Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

_"You see but you do not observe, the distinction is clear."_

Sherlock Holmes  
>-A Scandal in Bohemia<p>

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><p>Harry woke slowly, which was odd, seeing as he was usually woken by his aunt who instantly pulled him out of the cupboard under the stairs and brought him to the kitchen to make breakfast. Harry's stomach grumbled softly at the thought of food and he scowled at it.<p>

Last night though, his uncle Vernon, a beefy, overweight man, had accused him of stealing his wallet, and had thrown Harry into the cupboard, shouting that his punishment was three days in the cupboard, no food, no water, no light and no fresh air.

Therefore, that meant Harry could sleep in.

He sat up slowly, aware that he'd hit his head quite harshly last night, and massaged the spot. Sharp pain shot through his head, making his eyes tear up and making him feel slightly dizzy. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting out, aware that his 'family', was, quite possibly eating their breakfast.

As the pain slowly ebbed away, he leaned forward, and quietly tried the door. He wasn't surprised that it was locked. Vernon had recently installed a new lock, after realising that Harry could pick them. With a frown, Harry leaned backwards into his 'bed' which really, wasn't more than a tattered yoga mat, a thin blanket, and a pillow stuffed with tea-towels.

There wasn't a sound coming from the entire house. It wasn't night, or early morning - Harry would have heard the snores (from Vernon, and his cousin Dudley) reverberating through the entire house. It wasn't anytime in the afternoon either, seeing as the sun set in the west, and the only window in the hallway in front of Harry's cupboard faced the east... and there was light shining into it under the door. Therefore it was probably sometime between nine to twelve - meaning that no one was home.

Vernon was working, Dudley was at daycare, and Petunia was either in the shops, or hanging out with her girlfriends. With a small smile of satisfaction, Harry pulled out two paperclips from his extra pair of socks (which he'd managed to steal from the washing machine) and started working on picking the lock. This one was more complicated - waaay more complicated... evidently Vernon had caught onto the fact that Harry could pick locks... and wanted to prevent it.

Harry personally though, thought of it as good practice.

After a few minutes of concentrated tinkering, there was a loud click, and Harry swiftly moved onto the next lock. As the last lock clicked open, the door swung open, letting a gush of fresh oxygen hit Harry's face.

He inhaled deeply, relishing it and knowing that, soon, he'd have to lock himself back in, so as not to get his punishment prolonged by Vernon. He clambered out of the cupboard with difficulty - at the young age of nine, he was starting to get a little too big for it. He'd always been tall - taller than Dudley anyhow... but now the cupboard was just too small for him.

With a small yawn, he stumbled his way to the kitchen which was almost clinically clean, and made himself a banana sandwich. Just as he was about to pour himself a cup of milk, the doorbell rang.

Once... then twice... then trice.

There were several different types of doorbell ringing - there was lazy ringing, or sometimes the simply bored ringing (usually a takeaway-delivery man)... sometimes even aggressive ringing. This was... somewhere between precise and impatient - someone who was used to doing this daily.

Harry paused, unsure whether or not to open the door. It definitively wasn't one of the neighbours... it just didn't sound like them. This sounded more like... _business_. Harry laid down his half eaten sandwich on a plate, and made his way back down the hallway.

The person rang once more - those three precise rings, and Harry frowned... was it worth the risk? Would the person then tell his aunt and uncle?

"Meh, I gotta live sometime." Harry finally muttered under his breath, and opened the door.

...

Sherlock had been running around _Privet Drive _for the past two hours, trying to find out any substantial information about the murder which had occurred a night ago, in front of the local pub.

The whole street seemed to be part of some local mafia community - none of them had seemed willing at all to volunteer information. Or... perhaps, it was his brash sort of behaviour which scared people away. Where was John when he needed him?

After he'd married Mary, John had almost stopped doing any cases with him at all. It was as if the safety of his wife was more important to him. Rolling his eyes at the sentiment all of the ducks around him seemed to be intent on displaying, Sherlock wandered down to _Privet Drive number 5. _

The curtains of the house were drawn, and the blinds in the upper floors were shut and if the lawn hadn't been so neatly cut, Sherlock would have thought that the house was abandoned. As he approached, he noticed one of the curtains closest to the door move a little, as if a person had just been peeking out.

His thoughts were confirmed when the door opened before he even had the chance to ring the doorbell.

The woman standing there was old. Her back was horribly hunched, contributing to her unappealing features, and making her look much smaller than she really was. Her face was worn, and her eyes a dull watery blue - yet somehow sharp. She had probably been stalking everyone and everything on that street for _several_ years. Emphasis on the _several._

"You're here about the murder, right?" She said in a hushed whisper as if afraid anyone was going to overhear her. Sherlock frowned at her odd behaviour but nodded.

"Are you with the police?" She asked frightfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out the ID he'd managed to pick pocket off Lestrade. The old hag squinted at the ID, and Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that the new badges didn't have photographs.

"Yes, my name is Detective Inspector George Lestrade."

The woman squinted at the at the ID again and looked up at Sherlock as if judging him, then she lowered her eyes again, staring at the small plastic card.

"Says here you're name is _Gregory _Lestrade." She said, sounding slightly suspicious as she leaned back and looked at him, head to toe as if wondering whether he could actually be a police officer. Sherlock glanced at the ID - she was right - before stuffing it into his coat. He'd always thought Lestrade's name had been Gavin... Apparently not.

Clearing his throat, he spoke, "Well, my friends call me George."

The woman regarded him a little less suspiciously, and smiled thinly, reminding Sherlock of a teacher. Then after a moment of silence between the two, in which neither party knew what to say, she finally clapped her hands together and gestured at something behind Sherlock - probably one of the houses.

"I'm not really the one to go to about gossip - I just spend my days playing bingo. You might want to ask Petunia Dursley - number four - she's the gossip queen around here." After another pause, she added, in a whisper, "She might be meeting with the little gossip club - but if she's not, then she's in the backyard using her long neck to peek into her neighbours's gardens."

Sherlock noted absently that the old hags facial expression had transformed into that of disgust and he wondered briefly whether this... 'Petunia Dursley' really was that bad.

"Nevertheless, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the neighbourhood?" Sherlock asked, feeling slightly impatient. Times like these were reminders why he had friends like John who would conduct interviews with people... He just couldn't stand them. At all.

The woman furtively glanced left and right in an exaggerated sort of way, as if expecting someone to be hiding in her immaculate garden. She then continued in the same whisper she had spoken in earlier, "Actually - the Dursley's nephew was doing the gardening in my garden a few days back," She said slowly, eyes wide as if expecting Sherlock to think this was an outstanding piece of information, "And a tall, old man - with an incredibly long white beard - dressed in... can you believe it - Robes! In Summer! Anyway, he stared at him - at Harry - the nephew for about ten minutes... and then he simply disappeared! Poof! And he was gone!" Her voice had become increasingly louder with each word she spoke and suddenly she was almost shouting into Sherlock's face - spittle flying everywhere.

Sherlock winced slightly and stepped back slightly.

"Very well, thank you... Mrs," He glanced at the doorbell which had her name printed out on top, "Jenkings... I ought to go and check on Mrs. Dursley. Goodbye." The woman smiled thinly at him again and slammed the door shut.

Ruffling his hair, Sherlock backed down the garden, crossed the street, walked up the immaculate garden of number 4, and knocked on the door.

...

The door swung open slowly and Harry slowly raised his eyes as he felt a shadow fall upon him. A tall man stood in front of him - well, his height was sort of average - but his long dark trench coat and upturned collar seemed to contribute to his height. Nevertheless, Harry had the feeling that this man's simply dominating and and slightly excessively lean body could tower over the tallest of men.

He had high sharp cheekbones and a very angular facial structure. His eyes were almond shaped and the light grey colour of his iris' made him seem colder than he was.

His hair was a dark mop of curls which fell messily into his face - reminding Harry slightly of his own hair. His hands were large and his fingers long - the hands of a musician. A violinist? He _did _seem to be one - well, he looked like one.

His clothes were good quality, probably expensive too. His features were aristocratic though, and Harry almost instantly concluded that he came from old money - perhaps a noble?

And when he spoke - his voice was a deep baritone - with an evident posh accent which confirmed Harry's earlier theory.

"Petunia Dursley?" He asked, looking down at Harry with something akin to curiosity. Harry frowned - wondering how he could possibly be interesting to anyone.

"Unless I have an extremely long neck and a tendency to speak in a shrill voice - I don't think I am her."

Then man's serious countenance didn't change - but Harry thought he saw a flicker of amusement behind the steely eyes. The man glanced behind Harry - actually - his eyes seemed to be constantly glancing about in an investigative manner and he seemed not to notice this as if it was a routine-like thing. Was he some sort of investigator? He wasn't wearing a police-uniform, and the coat, which flapped in the wind as if it was weightless obviously didn't have any guns in it.

"Are you investigating the murder?" Harry finally asked, causing the man's attention to flash back down at him. The man nodded and pulled an ID from his coat pocket - his hand moving slightly clumsily... Wouldn't a policeman, or an investigator, have mastered the art to swiftly remove an ID from a pocket?

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He said, holding up the card. Harry didn't even bother to glance down at it, instead opting to stare back up at him.

"Nope," Harry said popping the 'p', "I don't think you are."

The man - who had identified himself as 'Lestrade' - frowned, and kneeled down to Harry's level, eyes intense.

"Curious..." He whispered, and stuffed the ID back into his pocket, "And how, Mr Potter, did you know?"

Harry was about to answer, his mouth opening already, when he noticed that the man had said his name. Narrowing his eyes, he spoke again, "How did you know my name?"

The man smirked - he seemed to be used to knowing more than other people. He gestured at the collar of Harry's shirt - or rather a shirt Dudley had decided wasn't good enough for him. It was a little big - and the marine blue colour had dulled up a little, but Harry couldn't see how it could tell someone what his name was. The man rolled his eyes impatiently and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"One of the curses of going to school - or daycare - or even having siblings is the fact that you have to put your name on everything. The back of your collar has H. Potter written on it. The most common name starting with H, is Harry - therefore, leading me to the conclusion that your name is Harry Potter. Your last name is different to your family's name - which is Dursley, therefore you are their nephew." He paused, taking in Harry's wide-eyed expression with amusement, and slight apprehension. "And... How do _you _know my name isn't Lestrade? Perhaps it is."

Harry scrunched up his nose, wondering if a man such as him would belittle him for stating his own observations... deductions. Yeah, deductions sounded right.

"Er... You're clumsy with an ID - not like a police officer would be... And you don't really look like a Lestrade." Harry finished with a meek grimace, and glanced up quickly only to see the man giving him a slightly appraising stare.

"It's a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." He said, in the type of 'I'm-quoting-someone' voice teachers often used. Harry blushed slightly in embarrassment.

Then, to his surprise, a hand appeared in front of his face and slightly nervously, Harry took it. Glancing up, he noticed the man's cupids bow tilt up a little on either side.

"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,"

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><p><strong>Idkw but I kept writing 'dark white eyes' as a synonym to grey eyes.<strong>

**Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter/prologue... Leave a review if you want me to continue this story. XD**

**Thanks for reading! And happy new year!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hope you like the chapter. Please read the following announcement... if you are a beta-reader - and you like Sherlock/Harry crossovers, and you sorta like this story... please send me a pm! Thank you! I really urgently need a beta-reader. **

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><p>Mycroft sighed deeply, frustrated. He rarely got frustrated, and if he did, it was usually because of Sherlock... or something his actions caused. The reason for his frustration, was the several-inch-folder lying on his mahogany desk, which was for once in his life messy - mainly because he hadn't been at his office for several days. He'd been up in Wales, investigating a newly reformed research intelligence association called Torchwood.<p>

He rarely travelled out of London, hating the fact that his influence up north wasn't as large as down in London. Besides, he hated unfamiliar surroundings.

Glancing down at his desk, he sighed once more at seeing the large amount of documents which had accumulated there over the days. He'd have to clear that up later.

Sherlock often told him he had OCD - obsessive cleaning disorder - and Sherlock seemed to be trying to prove that he was the exact opposite by being as messy as he could possibly be.

Finally settling down in his steely armchair, he picked up the thick file and started to read.

The first few reports didn't really say anything - mostly that Sherlock had been behaving normally. Well... Normally for Sherlock. 'Normal' for Sherlock was usually Sherlock staying in the whole day - lying on his couch, staring at nothing in particular.

The pattern changed however, when Mycroft reached the report for Thrusday. Sherlock had left early in the morning and had, strangely enough, taken a train to Surrey. Surrey - of all places in England, he'd gone to Surrey. A further report from one of his agents was a photocopy of a local newspaper in Surrey - a man had been murdered brutally at the local pub. Sherlock had then returned three days later - on Sunday... and not alone.

Tagging along behind him, had been a child. A _child._

Raising the photograph closer to his eyes (alas - they weren't as good as they had once been), he examined the paparazzi-like picture. It was grainy - obviously it had been taken from a distance and on it, Mycroft could see a tired looking Sherlock looking around nervously, and guiding a boy - about nine or ten by the shoulder.

He was wearing a slightly dull blue T-shirt, and a pair of baggy worn trousers. Fastened on his feet were a pair of dark blue converse shoes - something that was currently popular with the teens, at least, that's what Mycroft had learned from his cousin thrice removed (who just given birth to her fourth child).

Unfortunately, Mycroft couldn't see much else of the boy, only his profile - which was remarkably similar to Sherlock's. He frowned as an idea popped into his head.

Surely not... Sherlock couldn't have possibly... No - it wasn't possible. Ignoring the little voice inside his head telling him that he was being an idiot, Mycroft picked up the telephone and dailing a number, he was instantly connected to his assistant. "Get a car. We're going to Baker Street."

...

_Several days ago..._

_Then, to his surprise, a hand appeared in front of his face and slightly nervously, Harry took it. Glancing up, he noticed the man's cupids bow tilt up a little on either side._

_"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,"_

Harry smirked at the man, "Pleasure to meet you 007." Sherlock didn't seem to get the reference and he cocked his head slightly, strangely reminding Harry of an otter.

"Uh... James Bond? They're comics... Uncle Vernon never let me watch the films thou-" He was broken off by a sudden tightening in his chest and a flashing pain in his head. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his legs turned to jelly and he felt like puking anything he'd eaten in the last couple of days - which to be fair wasn't much.

He barely heard Sherlock's shout of surprise as he collapsed down on the pavement, head in agony as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

.

Harry felt his senses slowly return to him - each one of them... one by one. It was torture, waking up this way... and he had a few times in the past, whenever his uncle had made him go a few days without food. As finally, all his senses returned to him - and the smell of disinfectant (which always seemed to be present at the school nurse's office) assaulted him, he opened his eyes.

It was sort of anticlimatic really - he was somewhere surrounded by white - white walls, white ceiling, even a white bed... Wait - bed? Wriggling his fingers, he slowly made his hands and arms move - trying to make them to respond to him. They had oddly fallen asleep - probably because he'd been in a lying position for some time.

His blanket, he soon discovered, was soft, not dreamy soft, but softer than his blanket at home... not that that was very hard to beat. It was the type of soft the nice ladies on TV ads always seemed to be advertising.

An odd, rhythmic beeping sound suddenly assaulted his ears and he realised quickly that it was his heart rate - and glancing to the right, he saw a monitor displaying what he hoped was a normal sinus rhythm. Gently tracing the back of his right hand with his left, he found some sort of needle injected into it - and attached to that needle was a tube. Even with his blurred vision, Harry could see the IV transparent bag containing some sort of liquid and slowly but steadily dripping the liquid into the tube.

So he was in a hospital... The question was how?

The last thing he remembered was Sherlock Holmes introducing himself and then Harry explaining what 007 meant. After that, he had felt some sort of pain bolt up his head and then... nothing.

Reaching out with his left hand once more - the one free from any IV needles - he felt for a bed side table, which without his glasses was just a blob, which was a slightly darker shade of white than the rest of the room. His hand connected with the top of the blob and felt around until he managed to grasp a pair of glasses.

Finally slipping them on, he sighed in relief as the room came into focus.

It was a small room - and frankly very depressing. Somehow he had ended up in a private ward - which was odd, seeing as the Dursley's had never insured him... not in any way. Technically as an uninsured person he should have been thrown out of the hospital as soon as they healed whatever he had.

As his eyes wandered to his right, they widened in shock. Seated in a chair (but still somehow half-lying on the bed) was Sherlock Holmes. His hair was messy - messier than earlier and his eyes were shut - obviously he was asleep. There were bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for a long time, making Harry wonder how long he'd been at the hospital. The last time he'd seen Sherlock, the man had looked completely fine.

The door opened suddenly, making Harry jump slightly in surprise, and resulting in Sherlock's head falling of the bed and hitting the metallic edge. The man's eyes flew open and he instantly clutched his head, wincing slightly at the abrupt way he'd been woken.

Massaging the side of his head, Sherlock slowly straightened, finally sitting upright in his chair.

Harry grimaced himself and let out a meek 'sorry'. Sherlock glanced up at him expressionlessly, and then turned to the other person who had just entered the hotel room.

A nurse was standing there - blinking in shock - before her face transformed into that of a scolding mother and she tutted. "We already have one patient in this room with a head injury. Let's not make it two!" She exclaimed, rushing forwards to examine the monitor hooked up to Harry and shooting Sherlock a glare.

Her face softened when her eyes laid upon Harry, her glare melting away in an instant. She picked up a clipboard which had been laying on the monitor and scanned the page. "How are you feeling Mr Holmes?" She said with a sort of warmth Harry had never encountered within a person. Petunia and Vernon certainly didn't talk to him that way.

He was about to answer her when he registered what she'd said. Holmes. She'd said _Holmes. Holmes _not _Potter._ Glancing back at Sherlock, more than just a little confused and shook his head, which shot a flash of pain through it. Ignoring the pain - he'd had worse, he spoke to her in a small voice, "It's Potter, not Holmes."

It was her turn to look confused and she looked between Sherlock (who was rolling his eyes) and Harry with a raised eyebrow. A flicker of understanding flashed in her eyes and she smiled brightly. "Oh. _Oh." _She continued grinning and placed the clipboard back on the monitor. "He hasn't told you yet." She muttered.

Eyes brightly examining Sherlock, she winked at him in an almost sadistic way (wow.. She seemed to _really_ hate him), "Have fun explaining everything."

Then she disappeared through the door she had just come through.

Harry turned to Sherlock who suddenly looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat.

"Uh... You see Harry, you fainted in front of me. I called the ambulance and you were taken into the hospital. It turned out that you'd lost a lot of blood when you hit your head..."

_Flashback_

Sherlock massaged his temples, trying to ease the headache coming on. He was in the Royal Surrey County Hospital, currently waiting for news about the boy - Harry Potter- who a day ago, had fainted right in front of him.

He had instantly called the ambulance, which had arrived within the next ten minutes and then for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock had jumped inside, just as one of the medics was about to close the door.

The boy was somehow familiar, in some odd way. He had reminded Sherlock of himself when he had been younger... but not as closed off. The boy was obviously neglected by his family but somehow that inner innocence all small children had when they were small had stayed with him. All that optimism was still there - something Sherlock had lost at a very young age when his older brother, Sherrinford, had died.

He'd been sitting there - in front of the ER-Department - when a doctor, had come out of the room, with a grave expression on his face. He had then explained that Harry had a concussion and that he'd lost a lot of blood, resulting in him fainting. The next part had been horrifying too... if not more. The doctor had explained to him that Harry needed a blood transfusion and after a quick test of his blood, they had found out that he was an AB negative blood type - the rarest out there.

Sherlock had then (still in shock) explained to the Doctor that he was a type AB negative, and that he would be willing to do the blood transfusion. After that he'd suddenly felt responsible (something that didn't happen all that often) for the boy and had decided to stay till the kid was well again... and removed from his negletctful family.

And now he was waiting... Waiting for any results to come... waiting to be allowed into the room... He'd been waiting for about a day now, and was starting to get impatient. He'd been so bored he'd already solved the case.

It was then, just as he was about to go and ask for a doctor to explain to him the progress being done, one charged down from the research labs... straight at him. "Sherlock Holmes?" The doctor - a thin blond woman with dark hair and huge bags under her eyes - said as she nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

Sherlock nodded once, slightly confused... was something wrong with his blood? But no - they had already tested it, and Harry had already gotten the transfusion... so that couldn't be it.

"Well, uhm. Mr Holmes, one of my students - as you know this is a teaching hospital - was doing DNA tests for his examination. His practical genetics examination was made up two parts. In one part he had to compare two pairs of genes with each other and decide whether the two people were related or not. As yours and Mr Potter's genes were already there anyway, we decided to use them... You see..." She paused, blinking furiously from lack of sleep, "We thought you two weren't related but had the same blood type, and that would make it more difficult for the student to decide whether or not you are related. You stated to Dr Fredericks that you didn't know his patient. Anyway," She paused again, and Sherlock suddenly felt a little queasy... He had a feeling he knew where this was heading... and didn't exactly knew what it meant for him and Harry, "The student was then shocked to find that your DNA matched Harry's. So, congratulations... You are a father Mr. Holmes." ***1 (AN)**

With a nervous smile she tried to hand him the folder, but when he made no move to accept the folder, she placed it on the seat next to him, then muttered something about 'having to catch some late lunch'.

Sherlock sat there in shocked silence, staring ahead at nothing in particular. His mind was racing... thoughts were flying here and there, and couldn't really concentrate on anything other than those last words the research doctor had uttered. 'You are a father, Mr Holmes.'

After a while - he wasn't exactly sure how long... maybe it had been ten minutes, perhaps it had been an hour, Sherlock had the sudden urge to have it confirmed and with a shaky hand he grabbed the blue innocent-looking folder lying on the seat next to his.

With slight trepidation, he flipped it open and scanned the first page. At the bottom, it said: _Relation : Confirmed. _The second page, was a paternity test. He read this page carefully, and slowly, he lowered his eyes to the last sentence which said: _Paternity: Confirmed. _

He stared at the page with shock. He was a father.

...

When he finished his short recount of the last two days, Harry stared at him in shock - much like how Sherlock had done himself the day before when he'd received the results.

"You're my father?" Harry finally asked in a small voice and Sherlock glanced him over, marvelling how similar they actually looked. Now that he knew what to search for, he could see it, plain as day. He finally nodded when Harry gave him an expectant look.

"Yes, I am."

They then fell into a sort of awkward silence in which neither party really knew what to say. It was then, when Sherlock saw that Harry was dying to ask some questions that he spoke.

"You have questions, I assume?"

Harry cracked a small smile, and nodded, ducking his head in embarrassment. It suddenly stroke Sherlock how timid and shy the boy actually was... probably because of all of the neglect. Sherlock made a mental note to make sure that the Dursleys got a proper punishment. He knew that the hospital had already called child services the day before when they had found out from Sherlock how he had found Harry.

"Is Lily Potter my mother?"

Sherlock sighed. He had known that that question would come up, but he hadn't expected it to come up that quickly. He nodded once and placed his hands under his chin, resting his elbows agains his knees.

"Yes, she is. We met at Cambridge. She was doing a biology degree... Lily told me she had broken up with her boyfriend. She was smart, and funny... and beautiful... so we.. uh -" He broke of and scratched the back of his head, feeling the awkwardness in the room raise to such a level that he was sure that he he had a knife he would able to slice it. "Anyway, one day, she just disappeared and... Well, I never saw her again. I never knew that she had a son."

Harry fiddled with the IV tube but Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him off.

"She's dead now. She and my father died in a car-crash." He said as he gazed into the distance. Sherlock winced inwardly, he hadn't missed the way Harry had referred to his step-father... The boy saw a dead man as his father... and not him.

"Am I going to live with you now?" Harry asked after a moment with an unreadable expression on his face which then suddenly - after a few moments - morphed into nervousness as he continued fiddling with the tube.

Sherlock was momentairly shocked by the question. Indeed... what would he do with his child? He'd never expected to have one in the first place - he had always thought he'd remain a lonely detective till he died. Not that he minded being lonely. Actually, he sort of enjoyed it.

Well... technically, John had moved out. He sometimes still stayed over when he and Sherlock got caught up in a case, but... John _could _sleep in the couch...

He couldn't exactly leave his _son _with child services. He'd either get placed in a children's home or with a foster family. If Harry stayed with him... Sherlock would be able to teach him so much... The thought of that almost brought a smile to his face.

He nodded once and smirked, "Of course."

Harry ducked his head once more, and as he did, Sherlock saw the corners of his lips raise slightly, obviously already anticipating living in a good enviornment, with a family and... well not with the Dursleys.

Strangely enough, Sherlock found himself excited too.

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><p><strong>I hope you liked that. So far... I've been trying to make Harry not too much like Sherlock. I dislike fics in which Harry is a replica of Sherlock... I want Sherlock to slowly teach him everything about the science of deduction. <strong>

**I'm sorry if Sherlock is a little ooc, but I suppose if you've just received then news that you have a nine year old son - you'd be pretty ooc too. I'm going to make him more of an asshole though... not as bad as in canon (cause Harry's there) but... yeah. I don't want it to be all soap opera-y.**

***1: I did some research about the DNA subject and I found out that if a hospital is a _Teaching _Hospital then they're allowed to use DNA from patients for examinations, practice etc. Technically though, it should be kept confidential. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

_**Guest #1: ahah thanks for the review... hmmm... I actually never really thought about which timeline to set it in... I think I'll be setting it in the HP time-line... I'm not really sure though... It depends on whether I decide that the plot needs some advanced tech or not. **_

_**Sarah: Thank you!**_

_**Guest #2: No sorry... If Hermione comes in, then it'll be later on, when they're at Hogwarts. I'm not that fond of her**_

_**Me: Thank you! And yes! I am continuing it!**_

_**Marion: Merci!**_

_**Elizabeth: Thank you for your review! I hope your question is answered!**_

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...

_**For my German-speaking readers: I am translating this story into German to improve it - my friend and beta reader Emil von Sinclair is correcting the mistakes... I have uploaded the story and if you want to... glance into it XD It would be greatly appreciated.**_

**...**

**Kudos to everyone who noticed the Doctor Who/Torchwood reference. **

**Reviews are welcome XD**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for staying with me so far! Wow... This story has been so successful so far. *_* Thank you so much. I always answer reviews... so if you posted an anonymous review in the previous chapter, you can find the answer at the bottom. **

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><p>John tugged at the back of his ear, staring at the two items laid out in front of him, wondering which one to buy for Sherlock. He hadn't seen his 'partner in crime' for about a month now. He and Mary had been gone on holiday for three weeks, and after that he just hadn't really found time for the consulting detective.<p>

When John came over to 221B, it usually ended up with him staying up late with Sherlock, solving a case and then skipping or sleeping through work the next morning... and as a soon-to-be father, he couldn't afford that. His wife was eight months pregnant, there was no way he could stay away that long that many times a week.

He had to be there for his unborn daughter... and his wife. John smiled blissfully as his thoughts turned to his wife. Ever since the Magnussen fiasco had been prevented (albeit by cold blooded murder - John still shuddered when he thought about that evening), his wife had become more open, lighter somehow. She'd told him everything there was to tell and then more.

Blinking rapidly, to bring himself back to the present, John continued staring at the two items. He and Mary were having dinner with Sherlock tonight, and she had told him to buy Sherlock a small present - after all they hadn't seen each other a long time now.

He was in the clothing department in Harrods - he'd managed to sneak away from the clinic at lunchtime - and was trying to choose between a new blue scarf and forest green scarf with a magnifying glass pattern. Glancing at the price, he winced slightly at the cost. Then again... this could technically be a Christmas present for the last two Sherlock had missed while he'd been 'dead'.

He was about to reach for the one he'd chosen when something solid crashed into him, knocking all the air out of him and leaving him gasping for breath. John straightened himself slowly, trying to regain his balance.

"I'm so sorry, mister! Sorry!" John spun around at the sound of a small boy's voice and the slightly scolding look on his face softened to a small smile. A boy was standing in front of him - a tall, severely lean boy (almost dangerously so) with the most brilliant green eyes John had ever seen... And a bandage circumferencing his head - had he been injured recently?

"No, no, it's quite all right," John said with a smile as he straightened his jacket and smoothed out some wrinkles on his shirt. "Are you all right?" He asked, gesturing at the bandage. The boy looked confused for a moment before he shrugged.

"Uh - I hit my head, had to go to the hospital." He shuddered for a moment and John felt a small spark of amusement. Most patients were usually co-operative... then there were others who absolutely despised hospitals and would do anything not to go to one... people like Sherlock.

"Are you better now?" John asked tugging at his ear. The boy nodded and then winced slightly - his injury probably still hurt.

"Yeah - I got released today. My guardian and me are buying some welcome-back-home clothes now."

John wondered briefly who this boy's guardian was (who shopped so casually in Harrods) - and he felt a flash of sympathy. This boy had probably lost his parents and was now forced to live with an assigned relative.

"Good, good," John muttered and smiled at the boy as he picked up the blue scarf he'd chosen for Sherlock. "I ought to pay this -"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the boy darted forwards, grabbed the second scarf (with the magnifying glass pattern) which John had been considering earlier and chucked it at John.

"He'll like that one better," the boy said with a wink and disappeared down the next isle, leaving John standing there, blinking confusedly. How had the boy known the present was for a man.. and that wink?... Who was that boy?

Shaking his head slightly to clear his mind from weird theories already zooming around (Mary often joked that with the amount of ludicrous theories he could cook up, it was strange that he still hadn't become the neighbourhood's gossip queen), he glanced at the two scarves again...

Smiling slightly, he snatched the patterned one and put the blue one back in it's place. He couldn't wait to see his friend again - it seemed that Sherlock was pretty much the only thing in his life that never changed - he and everything around him - would always stay exactly the same forever.

Oh, how very wrong he was.

...

Harry pushed his glasses up for the hundredth time that hour, eyes wide with excitement as they sped across the paper. He was sitting, cross-legged in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace (which had curiously lit itself while he'd been reading an exciting scene, which had made his heart race with anticipation), with a thin blanket covering his thin form as he read a book Sherlock had given him earlier in the day. It was quite a hard read, but Harry was enjoying it so far.

To be frank, he'd never read such an exciting book in his life... and he'd read many. Dudley had always made fun of him when they were smaller and when Harry had asked Petunia to go to the library (to which she had said no). He'd been so happy when he'd started school and had finally been able to go to the library during the breaks.

He was right in the middle of reading a scene in which a young boy, by the name of Albert challenged The Count (Albert's father - but Albert didn't know that yet) to a duel, when Harry heard a cough from across the room, startling him so much he almost fell out of his armchair.

Two short figures were standing in the doorway. The one on the left, was a woman and was just a little shorter than the man on the right. Her facial expression was kind - if a little shocked and Harry noticed with a small frown that she seemed just a little jaded - as if she'd given up on life itself. She was pregnant though - heavily... And Harry supposed that a child should be enough reason to live on.

Glancing at her left hand, Harry wasn't surprised to find a ring.

A thin, elegant-looking golden ring circumferenced the fourth finger on her left hand - which indicated that she was married to the man on the right, who wore a similar matrimonial ring, although it seemed to be heavier and bulkier. The wearer of this ring, looked if possible, more confused than the woman. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly open. His greying hair had dropped into his eyes, but he had made no move to flick it back into it's position. In a way... there was something about him which reminded Harry of a hedgehog.

There was something familiar about that face, and a few seconds later, when Harry's eyes wandered down to his other hand - which was holding a familiar patterned scarf - he realised where he had seen the man. He was the one from Harrods! The man seemed to have come to the same realisation as he spoke suddenly, a remembrance flashing through those eyes.

"You're the boy from this morning!" He exclaimed, while his wife (well... Harry assumed she was his wife) jabbed him in the ribs, perhaps trying to show him that he was being slightly rude.

"Well, I don't really recall ever being _on _'This Morning', ***1(A/N) **I think I would remember chatting with Holly and Phil," Harry said with a smirk. He'd never been allowed to watch 'This Morning', although his aunt Petunia absolutely adored watching the morning television show.

His comment elicited two completely different reactions. The man simply looked agitated and slightly shocked and the woman chortled to herself, hiding - or rather trying to - her mirth behind her hand.

Smirking at them again, Harry's eyes wandered back to the book - after all, he _was _at a very interesting, plot-twisting point in the story.

_'Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why should I seek to make myself better than God?' _Harry read quietly to himself, heart hammering in his chest. '_Poor young man!' Monte Cristo muttered, so low that even he could not hear these words of compassion as he spoke them. 'It is written that the sins of the father shall be visited on the sons, even to the third and forth generation-'_

Harry was once more interrupted by a loud cough and he raised his eyes, glaring at the couple. One thing was coming to 221B and wait patiently for Sherlock (who had explained on the taxi ride to London that he was a consulting detective), the other was to disturb the inhabitants of the flat (who weren't even remotely connected to Sherlock's job) by annoying them.

"What?" He demanded rather acerbically and instantly regretted it when he saw the slightly offended expression on the man's face. The woman however looked like she had just realised something and was staring at Harry with amazement.

"Uh... Sorry." Harry muttered quietly, ducking his head as he rubbed his bandaged head. The man's lips turned upwards in amusement and his previously hard eyes softened.

"Who are you?" He added softly as his wife placed a hand on his shoulder as if to steady herself.

"Well..." Harry started, about to reveal his identity, when a figure, much taller than anyone in the room, stalked in. And with that baritone-yet-smooth voice, Sherlock said:

"He's my son."

...

_"He's my son."_

There was a moment of silence in which no one really dared to move, dreading to make a sound. In fact, it was so silent, that Harry could hear the clock ticking from his room. _His room. _Even just thinking about it... the fact that it was _his _room, made Harry feel a sort of warm thrill flow through his body.

It was odd, too, to be claimed in such a way. 'He's my son'... The words reverberated in his mind pleasantly. No one, _not a single person, _had ever said such a thing about him. Sure, the Dursely's had occasionally said, 'that's my nephew'... or 'that's my cousin' etc, but they had always said in a sort of disgusted way, as if they were ashamed that they had to claim him in such a way.

Glancing back at the couple, Harry noticed the man staring between Sherlock, his wife (who looked rather calm at this revelation - she must have figured it out earlier) and Harry, who just grinned back at him.

"Wait... You _knew?" _The man exclaimed, staring at his wife, eyes wide. She rolled her eyes at him, "Why else would a _child _be in _Sherlock's _flat, reading a book beyond his age group?"

Sherlock smirked at the last comment and Harry felt warmth spread through him when he saw a flash of pride flicker in the detective's eyes.

"Harry, this is my insufferable _friend,_" He spat out the word as if it was poison in his mouth and Harry had to stifle a chuckle of irony. He'd always craved to have friends, it seemed... Sherlock was the complete opposite. "John Watson, and his wife, Mary Watson. John, Mary, this is Harry, my son."

With that, the man disappeared into the kitchen, probably to relieve himself of his coat and scarf.

John still seemed a little shocked, but nevertheless offered the armchair opposite Harry, to his pregnant wife and pulled the chair standing next to the desk.

"Wow. Sherlock's not a virgin."

Needless to say, his wife smacked him on the head.

"John, just because you lost you virginity at a very late point in your life, does not mean that we all did-" John was spared of hearing Sherlock's other insults, when Mrs Hudson interrupted him.

"Yoo hoo!" She exclaimed, radiating warmth and comfort. Harry had just met her that morning when Sherlock had brought him to 221B and had explained the situation to Mrs Hudson who had been ecstatic to hear the news. She had congratulated them profusely, and had then proceeded to make scones for Harry who had eagerly dug in. She was perhaps, the closest to a mother figure Harry had ever had in his whole life.

"Oh! Hello Mary, John! I hope the boys aren't driving you mad. One Holmes is difficult enough to handle - oh their poor mother! She had to take care of two!" She paused and smiled at all of them, before revealing a tea tray. "Have fun with a third Holmes boy!" She said stepping away from the doorway, and revealing a rigidly standing man dressed in a posh, pressed, grey three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella.

His nose was slightly upturned nose which stuck out rather prominently on his face, making Harry wonder whether big, odd noses was a thing in the Holmes family. After all, Mrs Hudson had said the new man was a 'Holmes boy'... Uncle perhaps?

Sherlock sighed exasparetly, and waved a hand at his... brother? "Harry, may I present to you the most abominable human being on this planet. My stalker, Britain's Big Brother, and unfortunately my brother and your uncle, Mycroft Holmes."

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><p><strong>I am really UNhappy with this chapter... The first time I wrote it, it was fine, then I forgot to save it, and closed my laptop. I then wrote it again, and it was just crap, so I <em>re-re-<em>wrote it. **

**...I'm still not happy... So when I finish this story, I will completely rewrite it. **

***1 - For basically anyone who isn't British, 'This Morning' is a morning television show... It's basically a mixture between two presenters who are constantly laughing (Phil and Holly), a little bit of news, interviews with celebrities, cooking and advice on health/coming out/which shows to watch etc. It's a very popular show in Britain...**

**Hehehe... See if you can find the Doctor Who reference in this chapter. *hint* its the title of an episode. **

**Anonymous reviews:**

_**Guest 1: Awawa thank you! **_

_**A Loving Fan: hehe... well, I look forward to the follow! Thank you!**_

_**Sarah: Thank you for your review... haha -yup that was John's reaction **_

_**Guest 2: Thanks for bringing that up - I am by no means an expert on biology and a very thick person when it comes to blood types... Idk my own blood type. **_

_**Guest 3: Thank you!**_

_**Outsider: Thank you! And the reason why Harry fainted was because he hit his head earlier. I mentioned that there was a little blood. *_***_

**Thank you for reading.. and until next time!**

**PS, if you're an anonymous reviewer, can you please use some sort of pseudonym so that it is easier for you to find the answer to your review (that is if you decide to continue reading the story)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for reading so far. I've had several questions about what time-line the story is in. I have decided it's going to take place in Harry's time-line. Harry's timeline simply has too many dates which would be a pain to have to shift around. In Sherlock, however, dates are barely mentioned. Sherlock won't have a mobile though - which will be odd, as he loves texting.. Then again, I did some research and found that mobile phones (with SMS) _did _exist in 1989... which is the year in which this story starts.**

**Also, I was forced by a friend (Surawaldelfe) to upload this chapter the moment I had finished it. So... If you spot any mistakes, she has agreed to take the blame. **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em>Surely not... Sherlock couldn't have possibly... No - it wasn't possible. Ignoring the little voice inside his head telling him that he was being an idiot, Mycroft picked up the telephone and dailing a number, he was instantly connected to his assistant. "Get a car. We're going to Baker Street."<em>

_..._

Mycroft wasn't surprised all that often, but on those rare times when he _was _surprised, the surprise was usually a big one. His very first incredibly shocking surprise had been when a woman - dressed in the oddest of clothes (robes!) - had appeared in his electric fireplace (which had oddly transformed into a real, wood-burning fireplace).

Other than the robes the woman had looked incredibly average, perhaps a little chubbier than most. She had then introduced himself as 'Millicent Bagnold - Minister of Magic' and had proceeded to introduce Mycroft to the magical world. The fact alone that magic existed, had thrown Mycroft - a man of science - into a state of shock... And the fact that _that _world had it's own schools, universities, shops, judicial system, food... even a _government! _had further induced him into another state of shock.

Millicent Bagnold had apparently, seen the need to introduce him to her world - she had said that in her eyes, he had more power than Margaret Thatcher, the current _muggle _prime minister. Honestly, Mycroft thought that Bagnold had been too intimidated by Thatcher - who had been introduced to office less than a year ago.

Then - a year later, in 1981 - the minister of magic had appeared in his fireplace once more... and had filled his entire office with soot and the smell of alcohol. Apparently, she'd been partying. And the reason for it had been very peculiar, according to her, 'The Dark Lord' - the man about whom she had spoken a year ago - had been defeated by a year old infant, who'd escaped the confrontation with nothing but a lightning bolt scar.

His name had been - or was (well... Mycroft _thought _he was still alive) - Harry Potter, son to a Lily and James Potter. That had been his last contact with the magical world for several years. Of course, there were brief meetings with his wizarding political counterpart - one Lord Lucius Malfoy - but other than that... nothing.

Well, not until now.

End of July, 1989, just several hours prior to ordering his car to go to 221B, Mycroft had been sent a report, regarding one Harry James Potter. The boy had been hospitalised, and had then disappeared. Mycroft had been too preoccupied with other reports and political disasters though, to read through the whole file... He'd once neglected to sort through three files, and had instead gone to bed early (well, to be fair, at the time he hadn't slept for over 72 hours). The next morning, the Angolan civil war had begun. Several people hadn't been pleased with him - especially Lizzie.

And with the Soviet War in Afghanistan now looming over the horizon, he wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

Nevertheless, Sherlock, his brother - was still his most important priority. And because of that, Mycroft was now going to visit him, if only because he was curious of the child Sherlock had taken to 221B.

...

Mycroft barely had to wait a few moments (in which, he had corrected the crooked door knocker), before the black, shiny door, with the golden plated 221B attached to it, had opened to reveal a very exuberated Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, Mycroft," She said warmly and Mycroft smiled politely, noting that she looked and behaved in a remarkably similar way to his own mother. "I wasn't expecting you! Come in, come in."

She led him into the dark hallway which then forked into two and led to two different flats, one upstairs - 221B - and the other straight ahead - 221A.

"Hang on a tick," She said, popping into her flat, "I was about to bring up a tea tray."

She emerged from her flat, carrying the silver tray (with good quality china) in front of her - she never brought _that _set out... Well, only for Christmas, and John's birthday - Sherlock had forbidden her to celebrate his birthday, apparently celebrations were something below him.

So what _was _the occasion? It couldn't be the boy - could it? Him arriving at Baker Street had been the only abnormal thing in the last three months... well, Sherlock _did _go out to buy milk last night (according to the reports anyway).

Frowning slightly, Mycroft climbed the stairs after her. There were loud exclamations coming from above, making him curious as to what exactly was happening. As he reached the top, it took his eyes a few moments to get used to the sudden light - after all, the hallway _was _quite dark.

"John," Sherlock was saying, his tone already promising an insult, "Just because you lost you virginity at a very late point in your life, does not mean that we all did-" John was spared of hearing Sherlock's other insults, when Mrs Hudson, who had just stepped into Sherlock's flat, interrupted him.

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to keep his ragged breath under control. He glanced down at his slightly bulging stomach... No, Sherlock was wrong - he _wasn't _chubby. Turning his attention back to the situation at hand he just caught the last part of Mrs Hudson's motherly rant.

"...Have fun with a third Holmes boy!" She said stepping away from the doorway, and revealing him. Mycroft however, just stared after her - had she said _third _Holmes boy? Blinking rapidly, his eyes zeroed on the only unfamiliar face in the room... A small boy - perhaps nine or ten - sat in John's large winged armchair, staring straight back at Mycroft.

His hair was inky black and fell messily on a milky-pale face. His features were patrician making Mycroft think that although the boy was dressed in clothes worthy of the homeless, he still looked like he was of aristocratic decent. He was curled up in the armchair, a blanket elegantly placed upon his thin form and in his hand he held a thick book... the name of which Mycroft couldn't tell from where he was standing.

The most prominent part of the boy's face however, were the eyes. They were an abnormal emerald green which Mycroft was convinced were being powered by magic. It was said that the eyes were the windows to the soul... and in this moment, Mycroft agreed with it wholeheartedly... Those eyes radiated intelligence, power and suspicion - yet there was something... there was something pushing all of that back... doubt?

Mycroft barely heard the following words which Sherlock spoke, and almost physically recoiled in shock when his brain understood what they meant.

"Harry, may I present to you the most abominable human being on this planet. My stalker, Britain's Big Brother, and unfortunately my brother and your uncle, Mycroft Holmes."

_Sherlock had reproduced?_

_..._

The silence following that statement was so awkward that even Harry, who had absolutely no social filter, could feel it. The only person in the room who seemed to have absolutely no problem with it, was Mrs Hudson. She was standing next to Mycroft, wringing her hands excitedly - having already placed the tea tray on the coffee table.

Harry's eyes wandered over to John and Mary who were looking between Sherlock and Mycroft with slight apprehension... it seemed they had some historical tension.

Perhaps... Mycroft was a wild character - and Sherlock had to run after him the whole time, picking up the pieces and repairing everything? After all, Sherlock had so far, been quite a responsible person. Then again, it could be the other way round... Sherlock _had _after all, introduced Mycroft as Britain's 'Big Brother'.  
>Harry searched his memory briefly, and with a small triumphant grin, he remembered the book he'd read about a year ago - <em>Nineteen Eighty-Four<em>, by _George Orwell. _***1(A/N)**

The man (George Orwell) had described the future he foresaw - a future in which every citizen was under constant surveillance by the authorities, mainly by telescreens. The phrase used to remind these individuals that there was something watching them had been 'Big Brother is watching you'. Since then, the title Big Brother had become a synonym for abuse of government power, often specifically related to mass surveillance.

Was it possible that Sherlock had been exaggerating? Or was Mycroft Holmes - his uncle (he had an uncle!) - really part of some conspiracy?

Switching his gaze back to Mycroft Holmes, Harry wasn't surprised to see that the wheels in the man's mind were turning. If Sherlock was that intelligent, and Harry himself was intelligent (he wasn't afraid to admit it now that Vernon wasn't around), it was bound to be a family thing.

"What will Mummy say?" Mycroft finally said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Harry scratched the back of his head... what was it with the posh accents? Everyone turned to stare at Sherlock, waiting for his reaction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Well, she'll have to accept the new addition to the Holmes House. He is my son." Sherlock said with a sort of finality and Harry felt himself blush slightly. "He will not continue living with those... atrocious _pigs._"

Mycroft glanced at Harry with narrowed eyes, then turned back to Sherlock. "Was he A-B-U-S-E-D?"

Harry frowned indignantly and stood up (both the book and blanket falling in the process), "I might not be Sherlock, but I _am _intelligent! Please speak directly to me if it's something concerning me!"

Mycroft looked slightly shocked at his small outburst and leaned backwards. Sherlock however, shot John a smirk and his friend responded with a roll of his eyes.

"Very well," Mycroft uttered, awkwardly resting both of his hands upon his umbrella - obviously he didn't deal with children very often. "What is your name?"

"Harry," he said with a small smile and offered his hand. Mycroft smoothly took it and shook it. they both (for the sake of their dignities) tried to ignore Mrs Hudson's cooing.

"Harry Holmes, pleasure meeting you. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Do not listen to whatever you father says about me - it's probably not true. I am simply Sherlock's brother and I occupy a _minor_ position in the British government."

Harry smirked in response and winked at Mary who was coughing rather violently, uttering the word 'minor' here and there.

"Hang on, who's his mother?" John said tactlessly and Harry almost had to slap his forehead. Once again, everyone in the room turned to look at Sherlock, curious. Sherlock let himself fall into his own armchair - a modern looking black leather piece of furniture which looked like it belonged in some business men's house - and folded his hands in a praying position, just below his chin. Harry had seen him sit in that position on the way to Baker Street and concluded that it was his 'thinking position'.

"When I was at University, I met a woman-"

Mary interrupted him, looking very amused, "So what was it like? Boy meets girl. Boy knocks girl up. Boy disappears. Boy gets a surprise ten years later?"

Sherlock shot her a glare and sniffed indignantly, "Actually, it was; Girl disappears."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in interest, eyes intensely examining Sherlock. Mrs Hudson disappeared into the kitchen, but came back quickly, carrying two chairs, one for Mycroft and one for herself. Mary and John exchanged a concerned glance.

Seeing everyone was still staring at him, expecting more, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She disappeared one day. Harry told me on the day he woke up in the hospital that she had died in a car accident when he was small. He grew up with her _family,_" Sherlock said, disgust tainting the last word.

"And how did you find out that... Harry was alive?" Mycroft asked, gesturing at Harry who stared back innocently.

"Harry was hospitalised, I accompanied him on the trip. He needed a blood transfer and I volunteered."

There was another long silence in which Mycroft suddenly turned his head and stared at Harry with wide eyes, which frantically bore into his bandaged forehead.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said slowly, still staring at Harry, "Was Harry's mother coincidentally called Lily Potter?"

"Yes." Sherlock finally muttered, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Mrs Hudson, Mary and John both shot each other confused stares.

Mycroft closed his eyes... in defeat? When he opened his eyes again, Harry was surprised to find them filled with emotion - something they had been lacking from the first moment Harry had met him.

"And I am then correct in assuming that your full name is Harry James Potter? Son of the late Lily Potter née Evans and step-son to James Charlus Potter?"

"Uh," Harry started, but noted that his voice was failing slightly and he cleared it, "Yes... That's what the Dursley's told me. How do you know?"

Mycroft let out a brief mocking chuckle. "You will not _believe _the political disaster this will cause!" He seemed to be talking more to Sherlock than anybody else in the room as he stood up and swivelled round to face his brother. "Have you ever thought about anything thoroughly, Sherlock! What are you going to do now?! Are you going to enrol him into a school? Give him a proper education? What about Mummy? And child services? Did you talk to them before you decided to _kidnap _Harry from the hospital?-"

"Do not _dare _judge me, brother," Sherlock spat, his eyes blazing with anger as he stood up as well. Everyone else in the room shared concerned glances. Harry bit his lip. Well... at least his deduction had been proven right - they _did _have a shared history.

"I was _young. _I made some horrible mistakes when I was younger. _HE _was a mistake!" Sherlock said blindly waving a hand in Harry's direction. Mycroft answered with something, but Harry barely heard him.

Suddenly the air around him was suffocating, everything was pressing down on him. He felt panic settling into his stomach - which was doing anxious flips. Sherlock _didn't _want him. He was a _mistake. _When he'd woken up a day ago, at the hospital, Sherlock had been sitting at his side and he'd explained the situation to him... He'd explained to Harry that he had a... _father._ And that he _wanted_ him. Harry had finally felt like he'd belonged.

All his life, he'd been forced to wear a mask... to not let anyone see him hurting inside. He'd hid some of his deepest concerns and secrets into some of the deepest recesses of his mind... When he'd met Sherlock... his _father, _someone who finally _accepted _him, he'd let some of those defences drop.. and now... He wasn't wanted. He'd just been.. a _toy._

It was with those thoughts that he suddenly felt the need to run.. and he did - ignoring the shouts from behind him.

And he ran; out the door, down the street, then another, and another...

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><p><strong>I hope that wasn't too depressing.<strong>

**Thank you for reading so far - the success of this story has been mind-blowing. So thank you. **

***1 - Nineteen Eighty-Four is an incredibly awesome book. If you like books about conspiracies.. politics... etc. That's the book for you. Srsly, it's magnificent.**

**Hmm... I don't think there are any references in this chapter... if I made one accidentally - don't hesitate to leave it in a review (✿◠‿◠) **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Opinr: hahah - well... there you have the next chapter!**

**KK: Yes, I think so too... Mycroft _is _technically the 'Big Brother'**

**Bass Player: Well... I've cleared the time-line thing up. You brought up an interesting point... Yes, this is an AU Harry.. Not incredibly AU - He doesn't have any other superpowers or anything, he's just more intelligent and a little rude, with no social filter. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Thalia Al Ghul: Thank you so much! I live for cliffies!**

**Sarah: I'm glad it was amusing! I hope Mycroft's reaction lived up to your expectations!**

**LiAlH4h2o: Thank you for your other reviews too! I love a little sarcasm... Harry just has a little bit than most XD**

**Guest: Thank you, thank you, thank you! That's very kind of you. And you should definitively read 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. It's been my fav book since I was about 13. It's seriously incredibly well written... It takes some time to get into though... it's a little boring at some points because the story moves a little too slowly.. but other than that - it's incredible!**

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><p><strong>AND HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO YOU ALL!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**I want to apologise in advance (for the short chapter) but right now, I was writing fanfiction partly to distract myself and partly because I wanted to dedicate something to my late grandfather. **

**This is, I believe the perfect opportunity to dedicate this story to him... He died recently. I cannot even begin to express the heartache I am experiencing. My grandfather was 'the perfect human being'. Kind, thoughtful, intelligent (urgh, I've _never _beat him at chess in my entire life), respectful... he had a passion for science, chess, his wife (honestly, it was like he was falling in love with her more and more with every second he spent with her) his family, the caspian sea, shoes, and smelling stuff before he consumed it. The fact is - I wrote a three page eulogy about him about how incredible he was and not once did I repeat myself. **

**So yeah, on that sad-ish note, enjoy!**

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><p><strong><em>Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order.<em>**

**_~David Gerrold_**

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><p><em>It was with those thoughts that he suddenly felt the need to run.. and he did - ignoring the shouts from behind him.<em>

_And he ran; out the door, down the street, then another, and another..._

_..._

He ran for so long, and such a long distance, that when he finally stopped to catch his breath - he could barely stand on his own. Instead, Harry stumbled to the nearest brick wall and let himself slump against it. He'd always been fairly good at running - after all, he'd had to run from Dudley during 'Harry Hunting' - but after his concussion, running it seemed, wasn't the smartest thing to do.

Slowly lowering himself to the floor, Harry let out a sigh of exhaustion, his body was thrumming with adrenaline, but simultaneously he could feel his arms, legs, stomach... all burning like they usually do when overexerted. Yet...There was something... calming about running - that moment when the wind blew ruthlessly against his hot, clammy face - was probably one of the most refreshing and invigorating moments he'd ever had. That feeling... that he was free, free of the Dursley's... free of his own rapidly working mind... was the most brilliant feeling in the whole world.

Harry opened his eyes, not having realised that he had closed them and raised his smiling face to the dark sky which was just a shade lighter than the scarf Sherlock had been wearing the day before.

As that thought crossed his mind, the smile instantly dropped off his face and he subconsciously placed his hands beneath his chin, his face instantly opting a hurt and thoughtful countenance.

That moment when he'd woken up in the hospital bed, his head hurting, he'd been amazed to see that that exceptional man - the one who had questioned him at the doorstep - had come to see if he was alright. The next surprise had toppled his whole world and family view. Suddenly, he'd gained one more family member who had _seemed _to care about him... A family member who didn't abuse him verbally and emotionally whenever he pleased. Well... recent events had proven him wrong.

Had Fate decided to torture him? Had he done something so bad... that Karma had decided to 'restore equilibrium in the universe'? Was it his destiny to be loved and then rejected?

As a young child, he'd always believed, he'd always hoped, that a man or woman... or ultimately both, would arrive at the doorstep of #4 Privet Drive, claiming to be relatives of some sort. Eventually though, he got the message the Dursely's had been hoping to convey. No one was coming for him, his parents were dead so were all his other relatives.

After that epiphany, he'd thrown himself at books... Knowledge, he had known, was a way to shield yourself... It was ultimately, the best weapon out there. He'd used it to suppress his desire of love, his dreams, his hopes... and with it, he'd erected a wall of indifference around him - no one would ever hurt him again.

Yet, when Sherlock Holmes had explained to him that he was his father - and he'd shown proof too... and then Harry had allowed himself to be taken away. He'd allowed himself to gently chip away at that wall he'd erected - to reveal a small doorway through which his desire for a caring relative had slipped through... In a way, his mind was a pandora's box.

He'd allowed himself to trust... to trust a man claiming to be his father. Harry had been hesitative, he hadn't been sure whether or not to trust a mysterious man such as him - the modernised version of a knight... And now, it seemed his suspicions hadn't been unfounded. Sherlock had done the very thing, Harry had been scared he would do - he'd been rejected.

_"I was _young_. I made some horrible mistakes when I was younger. _HE_ was a _mistake_!" _

Those words echoed back to him, and Harry felt his heart tighten at those words. Hugging his legs to his chest, and tucking his head against his knees, Harry curled into a ball as the tears suddenly started to come.

Sobs racked his body, and with every shake, and every tear, Harry hated him more.

...

The moment the little boy ran through the door, everyone stopped talking, moving, or even breathing. Then slowly, John let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and his eyes zeroed on Sherlock and he winced. The man was staring at the doorway in pure shock... all that tension which had built up in his body while he'd been arguing with Mycroft seemed to have abated in one instant.

John let out a dejected breath, "Bit not good?"

Those words seemed to instantly pull everyone back into the present, and out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mrs Hudson dash down the stairs, one hand on her hurting hip - presumably running after Harry. It was no use though - John's military habits kicked in every time he was with Sherlock, and he had instantly noticed the way the boy's lithe body curled up in the armchair. There was no doubt that the boy was a fast runner. By the time Mrs Hudson was out of the building, Harry could already be running along the next block.

Mycroft instantly cleared his face of smugness (John frowned at that... how could Mycroft be smug about something like that?), and pulled out a long shining new mobile phone - the kind John had recently seen advertised in the newspaper - apparently they could now send proper text-messages.

"Dear God," His wife muttered next to him, clutching her stomach as she stared blankly after Harry. Mycroft was punching a few buttons on his phone as he turned around lazily - his back turned to Sherlock as he started walking to the door.

"I'll get my people to track down your son." He smirked, and turned his head slightly, so that they could see it's profile. "I'll take care of the 'mistake' as you obviously can't."

Then with a twirl of his umbrella and a small sigh of exasperation (somewhere in there - in Big Brother's heart... well somewhere deep down - was a man who loved Sherlock) the man, along with his imposing aura, left.

Sherlock remained frozen for a few moments... then he turned his sharp gaze at Mary at John (the latter had placed a hand on the former's hand) and with that equally sharp voice, he said, "You can leave the present in the kitchen."

Then with that, he grabbed his trench coat and scarf (the blue one) - which he didn't even secure around his neck, and with a swish of his coat (which oddly reminded John of a cloak) the man dashed out of the room, leaving John and Mary.

Mary placed a hand on her pregnant stomach and raised her serious-yet-sparkling-and-unique-to-Mary-eyes to stare straight back into John's. "The little one's craving bananas with custard again."

John groaned.

...

Sherlock had never been as glad as now that he had a network of homeless individuals who worked for him. Bill Wiggins, aka 'The Wig' - a man who had joined The Network only a few months ago, had quickly become one of the most valuable. He'd been on the streets for a long time, and was valued for his quick thinking... thus he was quite popular on the streets.

After joining The Network, he'd managed to introduce some other members into the society, and it had grown exponentially. The moment Sherlock had left 221B - he'd almost knocked poor Mrs Hudson over - he'd rushed over to the closest homeless individual wearing a worn, dull red band around his wrist - a sign that he belonged to The Network.

Throwing him a few pounds - with a hastily scribbled note inside - for Wiggins - he'd rushed down the general direction of the centre of town. Hopefully, his son (oh... it felt so odd to say _his son_) would be a predictable idiot and head into the more crowded areas of London.

Wandering around London was terrible at this time of the day, it was getting dark, and people were just coming out of their houses into the streets. Some were seeking to drink their troubles away, others were just socialising... the fact remained that the streets were completely packed, making Sherlock's search for Harry even slower than he had predicted.

Slowly, although he didn't really want to, his thoughts returned to Harry... The small little boy who had fallen under his care so quickly he'd barely had time to realise what he would do with him.

What _would _he do with him? What school would the boy go to? How could he tell his mother about this? Would she be disappointed? How could he even take care of Harry? Sherlock felt pent up frustration in him rise to the surface and he let out a growl - making the several people near him turn their concerned faces at him.

The one fact that continued to trouble him, and was nagging at the back of his head was Mycroft. How had he _known_? How had he known Lily Potter's name? He'd spoken to, and about Harry as if the boy had some immense amount of political power... But what power could a small little boy have?

Perhaps Lily Potter had been some sort of important person - going to university under a pseudonym? Sherlock ruthlessly and instantly crushed that idea... One of the first things that had attracted him to Lily from the beginning had been her irresistible charm and the fact that she hadn't behaved like a powerful person of any kind. She had walked into a room - and instantly it had lit up - but there hadn't ever been a sort of imposing aura which Sherlock noted was what Mycroft always brought with himself, wherever he went.

Harry wasn't old enough to have achieved anything of importance yet, and even _if _he had the potential to do that important thing, the Dursley's probably wouldn't have allowed it.

He smirked briefly, as his thoughts turned to the Dursleys. Those bastards would pay for what they had done to his son... child services were now dealing with them, and the weight of the Holmes name would probably make their punishment quite a bit longer.

Sherlock wasn't cruel by nature, but apparently gaining a son resulted in also gaining the protectiveness of a lioness. The thought brought a small grimace to his face - a few days into parentage and he'd already lost track of his son, made him seem worthless, pissed of Mycroft (although... he usually did that anyway), and compared himself to a female lion.

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt a gentle tap on his elbow and he swiveled his head around to the body attached to the hand. A small, weary looking woman was standing next to him, she was smiling faintly... but most importantly, she was holding out a piece of plain white paper. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement - completely ignoring the fact that social rules required him to say 'thank you' - and grabbed the piece of paper.

Anticipation welled up in him, and he unfolded the piece of paper, his eyes quickly absorbing the words.

A wave of triumph washed over him and he smirked again.

...

The street was easy to find, the house number as well - he'd recently checked the memorised plan of London in his head, to make sure that the newly built streets and houses were all saved there.

It was, however, quite hard to find his son... but when he did, Sherlock let out a breath of relief (and also triumph - it wasn't every day that he beat Mycroft at this - he _did _after all, have the whole MI5 and MI6 on his side). Harry was huddled into a small bundle-looking figure, and if it wasn't for the messy inky hair, Sherlock was sure he would have walked right past him, believing Harry to be a tramp.

As Sherlock slowly approached him - he was suddenly acutely aware of everything around him. The street was pretty much isolated - a drunk was walking wobbily down the road on the other side, his hands pressed against the wall for support, and a woman (dressed in the lastest fashion - not that Sherlock noticed that) at the nearest bus stop was snogging the brains out of a young man, who obviously had cancer, judging from the-

Sherlock forced his mind to stop working a thousand miles a minute. Deductions could wait. Right now, Harry was his priority.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I apologise to those who expected something longer and with more dialogue... and I promise, the next chapter will have more of both. <strong>

**Also, I want to thank each and every one of you for... everything. The popularity of this story... well it's staggering... I just can't thank you enough. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Jack: Unfortunately, _I _have been a victim of hearing that. Obviously, my parents did want me - but not so soon after my elder sibling. **

**Opinr: Thank you!**

**Guest 1: huh. You seem to like demanding stuff... but I suppose thank you. **

**Sarah: aawawaw you're one of the first to say that you liked his response! Thank you so much!**

**Guest 2 (I'm calling you literature guy from now on): Oh - you should definitively read the three musketeers! It's an incredibly well written book... it's a classic... but with action - not something one sees all that often. ahah - yeah they DO have sort of the same job... anyway, I hope you liked this chapter too!**

**Guest 3: BAHAHHAHA YeAH Im aN eViL PERsOn**

**IWasNeverSeen: *looks around* *can't see IWasNeverSeen* yup.. Sherlock behaved like the ass he often is XD**


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Harry Potter, Sherlock, Crime, Fantasy