and Harry hadn't refuted that claim. Many sufferers of abuse would have, but there was no quantifying answer, no tell-all sign to tell whether an individual suffered from abuse. There were common signs, however, and John was finding far too many of those in the boy before him.

One couldn't live in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes and dno pick up a trick or two. Over the course of their time together, John had become far more observant than he had previously been. He could certainly not rival the Holmes brothers, of course, but it was enough to form a hypothesis or two about the boy before him.

On top of that, however, as a doctor John had been trained in detecting signs of abuse and sexual trauma - especially the latter. He had come across more than one victim of sexual abuse during his time as a doctor, both before and after the war. It was impossible not to, working in the emergency department of a hospital.

Harry's concern with keeping himself covered was one sign of possible abuse, as was the way he had been careful to keep distance between himself and the two other men in the room. The disgust with which he spoke of his relatives spoke volumes, as did the way he seemed to curl up on himself now; protecting his vital organs but keeping his arms mobile, in case he had to use them to defend himself.

Whether the abuse was sexual or not, John couldn't be certain. It wasn't an easy diagnosis to make, especailly if the victim of such an assault refused to come forward or admit to being harmed in such a way. But there other signs that concerned John, perhaps even more than the ones he had already reviewed.

His lack of knowledge as to what a text was, to start with. Even if the boy was not allowed a mobile phone of his own, his classmates certainly would have had them. They were incredibly easy to get your hands on, these days - a child with enough pocket money could simply pick one up at the local store, without the permission of their parents if they were particularly adept at hiding such a thing from prying eyes. The other students at his school certainly would have had them.

He didn't know who the Prime Minister was - and he should have. It was part of the curriculum of every school, and even if it hadn't been, the man's name was constantly splashed across the news and on the television. Only an isolationist would have a chance of not knowing who the man was.

John had been silent for nearly ten minutes when he finally spoke up once again, breaking the silence quite suddenly and making Harry jump in surprise. "Harry, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Harry shifted uneasily, fidgeting with the robe that was his only barrier between a man he had only known for a handful of hours and his own nakedness. "Okay, I guess."

"What do you normally do during the summer?"

Harry relaxed at the seemingly innocent question. "Not much aside from chores. My aunt - she likes me to help out around the house."

John nodded. Though Harry didn't seem to hold the same amount of disdain for chores as other teenagers might, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. A sense of responsibility never hurt anybody, after all.

"What kind of chores?"

Harry fidgeted once again, and John smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "I've known Sherlock for several years now, you know. I can't help but be curious about his son." And didn't that sound strange? _Sherlock's son_. It made his mind reel, just thinking it.

Harry seemed to relax at that. "Oh, well, you know. Chores. Weeding the garden, cooking the meals, cleaning the house. Washing the car. That kind of stuff."

Contrary to the tone of voice Harry had used, John was less than convinced that these were 'normal chores'. "You cook all the meals? You must be very good at it."

"I've had a lot of practice." Harry laughed easily. Truth be told, he had no reason to be careful with his words. Though Harry was unaware of it, the reason he had never been q uestioned as to his family life was because his uncle had bribed or bullied anybody who had shown an interest in his welfare until there was nobody left with an ounce of concern for little Harry as he ha dbeen growing up - or at least nobody who was willing to do anything about it.

Greed and fear were two of the great motivators known to man, after all.


End file.
