No one had before survived the Killing Curse. At least not to Sherlock's vast recollection.
It wouldn't be much of a killing curse if there were survivors - and if it couldn't guarantee death - most would likely find it not worth the risk to perform it. Naturally, when his network had told him such a survivor did exist, he'd carefully cataloged it away as unlikely - but something he'd like to investigate further, should the opportunity arise.
So when Mike Stamford came to his borrowed lab with another man, Sherlock didn't realize just how much the old school mate of his still had his interest at heart. Mike had been a mentor of sorts to him at Hogwarts. A Ravenclaw, like himself, but a year ahead of him. While Sherlock didn't exactly need the schooling help - Mike had been a quiet force to helping him navigate the social norms that he just couldn't fathom. "Bit different from my day." He was telling the stranger that trailed behind him, the heavy tap of his cane too loud in the still lab.
"Mike, can I borrow your wand?" He'd only mentioned to the the wizard a day ago what a nightmare he must be to share a flat with, and here Mike was with a down-on-his-luck Wizard, clearly in need of a roof over his head.
"And what's wrong with yours?" he asked, voice hinting amusement, but making no move to help Sherlock in his request.
"I left it in my coat."
"Here, use mine." He held himself rigid, and ready, like a battle worn soldier- right hand extended, wand hilt towards Sherlock. Koa wood, a bit springy, 10 inches, core unknown. Too easily surrendered, and too old to originally belong to him. Sherlock knew all of the Aurors by name and face (if not personally) and the man was not one of them. Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or more likely Department of Security. Most likely a Hit Wizard. Uncertain though - the man truly carried himself like an Auror. A not-Auror who depended heavily on a cane and whose injuries to the left side had crippled and invalidated him.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said, self assured smirk in place. Sherlock cast a spell on his memo to Lestrade; I.D. and watched the folded paper send itself off though the air.
"Dept. of Law Enforcement, or Security?"
Soldier Watson, blinked at him, "Sorry?"
"Which was it, Dept. of Law Enforcement, or Dept. of Security?" He asked again, handing the wand back.
"Dept. of Security, sorry, how did you know?" Soldier John asked, face equal parts curious and and worried.
Molly chose this moment to slide in the room, slinking past Mike, and bring Sherlock the coffee he'd talked her into fetching for him earlier. "Ah! Coffee, thank you." She'd been four years under him at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw like himself, and a shadow he'd never really shaken off. But she didn't ask stupid question, and she never made unfounded statements, and Sherlock had grown accustomed in many ways to the fact she was usually there. He slipped the coffee, then glanced back at her, "What happened to the lipstick?" She had some one before - refreshed it even, and now it was nothing but her plain features again.
"It wasn't working for me." There was a note of resignation in her voice. His eyebrows knitted, searching for an explanation for it.
None really came to mind, "Oh. Really? It was an improvement. Your mouth's.... too small now."
While it maybe wasn't the wrong thing to say; it certainly didn't seem to be the right thing, because she just hung head and sighed out an "OK."
Sherlock didn't know what he should be saying, so he settled for nothing at all, glancing back to the still smirking Mike and the not-Auror from the Department of Security. "How do you feel about the violin?"
The poor man looked out of sorts, "I'm sorry, what?" and Sherlock wondered about Mike's judgment. Still - he was a man that likely would mind his own business, and for the time being, Sherlock would indulge his former Housemate. Mike didn't like Sherlock living off on his own.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" There was nothing but a blank look, and Sherlock was quickly coming to the conclusion that this again wasn't going to work. He hated to have to break it to Mike in a few days, but it was bound to happen, "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." he spelled out for the man.
In turn, Watson just look back at Mike in accusation, "You told him about me?"
"Not a word." The man grinned, clearly enjoying himself. Sherlock used to wonder how it came to be the two of them came to be ‘friends,’ but his blatant amusement spelled it out clearly. Sherlock could only just restrain the eyeroll.
"Who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did. Told Mike yesterday that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He shrugged. It was true, though Sherlock felt he was hardly the one to put entirely to blame, "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service of sorts. Wasn't a difficult leap."
"The Department of Security, yeah. How'd you guess?"
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." The statement didn't need validating, Sherlock was tired of correcting people, so Sherlock plowed on, "We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock."
He was to the door then, checking the time. He wanted to check back in with Lestrade, "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
Watson however wasn't to be brushed off, "Is that it?"
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"
Sherlock blinked, "Problem?"
There, finally, was movement to John's face - Real movement - frustration being the most pronounced, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name!"
Molly and Mike both had private smiles, and Sherlock beamed, preening a little as he showed off, "I know you're a Healer, likely a Mediwizard and you've been relieved of your duties with the Department of Security.
"You've got family worried about you, likely an older brother but you won't go to him for help. You where a Gryffindor Student, extremely high marks in DADA, And I know that you're mixed blood, magical parent deceased, but they were superb Charm casters.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Satisfied with his deductions, be pulled his scarf tight and made his way again to the door, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
"Yeah, he's always like that." He pretended not to hear and he headed down the hall.