# 221B Baker Street – Sitting Room – 1:15 AM
The familiar chaos of 221B Baker Street welcomed them back with all the subtlety of a brass band falling down a staircase and then getting up to do an encore. Books leaned in teetering stacks that practically dared gravity to intervene, their spines creating a rainbow of academic rebellion that would have made librarians weep. Papers coated every available surface like confetti after a particularly enthusiastic New Year's parade, and the skull—*the* skull, still grinning away on the mantelpiece with the eternal optimism of the long-dead—had acquired a new neighbor: half a dozen meticulously labeled soil samples arranged with the precision of a museum display.
"Lovely," John muttered, limping into the room and surveying the domestic apocalypse with the weary resignation of a man who'd given up on conventional housekeeping sometime around his third week of cohabitation with a consulting detective. "Home sweet... landfill."
"Controlled environment," Sherlock corrected sharply, stripping off his coat and tossing it across the back of his chair with all the precision of a man who'd never once done his own laundry and saw no compelling reason to start now. The coat landed at precisely the angle that would create maximum wrinkles while still being technically "put away." He was already pacing, dark curls in full rebellion against any attempt at order, sleeves rolled to the elbows as though crime-solving were a contact sport requiring proper athletic preparation. "Every specimen exactly where I left it. Unlike certain military doctors who insist on rearranging my carefully curated chaos into some semblance of—"
"Tidying," John interrupted flatly, collapsing onto the sofa like a man who'd been through three wars, two revelations, and possibly an alien invasion all in the span of one evening. His cane thunked against the coffee table with the finality of a judge's gavel. "It's called tidying, Sherlock. You should try it sometime. Clears the head, organizes thoughts, prevents the accumulation of mysterious stains on every surface."
"I don't want my head cleared," Sherlock declared with the fervor of a evangelist preaching to the unconverted. "I want it brimming. Teeming. Overflowing with data, connections, possibilities." His pale eyes glittered with manic intensity as he spun suddenly in the middle of the room, coat tails flaring with theatrical precision. "Moriarty."
Harry, tucked comfortably into the big armchair like some pocket-sized monarch surveying his domain, raised a skeptical eyebrow. For someone not yet eleven, he radiated an unnerving calm that suggested he'd either seen too much or understood far more than was healthy for someone his age. Possibly both. "Yes, Sherlock, we were all there. Front row seats to the whole performance. I don't think anyone missed the dramatic 'Napoleon of crime' entrance music. Very Wagner, really. All sturm and drang."
John stifled a laugh behind his hand, the sound escaping as a sort of dignified snort that he tried to disguise as a cough.
Sherlock shot Harry a withering look that could have stripped paint from the walls. "Do you mind? I'm attempting to conduct a serious analysis of tonight's events, not provide entertainment for—"
"For your audience?" Harry interrupted, folding his arms with the satisfied air of someone who'd just scored a particularly good point. "Please, do get on with the monologue. We'd hate to miss Act Two of 'Sherlock Holmes vs. The Mysterious Criminal Mastermind.' I assume there'll be dramatic revelation, possibly some violin music, definitely more pacing."
Sherlock's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his temple, but his pacing resumed with renewed vigor. "Moriarty. Consulting criminal. Self-proclaimed Napoleon of crime. My intellectual equal. My precise opposite. The mirror image of my own mind, but twisted toward destruction rather than—"
"Bit of an upgrade from 'psychopath with Wi-Fi,'" Harry interrupted again, examining his fingernails with elaborate disinterest. "Though I suppose you do prefer your rivals with a touch more theatrical flair. More satisfying to the ego, really. Do you send them fan mail, or is it just the dramatic labeling that gets your attention?"
"Harry," John warned gently, though he was fighting a grin that threatened to split his face in half.
Sherlock ignored both of them with monumental effort that was almost visible in the rigid line of his shoulders. "Everything tonight was staged for my benefit. Every single detail orchestrated with surgical precision. The suicides—they weren't random acts of desperation. They were field tests. Each one an experiment, meticulously designed to measure my capabilities. My speed of deduction. My investigative methodology. My available resources." He paused mid-stride, turning to face them with the intensity of a man who'd just discovered the secret to eternal life. "He's not simply watching me. He's studying me. Cataloguing my responses, mapping my thought processes, building a psychological profile."
"Revision notes and everything," Harry muttered, settling deeper into his chair. "Bet he's got a little scrapbook with your picture on the front. Glitter stickers. 'Sherlock Holmes: My Problematic Fave.'"
John snorted, then coughed in a failed attempt to disguise it as something more dignified. "Sorry. Carry on. Don't mind me."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed to pale slits. "Are you quite finished with the running commentary? Because I'm attempting to prevent a criminal mastermind from destroying London, not perform for your amusement."
"Not even close to finished," Harry said cheerfully, bouncing slightly in his chair with the irrepressible energy of someone who'd found a new favorite game. "But don't let me stop your 'dark reflection of my own genius' speech. It's very dramatic. Very Hamlet-meets-Hackney, really. All sturm, all drang, not quite enough actual substance."
Sherlock drew a sharp breath through his nose, pinching the bridge with long, pale fingers. "The boy is insufferable."
"The boy," Harry replied with perfect primness, straightening in his chair like a particularly dignified young gentleman, "is sitting right here and has a name, thank you very much. Also, the boy has made several rather good points tonight that certain consulting detectives seem determined to ignore in favor of dramatic posturing."
John leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands. "All right, let's strip this down to basics. Put aside the theatrical rivalry for a moment." He fixed Sherlock with a steady look. "He's rich enough to throw twenty thousand pounds at terminal patients for murder. That's serious money. He's got technology that looks like it came straight out of a Bond film—proper spy stuff, not some amateur's garage workshop. He's been reading my blog religiously, probably knows more about our cases than we do ourselves—"
"Studying," Sherlock corrected automatically.
"Fine. Studying. Stalking. Obsessing. Call it whatever makes you feel better." John gestured vaguely at the chaos around them. "Point is, nobody puts in this level of time, money, and resources unless there's a compelling reason. A goal that justifies the investment. So what's his endgame? What does he actually want?"
"The Game," Sherlock said darkly, savoring the words like fine wine. He resumed pacing, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that was pure theatrical consulting detective. "That's what Jeff Hope called it, wasn't it? A contest. Consulting criminal against consulting detective. Every move calculated, every outcome predetermined by pure intellect. Chess played with human lives instead of wooden pieces."
Harry tilted his head, studying Sherlock with unsettling intensity. "Lovely. So we're talking about murder as Monopoly, except instead of collecting two hundred pounds when you pass Go, you just... collect body counts? And instead of going to jail, you get to gloat about your superior intellect?"
John winced visibly. "Christ, Harry. When you put it like that..."
"Cheery, isn't it?" Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Nothing quite like reducing human life to game pieces for the amusement of bored sociopaths."
Sherlock spun on his heel, coat flaring dramatically. "It's not about money. Or fame. Or conventional power. Those are petty ambitions for small minds, pedestrian goals for ordinary criminals." His eyes blazed with the fervor of true obsession. "This is about proving intellectual superiority. Demonstrating that one mind can outthink, outmaneuver, outplay another. He doesn't want to win in any conventional sense—victory is temporary, forgettable. He wants to play. The game itself is the reward."
Harry's green eyes sharpened, taking on the quality of laser focus that made him seem far older than his nearly-eleven years. "Which makes him fundamentally not a mastermind at all. Just a bored child with too many toys and not enough supervision. Dangerous, yes, absolutely. Capable of genuine harm, without question. But not invincible. Not some criminal genius touched by the gods of strategy." He leaned forward, voice taking on an edge that would have done credit to someone three times his age. "You're giving him exactly what he wants every time you call him your 'mirror' or your 'equal' or your 'worthy opponent.' That's not chess, Sherlock. That's you doing his public relations work for free."
There was a beat of absolute silence. Even the perpetual London traffic seemed to pause. Sherlock froze mid-stride, visibly recalibrating his entire worldview in the space of three seconds.
John blinked at Harry, expression cycling through surprise, admiration, and a healthy dose of unease. "Remind me again—you're ten years old?"
"Nearly eleven," Harry said with wounded dignity, as though the distinction were crucial to understanding his obvious wisdom.
John exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Bloody hell. I need stronger tea."
Sherlock sniffed with theatrical disdain, resuming his pacing with renewed energy that somehow managed to be both more focused and more manic than before. "Age has nothing whatsoever to do with intellectual capacity. The boy merely stumbled onto an obvious deduction that I was perfectly capable of reaching myself given sufficient time and motivation."
Harry's grin widened into something that could only be described as predatory. "Which means I've officially out-deduced the great Sherlock Holmes at least twice in one evening. I'll take my consulting detective crown now, thanks. Does it come with a coat, or do I have to provide my own dramatic outerwear?"
John grinned openly into his hands, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Oh, this is going to be fun. Living with two of you is going to be either brilliant or completely insane."
"Probably both," Harry added helpfully.
Sherlock whirled around, exasperation radiating from every line of his lean body like heat from a furnace. "This is not fun, John. This is war. Moriarty is unpredictable, escalating, and demonstrably willing to kill for entertainment. Unpredictability in an opponent is—"
"Unmanageable?" Harry suggested brightly, settling back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who'd just won a particularly good argument. "Inconvenient for your usual methods? Well, that's unfortunate. I suppose you'll just have to adapt, improvise, keep up with changing circumstances. Lucky thing you've got me to help, isn't it? Fresh perspective, outside thinking, all that good stuff."
John laughed outright this time, the sound warm and genuine in the cluttered flat. "Yeah, Sherlock. Lucky thing indeed. Though I'm not sure London is ready for the two of you working together."
Sherlock's eyes flashed with that familiar manic brilliance that usually preceded either stunning deductions or small explosions. "We shall see about that."
And somewhere in the shadows, unseen and unnoticed, the skull grinned on with the eternal patience of the dead, as though it knew a very private joke that the living weren't quite ready to understand.
The creak of the front door echoed up through the Georgian bones of the building, followed by the brisk, determined tread of sensible shoes on worn stairs—a sound as unmistakable as Big Ben chiming the hour. Mrs. Hudson moved through 221B Baker Street with the purposeful authority of someone who'd been running the place long before Sherlock Holmes had turned it into the unofficial epicenter of London's most elaborate chaos, and who fully intended to continue long after he'd moved on to terrorize some other unfortunate building.
"Sherlock Holmes!" her voice rang out, crisp as church bells and carrying easily up two flights of increasingly eccentric staircase. "Are you boys back safe? I've been sitting downstairs with the radio on half the night, hearing nothing but sirens and police chatter, wondering if you've managed to get yourselves arrested again for interfering with official police work!"
Sherlock straightened as if someone had called "Action!" on a film set, his entire expression brightening with sudden inspiration. He turned toward the doorway with the air of a man who'd just discovered the solution to world hunger. "Mrs. Hudson! Excellent timing. Perfect, as always. We require sustenance. Substantial sustenance. Protein, complex carbohydrates, the sort of fuel marathon runners consume at mile twenty when their bodies are running on pure determination and electrolytes. We'll be working through the night analyzing tonight's data, cross-referencing patterns, building psychological profiles—"
Mrs. Hudson swept into the doorway like a small, determined storm system, dressing gown tied in a neat knot that somehow managed to look more formal than most people's evening wear. Her silver hair was pinned with the kind of enviable neatness that suggested either supernatural powers or decades of practice dealing with impossible men. She carried with her the unimpeachable air of a woman who had heard every possible excuse, plea, and dramatic declaration at least seventeen times before, and remained categorically unimpressed by all of them.
"I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she reminded him with the patience of a saint explaining basic mathematics to a particularly slow child. "I am your landlady. There is a difference, and that difference does not include midnight catering services for eccentric detectives and their..." her eyes flicked to John with genuine fondness, "...long-suffering associates."
John, who had collapsed onto the sofa like a soldier after a particularly brutal campaign, lifted one weary hand in greeting. "Evening, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry about the late night chaos. Again."
She softened immediately, her tone shifting from exasperated landlady to concerned maternal figure in the space of a heartbeat. "Oh, you look absolutely dreadful, dear. Like you've been dragged through three hedges backwards, run over by a taxi, and then asked to explain the experience to a committee."
"That's..." John considered this assessment with the careful deliberation of someone too tired to argue with accuracy. "Actually not far off the mark."
And then Harry spoke. From his throne-like perch in the oversized armchair, legs tucked under him with feline grace, he leaned forward with eyes wide and calculating innocence. The expression was a masterpiece of careful engineering—part vulnerable child, part practiced manipulator, all devastatingly effective.
"Mrs. Hudson," he said softly, voice pitched to precisely the right frequency of polite exhaustion, "it's been rather a horrid evening, I'm afraid. Serial killers, criminal masterminds, possibly a government conspiracy—I might have lost count somewhere between the third murder and the dramatic rooftop confrontation, actually." He paused, allowing his shoulders to droop with perfectly calculated weariness. "I know it's frightfully late, and I hate to be a bother, but... could we possibly trouble you for something simple? A sandwich, perhaps? Tea? Maybe biscuits if you've got them? Nothing fancy, nothing that requires actual cooking. Just... something warm?"
Mrs. Hudson's entire demeanor melted like butter in summer sunshine. If Sherlock had just declared his undying love for organized filing systems, she wouldn't have looked half as astonished or pleased. "Oh, you poor little lamb," she said immediately, hurrying fully into the room with renewed purpose. "Of course you can have something proper. I'll not have you sitting up here starving after whatever complete nonsense these two have dragged you into this time."
"I wasn't dragged anywhere," Harry said with airy dignity, settling back into his chair with renewed comfort. "I remained perfectly safe at home all evening, providing insightful commentary on the proceedings. Very much like cricket commentators, really—observing from a position of safety, offering expert analysis, occasionally questioning the players' strategic decisions. Only with considerably more death and significantly fewer cucumber sandwiches."
John gave a strangled laugh that threatened to turn into something approaching hysteria. Sherlock rolled his eyes so dramatically it was genuinely surprising they didn't detach from their moorings and roll across the floor.
"Safe?" Mrs. Hudson repeated with the skeptical tone of someone who'd learned not to trust any statement beginning with that particular word when applied to this household. "In this establishment? With these two?" She gestured broadly at John and Sherlock as though they were exhibits in a museum of poor life choices. "Safe is a relative concept here, dear. Safer than wrestling tigers with your bare hands, perhaps. Safer than juggling lit dynamite while blindfolded, certainly. But not actually safe safe."
She fixed Sherlock with a glare sharp enough to pierce military-grade Kevlar. "You'll see that boy gets proper meals regularly if I have to march up here myself three times a day and supervise every bite. Growing children need nutrition, not whatever dust and theoretical concepts you consider adequate sustenance."
"Unnecessary monitoring," Sherlock replied briskly, waving one hand dismissively. "He consumes food at regular intervals. I've observed him doing so. The process appears adequate for maintaining basic biological functions."
Harry smirked with wicked delight. "Tea and toast counts as a complete meal in Sherlock's carefully constructed universe. He genuinely believes spaghetti hoops represent balanced nutrition. Very scientific approach, really: one hoop equals approximately one calorie, multiply by the contents of the tin, divide by meals per day. Elementary mathematics."
John barked a laugh that was equal parts amusement and despair. "You're absolutely not wrong about that assessment."
Sherlock whirled on him with the indignation of someone whose perfectly reasonable lifestyle choices were being unfairly criticized. "Nutritional intake serves a functional purpose. My time and mental energy are far better invested in solving murders, preventing crimes, and saving lives than in the elaborate ritual of 'proper cooking.' I fail to see how sautéing vegetables contributes meaningfully to the greater good."
"Yet somehow," Harry observed with sweetly poisonous innocence, "you've managed to find time for collecting forty-seven different soil samples, maintaining correspondence with tobacco ash specialists, and conducting lengthy philosophical discussions with a human skull. Priorities are clearly very flexible when they suit your interests."
John clapped his hands together with unrestrained delight. "Oh, he's absolutely got you there, Sherlock. Complete logical destruction. I'm genuinely impressed."
Mrs. Hudson sniffed with deep satisfaction, already bustling toward the kitchen with renewed purpose and considerable maternal authority. "Right then. Proper sandwiches, actual tea brewed with leaves instead of whatever industrial dust Sherlock insists on using, and a plate of something sweet. And I mean proper tea, mind—none of that beige water nonsense that passes for refreshment in this establishment."
"You are genuinely a saint, Mrs. Hudson," John said with heartfelt gratitude, sinking even deeper into the sofa cushions. "An absolute treasure. We don't deserve you."
"Oh, flattery will certainly get you extra biscuits, Doctor Watson," she replied with a knowing wink that suggested years of experience managing difficult men through strategic application of baked goods. "But it most certainly will not get you out of explaining why you smell distinctly of police cars, cordite, and what appears to be taxi upholstery, and why you look like you've been personally brawling with every hooligan between here and Piccadilly Circus."
"Because he has been," Sherlock said absently, resuming his pacing with renewed vigor now that food had been promised and domestic arrangements sorted to everyone's satisfaction.
"Technically, more 'engaged in physical altercations with dangerously unstable taxi drivers,'" John corrected with the precision of someone who'd learned that accuracy mattered when dealing with both doctors and detectives.
Harry leaned back in his chair with a grin that could have powered half of London. "Welcome to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson: where the tea is reliably strong, the biscuits come without questions asked, the police complaints are filed on a weekly basis, and the domestic violence usually involves furniture rather than people."
Mrs. Hudson bustled back toward the stairs, muttering under her breath about "impossible men" and "the lot of them needing proper mothers and regular supervision."
The flat creaked back into its familiar rhythm—or rather, Sherlock's pacing resumed, filling the air with sharp footsteps, sharper thoughts, and the kind of barely contained intellectual energy that made the very walls seem to vibrate with possibility.
Harry, lounging with the casual authority of someone who'd somehow managed to make himself completely at home in the space of a few hours, cleared his throat with theatrical precision. "So, while we're waiting for sandwiches and contemplating how we've apparently attracted the undivided attention of London's most theatrically sophisticated criminal mastermind, there's something else we should probably discuss."
Sherlock froze mid-stride, head snapping toward him with laser focus. "What?"
Harry laced his fingers together with prim satisfaction, settling back into his chair like a miniature judge preparing to deliver verdict. "Hermione Granger."
"Ah," John said automatically, then frowned as the implications began filtering through his tired brain. "Wait. Why are we talking about Hermione? What does my niece have to do with criminal masterminds and dramatic rooftop confrontations?"
Harry tilted his head with casual innocence that didn't fool anyone in the room. "Because she'll be starting at Hogwarts in September. Same year as me, as it happens. I thought it might be strategically sensible to arrange a meeting beforehand. You know—establish contact, build rapport, create preliminary social connections."
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. "Sensible?" He pronounced the word like it was an exotic foreign delicacy he wasn't entirely sure he approved of.
"Yes, sensible," Harry said with patient dignity. "It would be genuinely nice to know at least one other person entering the magical world for the first time. Mutual support, shared experience, potential academic alliance. Someone else who understands what it's like to discover that magic is real and you're part of it." His expression grew more serious, more thoughtful. "Plus, having a connection to someone from your life, John, means I'm not entirely an orphan surrounded by strangers and potential enemies. It builds continuity, establishes family connections, creates better optics for anyone who might be watching our movements."
John blinked in surprise. "Optics?"
Harry's mouth quirked into something that was equal parts smile and grimace. "Yes, optics. Public perception management. Criminal masterminds absolutely adore exploiting family dynamics for maximum dramatic effect—very operatic, lots of potential for emotional manipulation and strategic leverage. Just ask Sherlock about the psychological impact of threatening people's loved ones."
"I prefer the term 'strategic vulnerability assessment,'" Sherlock said with clinical precision. "But yes, fundamentally correct analysis."
John let out a short laugh that contained absolutely no humor. "Sweet Jesus. You're ten years old and you're talking about psychological warfare and strategic planning like you're briefing military intelligence."
"Nearly eleven," Harry corrected with wounded dignity, as though the distinction were crucial for understanding his obvious expertise in matters of personal security.
"Nearly eleven," John repeated weakly, rubbing his face with both hands.
Sherlock had stopped pacing entirely, now watching Harry with the intense fascination of someone who'd just discovered a particularly interesting new species of rare butterfly. "Strategic alliance building with individuals of parallel circumstance and complementary capabilities. Excellent foresight, genuinely impressive tactical thinking." His eyes brightened with intellectual approval. "Highly advantageous positioning, particularly in an institutional environment like Hogwarts where, based on all available historical data, social hierarchies tend toward the medieval, selection criteria remain frustratingly arbitrary, and the entire power structure appears hopelessly obsessed with genetic purity over actual competence or ability. Absolutely ludicrous system, frankly."
Harry grinned with sharp satisfaction. "Translation for those not fluent in Sherlock: pureblood bigots with bad haircuts and worse attitudes."
John choked on what might have been either a laugh or a sob. "That's... actually not terribly far off from what Professor McGonagall told my sister when she explained the whole situation."
Harry leaned forward, voice quickening with obvious interest and confidence. "Hermione's nervous about starting school, isn't she? Probably spends every day buried in textbooks, absolutely convinced she's going to fail spectacularly before she's even begun."
John's expression softened with recognition and familial fondness. "Yes, exactly that. She's been systematically working through every single piece of preliminary reading Professor McGonagall provided, plus everything she could find in the magical sections of the British Library. My sister says she's completely desperate to catch up, terrified she'll be hopelessly behind everyone else who grew up knowing about magic."
"Classic over-prepared academic panic response," Harry diagnosed with knowing authority. "Reads absolutely everything available on every possible topic, remembers every single detail with perfect clarity, takes comprehensive notes on subjects that won't be covered for three years, and then somehow convinces herself she knows absolutely nothing useful." He grinned with obvious affection. "If she's anything like you, John, she'll probably rewrite half the curriculum by Christmas just to prove she understands the material properly."
John raised an eyebrow, looking simultaneously pleased and concerned. "Like me?"
Harry's smirk took on distinctly mischievous qualities. "Military doctor who saves lives under impossible pressure while maintaining perfect composure, follows Sherlock Holmes around London like a particularly loyal Golden Retriever, and somehow manages to keep detailed records of every single case despite the chaos. Yes, I definitely see the family resemblance. Thoroughness, competence, and an unfortunate tendency toward self-sacrifice for the greater good."
John opened his mouth to respond, closed it again thoughtfully, then muttered, "Cheeky little—"
Sherlock cut across him with renewed energy, eyes gleaming with the kind of intellectual excitement that usually preceded either brilliant deductions or controlled explosions. "He's absolutely correct about the strategic implications. Hermione Granger represents more than just family connection or potential friendship. In tactical terms, she constitutes a significant liability. Muggle-born, completely inexperienced with magical society, no embedded protection from established magical families or political connections. She embodies precisely the archetype that someone like Moriarty would identify as perfect leverage: emotionally valuable to you, logistically vulnerable to manipulation or direct action."
John's face fell, shoulders tightening with the automatic tension of someone whose military training had just been activated by threat assessment. "Christ. You actually think he'd go after her? A child?"
"Of course he would," Sherlock said with matter-of-fact brutality. "He won't just consider it as a possibility—he'll plan for it systematically. Multiple approaches, various contingencies, detailed psychological profiles of everyone involved. He'll probably have charts, diagrams, a comprehensive spreadsheet with risk assessments and timeline projections."
Harry clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp enough to startle both adults. "Exactly! Which is precisely why we arrange a proper introduction now, before anyone else has the opportunity to make contact. We coordinate our approaches, establish clear communication protocols, develop safety procedures and fallback plans." His expression grew more serious, taking on an edge that belonged on someone considerably older. "That way, when mysterious strangers with suspicious cheekbones and dramatic fashion sense start asking pointed questions about family connections, we know how to respond appropriately."
John gave him a look that cycled through admiration, alarm, and something approaching parental pride. "Suspicious cheekbones?"
Harry gestured eloquently at Sherlock with both hands, as though presenting evidence to a jury. "Case in point. The man's entire face is basically a warning sign about dramatic confrontations and morally ambiguous behavior patterns."
Sherlock rolled his eyes toward the ceiling with theatrical suffering. "If you're quite finished weaponizing physical description for comedic effect—"
"Never finished with that," Harry interrupted cheerfully. "Sarcasm is a renewable resource. Environmentally friendly, completely sustainable, and effective against most forms of pretentious behavior."
John pinched the bridge of his nose, voice taking on the tone of someone who'd suddenly realized exactly what his immediate future held. "Oh, dear God. There are genuinely two of them now. I'm going to be living with two consulting detectives who think normal human interaction is a form of performance art."
Mrs. Hudson bustled back into the room, this time balancing a tray that looked as though she'd systematically raided both a proper tearoom and a well-stocked corner shop. The arrangement was impressive in its comprehensiveness: sandwiches cut with geometric precision, proper china cups that had clearly seen better decades but maintained their dignity, a teapot that appeared to have survived multiple geological eras, and enough assorted biscuits to feed half of Scotland Yard through a long siege.
"There we are then," she announced with the ceremonial finality of a monarch placing a crown, or possibly a general securing strategic positions. She set the tray down on the coffee table with careful precision, then fixed Sherlock with a gimlet stare that could have stopped charging cavalry. "Food. Actual, proper food prepared by someone who understands nutrition and basic human needs. To be consumed by actual human beings with functioning digestive systems. That includes you specifically, Sherlock Holmes, not just the sensible people."
Sherlock didn't look up from his pacing, coat swishing with dramatic flair despite the fact that they were indoors and the theatrical gesture served no practical purpose whatsoever. "I don't require conventional sustenance at the moment. I require mental clarity, intellectual focus, uninterrupted thought processes. Nutritional intake at this stage would constitute an unnecessary distraction from more pressing analytical requirements."
"What you require," Mrs. Hudson countered with the brisk authority of someone who'd managed difficult men for several decades, "is iron in your diet, regular meals, and basic vitamins that don't come from whatever industrial stimulants you consider adequate nutrition." She began pouring tea with practiced efficiency that suggested long experience in crisis management. "Otherwise you'll collapse dramatically in the middle of some crucial deduction, and then who exactly do you suppose will be responsible for cleaning up the mess? Not me, I can tell you that much. I'm your landlady, not your personal medical staff."
"Technically speaking," Sherlock drawled, finally pausing in his pacing to glance at her with the expression of someone delivering a particularly clever logical trap, "if I were to collapse from malnutrition within my own flat, the subsequent cleanup and potential property damage would fall quite clearly under standard landlady responsibilities as outlined in our lease agreement."
Mrs. Hudson swatted his arm smartly as she passed, the gesture carrying decades of practice dealing with impossible tenants. "Don't you dare try being clever with me, Sherlock Holmes. I've buried two husbands and managed three difficult properties. I could bury you before breakfast and still have time to properly organize your sock drawer."
Harry, who had been watching this domestic exchange with obvious delight, bit into a sandwich with the casual grace of someone for whom life-threatening adventures followed by civilized tea service was becoming perfectly routine. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed with appropriate dignity, then beamed at Mrs. Hudson with the full devastating force of green-eyed charm deployed at maximum effectiveness.
"Mrs. Hudson, these are absolutely perfect," he said with genuine warmth that somehow managed to convey both gratitude and sophisticated appreciation. "Honestly, if I'd known sandwiches could taste this good, I might have convinced Voldemort to give up the whole murder-and-conquest thing and retire early to open a proper café."
John choked violently on his tea, coughing and sputtering while trying to process the casual reference to dark wizards in the context of afternoon refreshments. "Harry! For God's sake!"
Sherlock's head snapped toward Harry with laser focus, eyes immediately brightening with analytical interest. "Fascinating psychological coping mechanism. Casual flippancy deployed as defense against genuine trauma, deflection through humor to minimize emotional impact of serious threats. Very characteristic of Gryffindor personality patterns, actually. Or possibly evidence of well-concealed sociopathic tendencies masked by superficial charm and social manipulation."
Harry smirked with obvious satisfaction, settling back into his chair as though he'd just won a particularly satisfying debate. "Or maybe I'm simply better company than you are, Sherlock. People tend to actually enjoy spending time with me. It's a terrible burden, really. The constant pressure to be charming and likeable. Exhausting."
Mrs. Hudson beamed with unmistakable maternal pride. "He's absolutely right about that, you know. Lovely, polite boy with proper manners."
John muttered into his teacup with the tone of someone who'd suddenly realized exactly what he was dealing with. "Dangerously charming, more like. He's completely weaponized it. I watched that police constable practically hand him her notebook and ask if he needed anything else for his investigation."
Harry widened his eyes with calculated innocence, the expression a masterpiece of practiced manipulation. "What can I possibly say? The uniform brought out her protective instincts. Or maybe it was my heroic cheekbones catching the streetlight at just the right angle. These things happen when you're naturally photogenic."
Sherlock rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, muttering something distinctly uncomplimentary about "adolescent peacocking behavior" and "evolutionary display mechanisms."
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