Sherlock Holmes and the Thief Of Souls
Mar. 27th, 2022 03:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bungakertasThey ganged up on Lestrade the next day to convince him to at least accept some of what they knew as a working theory. Yes, once the victims lose the fight they are absolutely unable to do anything to prevent their own death and dehydration is likely just the fastest-acting mechanism of that eventuality. Yes, it absolutely was the result of human intervention that rendered them this helpless. Yes, that meant this was murder, most definitely. Yes, they were quite sure.
Once Sherlock and John had convinced him that they were utterly, totally and completely sure, Lestrade offered them a half-hearted compromise of sorts. "If we assume what you have as factual—"
"It is factual," Sherlock put in, sounding petulant even to himself.
"—Then what do you want us to do about it?" Lestrade finished, ignoring him.
"We've still got plenty of options for this investigation. If we make a big enough deal of making progress, we may draw out the people who've been trying to get us off of it," Sherlock said.
"They do seem to be the ones with all the information," Lestrade agreed with a sigh. "I've heard worse plans from you."
"But what do we do in the meantime? Work on finding that tattoo?" John asked.
Sherlock cocked his head. "What? Why the tattoo?"
"All of the victims had it. Anyone wearing that tattoo could be in serious danger," John said.
"And may know something about our killer," Sherlock agreed.
John appeared to consider saying something, but decided against it in favour of taking leave of Lestrade. It wasn't until about an hour later, as he wolfed down lunch in a chip shop while Sherlock watched, that he finally said "Did you…did that tattoo seem green to you? I know it is black but—"
"It did," Sherlock nodded. "Maybe it's not a normal tattoo? Magic tattoos." Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. But John had a look on his face that he couldn't ignore. "What is it?"
"I just remembered." He got that look he always got when he talked about Afghanistan. "When I was in the army there was a kid in our unit. He was covered in tattoos. His back, chest, legs…everywhere. He always joked about it. But he said one—though he never said which—was magic, and kept him safe from bullets. Only bullets, he'd say. He could still die, just not from a bullet. Acted like it, too. He would rush into enemy fire so thick it was practically raining, come out, not a scratch on him." John made a motion with his hand for emphasis. "We used to call him, Axe. Axe-Crazy. Not a terribly inventive nickname, and it was handed to him by some Yanks we were stationed with once, but it stuck. He was never afraid of anything."
"Was?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"We took mortar fire one day and Axe got hit with shrapnel all across his chest. All his lovely tattoos ruined. We spent hours working on him, but in the end, we couldn't save him. Before he died, he told me that he'd joined the army to get away from something his people were involved in. He wouldn't say what, but…well, he made it sound like 'his people' didn't just mean Britain."
"He really believed his tattoo was magic?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock, we all believed his tattoo was magic. If you'd seen what he got himself into, you would've believed it, too. It wasn't normal that men survived what he did as often as he did it. And it wasn't a bullet that got him in the end. No one is as lucky as he was," John said.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why are you so skeptical there could be more people who can do magic?"
John glared. "One, you know how I feel about discussing the war. Two, as far as I knew, he was the only one. Him and his family. I've never seen or heard of anyone else who was magic. Not anywhere. One extraordinary person is one thing. But how many can there be before it starts to be strange we haven't heard about them?"
Sherlock nodded. "All right."
The next few days were the boring, torturous work that Sherlock usually liked to leave up to the police. But in keeping with their plan of trying to draw out the people who'd been stealing their memories, they needed to look busy and important, so Sherlock had to be visibly doing something. John was correct that the tattoos were the likeliest way of connecting the dots, but having run out of interesting leads to follow, he was reduced to hunting down obscure, underground tattoo parlours and interrogating the people working there to absolutely no effect. John, after Sherlock bribed him with ruinously expensive organic jackfruit jam, started trying to track down the family of "Axe" from his military days.
After three days, with both of them beginning to get irritable from failing to turn up any new material, they were snapping at each other over breakfast when Sherlock's phone finally, blessedly beeped.
Message received, 8:52 AM
Two people named Ron and Hermione Weasley are currently standing in my office. I have informed them that we will only share our information if he shares theirs. Field trip involved. Bring Watson.
Lestrade
Sherlock grinned and showed John his phone who's face broke into an enormous smile. They were both dressed and out the door in under five minutes and turned up at Scotland Yard to find Lestrade and Donovan in Lestrade's office explaining to a very confused-looking Ron Wealsey about forensic psychology.
"What was this about a field trip?" John asked.
"Right now," Hermione said, appearing to snap into some sort of recitation trance, "you are working with incomplete information on this case. There are more victims of which you are unaware, as well as more evidence. However, given the nature of those victims and that evidence, you have to be given it in person, in a secure location."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I see. And what brought on this desire to be helpful so suddenly?"
He was hoping for an answer involving the obvious progress that Lestrade was making on the case.
"The Ministry of Magic received instructions from the office of Mycroft Holmes to involve you," Ron replied.
Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. Not only had their plan not worked, his brother had stepped in? He was actually embarrassed by this turn of events.
"Is this everyone?" Ron asked.
"It's two too many," Donovan sniffed.
"Donovan," Lestrade said, in a warning tone.
She looked annoyed but said nothing more.
"This is all of us," Lestrade said.
"Excellent," Hermione said. "There's a Ministry car waiting outside."
The five of them exited the building to find that there was, indeed, an antique green car outside, parked on the curb and waiting for them. When Ron simply gestured that they should all climb inside, Lestrade offered an unhappy shrug, but went first. Sherlock waited until Donovan and John had both followed before piling in himself. Ron and Hermione followed and sat down facing them, back to the driver.
The car pulled away, bizarrely seeming to skip ahead of a minor snarl in the traffic on the street.
They rode in silence for several moments until John finally said, "Kidnapped again. Would there be any point in asking you where you're taking me, then?"
"It won't take long," Hermione said. "And it's a bit hard to describe verbally, in any case."
"Are you often kidnapped, then?" Lestrade asked curiously.
And suddenly Sherlock realised what John was referring to. "Do you mean to say that he kidnapped you?" He had known Mycroft had spoken with John, of course. And he had been perfectly aware that Mycroft could be quite unpleasantly persuasive when he wished. He had not realised that his odious brother had actually taken John into that conversation by force.
"'Kidnap' is an awfully strong word," John replied. "Though, technically, I suppose it was. In any case, he didn't do anything."
"I'm sorry, you actually are often kidnapped?" Lestrade broke in, looking like he was about to start taking a complaint from John.
Sherlock set his jaw, wishing he could at least be elsewhere when Lestrade learned about his sibling's lamentable tendency toward megalomania.
"Not precisely," John smoothly replied. "There was a miscommunication."
Sherlock relaxed. He should've known John wouldn't let him down.
And then he realised something he should've noticed right off. He, John, Donovan, and Lestrade were all seated side-by-side in the back of this car, quite comfortably. The seat was much, much too wide, but the car had not looked unnaturally wide from the outside. He swept his eyes over the interior again, noting that the driver's compartment looked normal-sized. The passenger's compartment, while it was unarguably far too large, looked exactly the correct shape and size. The Weasleys were seated, facing them, on a bench that was exactly the right shape for two people and yet no larger than the one now holding four. But none of the people looked foreshortened or stretched or distorted. Somehow, normal geometry was inadequate to describe the vehicle.
For a split-second Sherlock felt certain he was about to feel violently sick or disturbed by this awareness before he realised that the impossible dimensions of the car actually didn't strike him as wrong. Somehow, these people had made the utterly unnatural so normal-looking as to be nearly invisible.
This, on an intellectual level, was a significantly more disturbing realisation that noticing the car's warped interior in the first place.
The car pulled up on a shabby street in central London, and they all exited. As they followed their guides down the road, John said, "That car was a bit like a TARDIS. Did you notice?"
"A what?" Sherlock asked.
"Bigger inside than out," John explained.
Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Yes, Doctor Who. And yes, I did."
"You've seen Doctor Who?" John asked in surprise.
"Not much," Sherlock replied. "Criminals take inspiration from all over, so I do keep up with pop culture that seems like it might be relevant. Crime shows and mystery novels are often useful, but some science-fiction and horror also turn out helpful from time to time. I looked into Doctor Who, but it's much more fantastic than scientific, so I moved on."
"That," John said slowly, "explains your bookshelf. I wondered about all that science fiction."
The Weasleys stopped. Apparently they had arrived…somewhere. Several depressing and somewhat untrustworthy-looking offices comprised the major portion of the street. A skip, a pub that could do with a thorough health and safety inspection, and a red phone box, rounded out the lineup..
Lestrade's eyes widened before he scowled at them. "If this is some kind of joke," Lestrade said, "I will have you put into prison."
"Not a joke," Hermione said. "Ron?"
He went to the phone box, and motioned Lestrade and Donovan to follow him in. The three of them stepped inside, and there seemed to be a few moments of squashed fumbling and then they vanished from sight.
Sherlock turned to Hermione. "What have you done with them?"
"They are perfectly unharmed. I promise. You won't need to trust me about that for too much longer. This is the very last bit of the trip."
John frowned. "I'm not sure I care to get into a tiny little space with someone who tried to mess with my mind a few days ago."
"I am sorry about that," Hermione said.
"So you keep saying," said John.
"It may not make you feel any better, but it isn't something our country has a choice in. This law is an international one and if Britain doesn't keep to it, there are several other nations sworn to make us keep to it by force. You don't want to know what a magic war is like," she told them.
John narrowed his eyes at her. "So every group of magic people erases people's memories to keep their existence secret, then?"
"America, Canada, and Mexico have all outlawed memory charms, actually. Brazil, too. And a few other South American countries. But then that's the Americas for you. Merlin forbid they do anything the easy way," she said, rolling her eyes. Then she nodded at the phone box. "Here we are. Our turn."
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. The phone box hadn't changed at all the entire time they were standing there. Sherlock's curiosity was waning but he felt he would see this trip through to the end, at least, so he climbed inside. The other two followed.
With John and Hermione both smashed into the tiny space with him, Sherlock was about ready to call a halt to the day's adventure. Hermione pulled the phone off the hook and dialed a short series of numbers. A brisk, female voice—which did not come from the phone—spoke in answer.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
This ended, altogether, any thoughts Sherlock had of simply leaving.
"Hermione Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, escorting Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to consult with Auror Headquarters," Hermione responded calmly.
"'Ministry of Magic?'" John mouthed at him.
"'Auror?'" Sherlock mouthed back.
"Thank you," the Voice said. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."
Two square, silver badges rattled into the coin return and Hermione just managed to lever her arms around enough to hand one to John and one to Sherlock. It read Sherlock Holmes, Investigative Consultation. He pocketed it.
There was a long pause in which nothing happened. Then the Voice repeated, "Please attach your badge to the front of your robes."
Sherlock blinked.
"It'll just keep saying that until you do," Hermione said.
Sherlock sighed dramatically and pinned the badge to the lapel of his coat.
"Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."
The phone box seemed to rumble, much like a lift in a building, and then slowly began to sink down.
Exactly like a lift, then, Sherlock thought. At first he thought it was going to be mildly interesting, as the earth rose up around him, but the light slowly bled out of the top of the phone box, plunging them into total darkness. Dull.
They rumbled down in darkness for about a minute. But finally, a warm, friendly light rolled in around their feet like water and slowly rose to fill the entire compartment as they descended. The phone box finally shuddered to a halt on the floor beneath them
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," the Voice said.
The door opened of its own accord and the three of them wedged themselves out, John almost landing on his face.
They were in a magnificent atrium. A huge, vaulted ceiling of deep blue showed a selection of ever-changing golden symbols. The dark, wooden walls were punctuated by carved pillars and enormous fireplaces of black marble with roaring blazes going that used no fuel and produced no heat. On their left, one fire suddenly gave a whoosh and out stepped a woman. On the right, two men selected different fireplaces and shouted something at them before stepping in and disappearing. The floor beneath their feet was dark, glossy wood. In front of them was an enormous fountain of multi-tiered basins of white marble. And on the very far end of the hall was a set of golden gates.
There was no arguing with it now. This was definitely magic. A lot of it. And apparently, for a large minority of people, it was entirely normal.
And a few steps away stood Lestrade and Donovan, watching everything with interest. Ron was talking to them, apparently still trying to calm them down from the revelation of magic-users in Britain. With their own government.
John blinked. "Okay. Ministry. Magic."
They all stepped out across the polished floor. As they passed it, Sherlock noticed a small golden plaque in the bottom basin of the fountain which read All proceeds from the Phoenix Fountain of Victory will go to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He also noticed that, out of everyone in the enormous atrium, he, John, Donovan, and Lestrade were the only ones wearing normal clothes. Everyone else was in variations on the theme of either greatcoat or bathrobe (or some mid-point between the two that apparently included lilac-coloured ensembles with silver spangles, he amended, as that very unfortunate combination scurried past on a man who was humming under his breath), and many were watching their party as they left the main group of persons employed here to detour towards a desk underneath a sign of security.
Ron stepped forwards. "Ron and Hermione Weasley, escorting Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson to Auror Headquarters."
"Wands," announced the bored-looking brunette secretary from behind the desk, not even glancing up from the thick book she was reading. A closer glance revealed that despite the fact this book was thicker than War and Peace and bound in lovely emerald green leather, the unfortunate title emblazoned across the top of the right-hand pages was The Paradise of A Wizard's Love. It was, apparently, the first novel by a Celestina Warbeck, according to what he could see of the dust-jacket laid lovingly on the side of the desk, and must've been a lurid romance indeed from the—moving! oh, ugh—cover image.
"No wands," Ron replied. "This group is muggles."
That got her attention. Her head whipped up, her elbow sliding off her alarming novel. "Muggles? In the Ministry?!?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a scathing set-down when John seized his arm and squeezed. He closed his mouth with a click.
"Minister Shaklebolt's orders," Hermione put in, in a terribly superior tone.
"Right." She sighed, stood up, and seized something that appeared similar to a metal detection wand, which she passed over their bodies. Then, looking at the four of them as if they were dangerous animals who might bite at a moment's notice, she said, "Remain with your escorts at all times. If you are, at any point, separated for any reason, you may be subject to detainment, arrest, criminal charges, fines, or imprisonment."
She strode back around her desk and went straight back to her disturbing novel. Sherlock glanced at John. But Lestrade was already whipping around to the Weasleys.
"You can solve your own bloody murders if you're going to be that way about it," he said. "Do you want our help or not?"
"Sorry, mate," Ron said. "Not everyone really understands…"
"What, people?" Lestrade demanded.
Hermione just sighed. "Come on."
The passed through the golden gates and joined the queue for one of several lifts that waited behind golden grilles.
A young, busy-looking young man strode up to Hermione. "Mrs. Weasley, we really need to discuss the new legislation on charms you've been drafting."
She looked at him. "Theodore, I know spell research is your area," she began.
"And I know you have space in your schedule for an appointment," he countered. "If you don't tell your receptionist to stop stonewalling me, I'm going to start thinking you don't like me."
Sherlock gave the man a second look at that. He was painfully thin, and deep frown lines marred the skin around his mouth. It looked as though he hadn't smiled in months.
Hermione sighed. "All right. I'll see to it you're put on the schedule."
He gave Hermione a tight expression that wasn't quite a polite smile, but at least made the effort. "Auror Potter also requested that I inform you both that both the Misters Malfoy are present and in Auror Headquarters," he added.
Whoever the Misters Malfoy were, the Weasleys didn't like them. They both exchanged a significant look and tiny sighs as the lift for which they were waiting arrived, and the doors opened. The same female voice from the phone box announced "Level Eight, Main Atrium" as several people exited the lift.
They walked in, along with a number of other—apparently government employed—men and women. The man who'd spoken to Hermione was left behind. Sherlock inquired to Ron and was told his name was Theodore Nott, and that they'd gone to school together.
The lift traveled up from Level Eight past Levels Seven ("Department of Magical Games and Sports"), Six ("Department of Magical Transportation"), Five ("Department of International Magical Cooperation"), Four ("Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures") and Three ("Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes" which notably included "Obliviator Headquarters" as well as the "Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee") before they finally got off at Level Two ("Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services"). Several purple paper aeroplanes—interdepartmental memos, according to Ron—zoomed in and out of the lift as they exited, and strode down a corridor.
Sherlock was unsurprised to find that while these people seemed to use rather fantastic methods of accomplishing things, this place resembled most other government offices he'd seen in his lifetime. The walls were clean, but painted boring colours, the floors were scuffed and needed replacing. The furniture was basic and minimal. Essentially, everything was obviously cheap and manufactured on a large scale.
Dull.
Finally, they reached the end of the corridor and passed through a pair of oak doors. In this large room, the open floor area was divided into a selection of cubicles. Though there was a sign on one that read auror headquarters, Sherlock would have spotted what this place was right off. A rather harried-looking Harry Potter was standing in the centre of the cubicled area, having an apparently heated discussion with two men with long, white-blond hair.
Once Sherlock and John had convinced him that they were utterly, totally and completely sure, Lestrade offered them a half-hearted compromise of sorts. "If we assume what you have as factual—"
"It is factual," Sherlock put in, sounding petulant even to himself.
"—Then what do you want us to do about it?" Lestrade finished, ignoring him.
"We've still got plenty of options for this investigation. If we make a big enough deal of making progress, we may draw out the people who've been trying to get us off of it," Sherlock said.
"They do seem to be the ones with all the information," Lestrade agreed with a sigh. "I've heard worse plans from you."
"But what do we do in the meantime? Work on finding that tattoo?" John asked.
Sherlock cocked his head. "What? Why the tattoo?"
"All of the victims had it. Anyone wearing that tattoo could be in serious danger," John said.
"And may know something about our killer," Sherlock agreed.
John appeared to consider saying something, but decided against it in favour of taking leave of Lestrade. It wasn't until about an hour later, as he wolfed down lunch in a chip shop while Sherlock watched, that he finally said "Did you…did that tattoo seem green to you? I know it is black but—"
"It did," Sherlock nodded. "Maybe it's not a normal tattoo? Magic tattoos." Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. But John had a look on his face that he couldn't ignore. "What is it?"
"I just remembered." He got that look he always got when he talked about Afghanistan. "When I was in the army there was a kid in our unit. He was covered in tattoos. His back, chest, legs…everywhere. He always joked about it. But he said one—though he never said which—was magic, and kept him safe from bullets. Only bullets, he'd say. He could still die, just not from a bullet. Acted like it, too. He would rush into enemy fire so thick it was practically raining, come out, not a scratch on him." John made a motion with his hand for emphasis. "We used to call him, Axe. Axe-Crazy. Not a terribly inventive nickname, and it was handed to him by some Yanks we were stationed with once, but it stuck. He was never afraid of anything."
"Was?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"We took mortar fire one day and Axe got hit with shrapnel all across his chest. All his lovely tattoos ruined. We spent hours working on him, but in the end, we couldn't save him. Before he died, he told me that he'd joined the army to get away from something his people were involved in. He wouldn't say what, but…well, he made it sound like 'his people' didn't just mean Britain."
"He really believed his tattoo was magic?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock, we all believed his tattoo was magic. If you'd seen what he got himself into, you would've believed it, too. It wasn't normal that men survived what he did as often as he did it. And it wasn't a bullet that got him in the end. No one is as lucky as he was," John said.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why are you so skeptical there could be more people who can do magic?"
John glared. "One, you know how I feel about discussing the war. Two, as far as I knew, he was the only one. Him and his family. I've never seen or heard of anyone else who was magic. Not anywhere. One extraordinary person is one thing. But how many can there be before it starts to be strange we haven't heard about them?"
Sherlock nodded. "All right."
The next few days were the boring, torturous work that Sherlock usually liked to leave up to the police. But in keeping with their plan of trying to draw out the people who'd been stealing their memories, they needed to look busy and important, so Sherlock had to be visibly doing something. John was correct that the tattoos were the likeliest way of connecting the dots, but having run out of interesting leads to follow, he was reduced to hunting down obscure, underground tattoo parlours and interrogating the people working there to absolutely no effect. John, after Sherlock bribed him with ruinously expensive organic jackfruit jam, started trying to track down the family of "Axe" from his military days.
After three days, with both of them beginning to get irritable from failing to turn up any new material, they were snapping at each other over breakfast when Sherlock's phone finally, blessedly beeped.
Message received, 8:52 AM
Two people named Ron and Hermione Weasley are currently standing in my office. I have informed them that we will only share our information if he shares theirs. Field trip involved. Bring Watson.
Lestrade
Sherlock grinned and showed John his phone who's face broke into an enormous smile. They were both dressed and out the door in under five minutes and turned up at Scotland Yard to find Lestrade and Donovan in Lestrade's office explaining to a very confused-looking Ron Wealsey about forensic psychology.
"What was this about a field trip?" John asked.
"Right now," Hermione said, appearing to snap into some sort of recitation trance, "you are working with incomplete information on this case. There are more victims of which you are unaware, as well as more evidence. However, given the nature of those victims and that evidence, you have to be given it in person, in a secure location."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I see. And what brought on this desire to be helpful so suddenly?"
He was hoping for an answer involving the obvious progress that Lestrade was making on the case.
"The Ministry of Magic received instructions from the office of Mycroft Holmes to involve you," Ron replied.
Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. Not only had their plan not worked, his brother had stepped in? He was actually embarrassed by this turn of events.
"Is this everyone?" Ron asked.
"It's two too many," Donovan sniffed.
"Donovan," Lestrade said, in a warning tone.
She looked annoyed but said nothing more.
"This is all of us," Lestrade said.
"Excellent," Hermione said. "There's a Ministry car waiting outside."
The five of them exited the building to find that there was, indeed, an antique green car outside, parked on the curb and waiting for them. When Ron simply gestured that they should all climb inside, Lestrade offered an unhappy shrug, but went first. Sherlock waited until Donovan and John had both followed before piling in himself. Ron and Hermione followed and sat down facing them, back to the driver.
The car pulled away, bizarrely seeming to skip ahead of a minor snarl in the traffic on the street.
They rode in silence for several moments until John finally said, "Kidnapped again. Would there be any point in asking you where you're taking me, then?"
"It won't take long," Hermione said. "And it's a bit hard to describe verbally, in any case."
"Are you often kidnapped, then?" Lestrade asked curiously.
And suddenly Sherlock realised what John was referring to. "Do you mean to say that he kidnapped you?" He had known Mycroft had spoken with John, of course. And he had been perfectly aware that Mycroft could be quite unpleasantly persuasive when he wished. He had not realised that his odious brother had actually taken John into that conversation by force.
"'Kidnap' is an awfully strong word," John replied. "Though, technically, I suppose it was. In any case, he didn't do anything."
"I'm sorry, you actually are often kidnapped?" Lestrade broke in, looking like he was about to start taking a complaint from John.
Sherlock set his jaw, wishing he could at least be elsewhere when Lestrade learned about his sibling's lamentable tendency toward megalomania.
"Not precisely," John smoothly replied. "There was a miscommunication."
Sherlock relaxed. He should've known John wouldn't let him down.
And then he realised something he should've noticed right off. He, John, Donovan, and Lestrade were all seated side-by-side in the back of this car, quite comfortably. The seat was much, much too wide, but the car had not looked unnaturally wide from the outside. He swept his eyes over the interior again, noting that the driver's compartment looked normal-sized. The passenger's compartment, while it was unarguably far too large, looked exactly the correct shape and size. The Weasleys were seated, facing them, on a bench that was exactly the right shape for two people and yet no larger than the one now holding four. But none of the people looked foreshortened or stretched or distorted. Somehow, normal geometry was inadequate to describe the vehicle.
For a split-second Sherlock felt certain he was about to feel violently sick or disturbed by this awareness before he realised that the impossible dimensions of the car actually didn't strike him as wrong. Somehow, these people had made the utterly unnatural so normal-looking as to be nearly invisible.
This, on an intellectual level, was a significantly more disturbing realisation that noticing the car's warped interior in the first place.
The car pulled up on a shabby street in central London, and they all exited. As they followed their guides down the road, John said, "That car was a bit like a TARDIS. Did you notice?"
"A what?" Sherlock asked.
"Bigger inside than out," John explained.
Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Yes, Doctor Who. And yes, I did."
"You've seen Doctor Who?" John asked in surprise.
"Not much," Sherlock replied. "Criminals take inspiration from all over, so I do keep up with pop culture that seems like it might be relevant. Crime shows and mystery novels are often useful, but some science-fiction and horror also turn out helpful from time to time. I looked into Doctor Who, but it's much more fantastic than scientific, so I moved on."
"That," John said slowly, "explains your bookshelf. I wondered about all that science fiction."
The Weasleys stopped. Apparently they had arrived…somewhere. Several depressing and somewhat untrustworthy-looking offices comprised the major portion of the street. A skip, a pub that could do with a thorough health and safety inspection, and a red phone box, rounded out the lineup..
Lestrade's eyes widened before he scowled at them. "If this is some kind of joke," Lestrade said, "I will have you put into prison."
"Not a joke," Hermione said. "Ron?"
He went to the phone box, and motioned Lestrade and Donovan to follow him in. The three of them stepped inside, and there seemed to be a few moments of squashed fumbling and then they vanished from sight.
Sherlock turned to Hermione. "What have you done with them?"
"They are perfectly unharmed. I promise. You won't need to trust me about that for too much longer. This is the very last bit of the trip."
John frowned. "I'm not sure I care to get into a tiny little space with someone who tried to mess with my mind a few days ago."
"I am sorry about that," Hermione said.
"So you keep saying," said John.
"It may not make you feel any better, but it isn't something our country has a choice in. This law is an international one and if Britain doesn't keep to it, there are several other nations sworn to make us keep to it by force. You don't want to know what a magic war is like," she told them.
John narrowed his eyes at her. "So every group of magic people erases people's memories to keep their existence secret, then?"
"America, Canada, and Mexico have all outlawed memory charms, actually. Brazil, too. And a few other South American countries. But then that's the Americas for you. Merlin forbid they do anything the easy way," she said, rolling her eyes. Then she nodded at the phone box. "Here we are. Our turn."
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. The phone box hadn't changed at all the entire time they were standing there. Sherlock's curiosity was waning but he felt he would see this trip through to the end, at least, so he climbed inside. The other two followed.
With John and Hermione both smashed into the tiny space with him, Sherlock was about ready to call a halt to the day's adventure. Hermione pulled the phone off the hook and dialed a short series of numbers. A brisk, female voice—which did not come from the phone—spoke in answer.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
This ended, altogether, any thoughts Sherlock had of simply leaving.
"Hermione Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, escorting Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to consult with Auror Headquarters," Hermione responded calmly.
"'Ministry of Magic?'" John mouthed at him.
"'Auror?'" Sherlock mouthed back.
"Thank you," the Voice said. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."
Two square, silver badges rattled into the coin return and Hermione just managed to lever her arms around enough to hand one to John and one to Sherlock. It read Sherlock Holmes, Investigative Consultation. He pocketed it.
There was a long pause in which nothing happened. Then the Voice repeated, "Please attach your badge to the front of your robes."
Sherlock blinked.
"It'll just keep saying that until you do," Hermione said.
Sherlock sighed dramatically and pinned the badge to the lapel of his coat.
"Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."
The phone box seemed to rumble, much like a lift in a building, and then slowly began to sink down.
Exactly like a lift, then, Sherlock thought. At first he thought it was going to be mildly interesting, as the earth rose up around him, but the light slowly bled out of the top of the phone box, plunging them into total darkness. Dull.
They rumbled down in darkness for about a minute. But finally, a warm, friendly light rolled in around their feet like water and slowly rose to fill the entire compartment as they descended. The phone box finally shuddered to a halt on the floor beneath them
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," the Voice said.
The door opened of its own accord and the three of them wedged themselves out, John almost landing on his face.
They were in a magnificent atrium. A huge, vaulted ceiling of deep blue showed a selection of ever-changing golden symbols. The dark, wooden walls were punctuated by carved pillars and enormous fireplaces of black marble with roaring blazes going that used no fuel and produced no heat. On their left, one fire suddenly gave a whoosh and out stepped a woman. On the right, two men selected different fireplaces and shouted something at them before stepping in and disappearing. The floor beneath their feet was dark, glossy wood. In front of them was an enormous fountain of multi-tiered basins of white marble. And on the very far end of the hall was a set of golden gates.
There was no arguing with it now. This was definitely magic. A lot of it. And apparently, for a large minority of people, it was entirely normal.
And a few steps away stood Lestrade and Donovan, watching everything with interest. Ron was talking to them, apparently still trying to calm them down from the revelation of magic-users in Britain. With their own government.
John blinked. "Okay. Ministry. Magic."
They all stepped out across the polished floor. As they passed it, Sherlock noticed a small golden plaque in the bottom basin of the fountain which read All proceeds from the Phoenix Fountain of Victory will go to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He also noticed that, out of everyone in the enormous atrium, he, John, Donovan, and Lestrade were the only ones wearing normal clothes. Everyone else was in variations on the theme of either greatcoat or bathrobe (or some mid-point between the two that apparently included lilac-coloured ensembles with silver spangles, he amended, as that very unfortunate combination scurried past on a man who was humming under his breath), and many were watching their party as they left the main group of persons employed here to detour towards a desk underneath a sign of security.
Ron stepped forwards. "Ron and Hermione Weasley, escorting Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson to Auror Headquarters."
"Wands," announced the bored-looking brunette secretary from behind the desk, not even glancing up from the thick book she was reading. A closer glance revealed that despite the fact this book was thicker than War and Peace and bound in lovely emerald green leather, the unfortunate title emblazoned across the top of the right-hand pages was The Paradise of A Wizard's Love. It was, apparently, the first novel by a Celestina Warbeck, according to what he could see of the dust-jacket laid lovingly on the side of the desk, and must've been a lurid romance indeed from the—moving! oh, ugh—cover image.
"No wands," Ron replied. "This group is muggles."
That got her attention. Her head whipped up, her elbow sliding off her alarming novel. "Muggles? In the Ministry?!?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a scathing set-down when John seized his arm and squeezed. He closed his mouth with a click.
"Minister Shaklebolt's orders," Hermione put in, in a terribly superior tone.
"Right." She sighed, stood up, and seized something that appeared similar to a metal detection wand, which she passed over their bodies. Then, looking at the four of them as if they were dangerous animals who might bite at a moment's notice, she said, "Remain with your escorts at all times. If you are, at any point, separated for any reason, you may be subject to detainment, arrest, criminal charges, fines, or imprisonment."
She strode back around her desk and went straight back to her disturbing novel. Sherlock glanced at John. But Lestrade was already whipping around to the Weasleys.
"You can solve your own bloody murders if you're going to be that way about it," he said. "Do you want our help or not?"
"Sorry, mate," Ron said. "Not everyone really understands…"
"What, people?" Lestrade demanded.
Hermione just sighed. "Come on."
The passed through the golden gates and joined the queue for one of several lifts that waited behind golden grilles.
A young, busy-looking young man strode up to Hermione. "Mrs. Weasley, we really need to discuss the new legislation on charms you've been drafting."
She looked at him. "Theodore, I know spell research is your area," she began.
"And I know you have space in your schedule for an appointment," he countered. "If you don't tell your receptionist to stop stonewalling me, I'm going to start thinking you don't like me."
Sherlock gave the man a second look at that. He was painfully thin, and deep frown lines marred the skin around his mouth. It looked as though he hadn't smiled in months.
Hermione sighed. "All right. I'll see to it you're put on the schedule."
He gave Hermione a tight expression that wasn't quite a polite smile, but at least made the effort. "Auror Potter also requested that I inform you both that both the Misters Malfoy are present and in Auror Headquarters," he added.
Whoever the Misters Malfoy were, the Weasleys didn't like them. They both exchanged a significant look and tiny sighs as the lift for which they were waiting arrived, and the doors opened. The same female voice from the phone box announced "Level Eight, Main Atrium" as several people exited the lift.
They walked in, along with a number of other—apparently government employed—men and women. The man who'd spoken to Hermione was left behind. Sherlock inquired to Ron and was told his name was Theodore Nott, and that they'd gone to school together.
The lift traveled up from Level Eight past Levels Seven ("Department of Magical Games and Sports"), Six ("Department of Magical Transportation"), Five ("Department of International Magical Cooperation"), Four ("Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures") and Three ("Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes" which notably included "Obliviator Headquarters" as well as the "Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee") before they finally got off at Level Two ("Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services"). Several purple paper aeroplanes—interdepartmental memos, according to Ron—zoomed in and out of the lift as they exited, and strode down a corridor.
Sherlock was unsurprised to find that while these people seemed to use rather fantastic methods of accomplishing things, this place resembled most other government offices he'd seen in his lifetime. The walls were clean, but painted boring colours, the floors were scuffed and needed replacing. The furniture was basic and minimal. Essentially, everything was obviously cheap and manufactured on a large scale.
Dull.
Finally, they reached the end of the corridor and passed through a pair of oak doors. In this large room, the open floor area was divided into a selection of cubicles. Though there was a sign on one that read auror headquarters, Sherlock would have spotted what this place was right off. A rather harried-looking Harry Potter was standing in the centre of the cubicled area, having an apparently heated discussion with two men with long, white-blond hair.
