Chapter Text
Chapter 1- In which Remus thinks something is very badly up with what apparently happened over in Godric’s Hollow.
If there were three things that Remus couldn’t stand, it was hangovers, rain and the full moon.
Watching fat raindrops pelt against the windshield of the world’s crappiest Ford Fiesta through his fingers as they cradled his throbbing temples, he firmly decided that all he needed now was a freak lunar phenomenon and it was officially a no good, awful, very bad day.
Undercover auror work was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.
With a yawn and a stretch that gave rise to a highly alarming number of creaks and popping noises, he stirred his aching limbs into action and tried to take stock of his surroundings.
This stretch of St John’s Wood had been bustling when he’d staggered back to his car, clutching a bottle of something that tasted suspiciously like drain cleaner but now it was eerily empty in the weak dawn light. Sighing, Remus pushed the ratty picnic rug he’d been curled up under into the passenger side footwell and cast a quick cleaning charm to make himself a little more presentable.
Three nights of this and he was no closer to actually finding any evidence to bring to the man who they said could get to the bottom of any mystery. A man who, he had been told, could eliminate the impossible until what remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
Remus scratched the back of his neck and sighed. Who would ever have imagine that a muggle could be quite so elusive? He was barely a stone’s throw from Baker Street and the numerous spies he knew the ministry had posted nearby. Was it too much to hope that Sherlock bloody Holmes would need to walk 200 yards and buy milk at some point?
Then there had been the absolutely useless forays into the local pubs. No self-respecting ministry official would ever be found in a muggle drinking establishment - which should have made them prime locations to find out a little more about his quarry. Unfortunately, the only people he’d managed to corner about the man were strangely dismissive and, after being bought many, many rounds of drinks had only spoken of the mysterious detective in order to warn Remus to stay far, far away from him.
Staying far away from Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a luxury that Remus had if he ever wanted to see his best friend again.
“Bloody hell, Padfoot.” he grumbled, trying to fix the few strands of hair that had somehow completely eluded his grooming spell. “What on earth have you got me into this time?”
He only wished that Sirius was around to get him into anything at all. Or at least anywhere other than a secure facility in the middle of the North Sea.
Remus shuddered. If he was going to get the job at hand done he was going to have to stay focused. And he wasn’t going to stay focused by sitting here and dwelling on how his life had fallen apart so very, very spectacularly.
It really was astonishing how that kept on happening. It was almost as if he were cursed.
He snorted to himself.
Otherwise cursed.
The rain seemed to worsen in sympathy. With an anticipatory wince, Remus retrieved his muggle umbrella from the back seat of the car, smoothed the worst creases out of his overcoat, and climbed out into the leafy backdrop of St John’s Wood.
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Although Remus did not yet know it, he was in luck. Sherlock had returned from his latest case early that morning and was busy enjoying himself back at 221B Baker Street.
There were three things Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most on a dreary November Sunday morning:
- Annoying Detective Anderson without bothering to leave his front room
- Tea that had been brewed to precisely the right temperature and not just shoved in a mug like that awful tripe that John sometimes made; and,
- News of a terrible and mysterious death of an unexplained nature
He knew from the volley of annoyed text messages that lit up his phone in a disjointed melody, as he took leisurely sips of darjeeling from his favourite mug, that Inspector Lestrade had been bending John’s ear all morning about some random client of Sherlock’s harassing poor Anderson in a bar or something ludicrous like that.
Excellent. Now all he needed was news of a spontaneous human disembowelment and he could officially call it a most excellent day.
Strange incidents had been called in all over London in the last few days, but there was little that wasn’t predictable, boring or dull.
People in strange clothing? Undoubtedly a cult of some kind. Fireworks in broad daylight? Bonfire night was last week and the world was full of people who could be described as chronologically challenged. As for whatever nonsense that had been about flying objects in the sky - utter nonsense.
No, what he needed was a real mystery. One he could really get his teeth into.
Perhaps figuring out what on earth was going on with the strange man in Speedy’s. That was, the man in pajamas and a suit jacket who was drinking coffee at a table in Speedy’s in what was clearly supposed to be a non suspicious manner.
It was deeply, deeply suspicious.
But also - boring.
He was confident he would discover the meaning of it all after he’d finished his tea. Perhaps he could persuade John to wager whether or not they were Russians this time.
Retrieving his phone from the coffee table, Sherlock scrolled through the texts of the morning with vague interest.
Lestrade had some questions - dull
Anderson was upset by something - dull (but also highly excellent)
A mysterious stranger had been asking after him - less dull, but not exactly straightforward as far as cases went.
With a sigh, Sherlock placed his phone face down and stretched his arms out above his head - relishing in the crack of his bones as he did so.
Perhaps he should summon John back. Night shifts with the Metropolitan Police were all very well, but there was only so only one could spend discussing the state of the world with a tin of digestive biscuits.
It was at that moment the doorbell rang.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his feet up. Honestly, it simply wasn’t on for John to go gallivanting off all night and leave him to answer his own door.
“Mrs Hudson!”
There was no response. Goodness, she couldn’t be off having a life as well could she? No, surely not.
The doorbell trilled a second time, then cut off abruptly. The sound of the previously locked front door banging open spurred him into action at last.
He was on his feet and reaching for the nearest heavy object when he heard footsteps approaching, light on the hardwood floors of 221B.
A polite cough: the owner was clearly British, that much was obvious. Not one of the double agents he had dealt with over the years had ever mastered a perfectly English cough. What’s more, the man sounded young, and a little rough around the edges. Not so much in an ill way as a tired and unkempt sort of way.
“Yes?” Sherlock called to this mysterious shadow in the hallway. He wasn’t usually one to take much interest in mysterious shadows but, as this one had just waltzed in through a locked door he felt that he may as well be polite to it. Just in case it turned out to be vaguely interesting.
The owner of the mysterious shadow stepped forward into the room. Unkempt had been an accurate deduction - the man looked as though he had spent a few nights sleeping rough (or at least close to it) and it didn’t suit him. He had, however, at least made an effort to scrub up before coming to visit.
“Mr Holmes?”
Sherlock didn’t respond to such a ridiculous question. Who else, exactly, would be sat at Sherlock Holmes’ kitchen table at 6:30am? Obviously this man, whoever he was, was well aware that he was Sherlock Holmes. The fact he needed to ask at all was, quite frankly, irritating.
“I’ve been told that you’re the best mug- the best detective there is.”
If this man thought flattery was his strong suit, he was sorely mistaken. Why on earth did he have to keep on stating the obvious. Of course he was the best there was - that was, presumably, the reason that this strange man was wandering around his home uninvited in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“I have a problem.”
Again, with the obvious. People very rarely turned up at the door of 221B because their lives were all sunshine and rainbows. Generally, their problems were their own special shade of dull.
“It relates to the death of my friends.”
It was at this point that Sherlock looked up for the first time with genuine interest. A death you say? Pray tell, was it particularly mysterious? Was there foul play involved? If the victim was, of course, truly dead. Those were often the very best ones.
“They say they know who did it, that it is a open and shut case, but there’s something strange going on - there really is.”
Sherlock instantly felt his interest waning. An open and shut case? Clearly the police had, by some miracle, already solved this one and the gentleman before him simply could not accept the result. He’d seen plenty of similar cases, certainly, but they rarely resulted in anything more interesting than an extramarital affair.
The scruffy man must have taken his silence as his leave to continue, because he began pacing and wringing his hands as if what he had to say next was painful to him in some way.
“The people who say Sirius is guilty - they don’t know about Peter. They do not know what he can do. They’re so sure that Sirius killed James and Lily that they won’t even consider another explanation.”
“And what explanation is that?” Sherlock asked at last. His interest had wavered, but he did so enjoy a good murder.
“I think he turned into a rat, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock blinked.
“Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned. Peter is a wizard.”