Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the new, totally awesome TV show, Sherlock- they need to hurry up with season 2, seriously!

Why, hello there! Welcome to my little corner of fanfiction. net

This is a crossover of Sherlock/Harry Potter. I would say that the universe is heavily based off of Dayja's "Harry Potter of Baker Street." It's filed under just Sherlock fan fiction, not the crossover file. YOU SHOULD READ IT! Go read it!

Anyway, both John and Sherlock are muggles in this. They are raising a young Harry Potter, so the time-frame (?) is shifted slightly.

* * *

Ever since moving in with the self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock, and ever since discovering this bizarre 'wizarding world' filled with _magic_- which was only about a year ago- John Watson had seen many strange and startling things.

But this- well, this almost topped the severed head in the fridge. _Almost._

It all started out perfectly normal (doesn't it always?). It had been left to John, _once again_, to buy the much needed milk.

John left Sherlock to look after Harry on his own. He'd long ago put aside doubts in doing this- Sherlock had been responsible enough with the young boy up until then, after all.

Let that be known as his first mistake.

The routine trip didn't take him any longer than usual. He fiddled with his keys for a moment before he stepped into the flat and by doing so, abruptly received one of the biggest shocks in his life.

Papers and books were scattered across various surfaces and the floor, as though someone had gone through them frantically. What looked to be one of Sherlock's experiments sat on the already cluttered kitchen table; new, yet seemingly disposed and forgotten.

Sherlock's skull had found it's way back to the mantelpiece, where it sat, its empty eye sockets staring ominously into nothing. He'd have to talk to Sherlock again about having it there- same went for the experiment.

Five-year-old Harry sat on the couch. He still had a very small frame for his age- John hoped he would reach a more normal height soon- so his feet couldn't quite touch the ground.

None of this was unusual, but the snake sitting contentedly on Harry's lap as he quietly patted it like it was some kind of cat was.

John froze and spluttered for a moment. Finally, he managed to blurt out what was a panicked kind of question, asking Harry just what the hell a snake was doing in the flat (but hopefully with not such a choice of language).

Brilliant green eyes turned up to look at John. He seemed confused by his guardian's perturbation.

"Sherlock said I could," the young boy answered simply, still stroking the snake. At first glance, it didn't look to be a poisonous snake. In fact, it was fairly unremarkable in appearance- quite like the kind people often kept as pets.

But anyway, where _was_ Sherlock? He was _supposed_ to be watching Harry. _Supposed _to be making sure that nothing happened to the boy that ended up in their care. John was pretty sure that included keeping potentially harmful snakes away from him.

"Where is he?" John asked.

"Sherlock? I think he went down to 221c to-"

Taken abruptly by a surge of anger and frustration, John didn't give Harry a chance to finish whatever he was about to say. Instead, he yelled, "SHERLOCK!" and stomped out of the room to confront and pulverize the man in question.

Quite stupidly, as it was, he left with the snake still on Harry's lap. That was his second mistake.

As he marched, John's angry surge started abruptly losing its fuel. Who was he kidding, he could never pulverize that stupid, idiotic high-functioning sociopath. A man could dream, though, couldn't he? No, he couldn't even seriously think about hurting Sherlock in virtually any way.

Thanks to Mycroft sticking his nose into what shouldn't have been his business (John was starting to see why Sherlock was always so peeved with him), John was legally partnered with Sherlock- that's right, folks, they were married. Something to do with since Sherlock was blood-related to Harry, they offered each other some sort of magical protection… or something. And, for John to be included in the blood-whatever-it-was, he had to be married with Sherlock. On top of all that, with absolutely no prior consent or even _warning,_ they were thrown into the guardianship of Harry Potter, apparently famous in this wizarding world they'd only recently learned about.

So, there they were, probably the oddest family in Europe. They were all still alive and doing fairly well, though, so that counted for something, didn't it?

It was hard for John to admit, but he thought he felt his affections for Sherlock blossoming out into something more than friendship. Maybe. That might've, of course, just been the enigmatic bond that forms between two people raising a child together. Was it non-platonic? Whoever knew the answer to that one, John would've loved to schedule a nice, long chat with.

John gave himself a little shake. He was supposed to be storming down to tell off Sherlock for being an irresponsible, insufferable moron. Now was _not _the time for him to be musing over his feelings for the man like a love-smitten teenager. _Come on, John, _and he weakly fanned his flames of anger back into a pitiful spark.

_That'll have to do, _he thought, approaching the door to 221c rather quicker than he had expected. Sherlock, for whatever reason, never locked the door to the basement when he was actually in it, and rarely even when he was not. John had a feeling that sometimes Harry took advantage of that fact and would sneak into 221c, and that worried him. The young boy often showed great interest in the experiments Sherlock set up, and although it helped connect the two, John knew it would one day get Harry into trouble.

John didn't wait or hesitate, but grabbed the door handle and swung it open forcibly and suddenly. He was pleased to see that he had made the normally still and composed Sherlock jump violently in surprise. But, although startled, the consulting detective never looked up from… whatever he was doing.

The ex-soldier tore his eyes away from Sherlock to survey the room. 221c was where Sherlock was supposed to perform and store all of his experiments, a rule John had placed into effect with the arrival of Harry and why he would have to talk to the man about the experiment left on the kitchen table.

In the last year, the entire flat had been converted into a kind of make-shift lab in which Sherlock spent much of his spare time. There were shelves filled with mostly unlabelled vials of violently colored, as John could only guess, chemicals and mason jars holding items ranging from blood to human body parts. The counters housed the typical lab equipment like vials, microscopes, Petri dishes and Bunsen burners- now, why did John get the feeling Sherlock nicked most of those things?- and the fairly less typical equipment such as the riding crop, an electric mixer, a broken-down microwave, and a sword that Sherlock refused to disclose the origins of when John asked several years ago.

In the very middle of the room was a large table that was normally littered with trays of experiments and heavily scribbled-in notebooks. Instead of that, though, the normal items were shoved haphazardly away and piles upon piles of books dominated the table, and Sherlock seemed to be determined to go through each and every one of them.

"Oh, John- I thought I heard your loud octaves," the deep voice mumbled as a way of greeting, but never once did Sherlock tear his narrowed eyes filled with intent away from the text he was scanning through.

For a while, John was confused. He could only imagine the books were for research, as Sherlock was never one for pleasure-reading. But, when Sherlock needed to do research in the past, he always used the internet, which was much faster and more efficient for searches, except of course for…

Obviously having not found what he was looking for, Sherlock tossed aside the book he had been browsing through, and moved on to the next one. John caught the discarded book and looked at the cover- Magical Serpents: A Guide to Fantastic Snakes by Noctus Medusa was written at the top in large, intricate silver writing. John only barely registered that the picture of the striped, three-headed serpent (a runespoor*, as it was labelled) ripping its own different heads off, was moving- _it's one of those magical books, apparently_- before he was reminded of his purpose.

He meant to berate, but he felt much less angry then before, and so it came out quite weak and rather pathetic, "Sherlock, there's a snake in the flat," John said, but Sherlock seemed uninterested in the news and continued thumbing through pages.

"See, Harry told me that you let him have that snake in the flat," John continued, crossing his arms.

"Yes, I did," ice-blue eyes finally looked up and met John's, "Problem?"

John broke the direct eye-contact- funny how those icy blue eyes could make him feel like he was melting- and instead focused on the wall behind the taller man, "Normal people don't allow their children to bring _snakes _into their homes!"

For a small moment, Sherlock seemed to become pensive, but it didn't last and, apparently disregarding John's cause of concern, absorbed himself back into his original task.

John huffed an "impossible" under is breath and made to leave.

"I don't know why you're so rattled up about it," Sherlock said.

John spun back to his spouse (he felt odd at how natural that designation sounded).

"_What?_"

"You shouldn't be so rattled up about it," said Sherlock from behind a textbook, "the both of them got along just fine."

John was baffled, "Who got along just fine?"

"Harry and the snake, of c-AHA!" Sherlock exclaimed with a sudden triumphant force.

It was John's turn to startle- whether at the exclamation or Sherlock's last sentence, he wasn't sure.

Sherlock abandoned the other books laying on the table and, carrying the one in his hands, strode past John, wearing his trademark 'I'm a Genius' smirk. He offered John no explanation, but John was determined to get one. He darted up the stairs directly behind Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, managing to squeeze in an authoritative tone that might- or might not have- made Sherlock stop abruptly and spin back toward his flat mate, still wearing a maniacal smile. John narrowly missed colliding with him, which would have no doubt led to an embarrassing situation.

"He's a Parstlemouth," Sherlock said and looked at John expectantly. John knew that there was supposed to be some importance to that word and that Sherlock expected him to know it (hell, maybe he should), but he just couldn't understand what it was for the life of him, and he was left feeling much like a moron. Sherlock noticed the incomprehension on his best friend's face, and although he did deflate a little, he moved to the explanation in a blissful frenzy, "A _Parstlemouth, _John- look here," he opened his book up to a marked page and held it out for John to see and pointed briefly to one, short paragraph.

_Parstlemouths- speakers of Parstletongue (snake language)- are a rare occurrence in wizards and witches. The remarkable ability is believed to be inherited by bloodline, and is impossible to learn otherwise…_

John stopped reading. In the back of his brain, wheels were turning and perhaps a few points were clicking together, but consciously, John just didn't see what Sherlock was playing at, unless he was actually suggesting…

John pressed a hand to his face.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

John let his hand fall to his side, but that shadow of dread still hovered in the depths of his chest. _Wizards, spells, voo-doo_- maybe he just wasn't quite used to it, even then, but he always got the dreading feeling whenever it was brought up in their lives. His hesitance- he preferred to think of it as caution- to magic, however, didn't hinder in any way the caring he felt for Harry, who he obviously knew to be magical.

Although John's approach to magic had been like this, Sherlock's had been quite the opposite. It intrigued him, interested him. He wanted to know as much about it as he could. When Mycroft first told them about this whole other world that existed amidst their own, Sherlock bought piles of books and poured over them for days- thus the ones he had been using for research in the lab.

"So," John said slowly, each word tasting of 'stupid' on his tongue, "Harry was talking to that snake?"

Sherlock made to answer, but John, knowing what he was going to say, stopped him, "No, don't just tell me 'yes,'" said John, "I want to _exactly_ what happened."

Sherlock gave an impertinent snort and shuffled his feet impatiently. John just tilted his head and gave Sherlock that special, admonishing look. Rolling his eyes, the taller man delved into the story.

"You'd just left to get the milk, when I found out that conducting that experiment I was working on indoors wasn't exactly… a good idea, so I moved it outdoors," Sherlock explained, "Harry was quite interested in it and you had told me to watch him, so he came outside as well.

"Even outdoors, the experiment was a bit hazardous, and since I knew you wouldn't be very happy if you came back to see burns all over the boy, I had him sit a good distance away. He was a bit disappointed to be at a such a length away he couldn't properly see what I was doing, but he obliged without a word and occupied himself with other things.

"What he occupied himself with, I didn't pay any mind to, at first. When Harry started to make hissing noises, I did give it a bit more attention. He had obviously found a snake in the gutter- it looked like a harmless species- and started to play with it. So, I thought perhaps he was purposefully making nonsense hissing noises, amusing himself by imitating a snake- it seemed the thing a child would do. But, as I thought about it, I realized that couldn't be it. Harry seemed to be completely unaware of the sounds he was making. When the snake began hissing back, he jumped back, exclaiming to me that the snake was talking to him.

"From what Harry told me, as far as he knew, he had just been saying hello to the snake. He thought he had been speaking English, but I knew he had been hissing. He also told me that the snake said hello back, also in what he understood as English, but I only perceived as hissing.

"So, they were both speaking in some kind of snake language, although Harry was completely unaware of it? This was interesting to me, much more interesting than my experiment had any promise of being- it was ruined by then anyway. I wanted to be able to research this, but it would have to be from those books, as I had no doubt that it would be part of this whole _magic _business.

"I made to go inside. Harry asked me if he could bring the snake inside, too. I didn't see the harm in it, so I allowed him."

John stood, soaking in the information in silence. Sherlock watched him tentatively, waiting for his reaction.

"Harry can talk to snakes," John stated quietly. This time it wasn't a question, just a simple, blunt statement.

They both gave nods, each quietly accepting this new addition into their knowledge base.

Sherlock shrugged, trying to fight a small smile off his face, "A skill that could easily come in handy with my line of work."

"No," John said firmly, knowing that Sherlock was referring to his- their, really- detective business.

Sherlock pulled a pouting face, making him look like an overgrown child, "But-"

"_No_," John repeated.

They both started up the stairs again. It was another rule that John had made sure to be very, indisputably clear on- Harry was to NEVER be involved with any cases. Ever. More than once, Sherlock had tried to bring him along, either because he thought magic would have made things easier, or he wanted to use it as some sort of 'learning experience' for Harry. But each and every time John had been very firm with his position- for God's sake, the boy was only five!- and Harry had never since been to a crime scene.

Their little trip was made in complete silence. That silence hung until they reached the door back to 221b, where nothing could be heard. Not a sound...

Uh oh…

They weren't entirely sure that snake wasn't poisonous, were they? They'd _both _left Harry alone with it. That was the reason why John had gone to berate Sherlock, for Christ's sake!

There was a sudden surge of panic as John wrenched open the door. Even Sherlock seemed to show it, though just barely. But as their vision of the room opened up to them, they were lost in confusion.

At first, they only saw Harry, who sat frozen and pale on the couch, tense. John and Sherlock walked in to get a better view of the five year old. His face seemed petrified, stuck in an expression of shock and horror. They heard his breath hiss in and out of his slightly ajar mouth, and saw a slight sheet of sweat on his forehead.

What John noticed most were Harry's eyes- wide and fixed on something.

He cautiously stepped towards the boy, "Harry?"

Harry flinched, his eyes darting towards them, as though he only just noticed John and Sherlock.

John was very bothered at how small Harry looked, white and scared on that couch. He hadn't seen him like that since last year- the first time John had ever seen him- when Harry was fresh out of the horrific abuse the Dursleys had given to him.

He checked Harry over, but he saw no bite marks- or the snake, for that matter- so, what was the matter with him?

Harry's eyes wandered back to their previous position, and this time, John followed his gaze and found himself looking at the mantelpiece.

This only confused him more. He now knew where the snake had gone, though. Apparently it had become quite interested in that skull, as part of it was nestled inside of it, it's head slithering out through the mouth.

This was obviously what Harry was fixed on, but why did it bother him so much?

Sherlock had apparently noticed the mantelpiece, too, and with a shout of, "No, not my skull!" set into furiously untangling the snake out.

Finally having separated the serpent from his precious skull, he stood holding the offender an arm's length away from him.

"You know what John?" Sherlock said, heading towards the front door, "You were right- snakes are most certainly not suitable inside of the flat."

What ever Sherlock did with that snake, they never found out- they never saw that particular one again. But whether or not the consulting detective was breaking any animal abuse laws was far from John's mind as he tried to comfort the scared little boy on the couch, still completely lost as to why he had been so terrified at what he'd seen.

And if he was to be quite honest, Harry was, too.

* * *

*information on runespoors can be found in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Yes, the snake and the skull formed what looked a lot like the dark mark, bringing back some pretty bad barely-memories for poor Harry. This is an in-progress fic, I will hopefully be uploading more, though not for several weeks (projects suck XP)

By the way, should I make it slash? Just want to know your guys' opinions…


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still don't own Harry Potter or BBC Sherlock, and I'm still not making any money from this- just the entertainment of me and you.

* * *

"Just eat it!"

"No!"

John rubbed his forehead, huffing a small sigh of frustration.

"Eating is _boring_!" Sherlock stated- and sort of whined- as if it was the most valid, indisputable argument in the world.

John just stared at him, slightly open-mouthed. It was like dealing with a misbehaved child- admittedly, Harry was often considerably easier to take care of than the consulting detective he lived with. Sherlock, meanwhile, glared stubbornly at the plate of breakfast in front of him.

It was late in the morning. Gold sunlight streamed through the panes of the window, highlighting the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on some seldom-used surfaces. The odd family sat at the kitchen table, which had been cleared of most of it's clutter to make room for an actual, non-take-out breakfast, for once. Sherlock was clearly not pleased.

John cast a quick, wary glance towards Harry, who, too, was staring into his own plate- though it seemed to be in a more nauseated way than childish stubbornness- before turning back to Sherlock.

"Look," John hissed, trying to keep the argument out of Harry's hearing range, despite the fact that they were all sitting at the same table, "children are _impressionable_. If you just decide you're never going to eat, than what'll happen is-"

"Actually, I'm not very hungry, myself," Harry mumbled, pushing the untouched plate of food away from him.

John glowered at Sherlock, who actually seemed to shrink slightly under the intense, admonishing gaze.

"I'm feeling a bit ill," Harry murmured, so quietly, he almost wasn't heard.

John abandoned glaring at Sherlock and turned concerned eyes to Harry. He pressed a hand to the five-year-old's forehead to feel his temperature and looked him over with a carefully trained medical eye.

"You _do_ feel a bit feverish," John said finally.

Ever since that incident with the snake, Harry looked horrible. He had the shadow of that horrified countenance always plastered on his face- he was always pale, always agitated, always quiet, and looked as though he hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in days.

"Go get into bed, I'll bring you some chicken soup," John told Harry, removing his uneaten plate from the table.

The little boy gave a short, scared look. As of late he'd also been extremely clingy to his two guardians, hardly being able to stand them being in a different room than him. It was as though Harry was afraid that, if he'd ever let John or Sherlock out of his sight, he'd never see them again.

John gently ushered Harry out of the kitchen. "I'll be there in a minute," he reassured, and made sure Harry went to his room.

Turning back into the kitchen, John was met by Sherlock's snide smirk.

"What?"

Sherlock's half-smile widened, "To think, you were worried we would never be able to take care of him."

John ignored him and began rummaging around in the cupboards. Normally, he would have asked Mrs. Hudson- who adored the little boy and would've gladly made a large bowl of homemade soup- but she was off visiting a relative, so, John would have to make canned soup.

Sherlock sat at the table, watching John with an amused expression playing on his face.

"Stop it," John sighed irritably, heading out of the kitchen with the heated soup in hand.

"Suit yourself, mother hen," he heard Sherlock call, snickering as he did.

John mumbled to himself, "Not that you would ever take care of him."

* * *

_"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

_"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."_

_He looked up, trying to see past the bars of the crib. He could vaguely see a dark figure- it must've been where the cold, horrible voice was coming from, but he couldn't see his face. He couldn't see well past the woman with the red hair sprawling out protectively in front of him. The terror and desperation he heard in her voice, though, made him very much afraid._

_"This is my last warning-"_

_"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please- I'll do anything-"_

_"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"_

_He stood up in his crib, clutching at the bars. Why was the red-haired woman shaking and crying like that? Who was this cloaked intruder with the horrible voice?_

_A shocking green light flooded the room, putting him in awe for a moment, until he saw the woman drop like a limp rag doll. What was wrong with her? Why did she fall? Why wasn't she moving?_

_He turned his eyes up to this cloaked man, curious. But when he saw the hood, and the face it framed- the snake nostrils, the chalk-white skin, the horrid, glowing blood-red eyes- he felt his face twist as he let out a high-pitched scream and began to cry. Somehow, in some way, he understood who this monster was and what he had done._

_A wretched, wicked smile flashed onto the monster's face as he raised his arm. The sleeve of his robes slid down the lifted arm, revealing a blackened mark burnt into his skin. Like a tattoo, although somehow much worse, was an image of a skull and a snake slithering around and out of the skull's mouth. For a moment he was transfixed on the symbol- why did it seem so familiar?_

_"Avada Kedavra!" the cloaked intruder cried._

_A searing, horrible pain ripped through his forehead. His head was being torn apart, splitting at the seams*! He screamed, but he could barely hear it through the pain- it was ripping him, tearing him!_

_And then… he heard that monster scream, too._

_But it soon was gone, and he was left alone in the burning house, the pain still pulsing through his small, aching body. He was kept company only by the two other people, now lifeless corpses, there- a man and the red-haired woman, whoever they were. He felt as though he should know them…_

He awoke with a start. He did not sit straight up, but he had woken up with such a sudden force, it was like being slapped in the face.

Harry lay in his bed, clutching his blankets like a lifeline, feeling a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead.

As his eyes became adjusted to the dark room, and he was able to make out the vague shapes of objects in his room, he distracted himself. He focused on everything that wasn't that one dream- his racing heart, the strip of light streaming under his door, the sound of Sherlock plucking lazily at the strings of his violin, the barely-touched bowl of cold soup still sitting on his nightstand…

Even with his distractions, Harry just couldn't stop himself from thinking about that nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew that it was his father and mother, and that monster killed them with some kind of green light.

It all confused him, though. Every night since that snake incident, he kept having that dream- always the exact same one, never different. It was so clear, much clearer than any other dream Harry ever had. Why, if he didn't know any better, he'd say it was a memory, but…

Sherlock and John had always told him that his parents had been murdered, but they'd never really fully delved into the story. Was this how they died? What _was_ that symbol? Who was that man with the snake face and sinister red eyes?

Why did it scare him like it did?

Harry buried his face in his pillow, willing his eyes to stay dry. He'd learned at a young age, while he was at the Dursley's, that tears would only make things much worse.

He didn't cry, but by morning, he sure _felt_ a lot worse.

* * *

"What do you think's the matter with him?" John asked, sitting in a comfortable position in his armchair.

"Who? Harry?" Sherlock said off-handedly, still tunelessly plucking at his precious violin's strings, "He's clearly traumatized."

"Traumatized?" John sat straight up, "By what?"

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck with his violin bow and answered absentmindedly, "He probably connected the image of that snake and my skull intertwined with the Dark Mark."

Once again, John was left in not-understanding, "Dark Mark?" he repeated stupidly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "My God, for my sanity's sake, read those books on magic!"

"Your sanity has already passed the point of hopelessness!" John retorted.

They shot glares at each other until the tense silence was finally broken by John asking again, "What is a Dark Mark?" in a much more stern voice.

At first, it seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to respond, but he finally said, "Voldemort's mark. He used it for branding his minions and marking a place where he or his followers committed a murder."

"Voldemort was the one who-"

"He killed Harry's parents, yes," interrupted Sherlock.

Sherlock and John both knew the full story- or about as much going into the blood-protection- about that famous incident, as explained to them by Mycroft. Decidedly- more on John's part than anyone else- they didn't tell it to Harry. They'd decided to keep it limited to telling him, simply, that his parents had been murdered- without going into any sort of details- until he reached a better age, because it was exactly what a responsible guardian should do. Or, that's what John kept telling himself, anyway.

"You say it like you're announcing the weather," John reproached.

"That's because I am stating a simple fact," Sherlock growled, "But I suppose you expect me to go maudlin and teary-eyed every time-"

"I expect you to have a little sensitivity!" John responded sharply, "This is the reason Harry is an _orphan_ and in-" he stopped suddenly, horrible realization sparking in his eyes, "It just doesn't matter to you, does it? It doesn't even matter to you if the victim of a murder is an orphaned and formerly-abused little boy that is now in your care. You're probably just disappointed that it wasn't a more interesting or mysterious crime."

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to deny it, he just… sat there, looking at John with a hauntingly blank expression.

Then, he just went back to plucking at his violin, as though there was never the interruption. But the blankness remained on his face like a mask, not letting John see what Sherlock was really feeling- if he was feeling anything at all.

John turned away from his sociopathic colleague, and looked on to Harry's room, where inside- unbeknownst to him- the young boy was still fighting down tears.

* * *

*an imaginary cookie to anyone who can identify what song that references. Hint, the full line is "Now my head's splitting at the seams"

I'm sorry about this chapter. It's a lot shorter than the first one, and probably filled with more errors and just generally not as good, because I didn't have as much time to work on it. I **_might_** rewrite it, just to make improvements, later.

Constructive criticism is welcome. Also, kindly point out any grammar, spelling, or punctuation errors, thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Hey, hey, guess what? I _still _don't own BBC Sherlock _**or **_Harry Potter. Also, not making money from this, and never intend to!

In the last chapter, the song mentioned is Welcome Home by Radical Face. THANK YOU to Jason Layton and Guise'n'Disguise for naming it! *gives invisible cookie*

As for the rest of you, it doesn't really have anything to do with this story, but you should listen to it- it's an awesome song, and still remains my personal favorite.

I really am very sorry for the super slow updating- _a whole month!-_ I partially blame exams and projects (oh god, the _projects_ T_T)

Important Note: I really hate doing this in the middle of the story, but I'm changing Harry's age. In the story, he will be five (almost six), meaning he'll have lived with Sherlock and John for only about a year. I've already gone back and accordingly made tweaks in previous chapters.

Beware: Lots of point of view switching ahead!

* * *

The next few days were miserable for everyone in 221B. John and Sherlock's last argument left an electric tension between them that was painfully blatant, particularly obvious when they were both in the same room.

Harry's nightmares continued, and everyday he looked worse than the last. The horribly dark circles under his eyes made his dull green eyes look very sunken in. His refusal to eat was really taking it's toll, too. Even with his already-small frame, he was losing weight, leaving him looking skeletal and zombie-like.

He looked like a tormented ghost, in John's mind: a far too young tormented ghost.

John was trying his best to keep Harry's health up. At meals, he would practically force-feed the young boy, making his best effort to get Harry to eat at least enough to maintain his body functions. Sometimes, he even managed to coax the clearly sleep-deprived boy into taking naps throughout the day.

But the root of the problem stubbornly persisted. Whenever John tried to get Harry to talk about it, the young boy wouldn't open up to him and the conversation would always just hang in an awkward silence until John would finally give up and retreat.

And then there was Sherlock.

Sherlock was not happy- quite the opposite, in fact. And it was just a general fact of life in 221B Baker Street that when Sherlock was unhappy, everyone else was, too. He hadn't had a case in weeks and the lack of mental stimulation was- in his mind- slowly rotting his brain. He had been brooding a lot lately, too, but of what John didn't know- but, then again, he _was_ busy focusing on other things.

Trying to maintain Sherlock's health had become another of John's main objectives. Sherlock had always had the bad habit of refusing food and sleep, and John had always done what he could to change that, but lately that had taken an even higher priority. John was still bitter at him, but he hoped that if Sherlock exercised good habits, Harry would follow the example…

…if only Sherlock would stop acting like an… an _idiot!_

* * *

It was on particularly damp, dreary evening- where the weather itself foretold misfortune- that _'the idiot' _lay on the sofa, lying in his usual position, thinking.

He had been thinking a lot lately, his mind always coming back to the same basic thing- that argument with John. Sometimes he thought about his own annoyance at how John was still upset with him over something like this. For God's sake, John _knew _Sherlock was a sociopath. He _knew _that the cold disposition was just the way Sherlock was. Why couldn't he just accept that? _Why _was he so determined to prove Sherlock was not heartless?

After all, several times just on the day they met, John was warned to stay away from Sherlock. He'd _seen, _many times, that Sherlock did not, in fact, _care._ Sherlock had made it a point _to get it into John's head _that the only thing that mattered to him was the _work_!

Yet, somehow- for some reason that Sherlock could not understand- John still stayed with Sherlock; remained his flat-mate, colleague, and friend. Despite John's adherent distaste for his experiments (alright, so the head in the fridge _may _have been a bit of a stretch) and all the rows they had (ranging across the board from petty to dead-serious), John was still there, and John _still _put up with him. It had been some years living with him, and Sherlock still just didn't understand _why_.

Yes, Sherlock admitted to having an attachment to John, but he generally thought of it as the kind of attachment that a normal, mediocre person might have to their computer. It was new and somewhat strange at first, but after some weeks and a fair amount of use, it became something they were used to having, found to be useful, and were fairly comfortable with- even if it did have some pesky glitches and abnormalities.

And yes, to some extent, Sherlock enjoyed John's company. In general, he didn't like people, and people didn't so much like him. They might fear him, feel threatened by him, be indebted to him, or allied to him, but they didn't _like him_, they weren't his _friend_. John was his friend. He was one of the very few people that, when looking at Sherlock, it wasn't as though he was some strange _thing_, some oddball _freak_- it was with affection, a true, genuine, _affection. _Sometimes it was with a mixture of admiration (Sherlock wouldn't deny that he enjoyed John's praises of his genius, a nice boost to his ego), sometimes it was with exasperation at something 'not good' that Sherlock did. But all the while- almost every time John gave him that look- there was that underlying… something. _Something. _That something that, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he strained his mind with it, Sherlock just could not identify. But he knew it was something different, maybe something _new- _something _interesting. _Something… he found to be… nice…

But it was missing. That wonderful, new, unidentifiable, unexplainable, interesting _something_ had been missing from John's gaze ever since that argument. The something was missing, and, admittedly, Sherlock _missed_ it.

And then there was Harry. That's somewhat what the argument was about, anyway- Harry. That orphaned and abused five-year-old who had lived with them for a year.

His attachment to Harry was different than his attachment to John, somehow. Harry's behavior was certainly different towards Sherlock, too. When Harry looked at Sherlock, it was with amazement and… _awe._ It wasn't like John's admiring gaze. When Harry looked at Sherlock, it was as though he was the most incredible thing Harry had ever seen. Harry viewed him with some sort of childish reverence. Sherlock was Harry's… role model. The young boy followed him around, to the point Sherlock swore he was a shadow (that talked), holding onto his every word, paying close attention to every deduction he saw Sherlock make, and watching with careful intent everything Sherlock did. And John was right- _for once_- Harry _was_ imitating him. It was in very small ways- like clasping his hands together in the same way while thinking- but something about it just _bothered_ him. The idea of someone trying to be like him just bothered Sherlock. His memory of his childhood was hazy, but if it turned out an adult like him…

Sherlock was a genius, yes, he prided himself in being, in many ways, superior to his peers, yes, but he was also an outcast- he'd been shunned all his life. He'd been… alone… all his life. He was a man with few friends- very few friends. A man who could get along with very few people (he couldn't even get along with his older brother!). And then, there was that feeling- that _feeling_ that had so often been there- that he just didn't belong, like there was something very wrong with where he was. But all that was just who he was, he'd long ago accepted that (even though John still hadn't), but he wouldn't wish it upon anyone else. He would not want anyone else to have to live the life he had, that he was still living- with the school years that were Hell on Earth, his always-working, never-ceasing mind that needed to be kept busy lest he go insane, or his ever-present struggle with his past drug use.

But that was to anyone in general, not just to Harry. Harry who's parents were murdered, Harry who'd been abused by his relatives, Harry who now lived with them. But Sherlock didn't care about him, he didn't care about whatever the boy had once gone through or whatever emotional issues he was currently having. He shouldn't have to involve himself with whatever problem might come the boy's way. He wasn't his parent after all. He wasn't, was he?

…was he?…

* * *

It was all the same. The same symbol, the same horrid scene, the same tragic events, the same _loss._

But, at the same time, it was entirely different. He wasn't seeing it from _his_ point of view this time. Harry wasn't seeing it from the young, crying, newly orphaned toddler boy as he'd always had before…

…he was seeing it from the _killer's _point of view. In that particular nightmare, Harry _was_ that snake-monster sinisterly hidden under the cloak and hood. He was _seeing _with those vile, inhuman eyes- eyes shining with murder and blood.

And he saw _them_, now with a horrible, full view. He saw his father lying pale, motionless, and his glasses falling askew from his wide, unseeing eyes. He saw his mother, limp from her previous protective stance, with the shining tears still stained on her cheeks from when she pleaded for her son's life.

He killed them. He killed them both. In the nightmare, he saw himself as the murderer, he saw himself killing his parents with the green light. But, _Harry __**did **_kill them. They died trying to protect him, _he_ was to blame for their deaths! If it wasn't for him…. if only… if only…

It was _his _fault. It was all his own fault.

Harry awoke, but it wasn't with a sudden start. He awoke gradually, with the slow dawning of realization.

It was _his _fault. It was all his own fault.

He lay there for a long time. Feeling strangely empty inside- an emptiness that had absolutely nothing to do with hunger. And he felt… horribly _alone_ in the darkness.

* * *

The evening turned to night. Midnight ticked by. Then one o'clock, then two o'clock, three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock, and then six o'clock.

It was at 6:10, just when the black of night was beginning to lighten into dawn, that Sherlock realized he wasn't alone.

A small creak of the tell-tale floorboard told him all, but he still raised his head off the sofa, his body protesting against the sudden change from the motionless position it had held for hours previous. There, in the hall, stood Harry in his pajamas, hair tousled, and feet bare, no doubt fresh out of bed. However, going by the frankly alarming darkness of the circles beneath his eyes, his night had been just as sleepless as Sherlock's.

Harry, having noticed movement of the man on the sofa, turned to look at Sherlock as well, and for a while, man and boy just stared at each other- intense blue eyes boring into dull green ones.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Couldn't sleep, Harry?" Sherlock said. It felt stupid for him to say, the answer being so blatant even Anderson would have been able to see it. Nevertheless, it seemed an oddly appropriate way to break the silence. Although Sherlock had never deemed social etiquette as relevant, he'd decided he could delve into the subject slightly if only to appease John, so they could go back to normal- _their_ normal, anyway.

Harry looked as though he was about to say something: say exactly what had been bothering him out of sleep that night- no, every night since that damn snake and skull incident… but he kept silent.

In fact, he didn't say a word as he tentatively stepped toward the sofa where Sherlock lay. Nor did he say a word when he managed to fit onto a small space on the sofa next to his guardian. And the both of them were quite silent when Harry buried his face into Sherlock's sleeve, small fingers clutching onto the material of the man's shirt as though he was afraid Sherlock might just vanish at a moment's notice, never to come back.

Was… was Harry cuddling with him? Parents _did _cuddle with their children- _NO! _Sherlock was _not_ Harry's parent! He wasn't… he just…

He felt Harry's shoulders shudder, and then again- but it was a stiff motion, as though Harry was trying to suppress it. The young boy was breathing unevenly, too, and- _Great. Just great. _Now Harry was crying on Sherlock's shoulder- well, _trying not to cry_, but…

Sherlock was surprised by a sudden, unpleasant constriction in his chest. He wasn't _actually_ having an emotional response to Harry's outburst, was he? God, how his world- his self!- was turned upside down! All after John had invaded his life and now this… this…

Sherlock looked at Harry. The five year old was not sobbing, suppressed sobs or otherwise, but there were tears on his face, soaking into Sherlock's sleeve, where he could feel a slight dampness.

…this broken, little boy he had to take care of, who was snuggling up against him for some kind of emotional comfort. For a brief moment, he looked at Harry… and saw himself.

The only person Sherlock had ever been close to like this was his mother. And now that he thought of it, it had been for a similar reason to. He, too, had been emotionally distraught- for what reason, he couldn't remember, but it wasn't important, and probably just as well he couldn't recall it- and had felt alone. So he had nestled into his mother's arms, because it made him feel comforted and… cared for.

Sherlock had been assigned to take care of Harry- he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't asked for it, but there he was.

He remembered the way his mother held him, and shifted his arm to envelop the five year old similarly. In turn, Harry's death grip on Sherlock's shirt lessened slightly, as though Harry was surprised at the parental gesture, but the young boy soon nestled into the comforting embrace. His face was still wet, but no more tears were falling- that was good. Sherlock used his other hand to dry Harry's face, more to discourage further crying than anything else.

Sherlock didn't say anything, and neither did Harry. So, once again, a silence fell in the room. It wasn't a tense, unsettled, or awkward like any of the recent 'silence moments' in 221B, but a contented silence that lasted as the sun slowly rose into appearance, bathing the room a rosy gold and casting long shadows that would shorten slightly with each passing hour.

Harry didn't fall asleep the entire time. But his eyelids were drooped and his eyes were unfocused and distant, showing him to either be deep in thought or very tired. This caught Sherlock's attention, and he observed more closely. Yes, the young boy kept in the same constant pattern- whenever his eyelids drooped too far, enough to close his dulled, worn eyes, he would abruptly force open his eyes and blink rapidly in an attempt to keep them open. He was deliberately not falling sleeping and forcing himself to stay awake whenever he got dangerously close to drifting off.

Why was he doing this? He was no doubt tired, exhausted even, the evidence was frighteningly obvious. The bags under his eyes were dark enough to make him look like he had two black eyes, and had been so for days. Even _he _didn't get this bad, Sherlock thought, or at least not very often. Sure, it wasn't an uncommon thing for Sherlock to deprive himself of food and sleep, but that was when he was wonderfully immersed with work or preoccupied with a particularly absorbing thought process- like that night, for example. But what could be causing Harry to deprive himself of sleep? It couldn't just be a matter of mimicking, or at least Sherlock hoped the five year old wouldn't push it that far just for the sake of imitation. And why _had_ Harry been up and about in the dead of night, up from an obviously sleepless night and emotionally distraught enough to run to the first person he saw- who happened to be Sherlock, of all people.

And then an idea came to Sherlock. What if-

The train of thought came to an abrupt halt as the familiar ring tone of Sherlock's mobile burst into tune. Sherlock could feel Harry give a startled jump at the sudden interruption of silence. Sherlock unwrapped his arm from around the five year old and lifted himself off of the sofa, making an effort not to disturb Harry too much- but even the little boy was looking up in interest, obviously wanting to find out what was going on as much as Sherlock.

Excitement began to ebb at Sherlock as he went to check the mobile that was sitting on the cluttered kitchen table. The only person that would call him right now was Lestrade, and Lestrade calling meant an interesting case. _Finally._ Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could have taken the mind-numbing boredom sided with emotional turmoil. If it was a case, it would be a most welcome break from it all.

A wide, crazed, and probably creepy-looking smile spread across Sherlock's face. Sure enough, it was a text message from Lestrade detailing the case that had police out of their depths. And it was _interesting!_

His heart began to pound as adrenaline coursed through his body. _Finally_, this long awaited work- this beautiful puzzle that kept his hyperactive mind so wonderfully busy and productive. Finally, this _feeling_- this anticipation of the excitement, the mystery, _the game._ The game was on again! Oh, how he had missed all of this!

But by the looks of it, he would need his doctor. Would John be against coming, would he still be upset at Sherlock? _Oh nonsense_! How could John pass up something so wonderful as this? _A new case_! Sherlock doubted his slightly adrenaline-junkie of a flat mate (and spouse) could refuse this opportunity. In fact, given the stress and tension and just painful _slowness_ of the week, Sherlock bet the good doctor would welcome it!

With that, he practically skipped up to John's room to wake up the sleepyhead. No time for sleep when there was finally something fun going on! That thought stirred something in the back of Sherlock's head, like he had forgotten something… _someone?_- no no no, who had time for vague feelings when there was a doctor to wake up and drag halfway across London to A NEW CASE! (_A case!)_

Sherlock flung open the door of John's bedroom. Well, it was sort of their shared bedroom (they had to set aside a bedroom for Harry upon the boy's arrival), though the only aspect of it that was shared was the storage space, since that was really the only function a bedroom of Sherlock served- when he actually slept, it was generally on the sofa. The wood door swung and hit the adjacent wall with a loud _thump_. Hearing the loud, sudden noise, John's eyes flew open and he sat straight up with such speed it was nearly comical. Then again, with Sherlock so high on pure excitement, he felt as though he could laugh himself silly and just about anything. John, on the other hand, was nowhere-near laughing. Instead, he was still understandably confused, startled, and quite panicked.

"What Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, assuming the worst.

"A case, John! Lestrade sent me a new case!" with that, Sherlock began to tear through John's clothing drawers, pulling out a few things.

John's tense posture relaxed, and with the revelation that there was, in fact, no fire, no one was dead (not counting the poor bloke whose death was about to become Sherlock's morbid source of amusement), or any kind of disaster he had been expecting, he was left irate and pretty well ticked off.

"Yes, that's nice," John's hissed, rubbing his eyes, "and while you're running around London with that, I'll just go back to-"

But he was cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock pulled away the blanket he had been pulling up over himself again. Sherlock then tossed a pile of clothes at him, one of his shirts hitting him right in the face.

"No, you're coming with me- I need your expert medical opinion," he strode to the door, but abruptly stopped and turned on his heel to face John, his euphoric countenance suddenly replaced with anxiousness and apprehension, "That is… if you aren't still upset- if you… want to…"

John sighed, "I- I _want _to go, yes," he answered earnestly. John couldn't deny that the one thing he really wanted right now was to be able to, at least for a little while, go back to his and Sherlock's normal selves. No arguments hanging between them, Sherlock showing off his brilliance, John's praises inflating his already-overblown ego, the amazing adrenaline high, and them afterward leaning against the wall of the hallway, joking and giggling like teenage girls as they gasped for air. "But-"

Sherlock didn't take any time to listen to the "but" and upon hearing John's admission of, yes, he did want to attend with him on the case, he clapped his hands together and with an exclamation of "Excellent!" all but skipped away.

John put the gathered clothes onto his lap. God help him with this insane man. He hated being upset at him, by all means, he didn't _want_ to be upset- but this was something he couldn't just brush off. So often he just brushed off issues with Sherlock's quirks and idiosyncrasies, but this was serious. Sherlock didn't really care about other's well-beings, he didn't care about the dead victim- the random stranger, in Sherlock's mind- that he was investigating about. That was just how the consulting detective was, John knew that- he could tolerate it, even and, as he thought about it, he could tolerate Sherlock not putting an emotional investment into the subjects of his investigation (he was right, it could be distracting, and distractions in their line of work could be fatal). The problem was that Harry was not just a random stranger- Harry was an emotionally scarred child put in their care. Children like him _needed_ emotional nurturing, they _needed _loving… guardians. And god forbid, John _knew_ he couldn't do it all on his own- not while he was trying to take care of Sherlock, too. _Why_ couldn't the man just grow up? He couldn't just go on viewing Harry like he was nothing more than just… _there._ People who grew up with that rarely ended up well, John knew that with some experience- specifically running around with Sherlock, chasing after young drug-dealers, many of them turning out to be from the worst parentage and backgrounds John had ever seen.

John sighed again, putting the pile of clothes aside, and raised himself off of the bed, bounding down the stairs after his flat mate.

"Not going to get dressed?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows upon seeing his pajama-clad doctor, "Wouldn't have thought you to be content with showing up in public still in your pajamas- but whatever suits your fancy."

"Sherlock-" he again to explain the problem, but once again he hadn't managed to get past the first word.

"_Come on_! Let's go, John! There are cases to be visited, murders to be investigated, puzzles to be solved!" Sherlock cried impatiently, much like a child eager to visit a sweet shop.

John _had_ just said he wanted to come along, so what was the problem? Sherlock's excitement wasn't letting him think properly, and his anticipation wasn't letting him care. Also, there was _still _that strange feeling that he was forgetting something- but since when had Sherlock ever paid much attention to his feelings?

"Sherlock, _wait_-"

He practically dragged John until, just at the threshold of the door, the other man stopped suddenly. Now slightly impatient, Sherlock spun around, and then it all hit him: the reason for John's reluctance to leave and that little thing that Sherlock was forgetting. Actually, that little _boy_.

…_oh_…

Harry clung to John's legs, which explained why the doctor had stopped walking so abruptly. His widened eyes were darting between Sherlock and John, looking quite scared. '_As of late he'd also been extremely clingy to his two guardians, hardly being able to stand them being in a different room than him. It was as though Harry was afraid that, if he'd ever let John or Sherlock out of his sight, he'd never see them again.'_

"Don't leave me," he whispered in a near-silent, almost pleading voice. The boy- his height coming up to John's knees- clutched onto John much like he had onto Sherlock much earlier that morning: _as though he was afraid he might just vanish at a moment's notice, never to come back_.

Well, _this_ was quite the dilemma…

* * *

Aaand, that's all- until chapter 4.

Wow, this ended up being incredibly long for little actually happening. I was trying out a new writing style- it involved a lot of rambling, but I like how it turned out for the most part.

Thank you to my wonderful sister for being this story's beta- your grammar skills far outreach mine.


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Harry Potter, Sherlock, Angst, Family