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The Department Of Deductions

Summary:

When Sherlock Holmes is kidnapped two years after faking his death by Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, they offer him a job in a new department of the DMLE- The Department of Deductions. Draco and Harry have grown to like and respect each other as Auror partners, and they live together with their two kids in their definitely platonic relationship. Death Eaters are breaking out of Azkaban left right and centre and crime is becoming more drastic once again. The best minds in Britain are recruited for the job, and Sherlock'd be lost without his blogger. Of course, when said blogger thinks you've been dead for two years, there may be just a few problems.

 

~ on hiatus, but will be finished eventually... ~

Chapter 1

Summary:

My first fan fiction... :o

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes had avoided using Magic since 1999. Once his NEWTs had been acquired, he vanished from the Wizarding World almost completely. Almost. With a family of purebloods and three siblings who were rather prominent in the community, he could not be completely removed from it. Even over the past two years, whilst he’d travelled the world on his own, trying to bring down Moriarty, he’d avoided using much magic because he knew his magical signature could be picked up.

However, when he was kidnapped from a hotel, having just come back, not yet having revealed to John that he was still alive, he vaguely remembered just why he had left in the first place. Pansy, his half sister, was interfering again.

Whilst Mummy had been pregnant with him, his father had abandoned ship, and another woman gave birth to a baby girl only months after Sherlock was born. Divorce ensued, and Sherlock rarely saw his half sister, Pansy Parkinson. Whilst Pansy went to that dreadfully common school, Sherlock was tutored at home by his mother, as well as attending Professor Castle’s Traditional Training For Young Wizards three times a week with multiple other young Pureblood children. After all, Mycroft was seven years older and his education was done just as Sherlock’s main education began. Sherrinford was even older than that, so he was more irrelevant. Well, at least he assumed it was Pansy interfering again when he found himself strung up against a stone wall, face being stitched back together by strong magic. After all, anyone else wouldn’t go through the trouble of patching him back together- anyone who wanted him dead would allow him to suffer the pain. It wasn’t her magical signature, it was her John- Draco Malfoy- doing it, and that linked the Magic straight to Pansy. He thought they might have married by now- the Malfoy’s were very respectable, even after the war, the son that was their age had taken the Family Head and had sorted out their reputation- but there was no Bond Mark on his signature, not even the twining of magics that so commonly happened when two were intimately involved.

“Ah, you’re awake, then?” That wasn’t Malfoy. Even after ten years, his voice wouldn’t have changed that much. Sherlock knew Malfoy’s voice well, just like he knew his magical signature. Their signatures had been woven together before, after all.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, taking in his surroundings. It was dimly lit, and just as he had suspected, the walls were stone, as were the floorings. So common. His eyes trailed over to the man the voice was coming from, after checking the room for immediate dangers. Ahh. Harry Potter. He should have recognised that voice. Now, what did Harry Potter want to do with him?

“Speak up, William.” Now that, that was Malfoy. William Holmes hardly had the same ring to it- William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock hadn’t used his forename for years- well, since that day back in his University years when he’d deleted Astronomy. Before then, only his family had called him Sherlock, and after that day, no one had called him William again.

Now, here Malfoy was, healing the huge gash on the side of his face. What was going on? Had he finally come to rub it in his face? Quite literally, there, he supposed. But that couldn't be right. Why would he come after all these years?

“It’s Sherlock.” He croaked, voice cracking slightly from dehydration; his throat and tongue felt like they were covered in sand.

With a quick cast of a wand, a glass was supplied and a stream of water filled it. Potter went to pass it to him, but then seemingly remembered that Sherlock was tied to the wall. “He’s not dangerous, right?”

“If you mean, will he kick your ass, I doubt it.” Malfoy remarked, breaking the bonds of the metal with a flick of his wrist, leaving Sherlock to rub his red wrists.

Potter passed him the glass, leaving Sherlock for several long moments to take sips of the cool contents. “After all, we’re allies. Right, Will?”

“What does Pansy want now?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet but deep and honey-like, as usual, the chords in his throat restored by the cool liquid.

“Pansy?” Potter repeated, eyebrows creasing together to knit, lines sinking to his forehead in confusion, his old scar not very noticeable anymore.

“Parkinson.” He confirmed for the man who seemed to be his friend. But then, why would they be working together? One quick glance at their scarlet robes told him they were part of the DMLE, and from the stitching on the outer cloak, the Auror Department. Clearly they were partners.

“No, Pansy has nothing to do with this, Will.”

“Sherlock.” He corrected instantly.

“Fine, Sherlock.” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes, obviously in mocking torment. “Although she did tell me to ask you if you were going home for Christmas, and whether you’d be bringing a plus one.”

Plus one. Sherlock hadn’t brought a plus one along to any Christmas events since Malfoy, and he was fairly certain that the blonde man knew that. Maybe he could bring John along, just to spite him. John wouldn’t mind. Probably. After getting over the fact that Sherlock had supposedly been dead for the last two years. John had shot a man for him when they’d known each other for less than twenty four hours- surely, he wouldn’t mind coming to the Holmes family estate to watch Sherlock’s dysfunctional family scream at each other. There was free food, after all.

Then again, with Sherlock’s family all there, he wasn’t so sure if he wanted John there, at all. Ever. He didn't want anyone there. Maybe he should just not go all together. That way he’d successfully avoid Mummy, Mycroft, Father and Pansy all in one, as well as all of his other annoying relatives. At least Sherrinford never turned up for these ridiculous events. Plus, John was a muggle. A muggle would hardly be welcomed when everyone there had their wands out.

Yeah, scrap that idea. Sherlock wouldn’t go on his own, and he didn’t have anyone he could bring. Well, he supposed he could drag along Molly Hooper. His family would approve of her- she might not be a pureblood, but she was only a couple of years younger than him, a half-blood who had a fair muggle profession, educated through Hogwarts and then some Muggle University that he hadn't thought relevant enough to catch. Most importantly, if someone accio’ed a bottle of wine, she wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Plus, she owed him a favour.

No, scrap that idea, too. She’d do as he wanted, anyway, she was clearly infatuated, and besides, Sherlock would really rather not go, anyway. He’d spend Christmas alone, or possibly with John, if he wasn’t visiting that sister of his. Harriet was his only family, and they didn’t get along, so he doubted they’d spend Christmas together- they hadn't before Sherlock had left, but Sherlock could no longer be sure of John’s holiday time habits. The only reason he would go was if he wanted to recharge his magical core. He rarely ever used his magic, and if he wanted to, he could just ask Mycroft, who would supply him with the means for some event where he could do so alone, stay for half an hour, and then leave again. Convenient. Wizards were just so lazy. The whole magic thing made their brains rot; they never had to thinnk. Sherlock couldn't stand it.

Sherlock took another long sip of the water before placing the water down on a small table that sat next to him, before standing up, his limbs unravelling from their crooked position that they seemed to have been in for quite some time. They felt awful, graceless, like his transportation had been asleep for a while. “I doubt I will be attending the festivities.”

Potter sighed, fingers brushing across his knuckles. He was nervous, that much Sherlock could see. “Look, we should really take him back to-“

“Shut up, Potter.” Malfoy huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “We’re not taking him to a Ministry Holding Cell. I told you. He’s not one of your beloved criminals.”

Potter seemed to shrink back at that. Sherlock wondered if Harry Potter, Saviour Of The Wizarding World was always so meek, and the only thing his brain would answer with was the obvious answer- but why was he acting this way in front of Malfoy? That was the question. Why would one of the most powerful wizards in the world give in so easily? Why did he respect Malfoy, when Malfoy clearly did not respect him?

“We have an offer for you. The Ministry has been having more and more calls of Obliviators being send out to tend to the Muggle Aurors in London. Wizarding crime rates are higher than ever, and the crimes are getting more and more noticeable.” Malfoy drawled.

“They’re called Police. The Metropolitan, if you’re talking about London.” Potter corrected softly.

“Yes, yes, the Police. Now, the Head Auror, Gawain Robards, has told us to recruit wizards for a new department. We’ve got the best minds and the most powerful wizards in the Wizarding World working with this, even the recluses that have settled amongst muggles, like yourself.” Malfoy continued.

Sherlock considered the pointed man and his partner, pausing. “So, now you’re offering me a job.”

“You were the first person on our list.” Potter admitted sheepishly. “So far, we’ve recruited quite a few, including Hermione Granger, Irene Adler, Severus Snape and Luna Lovegood. You were a bit harder to track down.”

Severus Snape was supposedly dead, and had been since 1998. Sherlock had always had his suspicions that the old dungeon bat had never actually died- a man as intelligent as him would never go into Voldemort’s lair without an antidote for the snake’s venom.

Malfoy approached Sherlock carefully, as if he might bite. “Thirty five hours a week, minimum. Very good pay, hours at flexible times, you could work from home or do field work. Lots of people running around after you, willing to do whatever you say. The most complex and interesting cases in the Wizarding World, an international department. Lots of travelling, as well, if you’d like that.”

Considering this, Sherlock’s finger tips tapped along each other, as though in prayer, as usual, then slipped down purposefully to link his fingers together in a hand cradle. "No, no more travelling." “Naturally, you were the first person I thought of.” Potter pipped in. “I didn’t get to work with you before you left our world, but I’ve heard so much about you from Hermione, Luna and Malfoy.”

After the Battle Of Hogwarts, all young people in the country had been offered to return to Hogwarts. Professor Castle’s Traditional Training For Young Wizards had been shut down temporarily because of the building having taken extreme damage, and new teachers being recruited, but Sherlock just wanted his NEWTs so that he could leave. Attending Hogwarts for his last year had been irritating, but provided a lot of connections, such as Molly Hooper. That year had been the only time he’d ever attended a study group, a small collection of higher year students who would meet in the Hogs Head on a Saturday afternoon. Being in the same year as the Great Saviour was an annoyance, but he’d dealt with it.

“So, are you up for the job, or not?” Malfoy purred.

Sherlock took this to be a one-off sort of offer. Quick consideration was key. Mentally, he cleared a space and made a list. Firstly, he’d never had a job in all of his life. He’d gone from Childhood, to NEWTs, to University, to Cocaine, to the Met, to the Fall. The six key stages he’d sliced his life into. In not one of these chunks had he ever had a job, although his handiwork with the Met came close. Perhaps Mycroft had been right- maybe a real job could relieve his struggle with drugs, although Sherlock would never admit to thinking Mycroft could possibly be right.

“Can I bring in my own people?” Sherlock asked, cautiously. Potter inclined his head in a nod.

“What about… Muggles?”

Potter looked alarmed, shooting a glance towards his partner.

Malfoy shrugged.

Potter kept looking towards Malfoy for the authority, even though Potter was no doubt much more powerful. Maybe Malfoy had a higher position, although that was unlikely; a former death eater versus the Saviour of the Wizarding World? No. Perhaps Potter was scared of Malfoy, but he didn't seem to be afraid. Maybe Potter knew Malfoy had a higher intellect. Questionable.

“Right, I’ll take that as a yes. They’re necessary, I won’t do it unless I can make my own team.” Sherlock insisted. John Watson was the most important person in the world, it didn't matter that he was a muggle. The past two years had proved that to Sherlock. Without his only friend there next to him, he was bored no matter how interesting anything was. It was all useless and painful.

Well, there was the small matter of John Watson thinking one Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide. He’d get over it, then they could go back to fighting crime. He might be at a disadvantage, being a muggle, but he’d be fine. But then… What if John was better off without him? What if he was finally happy, finally out of danger without Sherlock there to drag him into it?

The two were staring at him expectantly.

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyes examining them both one final time before bowing his head slightly. “Yes, very well. I’ll do it.” He agreed. This could score high on his interest chart, and if it didn’t, he could quit. Or just stop turning up. Right? He doubted Lestrade would give him cases upon his return. Mycroft would probably forbid it. Sherlock would need something to kick his brain back into gear, and he'd need something to do other than stares at John all day.

“Gather your people, whoever you chose, as many as you want. Our first meeting will be next Monday at eight am sharp. Meet us here. Potter’ll escort you out. See you later, William.” Malfoy drawled.

“Sherlock.” He corrected again, eyes narrowing slightly in irritation. Draco always did get under his skin. “I’ll see you then.”

 

...~...

 

Sherlock had only met Potter briefly before, but now they would be working together, by the looks of it. As the shorter man lead the genius through a series of corridors and down a few flights of stairs, Sherlock’s eyes raked over him. One hand skimmed along the bannister of the stairs, the sleeves on his robes shoved up around his elbows. He was covered in small scratches, nothing deep, so he could be helping out with Auror training, but the fact that he kept moving his wrists indicated that he did a lot of writing, most likely filling in a lot of forms for the Auror Department- as Harry Potter, he was most likely just a spokes person, not actually a real Auror. Adding to that, the little patches of black dog fur that contaminated his shirt underneath his robe clued Sherlock into the fact that he had at least one large dog.

Over the past few years, his skills had become a little rusty from lack of brain work, so reading whoever he could was an advantage, helping him to become on top of the game again.

The house they were in was old, very old, probably an ancestral location. It looked as though it was in the beginnings of refurbishment, although the owner hadn’t gotten very far.

“Mudbloods and traitors, all of them! Get out of my house, filthy half-blood!” A voice screamed. Ah, portraits.

“No one cares, Walburga!” Potter yelled back.

The portrait, Walburga, considered for several moments. “Is that the Parkinson lad?”

Sherlock glanced over to the portrait, raising a brow. “Holmes, now, but yes. Madame Black, I presume. I’ve heard so much about you. I look forward to speaking with you.”

The woman in the portrait blushed and beamed down at him. “I always did like your family.”

“Dreadful paintings, nasty things.” Sherlock murmured under his breath.

Upon reaching the bottom floor hallway, Potter pulled out a slip of parchment, holding it out for Sherlock. “Make sure whoever you want on our team reads this. Don’t let anyone else see.”

Sherlock glanced down to the scrap, taking it, eyes skimming over the black inked words. 12 Grimmauld Place. “That’s where we are, yes?”

Potter nodded. “Yes. This’ll be where we work from, mainly. If you ever need somewhere to stay or hide out, here’s the place for it. Whole building’s being refurbished and cleaned out, so we’re temporarily located in the Ministry, and that’s where we’re located officially. Kingsley said not to worry about that, though. Draco says the Ministry’s a bore, and everyone looks at him funny, you know, having been a death eater and all. Doesn’t matter much, but it’s irritating, even for him, even if he doesn't admit it, so we decided to set up shop here. I’m Harry Potter and that was Draco Malfoy, but from the way he spoke to you, he knows you well, and most people know who I am, so…”

“Yes, yes. You know who I am, obviously.” Potter nodded, although it hadn't been a question, pressing the parchment into Sherlock’s hand.

“Bring along whoever you want, but… Just make sure you trust them. We hardly want to obliviate more people, especially not muggles. How ever many you want. Of course, they don’t need to work for us full time, just bits and pieces here and there, help out with the squad. I assume you’ll know people, people who’ll work with you. Draco says that people have a hard time adjusting to you, so we figured it’s best to just let you bring along who you’d like. He said you’d probably do that anyway, whether we said you could or not.”

Sherlock noticed that Potter spoke about Malfoy a lot, that he deflected from his own opinion and used his partner’s. What did that say about them? What did that say about Potter? He obviously valued Malfoy’s opinion, possibly more than his own. A safety blanket, perhaps.

Potter moved towards the door, clicking open the latch manually instead of with his wand. “Monday, then.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Monday. Goodbye, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh please, it’s Harry. Don’t worry about all that proper nonsense.” Potter protested.

Sherlock chuckled lowly. “I never do.” He said before slipping out of the door, flicking his fingers out to indicate to the nearest taxi, climbing into it with his usual grace. “221b Baker Street.” Sherlock declared.