Chapter Text
Cold, cruel eyes looked on dispassionately as Harry screamed and thrashed. Cold hands clutched at his clothes, his skin, dragging him backwards into the dark.
"No! No! Please!" Harry screamed and screamed. Begged. Pleaded. "Help me! Ron, Hermione, anyone please help me!"
"It's for the best," the voices whispered, a cacophony of damnation. "You're too dangerous."
Harry sobbed, alone but for the cold, clammy hands that threw him to the floor and locked him in the dark. He screamed, the whispers getting louder, louder.
"For your own good, too dangerous, too different, FREAK..."
---
Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed, panting. He glanced around, every detail burying into his brain, calming him with emotionless, unfeeling data. He saw the time and groaned, rubbing at his face.
He needed a cigarette.
He dragged himself from the bed - he'd never sleep more now - and pulled a nicotine patch from under the skull he'd pilfered from his first case, slapping it to his arm and moving to his kitchen. He dodged the severed hand hanging from his ceiling fan and began to make himself a cup of tea.
His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it open. It was a text from Mycroft. Must be a meeting - dentists are hardly open at three in the morning.
[Have you found a new flat yet? -MH]
Sherlock huffed. The idea of moving flats was ridiculous. He'd been fine here for four years, why change now? The fact that he'd spoken to Mrs Hudson (an old case; fun but painfully easy) and had a flat on Baker Street ready for him was completely beside the point. He flicked a text back, hoping it buzzed at an awkward point in Mycroft's business.
[Have a place lined up. Go away. -SH]
Sherlock sipped at his tea and sat on his table, poking a petri dish with his toe. He was bored again. The nightmares and memories always got worse when he was bored. His phone pinged again.
[You must get a flat mate this time. It will decrease potentially unwanted attention. -MH]
Sherlock groaned. He hated people; they were always so boring and petty and selfish. So normal . At least Mycroft was ruthless, and Mrs Hudson had biscuits. Mycroft was right, of course, but flatmates meant no magic. And talking.
[If I must. Meanie. -SH]
Sherlock cleaned up after himself and fetched his coat. It was too boring here. He had to go, get his mind working again. Maybe go visit that Stamford bloke - he always talked to lots of people. Sherlock glanced outside and frowned. Waiting until daylight was probably a good idea.
Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, before he took his riding crop out from the freezer, snapping it against his palm. Time to visit Molly.
---
[Found a flat mate yet? -MH]
Sherlock muttered viciously under his breath, throwing his phone onto his discarded scarf and turning back to the body in front of him. He began to strike the hide of the - male, six foot two, estimated fourty five point seven years old, married twelve years three months divorced after two children and three affairs unsatisfactory job premature ejacul -
Sherlock gave a final whip of the crop and shook his head roughly. He was bored again. His Sight was acting up. It always did when he was bored.
He turned to smile at Molly, who was staring at him. He had seen Stamford earlier, and anticipated a result approximately four point two hours from their meeting, so he had settled into the morgue for some casual experiments. He accepted Molly's offer to make coffee and moved to the lab.
He was searching through a series of his own personal samples, looking at the reaction of alcohol in both his and a muggle's blood. The muggle didn't even notice him take his samples - pathetic. His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it out.
[Sherlock, I expect a flat mate by the end of the day. -MH]
Sherlock swore. That was a Serious Business text. It had his name and everything. He sent back an acknowledgement, well aware that he was only one or two away from a Deep Shit text, or worse - an ‘I'm Telling Mummy’ text.
Sherlock smirked to himself; referring to the Queen as 'Mummy' was a spot of genius on Mycroft's part. As the only one in charge of the two of them, it turned out that they had to report to her often. Of course, talking about the Queen like that in public was out of the question, naturally. So Mycroft, seeing as they were playing Happy Family, came up with the idea to call her 'Mummy'. Her Majesty approved - even once tried to get Sherlock to call her that to her face - and the idea stuck.
Tucking his phone into his jacket pocket, Sherlock turned back to his samples. The door opened and Sherlock glanced up and bit back a smug smile. Right on schedule.
Stamford walked in, followed by a limping man with a heavy duty walking stick. Sherlock winced in sympathy. He too had seen war. The man was young, recently off duty, shot but not in the leg. Sherlock would put money on that limp being psychosomatic. The man was - tired, PTSD, caring eyes, practiced movements, steady hands, doctor -
Sherlock shook his head; the Sight was getting out of hand. It had been too long since he watched magic. He hated the Mage Sight sometimes. It was designed to See magic and it's intricacies, not be wasted in the Muggle world. Without magic to examine the Sight lent itself instead to picking out minute details in the everyday, mundane things that surrounded him. It was useful, of course, Sherlock was able to make better deductions and figure out problems that others wouldn’t even notice to begin with. At times like this, however, it was more of a nuisance than anything else. Sherlock sighed softly, but returned his attention to Stamford and Mr Doctor.
"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked. Stamford was forgetful, never had his charged, leaving... yes. Caring Doctor to the rescue. He took the phone and sent off a nonsensical text to Mycroft. Serves him right, let him try and find a code in that!
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock ignored Stamford's smile and kept looking at the doctor. His hands brushed over the phone, and the details buried themselves into his mind - alcoholic, sibling, recently separated, wanting to keep in touch but as stubborn as Ron -
Sherlock shut the thought down and threw himself into his conversation, analysing the good doctor John Watson furiously, but smiling faintly when Watson said he was ‘amazing’. He'd forgotten how nice it was to be honestly praised. Sherlock pushed away the sentiment by launching into a flat mate spiel.
"I play the violin at all hours, hope you don't mind - helps me think. I believe flatmates should know the worst of each other, yes?" Sherlock smiled again, this time obviously fake; if only that was the worst of him. John seemed a bit perplexed, and Sherlock heard him stutter over the buzz of a new text. He pulled out his phone.
[Explain. - MH]
Sherlock smiled. It had taken dear Mycroft longer to figure that out than he'd thought it would. Slow. Sherlock stood, sweeping his coat and scarf into his arms just as Molly came in with coffee.
"Thanks, Molly, I'm off!" he smiled, ignoring her faintly melancholic nod. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor Watson. I've found a flat I think you'll like, see you tomorrow."
He heard Watson splutter some questions as he left, and he laughed to himself, pulling on his coat. He ducked back into the room and rattled off the answer, enjoying his new flatmate’s gape.
"We'll meet at noon on the dot, the address is 221B Baker Street, and my name is Sherlock Holmes. See you tomorrow, Doctor Watson."
He swept out of the hospital, grinning widely. He'd move out to tonight, get things set up with Mrs Hudson... Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent dear Mycroft a text. Things were coming together well.
---
[Found a flat mate. I like him. - SH]
Mycroft sighed at the text. He hoped this 'him' would be able to deal with Potter - no, Sherlock - because God knew he couldn't. He called in his secretary.
He'd need to meet this flatmate.