Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Prologue

"And this," The old woman fumbled with the doorknob for a moment before the hinges could finally swing inward, "Is where you will be staying."

At first, Neville wasn't sure what he should brace himself for. A flat in muggle London could be so different from what he was used to. Was it going to look like what was always portrayed in the media? For some reason, he half-expected it to be a plain white, colorless room with scarce furniture; or, if not that, a messy room with a mound of needless things piled up to the ceiling. But, when he finally got a look at what was before him, the young man had to admit that he was genuinely pleased.

The main room of the flat, past the door with a gilded golden "221D" marked on it, was laid out like something out of the Victorian Era; it was vintage, but in all the right ways. There was a nicely decorated mantle and fireplace (that was already lit, probably in preparation for his arrival), as well as furniture that seemed sort of dated. Neville's guess was that the landlady either never could part with these pieces or that no one had lived here in so long that it wasn't necessary. By the eager look on her face when he arrived to inquire for a flat, he felt safe assuming the latter.

And that's when he realized that he had forgotten to speak.

"This is… very nice!" Neville said suddenly, offering one of his well-known awkward smiles to the much shorter white-haired woman, whose name he'd already forgotten. As if he didn't already feel dim enough. "Thank you so much for letting me stay here. I suppose I was lucky, you just having one flat left and all."

"Oh, of course, dear," The woman replied with her warm-hearted smile, her voice as kind – and yet also somehow insistent – as ever. "It's the least I could do for someone with your situation. Feel free to look around and make yourself at home. In the meantime, would you fancy some tea or anything?"

Neville just shook his head, uninterested in causing her any trouble. She'd honestly done enough just by welcoming him with open arms. If she hadn't, he'd probably be on a one-way bus back home to Hogsmeade, resuming work on his professor's degree. The boy picked up the suitcase that sat at his left side, and then the other luggage that was on the floor to the right. "No thanks. I think I'll just get myself settled in for now. But thanks again for everything."

"Oh, it's really no trouble," The Landlady insisted, shaking her head and leaving the doorway. "Just remember, dear: If you need anything, I'm right down the hall!" She turned to go, but before she could offer a final moment's goodbye, she turned back around to offer the timid young man a piece of advice: "And just be wary of the neighbors. They tend to be a bit… excitable."

And with that, she was gone.

Neville, suitcases now in hand (and not sure what to think of the landlady's warning), stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him with a swift backwards-kick of his foot before advancing towards the small coffee table and setting the luggage down on it. He was alone now, and he could think. So far, he had decided that the windowsill would be a good place to put the few plants he'd brought with him here. Of course he hadn't expected to find perfectly suitable growing conditions for the Dirigible Plum, Cherry, and Alihotsy plants that he'd let tag along, but this would do. But as he started to unpack them from their casing, he couldn't help but be hit with the regretful memories that had sent him here in the first place. He obviously wouldn't have moved away from the world that he knew and loved so well for no reason. Honestly, Neville had just needed an escape. A momentary fix. A safe haven. It was one of those "anywhere but here" deals. But just what had happened to him? He probably wouldn't say. Just that it dealt with overwhelming schoolwork, a girl that he was completely enamored with, and utter rejection. It was enough to break his heart and drive him away.

Neville laughed coldly to himself. 'There you go again. Being the coward that Nan always knew you were. Good going.'

It was times like this when his thoughts went completely against him, always seeming to forget the courageous things he'd done in his past. What about bravely standing up to Harry Potter during his early Hogwarts years? What about slaying the snake that was Voldemort's last horcrux? Nah. All he could think about was the fact that he was nineteen years old and still running from his problems.

Heaving a sigh and force-quitting his self-depreciating thoughts, Neville continued with the task of unpacking, placing the last Dirigible Plum plant on the windowsill and turning away. There was only one thing that this exact plant could completely cause him to recall… Did he really remind himself of these things on purpose?! He needed to refocus.

Neville made his way back over to the other suitcase that sat on the coffee table and unzipped its side. Realizing that all he had left to put away were clothes (mostly sweaters and the like), the boy decided that it was high time to explore the rest of the little flat he had acquired today. From the layout plan that the landlady had described, it seemed to consist of just this main room, a kitchen that didn't have much to it, two small bedrooms, and a single restroom between them. It didn't take much walking around to deduce that that was right. Just enough for one person to live comfortably – probably even two. But he didn't have to worry about that, now did he?

Not using much force, Neville managed to drag the suitcase towards the room that he had decided on, tossing it onto the plain-sheeted bed as soon as he was inside. He took out one of his sweater vests, examining it for a second in self-criticism. Was this unstylish? Was this the reason so many people thought he was a nerd? Or was it just because he was, in fact, a nerd? He shrugged, deciding to save that topic of thought for another time. Right now, what he needed was a hanger to put this up.

The young man started towards the closet, turning the knob with his one free hand. But just as he opened the creaky door, he was knocked back with the force of someone else falling on him, the weight of the seemingly thin person feeling heavier than it should. He let out a surprised yelp (not a girly one, but still pretty wimpy), hitting the ground himself from the impact. The next time he blinked, he was on the floor, back against the bed's side. And there was someone else on the ground near him.

Unmoving. Not breathing.

Neville scrambled up, quite frankly scared to death. It was clear to him very quickly that all of his petty problems from earlier were the least of his concerns now.

'Please don't be dead…' He thought to himself, reaching out hesitantly to nudge the body with his shoe, but it still didn't move. Suddenly, and so conveniently, Neville remembered the old woman's name. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called out, voice cracking and fear breaking through. He was sure that his yell was loud enough to be heard through the building's thin walls. "Mrs. Hudson! Hurry, it's an emergency!"

It was only a moment later when the landlady arrived back in his flat, features lined with concern. "What? What is it dear?" He didn't respond. It was only when she stepped forward to see what he was staring at that she seemed to understand what was going on.

"Oh no, not again…"

Neville finally snapped to attention at that. Now he was just in plain hysteria. "What? What do you mean, 'again'?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't answer, and the poor boy's mind started to race. What was going on here? Was this some kind of psychopath institute and he didn't know it? Was that why he'd gotten a flat here so easily?!

"I am so sorry, dear," The woman finally replied, peeking her head out of his bedroom door and calling out into the hallway and up the stairs, "Sherlock! Get down here! We have a problem!"

Sherlock? She couldn't mean who he thought she could, could she? Footsteps were heard trotting down the stairs, sounding like two pairs together. The truth was confirmed not seconds later when he himself walked into the room. Sherlock Holmes. Neville would recognize him anywhere, even without the hat the media had publicized him with. Everyone in the Wizarding World knew his name and considered him a sort of muggle hero. And here he was, in the flesh. He looked just the same as on the telly: Dark brown curly locks, a distant and somewhat condescending expression and way of carrying himself, and those icy eyes that could seemingly cut through anyone or anything, unwavering. Neville could only gulp and look at him in complete shock and bewilderment. But all of his wonder was cut off with the dark-haired man's snapping and sudden tone. Way to make a good first impression.

"What is it this time, Mrs. Hudson? I'm in the middle of a programme!"

The landlady merely pointed to the pale and business-attired woman's body on the floor with a grave expression. The poor woman seemed to get this a lot, and yet still mourn it every single time. Sherlock's icy blue eyes followed the direction of where her finger was indicating, and a tight-lipped smile appeared on his face. Wait a second – He was glad about this?

"John." He looked to the shorter blonde man at his side who Neville hadn't taken notice of until now. "Call the Prime Minister and tell him that our meeting can wait. I have another case on my hands."

As Sherlock eagerly disappeared from the room for a moment, John stepped over to Neville and placed a hand on his shoulder. He figured that he might as well comfort the poor kid, as he seemed to be in a lot of shock. Could it be memory? Or his first time seeing someone dead? In this world, though, it was unlikely; that was almost entirely impossible. "You must be new here," He spoke with a kind and frank tone of voice, despite the (literally) grave scene that was right in front of them. "I'm John Watson, your neighbor from upstairs. Why don't we go have some tea and jam, and let the nerves rest?"

He started to lead him out of the room, Mrs. Hudson following. "And by the way, welcome to London."


	2. Nothing To Hide

The only thing that could be heard at the moment was the clinking of the silverware in the kitchen as the neighbor, who had introduced himself as John, continued to prepare the coffee and toast, just as he had promised. In the meantime, Neville sat on the couch in the living room of 221B Baker Street, greyish-green eyes fixated on a random point on the floor. He was still, obviously, in shock. Mrs. Hudson was seated adjacent on an armchair, deciding that it was best not to disturb the new guest. Who knew how unstable he could be at a moment like this?

But in all truth, unstable wasn't exactly what Neville was at the moment. Sure, he was terrified, but that wasn't exactly it either. How could he forget the many that were lost in the battle of Hogwarts? Not to mention all of the poor students and teachers who died before that! In all, the boy was just shocked to silence. Those were some of the things that he'd hoped to escape when he left the Wizarding World. But it turned out that the muggle society was just as chaotic, and people even here resorted to cold-blooded murder, shoving bodies in closets so carelessly and what not. What, oh what, had he just gotten himself into?

"Here you are." John's subtle voice helped Neville snap back into reality, and pretty harshly considering the subject matter. Luckily, this man seemed to be more sensitive than the detective downstairs. Didn't he know that first impressions could be incredibly important? Apparently not. John set the coffee he'd made on the short coffee table in front of him, offering a small smile. No matter how kind it was, the younger of the two couldn't help but feel that it was also off-putting. He wasn't fazed by these happenings either? Sure, he and Sherlock solved murder cases all the time. But had they lost that much of their humanity? "I didn't know what you liked, so I just put the cream and sugar on the side. Hope you don't mind."

As John set the tray down and stepped away, Neville once again became fully adjusted to his surroundings. This flat looked a lot like his did, only with a lot more clutter and… Well, "ornate" decorations. A few skulls were scattered about, and yet, this didn't surprise him so far. He could also tell from the blue and red flashes on the wall near the doorway to his left that the police had arrived sometime within the last half-hour or so. It was obvious, especially in the quickly-fading daylight. But in any case, that was quite relieving.

"N-no, it's fine." Neville's voice sounded shaky, this having been the first time he'd spoken in at least twenty minute's time. "Thank you." Of course he wasn't exactly thirsty for this (more so sick to his stomach) but he still couldn't be rude. He hadn't been raised by his parents, but he sure had been raised right when it came to manners. Figuring that it was polite to at least have a few sips, he managed to tear open one of the sugar packets; and in the meantime, John thought that it would be a good idea to have a proper sit-down and talk. But as he did so, Sherlock came marching into the room again. Mrs. Hudson stood to speak to him.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry for calling them, but I had to. I couldn't just let my building go and have a reputation like this by not telling the authorities," She excused her actions, admitting that she had been the one to call the police. And strangely enough, Sherlock didn't seem the least bit happy about it. He sure wasn't kidding when he claimed in that interview that he 'worked alone'!

"No worries, Mrs. Hudson," His voice was lined with sarcasm, hiding the true intentions of his words, if only for a moment. "Sure, now I have to deal with Anderson and his idiotic assumptions now, but that doesn't nearly upset me as much as the fact that you thought this was _my_ doing!"

"Come now, Sherlock, don't be ridiculous," She responded in a motherly tone, despite his rude one with her. John now seemed as tuned in to this conversation as Neville was. But who couldn't tune in when Sherlock Holmes was speaking? He exhibited a tone of arrogance and command that was just impossible to resist. "It makes perfect sense! What, with the limb that I found in the shower last week…"

"And the brain that I found in the pickle jar," John joined in, not afraid to offer his two-cents.

"And the eyeballs that were in the microwave."

"Not to mention the severed head in the refrigerator? Remember that one?"

It seemed like they could've gone on all day, but Sherlock was quick to cut them off. "_Alright!_ I get it. There's no need to go on when the both of you clearly know nothing of the importance of experiments in controlled everyday environments!"

John merely rolled his eyes; Mrs. Hudson shook her head like this happened all of the time. The landlady left the room just a moment later, mumbling something about checking on the oven, leaving the three men in the flat's main room: The detective, his companion, and the wizard boy oh-so far from home.

The curly-haired man paced the room for a moment, hands brought to his lips in a prayer-like position, before relocating himself into his comfortable armchair. His icy blue eyes first looked at John, and then his newest visitor. Sherlock must've noticed the uneasy expression on Neville's face, as he decided to comment on it.

"You look a bit frazzled," He remarked, trying out a new word. "Any reason for that?"

"Well, yeah," Neville answered plainly, swallowing the bit of coffee that he'd just sipped in the meantime. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't really all that great either. But did that really matter? "I opened my closet to find a hanger and got the breath knocked out of me by a dead woman that was shoved inside. What do you want me to be, all smiles?" Ooh, he was getting into the sarcasm, too. What fun; Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"No," He replied cleverly, putting his incredible show-off skills to work. Boasting was something he never seemed to fail at, if anything. "I don't expect you to be anything but upset. You're just like the others who come around here. _Boring._"

Neville flinched slightly. What was that supposed to mean? But John was quick to jump in apology: "Just ignore him, he gets like this sometimes. He doesn't really mean it."

"Quiet John," The Detective, however, interrupted. He was relentless. Sherlock didn't know why all of the time, but this was something that was almost imperative to him. He just _had_ to nitpick and dissect everyone that walked into his life. His brain couldn't function every other way. He just _had to know, _and there was no stopping him from voicing it. "Neville and I are having a little discussion."

His gaze was so scrutinizing, that the young man couldn't help but shrink under it. All of his bravery seemed to escape him at moments like these. It just wasn't fair.

"I mean, look at you," He continued, "Young, fresh out of school, a tone filled with false sarcasm and no promises behind it? You're just a scared little boy in the middle of London with nowhere else to go but here." Neville could see John uncomfortably shifting in his seat out of the corner of his eye. No doubt he was embarrassed by this, but also so used to it that he didn't bother to try and stop the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. "And you most likely also claim to have a clear conscience, which I can tell you right now isn't true."

Neville was quick to jump and deny that one. "I _do _have a clear conscience, though!"

"Oh, really?" Sherlock did not seem the least bit convinced. "I _would_ believe you, but you proved me wrong not too long ago. So desperate for someplace to stay that you lied to Mrs. Hudson? Quite sad, mostly because you haven't been brought up that way."

"W-what?" No matter how degrading this was, the young man across from the detective couldn't help but be secretly impressed. This was Sherlock in action, just as it had always been described. He was brilliant, and so utterly and terrifyingly intimidating at the same time. What was one to do other than sit in a dumbfounded shock? "How would you even know that?"

"Obvious. Look at you! You still wear the clothes that your grandmother picked out for you! A sweater vest? Brand new Converse sneakers? Only an older guardian would enforce the former, and then insist on completely new shoes for a new place. You're trying to tell me that someone who paid that much attention to making sure that you wore sensible clothing wouldn't care enough to teach you proper consideration and manners? Think again."

"No – Well, that was incredible, and all – But I mean, how did you know that I lied to Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh." Sherlock still seemed to find this to be the easiest question on Earth. "Simple. Earlier today Mrs. Hudson came to us and let us know that we'd be having a new neighbor who was attending university downtown. I took one sweep of your room earlier, and not a schoolbook in sight. You really should be more creative with your lies; not that you needed any. Mrs. Hudson lets any nice looking lad or young woman who's willing to pay inquire for a flat." But he didn't stop there. "And I bet you also want to know how I knew you were raised by your grandmother. Obviously, it wouldn't be your parents. If you were running away from an issue you had back wherever you came from, they would be the first people that you would run to. So, either they're dead or estranged."

This silenced Neville immediately again, which John caught notice of. Maybe his friend was going too far again. Maybe it was time for this to stop.

"I would go with their being dead, but something regretful in your expression tells me that that's not quite true, and it seems you take a lot of blame for it, whatever happened. It was something long, long ago. Oh…" He became a bit more expressive, always excited when he discovered something new, "_And_ I can see why you came to London now. It wasn't just any problem, was it? It was a girl. Oh, yes, this is wonderful! A girl who you've cared about for a very long time now, but she rejected you, didn't she? There's so much insecurity inside you, and you just couldn't take it. It put the icing on the cake. You ran away, and you feel like a coward, don't you? And it's just what they never wanted you to be-"

John hadn't come to his rescue yet – not that he had expected him to – and this was Neville's complete breaking point.

"SHUT UP!" Neville shouted, standing up and losing control of his pent-up emotions for a moment, quickly trying to reseal them again. But it didn't work. His bravery tended to make such random appearances; but when he looked at the scale later in the evening, this looked a lot more like stupidity than anything else. "I don't want to hear any more of it! I don't know how you know this, but it's freaking me out, okay? And not only that, but don't you see how what you're saying could hurt me? I have feelings! Strangely and regretfully fragile ones! Do you mind?"

He sighed, trying to conceal his anger, it finally paying off and fading away. "I'm going back downstairs. Don't bother finding me." He didn't know where exactly he was going to go, considering that an entire police squad was taking up the flat that was supposed to be his, but he would find somewhere. Just anywhere but here, where he could get his eyeballs taken out in his sleep by this lunatic.

Before he could go, however, Sherlock's voice resonated in his general direction again. "Oh, and Neville? You might want to hide the wand under your sleeve a little better. Wouldn't want anyone dangerous finding out who you really are, now would you?"

He stopped dead in his tracks, blood running cold. He knew… How could he know? The Wizarding World was a complete secret to muggles! This was impossible! Neville turned around to address him about it, but the detective was already gone. All that he had left to do was turn back and head down the stairs, hoping for a decent place to (try) and sleep, as well as clarification in the morning. But with this Sherlock fellow, Neville already knew that not much could be expected besides the terrible truths of life. He sighed and followed the staircase back to the ground floor, mind racing…

* * *

Later on, back in the main room of 221B after a quick dinner, John could only look at his work partner with an annoyed and bothered expression, disappointed in what he'd just done to another potential neighbor. "Good going, Sherlock," He frowned, upset. "Are you happy now, seeing what you just did to him?"

The Detective could only smile slightly, hands brought to his lips in their prayer-like position as he looked at the yellow spray-painted smiley face on the wall, deep in thought. "Yes, actually," He answered. It was clear that he had other intentions in mind. "I've seen everything that I needed to. And I think that we've finally found the neighbor I've been hoping for."


	3. A Chance Meeting

There's nothing nicer than a rude awakening…

Sarcasm, of course.

Thanks to the occupation of his brand new room by detective inspectors and police officers all night, Neville had fallen asleep on the sofa in Mrs. Hudson's flat. She'd been nice enough to let him stay there for the night, but unfortunately, it seemed that she didn't keep her door locked…

"Wake up!" Came the oh-so familiar and concisely demanding voice of Sherlock Holmes, the first thing bringing Neville into consciousness; it wasn't a pleasant awakening, either. He ended up panicking a bit at the sound of his voice and falling off of the couch, much to his antagonist's amusement. Neville rubbed his now ringing head as he sat up, looking between Sherlock and his constant companion, John, drowsily. "W-what is it?" He asked, voice cracking and sounding more tired than normal. Well, what did one expect of him in the morning? "Did they finish with my flat yet…?"

"No," Sherlock answered plainly, looking down at the nineteen-year-old and seeming as serious as ever. How could he be so awake at such an ungodly hour – The clock currently read 6:05 A.M. "They're still sanitizing it and removing the carpeting. Might be at least a few days before you get back there."

"Then what are you here for?" Neville pulled himself back onto the faded sofa that was probably once a rich green color. He wasn't kidding when he said that this furniture needed to be updated. But while he was mid-sleepy-thought about couches, he couldn't help but recall the shocking conversation between the detective and himself the night prior. How he had discovered the truth behind his retreat to London, Neville would never understand. But the fact that he knew he was a _wizard_? That was just too far beyond his comprehension! Becoming nervous again, the boy decided to play it safe and not bring that up again. The Ministry of Magic was the last thing he needed to deal with right now, even if he did have connections of sorts through it that could help him.

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face as soon as he looked back at him, one that clearly showed he was up to something. Go figure.

"We're going to go on a little trip to Scotland Yard," He explained.

"This early in the morning? Really?"

"When I get a call for an interesting case, I don't just sit around and let the world go on around me. I take action. Which you will soon learn. And this time, you're coming with me."

"What? Why?" Neville clearly didn't see his importance here. What was this all about? Certainly not the fact that he was a wizard… Would Sherlock turn him in?! That made him all the more reluctant.

The Consulting Detective only gave him a fleeting look, almost cryptic, and two words of a response: "You'll see."

As Sherlock strolled out of the doorway, John could clearly see the concern on the boy's face, and, naturally, jumped to assure him of their true intentions – and they were certainly nothing evil. "Just go along with it," The army doctor said dismissively. "I know, sometimes Sherlock can be a little rude, but you can always trust him. Now, if you're coming you should probably get dressed in day wear…" Only now did Neville glance down and see that he was wearing pajamas… This was beyond awkward. At least they weren't childishly patterned or anything. Not that he owned anything like that… Psh.

He nodded at the blonde man, who also happened to be significantly shorter than himself. In all, he and Sherlock were nearly the same height; only a few inches separated the two, and yet, somehow, Neville always felt so much smaller around him. And that was just as a person alone! John offered a tight-lipped smile before turning and following in Sherlock's footsteps, finally leaving the wizard to himself. He found himself lucky to have brought his suitcase in here. Now he could find something to wear.

* * *

Within fifteen minutes' time, Neville was walking out onto Baker Street, clad in one of his beige-colored sweaters (nearly identical to one that John owned), jeans, and his new Converse sneakers, just like the day prior. Sherlock scoffed as soon as he saw him.

"Did John stay behind to give you fashion pointers?" He quipped, but neither decided to answer. It was best not to challenge him and his 'massive intellect.' A black cab was already conveniently waiting on the curb of the quiet street, and Sherlock and John didn't hesitate to climb in to the back. Unfortunately for Neville, however, there was only the front seat left for him. Next to the driver…? Lovely. He sighed and walked around to the other side of the car, climbing into the left-side passenger seat and shutting the door. He could already tell what kind of day this was going to be.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock said to the driver, John cutting in after with a quick little, "Er, please." It was clear to Neville, their relationship. Sherlock was the obvious brains, deducing and solving the crimes that no one could. He was brilliant, but for every inch of smart there was in him, there was an equal amount of arrogance, if not a little more. John provided the kindness and made up for what Sherlock lacked – Right now, that seemed to be heart.

The little black cab trekked on through the city, passing many of the monuments Neville had always heard about in muggle London and had always wanted to see. Well, now he was getting his own little tour!

… More or less.

It wasn't forty-five minutes later when the three arrived in front of the Scotland Yard building, Sherlock immediately stepping out of the cab and heading inside, while John stayed behind to hand the money to the cabbie. Neville decided to keep at the rear of the party. No need to draw unwanted attention to himself. Simply because of this: If Sherlock knew his secret, did that mean that others did as well? Well, that, and he was incredibly naïve about these muggle things. If only Luna were here to explain-

He stopped himself before the thought could be completed. This was no time for thoughts like that!

When he finally refocused and rose his grey-green eyes to observe the building that they had just entered, it was surprising to find that the inside wasn't quite as elegant as the outside seemed. But hey – It was pretty nice, and who was he to complain about architecture? Herbology was his thing. Not this.

"Keep up!" Came Sherlock's voice from ahead, John picking up his pace and Neville following suit. It seemed that the both of them did not fancy getting lost. The three of them weaved through the desks and pillars that made of the interior of Scotland Yard, telephones ringing and voices echoing off of the pasty-white and generic painting-covered walls. Coffee was clearly a popular drink all around, as it smelled clearly of it in the air. It was funny how much more you started to see when you walked with Sherlock Holmes.

"Lestrade's office is just this way," The detective informed specifically him from a few feet in front of John. "I hope you memorized the way, as you might need to visit here quite often… and turn!"

Sherlock rounded a sharp corner to the right, John disappearing after them. Neville was next, and in an attempt not to lose them, decided to jog around it. But the next thing he knew, he was colliding with someone and falling back onto the floor. At least it wasn't a dead body this time.

He glanced around the floor as soon as he had fallen, handwritten and typed papers now scattered about the floor. Neville could only scold himself inside his head; here he'd gone again, making a complete mess of things. It completely figured. Though, surprisingly enough, the telephones continued to ring in the distance and nobody seemed to be paying any mind to this little scene. It was sort of a relief.

Without glancing up at the person who had collided with him, Neville started to messily gather the papers together, apologizing under his breath constantly. "I'm sorry, I'm such a klutz, let me help. I'm so, so sorry, I…"

His voice trailed off. By now he had gathered all of the papers around him and lifted his head up to hand it to whomever they belonged to. But before him was what he had least expected to find in a place called 'Scotland Yard.' Her eyes were devastatingly blue, sparkling against her clear complexion and fair skin. Her blonde hair perfectly framed her face, and she was looking right back at him, just a foot away. "Beautiful…"

The girl laughed slightly, giving him a look. "Excuse me?" She asked, raising an eyebrow, maintaining a lighthearted demeanor the whole time. Only now did Neville realize what he had just said. The boy shook his head to clear his thoughts, retracting what had just completely slipped out of his mouth.

"Uh, I- I meant, uh… Here are y-your papers…" He ushered the stack towards her again, and the girl pushed the dark-rimmed glasses on her nose up as she took them, smiling as she did so. It felt like this was some kind of dream. Running into a beautiful girl who actually spoke to him in a place like this? There was no way this could be real! Hopefully Sherlock hadn't set him up.

"Thank you," She said appreciatively, combining the papers he'd handed her with the ones she already had and standing up, straightening them out. He noted that her accent sounded much more posh than South London… Almost even Irish? Neville followed, rising to his feet, and seeming as awkward as ever. "You're welcome. It's no big deal, I pick up papers for girls who drop them all the time."

_Really?_ He mentally kicked himself. _That is going into the books as the most idiotic thing you've ever said._

The girl giggled, shooting him another knowing and skeptical look. "Oh, is that how it is?" She mused sarcastically. "Well then. And I was thinking we had something special." Neville could only awkwardly smile and avoid eye contact before she broke her gaze and cleared her throat, speaking again: "Well, anyway, I'd better be going. Sherlock Holmes in is in the building and we all know how that gets."

"Oh, yeah, Sherlock Holmes!" He finally found the courage to sound like a normal person again and not a goof. "I was just looking for him. When I ran into you, I sorta lost him, and… Well, you get the idea."

The girl just looked back at him with genuine surprise, her mouth falling open slightly and her vivid eyes widening. "You mean to tell me that you know Sherlock Holmes?" It sounded more like a statement of disbelief than an actual question. In response, Neville nodded. "Oh my god! Like, he knows your name and talks to you and you are friends?" Maybe she liked Sherlock a lot more than she had previously led on…

"Well, I'm his neighbor, so… I guess you could say that."

The girl seemed even more ecstatic about this, and started to head back in the direction she'd come from, gesturing for him to follow. "I know where he is, without a doubt. Just come with me." She glanced over again. "The names Cassandra, by the way. And you?"

"Neville," He answered sheepishly, sort of regretting not having a cooler or more monumental name. The girl smiled, however. She seemed to like it. "Nice to meet you, Neville."

For a moment, he was actually forgetting about all of his troubles and the whole thing that had been happening between himself and the girl that he was actually in love with. He'd once heard the saying: "Everything happens for a reason." Well, maybe that was true! Maybe for him, it was this girl coming into his life and actually making him feel like he amounted to something – Because, really. Who didn't love feeling like they were worth it? But as the two of them entered Lestrade's office, Sherlock's criticizing gaze at Cassandra made him think otherwise. It's like he could see something just _wrong._ It was certainly unsettling… But at the moment, he set it aside.

"Oh, you must be Sherlock's new friend," A grey-haired man, who Neville assumed was Lestrade, said, motioning towards a dark folding chair next to John (it had obviously been set up because they didn't have enough for him). "Please, take a seat."

Cassandra took this as her cue to leave, offering a smile at the lot of them. "Have a nice meeting," She said kindly, before looking to her newest friend. "And I hope to see _you_ around here more often. Good afternoon, Neville."

Before she walked away, however, she slipped something into his hand. Only when he was sitting down did Neville decide to check what she had handed him, glad that Lestrade was starting his conversation with Sherlock in the meantime so that they wouldn't eavesdrop. All it was was a small, folded card that turned out to be a business card. The only thing out of place about it? A circled phone number.

Neville Longbottom had just gotten a girl's phone number without having had to ask? Maybe this London thing wasn't so bad after all.


	4. Just Photographs

The door shut with a finalizing slam. The four of them were alone now, and for what, Neville could only guess. Who knew what sorts of cases these people set aside exclusively for Sherlock? They must be pretty intense for the authorities not being able to solve them…

Lestrade's office was pretty spacious compared to the rest in the building. It was clear that he was the detective inspector, namely because of the nameplate on his desk that clearly read "D.I. Greg Lestrade," but also because the furnishings – Besides Neville's spare folding chair, of course. The boy was still fiddling with the card that Cassandra had given him as the grey-haired supervisor of the police started to speak to the three of them.

"I'm sure you've already guessed why we need you here today, Sherlock," He started, looking between the consulting detective and his blogger. The curly-haired man only responded with a concise, "Of course." It was obvious that he merely wanted to skip past the unneeded and obvious bits of conversation; all he needed were the detailed facts.

"Well then, I'd better get to it." Lestrade heaved a sigh that almost said 'I can't believe I'm doing this,' and opened the case file that was on his desk. He passed a few papers forward, Sherlock collecting them to look, but John and Neville both coming in for curious glances. They were clear shots of two people lying dead on what seemed to be kitchen tile, and the latter of the three couldn't help but cringe. For it, he felt out of place. Sherlock saw this every day, and so did John. How could they be mentally stable?

Honestly, Neville was still questioning that.

"These are just photographs," Sherlock said flatly, looking up at the detective inspector with his ever-so-influencing gaze. "You wouldn't give me photographs if there was a crime scene, I know you better than that."

"Exactly," Lestrade replied, not seeming amused about this at all. Neville didn't blame him; he finally realized that he kept calling Sherlock because someone out there was making his job impossible. "They _are_ just photographs. We have no idea who of, where they were taken, when they were taken, or if the people in them are actually dead. We received these from an unknown number at two in the morning."

"And you called me at six?" Sherlock cut in, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, don't think that you were our first choice," Lestrade scolded, "We _tried_ to trace the source, and we _tried_ to figure this out. I only called you when I realized that we couldn't. Especially since you were free from yesterday's case."

That brought Neville back into the conversation. "Wait, what? You already know who killed the person in my closet!?" That was probably the weirdest thing he'd said in his entire life, and he was a wizard. That was saying something.

"Obviously." Sherlock turned his attention to Neville. "I knew from the minute I got a closer inspection. The body smelled of the latest Jean Paul Gautier. Not only that, but there were clear fingerprints on the doorknob and the body as well." Neville gulped. _His _fingerprints had been on the doorknob, too. "It had to be one of the sloppiest and terribly done murders that I've seen in my entire life. There's only one person close to Olive – the woman who died – who wears that exact cologne and matches the fingerprints: George Berot from 221E. Motive: She wanted out of their relationship, and he went out of his mind with heartbreak."

It took Neville a second to completely process what Sherlock had just said. "W-wait a minute…" He stuttered. "You mean to tell me that I moved in next door to a murderer and I didn't even know it?!" He sounded incredulous, thinking that his initial thoughts of that place being a psycho ward were true.

"Apparently." Sherlock only gave him a short sideways glance, for once more interested in what Lestrade had to say.

"But he's in jail now," John offered as compensation. "He's not living there anymore." If only that actually helped. Once you learned that one of your neighbors had killed someone, it only made you wonder about everyone else.

"Anyway, go on," Sherlock said, eyes focusing back on the detective inspector on the other side of the desk.

"Right," Lestrade began again, trying to pick up on his train of thought, "We were thinking that it was another one of those sick games from your little friend."

"Moriarty," Was the word (or was it a name?) that came out of Sherlock's lips almost immediately. John frowned noticeably and heaved a short sigh. His expression almost seemed to say, 'Here we go again,' while Sherlock's evoked more a feeling of interest.

"Who's…_Moriarty_?" Neville asked, curious. He was met with three pairs of eyes, all saying different things. But somehow, none of them seemed positive.

"An old friend of mine," Sherlock answered, though the young man could tell that they were anything but 'friends.' And, quite honestly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to find out. Everything added up to this Moriarty character being someone bad. Someone that was willing to murder for fun and personal gain could never be a good man. It almost reminded him of Voldemort. And even if everyone at Hogwarts had defeated him, it still worried Neville. Were there forces like that in the human world? Ones that they were defenseless against?

"We're putting you on the case, Sherlock," Lestrade went on, handing John the entire file, as his curly-haired companion was still looking over solely the photographs. "I've given you all the information you need, and we'll be in touch if we find anything else. Just…Can I ask…Don't do anything stupid?" It was almost like he was pleading with the man who was obviously younger than him.

Sherlock Holmes stood from the chair, placing the pictures under his arm and looking to the detective inspector once again. "You know me better than that, Lestrade," He mused, heading towards the door. "I've stopped making promises."

John stood next, Neville deciding to follow. He still had no idea why Sherlock had brought him along on this little trip, but he couldn't hate him for it (namely because of the phone number he was putting back into his pocket right now).

"Thanks again," John said to Lestrade, giving a small half-hearted wave and walking out. But just as Neville was about to re-enter the hallway, the voice from behind stopped him. It was him, of course. He turned back to Lestrade, hearing what he had to say.

"Listen, kid. I don't know how you know Sherlock, or why he's taking you along with him on his little gang-ho adventure, but I just have to tell you to be careful. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see things that you could've lived forever without. You know things that you could've felt safe without. Even if he always wins, do me one favor and don't get hurt. Don't prove everyone else right. Don't prove me wrong…"

Neville nodded as the man sat down again, and turned back around towards the door. The gears in his mind had begun to seriously turn again, and he couldn't help but rewind what Lestrade had just said over and over. He'd always questioned Sherlock and his motives. How could he be the good guy and yet be so ecstatic over murder and what came along with it? Those thought were the primary things on the wizard boy's mind as he walked out of the office and through that floor of Scotland Yard.

Once he was out of the office in the back, however, Lestrade picked up the phone on his desk and speed-dialed a number, listening to it ring a few times before he got an answer.

"Hello? We've got another one."


	5. Get In The Car

The rain was barely but a drizzle outside of Scotland Yard, and the masses sauntered by under the cover of their bland black umbrellas. Beyond them, a consulting detective and his partner (strictly _business_ partner, mind you) were making their way down the steps of the established building, and were seemingly quarreling while they were at it.

"Sherlock," The shorter of the two complained, walking quickly to try and keep up with the tall man whose strides were so much longer. "I know what you're doing, and you can't. You can't just leave him out here in the rain in the middle of London! He barely knows his way around, and you know that better than anyone."

But his companion was relentless. He continued on, straightforward, towards the black cab that was already waiting for them. "Sherlock, really. Is this something that you do to everyone who you bring into your life? Is this some kind of test?" John Watson could clearly remember the time that Sherlock left him out in the middle of London at night, off on his way to find some pink briefcase for a detective job of his – Though, honestly, how could he forget that night when it had changed his life? But that wasn't the point.

The two had reached the cab by now, Sherlock climbing in, but John was more stubborn, waiting outside the door. The curly-haired man rolled his eyes and looked at his friend with disappointment. "If you want to stick around and wait for lover boy to saunter on out here, be my guest," He said with his usual lack of emotion; and yet, it was so didactic at the same time. "I, on the other hand, will be following Lestrade's advice (for once) and starting on this very urgent case. People are _dying_, John, and you want me to sit around and wait for some nineteen-year-old boy to _decide_ and join us?" He scoffed as if Dr. Watson was the silliest, most nonsensical person he had ever met. "Now get in the cab."

"No, Sherlock," John replied relentlessly, as stubborn as ever. "Go on and start your investigation. Just don't be surprised later on if Neville doesn't seem as eager to join you on another case when he finds out you were going to ditch him in the rain."

Sherlock seemed to have slightly anticipated this answer, and looked at John with the same knowing look that he always did. "But you're not going to tell him that, _are you._ See you tomorrow."

The consulting detective shut the cab door with a thud, and, without a word, the cabbie put the little black car into drive, leaving John in the dust – Or rather, the rain. The former army doctor sighed. Well, then. It seemed that his flat mate would be gone all night investigating. And Sherlock probably act a whole lot more stubborn towards him until he apologized for letting him go on alone. But at least Neville wouldn't be left alone in the middle of London, and at least John would have someone sane to talk to for a nice, calm evening.

Though, of course, things never did turn out quite exactly how they were planned when you resided at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

Neville would be lying if he said that he didn't try and find Cassandra one last time before he left the offices that day. He would also be lying if he said that he didn't try and call Luna before he decided to move out of Hogsmeade. Unfortunately, neither of these endeavors were successful, and for that reason, one wouldn't find him talking about them in the first place and giving himself a chance to lie.

The tall boy pushed the front entrance doors of Scotland Yard open, stepping out into the cloudy city of London, and finding it to be as rainy as it had been the day he arrived. It was really sort of a gloomy city when you started to think about it, even with all of the hustle and bustle. But then again, in the long run, Hogwarts was just the same. It was such a strange comparison to make; only now was he starting to realize how alike this world – the muggle world – and his own world full of wizards could be.

He walked down the steps towards John, who he had just spied moments before. Luckily, the man had spotted him too and met him halfway, seeming a little more downcast than usual.

"Have I kept you waiting?" It was Neville's first embarrassing instinct to apologize. "I'm so sorry, the detective inspector just kept me for a few minutes…"

John was quick to interrupt, however: "No, no, no, it's fine," He assured him. "I've only been out here maybe ten minutes, so it's not a problem. Trust me. A soldier can withstand a few minutes in the rain."

"Right, right…" The younger of them still sounded sorry, but that was before he'd glanced around and realized that one of the group was missing. It was a wonder that he was only noticing now. "Hey… Where's Sherlock…?"

John seemed a bit miffed all of a sudden, and Neville was quick to realize that it was because Sherlock had probably left without notice. It was probably best to not comment on it, as the understanding was now universal between them. "Oh…"

"You know what," John spoke up again, clapping his hands together with initiative, "I'm going to catch a cab. There's no use standing in the rain. Just stay here and don't move. I'll be right back!"

Neville nodded with an, "Okay," and the army doctor started to tread in the other direction, leaving him on the curb of the road, just waiting.

It seemed like about three minutes before the rain started to pelt down a little harder, the boy having to lower his head because of it. He could spy, though, a sleek black car out of the corner of his eye. And it seemed to be heading in his general direction… Nah. Who would be looking for him that owned a car like that, except for maybe a muggle-informed wizard from the ministry of magic (and honestly, it couldn't hurt to see someone sensible and full of advice like Hermione right about now). But much to his surprise, the car did indeed stop in front of him, and the back door on his side opened up, almost as if it was waiting for him to get in. He only just looked at it for a moment.

'Bloody hell…?'

Neville's thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the cell phone in his pocket. He fumbled for it for a moment before holding it in his hand and reading the screen.

_Unknown._

First a spooky car, and now this? And all in the midst of Sherlock Holmes… He gulped. This could not be good. With an incredible amount of reluctance, Neville answered the call.

"H-Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Longbottom." The voice on the other end was oddly haunting, and it left the poor boy with an uneasy feeling, and that was besides the fact that whoever it was already knew his name. "I assume that you have many questions. 'Who are you?' 'How do you know my name?' 'What is this all about?' I assure you that all of these can be answered. I just need you to step into the car. I would listen, if I were you; the alternatives otherwise are not as easily handled."

Neville lowered the phone nervously, eyeing the ominous vehicle that sat, still running, in front of him. Should he go through with this? In all honesty, though, he didn't feel like he had much of a choice. And besides, it wasn't like he wasn't armed. The young man had a wand hidden up his sleeve, and could probably vanquish any villain that decided they were going to kill him first. That thought was enough to give him the strength to proceed. He pressed the "End Call" button swiftly, and working up the great deal of courage that he had summoned all of those years wondering why the hell he was a Gryffindor, climbed into the backseat of the sleek, black car, shutting the door as he went.

Only then did John, who had just managed to find a cab on a rainy afternoon when they were usually so sparse, and was now jogging towards the exterior of Scotland Yard, notice that the kid he had stayed behind to keep an eye on was gone, and that a black car was driving away from the spot that he'd just stood. He slowed his pace, coming to a stop and watching in disbelief as the ever-so-recognizable vehicle departed into the distance.

"You have to be kidding me…" He muttered to himself, but quite obviously, nobody replied and nobody really was kidding. With a sigh, John turned to find that the cab he'd gotten had already driven away while he was just standing here in shock. Just his luck…

As he set off to find another one, John couldn't help but wonder why it was always him that got left alone in the middle of London in the rain. Was it because he had mentioned growing a mustache?

* * *

The tinted windows of the tiny, dark vehicle made the outside world seem so much gloomier, and Neville found that it definitely set the mood for the current situation. So… He was being kidnapped. There was a first time for everything, right? Unless you counted that one time… Or was that more of a ransom? He shoved those unsettling thoughts aside, and took a moment to glance to his left. There, sitting next to him and dressed in all black to perfectly match her raven-hair, was a woman that he hadn't even taken notice to at first. She seemed to be completely occupied by something that she was typing on her phone, and he couldn't help but be curious enough to ask her what she was up to.

"Uh… Hello," He spoke up, not even drawing the lady's attention. After a minute or so, he decided to say it again. "Hello? Did someone tell you to get into this car too?"

The woman finally seemed to have heard him, and only glanced his way for a fleeting moment before turning back to her texting. "Oh. Hello," She said, simple-sounding. "And, no."

Neville frowned a bit; that was it? That was her only answer? He could see where this was going.

"So you work for him? The guy who kind of abducted me?"

"Um… Sure."

Once again, he was irked by her answer. "So, you do then," He decided. "What's his name?" When she didn't reply, he got the idea. She wasn't going to reveal the things that she couldn't. Obviously. "Fine then. What's your name?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment, before giving a short reply of "Anthea."

Neville just nodded, smiling slightly. But it was more weak than anything. "Nice to meet you." And that was where the conversation ended. He felt like the ride would go on forever until the car suddenly came to a stop. Only now did the nervous pit in his stomach reappear for an encore. Wherever he was, he might not ever leave. Wasn't this how serial killers operated? Maybe it was the Moriarty guy Sherlock had warned him about… If only he had the strength of Godric Gryffindor's sword right now.

He got out of the car as the door was opened for him again, finding himself in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. It was large and spacious, the walls worn down with years of paint falling off of them. But what drew his attention most was a man standing not too far away, looking as if he was waiting for him… and just like everyone outside, he had an umbrella.

Neville stepped forward cautiously, and the man spoke in person for the first time. Instantly, he could recognize it as the voice from the phone.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Longbottom," He mused, a slight, tight-lipped smile on his face. "It is about time we met in person."

_About time?_ Neville didn't even know this guy! "Yeah, uh… Nice to meet you and all," He offered his own half-hearted kindness, but his confusion couldn't help but completely shine through. "But I have no idea what you mean. Who are you?"

"Why don't you take a seat? We can have a nice little chat," The man went on, completely ignoring the young man's question; of course, it annoyed him. Couldn't he just get some answers? Especially after being kidnapped and all?! "And I assume you may have figured out by now what – or should I say, _whom _– it might be concerning."

Neville had finally approached the chair, but he didn't decide to sit down, wary of this being a trap. Instead, he just stood by it, watching the mysterious man with narrowed eyes and suspicion written all over his features. "Is it about Sherlock?" He guessed, and surprisingly enough, was met with instant confirmation.

"Exactly correct. I tend to speak to everyone who decides it is a good idea to associate with him. I only just learned about you, however. And I fear that I might be too late…"

"Too late for what? And who are you?"

But once again, Neville's annoyance only grew as that crucial question went unanswered. "You see, people tend to develop a trust for Sherlock Holmes after a certain amount of time with him, and then it is too late to sway them to what they might have achieved otherwise. I want to offer you a deal, Neville Longbottom."

"Okay, fine, you won't tell me who you are. But how do you know my name?"

"The real question is, how could I not?"

This left the young man puzzled, though the other went on. He was going to hear him out on his deal, even if he wouldn't accept it in the long run.

"Any who, what I would like to offer you is a compensation for doing me a little favor. Just a small one, and not even too much to ask."

"What is it?"

"Just to keep me updated on what Sherlock might be doing. What cases he's working on, who he's involving himself with… And for a decent figure."

As if Neville hadn't thought this guy was shady enough in the first place, now he had every reason to believe it. Here was a guy trying to convince him to spy on the world's most famous detective, all while trying to tell him that Sherlock was the bad guy? Who was this man, anyway? And how did he think he could be trusted if he wouldn't even tell him his name?!

"No one's ever accepted your offer before. No one believes you."

And there it was again; another random burst of bravery from Neville Longbottom, and without any regrets this time. When he fought for what he believed in, and what he knew was right, he was the strongest.

The man seemed taken aback. "Excuse you?"

"Sherlock has many friends. Some that I've already met, actually. If you talked to all of them, they all denied you. They don't believe you."

"Friends?" The man merely scoffed, mocking the very idea of Sherlock Holmes having any friends. "Mr. Longbottom, have you even been with him long enough to know that that very idea is preposterous on its own?"

"I don't care," He retorted carelessly, and yet all so carefully. Who knew if this guy still wouldn't whip out a wand – or, er, gun – and decide to use it against him. "I can't trust you. I don't even know your name! My answer is no."

His abductor merely shook his head; and yet, at the same time, he seemed impressed. "I should've expected as much from you," He said in a sing-song way, just as he always spoke. "The courage of a lion? And considering the things you've accomplished where you're from? You are much like Dr. Watson: So easily trusting."

Neville winced. Not only at the little insult at the end, but to the reference of everything he had once stood (and truthfully still did stand) for. So this man knew it, too? How many people knew that he was a wizard?!

"You should be going now," The man advised, and he snapped out of it. "The car will take you back to Baker Street." Neville nodded, turning around and starting back towards the mysterious vehicle that had brought him here, knees feeling weaker than normal.

"Oh, and Mr. Longbottom?" The mysterious man spoke to him one last time before the car door could be shut. "Do give my brother my best wishes. I hate to see him so irritable over a case."

And thus, he began his journey back 'home,' burdened with even more confusion than he arrived with.


	6. You Were A Hero

It was only thirty minutes after that tormenting scene when Neville was dropped off at the front steps of 221B Baker Street, the rain still relentlessly pouring down on him. He'd come to London for a change of scenery – As of now, he was still wondering if this was exactly the positive backdrop he'd been hoping for. Honestly, on the whole ride home from his meeting with the strange man and kidnapper who claimed to be Sherlock's brother, Neville couldn't help but think about everything he'd already experienced here: First, having a body fall out of his closet, then meeting Sherlock Holmes and John Watson themselves! Not to mention meeting that beautiful girl at Scotland Yard… And then getting abducted and nearly bribed into something he didn't want to do.

So, long story short, London was insane. But at the same time, so, so interesting – Even to a wizard.

He knocked at the door, all thoughts aside. Inside, he could already hear Sherlock's loud voice, apparently yelling at someone, probably for being "less superior" or something along those lines. Neville was a bit surprised to hear the detective's voice. Wasn't he going to be out on a case all night? What had changed his mind? The sun was starting to lower in the sky, and it was growing colder than it already was earlier that day every minute. Apparently that drive to the warehouse really _had _taken hours. Even if he was wearing a sweater, the boy still sort of hoped that he would be let in soon.

The door was opened moments later by a distressed-looking Mrs. Hudson. She glanced up at Neville and gave him a knowing look – This wasn't anything knew, apparently. He wasn't sure if he should like his neighbors any more or any less because of this. For some reason, despite how insane or overly-enigmatic they were, he was always drawn towards them.

Maybe it was because he didn't know how to be normal.

Maybe it was because he knew that no matter how much he wanted to be just that, he never would.

"Come on in, dearie," She said, before quickly turning and going inside as well. Neville followed behind. "Just excuse them upstairs. Sherlock is having a bit of a row with John again." He started towards the steps as Mrs. Hudson went another way, but as he walked, he couldn't help but notice something out of the corner of his eye. Upon further inspection, the boy could see that his room, 221D, wasn't at all blocked off by police tape. That was suspicious. The murder had happened yesterday. And hadn't Sherlock said something about the police and such sticking around?

_"They're still sanitizing it and removing the carpeting. Might be at least a few days before you get back there."_

… That struck Neville as completely odd. But then again, what about Sherlock Holmes didn't? He needed to have a word with him about that, because if he could sleep in his room instead of on Mrs. Hudson's stuffy couch, he was going to. And besides, he needed to talk to Sherlock about his so-called "brother," anyway. He went on his way up the steps again, and as he did, the words that were being shouted became a lot clearer than just the muffled sounds that he'd heard from outside before.

"I told you that I was leaving! What did you expect?!"

"I expected to find my own way home, as usual. Not for you to yell at me about getting the carpet wet!"

"It was just vacuumed!"

"Says the man who leaves around anatomical body parts, sometimes even sans the jar!"

It was obvious who was on which side of the conversation, or rather, argument, but as Neville walked into the room, it ceased. Both sets of blue eyes were turned on him, once gaze sparing more pity than the other. And just as the argument went, you could tell which pair belonged to whom. However, and unfortunately, the more sparing one wasn't the first to speak.

"Well look who decided to turn up," Sherlock said a bit coldly, glaring. "Where were you off to? Partaking in a 'date' with your new, cliché love interest?" Neville personally couldn't understand why the man he'd met only yesterday was personally targeting him all of a sudden. Was it because of his youth? Did he think he was a rebel or something, like all of the kids he tended to see anymore? But with an apologetic look from John, it all was explained. The consulting detective was already in a bad mood anyway. Was it something because of the case? People_ did_ become frustrated when they couldn't figure things out – Was Sherlock's tendency for this this severe?

"No…" Neville answered, remaining, intimidated, in the doorway. "I actually just got back from a very long car ride… I think I was kidnapped."

"See?" John finally spoke up and came to his rescue. The nineteen year-old was so glad that he had someone here to balance out Sherlock's abnormalities and severity towards certain, if not many, things. "I was trying to tell you that before you patronized me, Sherlock! I distinctly saw him being towed off in Mycroft's car." John had also noticed that Sherlock wasn't yelling at Neville over his own dripping-from-the-rain clothes, but he didn't mention it. Instead of starting a new fight, it was better to diminish any existing ones.

"_Mycroft…"_ Sherlock snarled, immediately forming an expression of distaste and beginning to pace. "I knew that he was going to come for you sooner or later. He was just a bit late this time." That put Neville off and it was obvious, but like John, he was smart enough not to speak up. "And let me guess: He offered you money that you didn't take."

Neville immediately felt guilty. Had he been supposed to take it…? "That's right…" He replied, feeling small. He hated feeling that way, even if it was often. Especially now after everything he'd just been through these last weeks…

Sherlock rolled his eyes and clapped his hands together loudly. His voice was ridden with sarcasm. "Of _course!_ Just what we needed – another undyingly loyal one that is too stupid to accept money when it's offered for a reasonable deal!" The tall man collapsed onto the room's tiny couch, bringing his hands up to his chin in their prayer-like form yet again. It seemed to be his preferred way of resting. It was silent in the room now for a few moments, and John Watson tapped Neville's shoulder.

"I'm going to make sure Mrs. Hudson's okay," He told him. "She normally gets a little upset after Sherlock starts yelling…" The former army doctor looked to the man on the couch, but his eyes were closed and he did not seem to be paying any attention to either of them, even though he really was. Ignorance was sometimes just a policy Sherlock could hand out heavily. John sighed and offered Neville one last look before mumbling a, "Be right back," and exiting the flat. His steps were heard descending the stairs in the silence, and Neville Longbottom was left alone with the world's greatest detective.

Wow, he'd certainly never imagined this happening.

The boy awkwardly (his true fashion) cleared his throat and took a seat in a chair opposite Sherlock and the coffee table in front of him, trying to think up how to start a conversation. He had so many questions, and now was the perfect time to have them answered. He just needed to come up with a way of speaking that wouldn't offend him and wouldn't embarrass Neville himself if Sherlock just kept on ignoring him. Finally, he decided on something, no matter how straightforward it was and how lame he felt saying it.

"Why did you lie about my room?"

"Excuse you?" The Detective's immediate reply startled Neville, and he had to regain himself for retaliation.

"W-well, uh, you said that my room was being cleaned for a few days… But it's, er, not…"

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes, but he did speak. "Because I did not want you going in there."

"Why?"

"It's still a crime scene." His statement was so matter-of-fact, that it made Neville a bit angry.

"But that's not fair! That's my flat! The one I'm paying for. You can't just dictate whether or not I can sleep in my own bed. And besides, I thought that you solved that case already – Detective Inspector Lestrade said so!"

"Quit your whining," Sherlock retorted immediately, and it was very effective at shutting Neville up. "I did solve the case but that doesn't mean that there isn't more evidence to find. And besides." He got himself more comfortable on the couch, shifting his weight. "I found the things in your room to be very intriguing."

The boy across from his shot him an uneasy look. "… What do you mean?" He asked uncertainly.

Sherlock sat up, looking straight at Neville now. It seemed as if he was always restless – Could he ever find a position that suited him for more than five minutes? It was no wonder that the newspapers reported about him never sleeping! It all made sense now that he knew him. "Well for one, you have a particularly interesting plant by the name of Alihotsy in your possession. Is there any reason for that?"

Now it was Neville's turn to answer questions, it seemed. "Well," He began, "Back at my school, I'm sort of in training to become a professor. And it's for herbology—"

Sherlock cut him off immediately: "Yes, yes, I already know that. But considering its effects and the fact that it causes hysteria just by inhalation, I was only wondering why someone such as yourself would need something like it."

"Well…" Neville wasn't exactly entirely sure why he had a plant like that. It wasn't like he ever took it out of its protective covering. He didn't want to induce hysteria on himself all the time. It was just for study. And so he told the detective the truth, just as he probably would've anyway. This guy could see right through him. "I don't know, really. It's just what I had taken to study this month."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit, but he seemed to believe him. "Interesting…" He trailed off to himself, but a moment later, he offered to answer one of the questions that Neville had been wondering about for a long time now. It wasn't that he was being nice, but more so wanting to show off how clever he was – Not that he had to try so hard for that. "Now. I bet you're wondering how I know all of these things about you in the first place."

"Like how I'm a… a wizard," Neville offered. It was hard to say such a thing in front of a muggle, no matter how brilliant. Normally this wasn't at all allowed, but it wasn't like he could get in trouble for telling someone who already knew.

… Right?

"That was easy," Sherlock admitted his somehow both criticizing and watchful icy blue gaze on the sweatered boy in front of him. "Once I heard your name. Neville Longbottom. The boy who could've been. The one that slayed the monstrous snake Nagini and so bravely saved his friends, all while destroying the last piece of your enemy. How could I not have heard of you?"

"Well… Because you're a muggle." It was Neville's turn now to be matter-of-factual. Sherlock shot him a glare, though, and he recoiled.

"I may not be a wizard, but that doesn't mean someone such as myself doesn't take notice to children running through brick walls and tapping on stones to get to some sort of 'secret alleyway.' I'm not daft. And once I found my way in, I found the news from your world to be so much more interesting than what we have here."

Well, the young wizard couldn't argue with that. Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, and even Diagon Alley where all in a world of their own. So many interesting things happened there, and all the time too. He just wondered why he was never around to experience them.

"And not to mention," Sherlock went on, "I was a bit eager to meet you. And I can't say that about many people."

He was taken aback by the detective's words. Extremely so. Sherlock Holmes wanted to meet him? That was incredible! He wanted to ask, "Then why didn't you act like it when you did meet me?" but he refrained.

Sherlock continued with his speech, and as he did, a change came upon the boy who was across from him. "Because it occurred to me what you did. In one single moment, you showed more bravery and nerve than you did in your entire life. You were a hero. Why did you stop? It's something not even I can see..."

It was silent between them for a moment. A long moment. Because Neville was thinking. He had been a hero, and he really had lost it, hadn't he? The worst part was that he had an idea why it had happened, why it had gone away like that. But it was something he didn't want to speak about, not even to Sherlock Holmes. It probably wasn't in his department of knowledge anyway. He liked murders and mysteries, not… not what Neville was exactly concerned with.

"So is that why?" Neville asked quietly after a moment. "Is that why you're taking me along on these investigations? To help me get that courage back?"

"No," Sherlock said immediately, and quite frankly. "That's not my job." He suddenly hopped up from the couch, and started towards the door. Neville watched after him with an urgently confused look.

"W-wait, where are you going?" He asked.

Sherlock swiveled around and smiled whimsically at the boy that he so-loved to impress. Well, he loved to impress everyone. This kid was just his latest subject. "It's dinner!" He nodded towards the doorway, and just a mere second later, the bell was heard downstairs and Mrs. Hudson called up that it was, in fact, dinner. Was this guy psychic too or something?

"See you downstairs! Oh! And this was left for you earlier!" Sherlock tossed a small, red piece of cardstock towards Neville before leaving him alone in the flat to pick up the thing that he tossed. He knelt down, retrieving the slip. He unfolded it as he stood up again, finding girly handwriting in black ink on the other side. Immediately, without reading the end, he knew who it was from.

_Dear Neville, meet me in front of the café tomorrow at three. I know you will. Don't be late!_

_x, C._

As he pocketed the little note and started down the stairway, Neville couldn't help but smile just a bit. He'd gotten asked on a date. And not only that, he'd gotten better acquainted with Sherlock this afternoon. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy as everyone made him out to be after all…


	7. A Universal Truth

The rest of the evening, surprisingly enough, went smoothly. Dinner was good and consisted of some random salads and pickled things (though, of course, Sherlock Holmes didn't touch one bit of it). No one fought for that entire hour, and Mrs. Hudson seemed genuinely pleased about that. As did Neville. He and Sherlock had had a nice talk earlier, and he couldn't help but feel such respect for him when he acted decent. Why couldn't he always be like that? But then again, that would just defeat the entire purpose of who he was, and he would never want that to happen.

After dinner had ended, Neville retired back to the stuffy couch in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Why? Mostly because he knew that the consulting detective wanted at least one more night to take carpet samples or study the bits of Alihotsy that might have fallen off of the branches. Maybe he'd get respect in return for giving Sherlock what he wanted and letting him have his space. If not, this was sort of a waste of another night that he could've slept straight through. But, whatever. He was going to sleep in his own room tomorrow – and for the first time, too – anyway.

The night went by quickly, and the next thing he knew, Neville was being shaken awake again, this time by John Watson. It was better than being yelled at by Sherlock, that was for sure. He and John were such foils to one another. But you know what they say: Opposites attract! Today, again, luckily, he was just wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt to sleep. No embarrassing onesies here!

Neville yawned. "Let me guess: Sherlock sent you?"

John nodded. He was already dressed for the day in his green army jacket, a button-up shirt, and jeans. They seemed to be earlier risers here at Baker Street! He, however, only thought that because he hadn't had a chance to be here when they were bored and off of a case yet. Though, that was probably for the best. "Yes. He's already gone off to the crime scene, and asked us to follow behind. Not sure why, but I'm not going to argue him."

"Which is what we all need!" Said Mrs. Hudson as she hastily strode through the room, a purse slung over her shoulder. She seemed to be late for something. "Honestly, I don't think I can take another evening of his shouting! It's better when we just let him be."

"Yes, I know, Mrs. Hudson. Last night just got a bit out of hand," John apologized. In the meantime, Neville stood and started to search through his suitcase for something suitable to wear today. Maybe this vest and t-shirt? Yeah. That seemed good for a warm-looking day like this. "I don't like being targeted. That's all."

"Mhmm," Mrs. Hudson murmured, starting towards the door after having grabbed a few things off of her kitchen counter in the other room. She looked at the two, one a light-haired man and the other just a boy, a soft smile on her face. "Well, I'm off to run a few errands. I'll see you two in the evening. Try not to make a mess of things while I am gone. Goodbye!"

"Bye, Mrs. Hudson," Both Neville and John chimed in unison, watching her go. She was a nice landlady. But as she always enforced, _not_ a housekeeper.

After she had gone, Neville took a look at the watch that he'd adorned his wrist with as of late and immediately was stunned with what he found it to say. "It's already noon?" He asked, more taken aback that he should be; back at Hogsmeade, this was the usual time he slept until on a weekend. "Sherlock really left this late?"

"No, he's been gone for a few hours now," Dr. Watson replied casually, shaking his head a bit. "I didn't wake to wake you at some ungodly hour like he did yesterday. Besides, I had some of my own things to catch up on anyway. Even working with Sherlock doesn't bring in quite the amount of money you'd expect. I still have to keep searching for a job."

Neville would've thought that it would be easy for someone as qualified and locally famous as John to find a career, but obviously he was wrong. But the older man just shrugged it off and effectively changed the subject. "But that's no matter. We'd better go and meet Sherlock at the hotel now before he gets into _too _much trouble."

So the crime scene was a hotel, then? Sherlock Holmes sure worked as fast as he advertised on the website. And however he figured out that the crime scene was the hotel left the young man at a loss – He was just brilliant to be able to see that out of nothing but photos of unknown people left lying on the ground. No one could do that. Except for him, of course.

The two exited the old flat on Baker Street and stepped into the slightly humid London air. It was strange weather for any month in England, but spring was just coming to an end. Maybe this summer would prove to be a particularly sunny one, even if his personal qualms weren't solved by then. And honestly, at this point, Neville didn't think that they would be.

But then again, he did have a date at three.

John called a black cab over, and it stopped with just enough time for them to climb into its backseat and shut the door. "Thirty-four Park Street, please," The fading blonde man instructed the cabbie, and they were off to their destination. It seemed like only minutes later they were pulling up in front of a four-story brownstone with white paneled windows. The place looked innocent enough with its welcoming purple awning and private little car park. But then again, Sherlock Holmes had deemed this a murder site. Sometimes that was all you needed to prove that things were not as they seemed, if not a little much.

John handed the cabbie a few coins as he made his way out of the little car, and Neville followed, adjusting the vest he was wearing as he did so. The sun was out for once, and he shielded his grey-green eyes from it as he gazed up at the building in front of them. "Well, here we are," John said, releasing a small sigh. "Let's go on in and see what Sherlock's found so far." It certainly wouldn't be the first time either of them had seen Mr. Holmes and his brilliant mind at work, but there was anticipation there for the both of them. When it came to this life, excitement never seemed to die down or be completely nonexistent.

Surprise always existed in the world of Sherlock Holmes.

The doors to the hotel were already opened, though it was shockingly quiet upstairs. One would think that the genius would be mumbling things to himself while he worked, but today didn't seem to be that day. Neville actually thought that he'd already gone until they'd reached the top floor and found the dark-haired detective scouring through some dusty old books in one of the furthermost rooms. He didn't glance up when his two current companions entered, but inside tossed aside another book, which lamely hit the wall and fell onto an already-formed pile on the floor. It seemed that this had gone on for a while.

"What is he doing?" Neville cast a sideways glance at the army doctor that happened to be a good deal shorter than him – In fact, the young man fell directly in between Sherlock and John's heights. It was sort of convenient, actually.

"I'm not sure," John answered honestly, "But it probably has to do with some part of the case that no one else would ever have thought of. He has to look clever, of course." There was a bit of sarcasm hinted in his voice, and it actually drew Sherlock's attention, though he never looked up.

"Oh, John, you're always so insightful," He mused, shutting the apparent last book and tossing it aside absently. "I was actually just having a nice little read."

"Really?" Neville asked.

"No. Don't be an idiot."

The boy shut his mouth again and Sherlock went on.

"Anyway, I was searching through the books for any sort of indication on what type of person Lindsay Miller was. As you probably know, cheap, three-star hotels like this one don't just stock their shelves with books. These belonged to her."

"Lindsay Miller?" John echoed, and Sherlock sent him a look.

"Oh, John, with how clever you are I would've thought you'd catch on by now." His voice was as sarcasm-laden as ever. "_Lindsay Miller is our first victim."_

"Oh. So what do you know so far?"

"Well, for one: Psychology books." The detective pointed a long, firm finger towards the unruly pile on the floor, drawing both of the others' attention towards it. "Miss Miller had some personal problems. I say 'Miss' because she obviously wasn't married. No ring in the photo, no indication of any sort of partner anywhere. And why do I say she had personal problems instead of being a teacher? Why would a professor of psychology (which she would have to be at _her_ age) be in a London hotel if she was from Wales—" He held up a train ticket with its departure destination being just that, "—on a long-term trip and school is still in session there?" He slapped the small slip back onto the room's table where he'd previously taken it from and glanced back at the two who seemed so impressed with him. "Thirty-seven, unmarried, schizophrenic, lonely, here with intentions to find a profession. Any questions?"

"Fantastic…" John murmured.

"I thought I told you to stop that."

"Fine, fine, sorry."

Neville shut his mouth, hoping that it hadn't been gaping at this man the whole time. Sherlock was absolutely brilliant, and he didn't blame John for vocalizing it. It was true. He never could've learned so much from so little. Maybe that was why he was just a herbology professor-in-training and Sherlock was the greatest detective to ever live.

Yeah, that made sense.

"But that's the first victim," Sherlock continued in his deeper voice. "I still have another case to investigate, and the photo wasn't taken here. In fact, the place that it was taken has absolutely no relation to this one. As for the victim, I'm about to find out."

"Where are we off to next, then?" John Watson asked his colleague, putting his hands into his pockets and teetering on the soles of his brown dress shoes. He had his lips pursed in an almost-smile. It seemed that he didn't mind coming along for something like this. And normally, Neville wouldn't either. But something was eating away at him today that made him hesitant to tag along…

"A little place in Cardiff Center," Sherlock answered, slipping the coat that he'd ever-so-casually hung on a hook since arriving here all those hours ago. "I already have a cab on the way. Let's go." He reached for the doorknob, but he was turned around as he heard a timid voice from behind him. When he looked back he could see Neville raising his hand a bit sheepishly, as if asking for permission to speak. The detective frowned quite noticeably; he knew where this was going.

"Uh… How long would it all take?" Neville asked, and Sherlock immediately felt that he had a lot of nerve. It wasn't like people could pick and choose with him and his cases – This was an all or nothing thing, and now he was ever-so-quickly re-losing his faith in this new boy. Such a pity, too. Did he not realize his full potential?

When Sherlock didn't answer immediately and instead narrowed his eyes at the young man, John stepped in. "The ride to Cardiff's just about under three hours," He informed. "But as for how long we'd be there, I haven't the slightest. We never know, really."

"Tell me you aren't," Sherlock said simply, practically cutting John off, and just as Neville opened his mouth to reply he cut him off too immediately. "Oh, you _are._ That's pathetic."

"Hey, it's not!" Neville defended himself and his choices, though he sounded a lot weaker and less self-confident in the face of Sherlock Holmes than he had to Mycroft. The brothers were so alike, but at the same time, between them was a world of difference. "She invited me, and I made a mental promise. And besides, I want to go!"

John looked between them, mostly in confusion. He had no recollection of a 'she' from any time or place. Maybe they actually were excluding him because he was considering that mustache? Why was he so paranoid about that mustache!? But either way, these two were acting completely irrational.

"Figures," Sherlock scoffed, smirking challengingly. Though, it gradually faded into a look of disgust as he went on. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist it. A nineteen-year-old boy who claims to have just had his heart broken will do anything to repair it, even if it means losing the trust of a potentially helpful friend. And to think, you _actually believed it!"_

Neville frowned, looking at him in a bit of shock and anger. "Wait, what? It was a test?" He had to straighten this all out in his mind for a moment. Immediately, he recognized his failure, but refused to accept it.

A lion was brave and courageous, but it was also bloody stubborn.

"Of course it was a test!" Sherlock retorted incredulously, as if the Longbottom boy was dumb. But then again, that was how he talked to everyone anyway, honestly. This time just seemed to pack more of a punch. "You may be a suddenly handsome young man, Neville, but that girl from yesterday is nothing more than a trap. The only reason she would ever contact you again would be to use you for something, and you fell for it. And to think I trusted you on a case such as this." He looked to John Watson and once again tried to take his leave. "Come _on, _John, we're going."

But for some reason, Neville was just too hurt to back down. Who could blame him? Being tricked and lied to about something one really believed in could be more hurtful than anything. "She did like me, though!" He said self-confidently, standing his ground. "Maybe not in the way that you're implying, but it was sincere. She talked to me before she knew I had anything to do with you, just so you know!"

"Is that so?" Sherlock taunted with a raised eyebrow, turning around again. "Fine then." He reached into John's coat pocket and took the man's cell phone out, tossing it to Neville (because, of course, he couldn't be bothered to lend his own). "If you're so confident that that's the truth, why don't you give her a call then? You're the one with her number after all, Romeo."

Neville tossed the phone back, patting his pocket. "I will. But I have my own phone, thank you very much."

He certainly had to be some kind of brave to stand up to someone like Sherlock Holmes, and though the curly-haired man secretly admired it, he couldn't help but be worried. It may have sounded self-centered, but anyone who went against him… was merely wrong.

"John, go and hold the cab," Sherlock advised, handing him his phone back. Dr. Watson did as he said, and the condescending thirty-something was left alone with the nineteen-year-old boy yet again. Only this time, the terms were much less friendly.

"I can see that we're not on the same page anymore," He said, stepping towards Neville and causing him to back up. Maybe he _had_ made a mistake… Sherlock's voice was lowered, and yet it made it all the more threatening. Again, the young man couldn't take his eyes off of him, though his breath caught in his throat. "But when you get back to Baker Street tonight, I want you to think extra hard about what you're doing. You know that what I say is the truth, no matter how much you don't want to believe it. That girl is nothing but trouble, and if you're too blind to see it, then it's your own downfall to accept."

The tall man broke away with his gaze and started back towards the door, but once he'd exited, he took one swift look back. "And she may have talked to you before she knew about me, Neville, but think about this: Before that, did she give you her phone number?" And with that, Holmes was gone.

Just like so many times already here in London, Neville was left to his own devices, as well as to think. He trusted Sherlock Holmes with his life for some reason. So then why had he completely defied him and broken his trust? Was it just the shaky reigns of adolescence getting to him again? Either way, he felt terrible. There's a universal truth about people that might be written somewhere, or might not. But it goes like this: When people felt down and alone in the world, in need of comfort, who did they seek?

He pulled the slightly crumpled business card out of his pocket, studying the number under Cassandra's full name.

They sought their friends.

Or those they thought to be, anyway.


End file.

Harry Potter, Sherlock, Friendship, Mystery