Archive of Our Own

“And that’s twenty-four,” Sherlock said, giving John a pleased smile as he stepped out of the Floo at 221B, just behind the last of the Hogwarts Muggle Studies students.

John didn’t seem half as delighted as Sherlock was. In fact, he scowled. His scowl said “This was a very bad idea,” but Sherlock, accustomed to the scowl and knowing John would come around as soon as things got exciting, paid him no mind and glanced around his familiar flat. The plan had been for John to corral the students into the sitting room and arrange them in neat rows on the floor as they came through the Floo. By the looks of things, his plan had not succeeded

Students filled every visible, available space in the flat, most of them so apparently fascinated by its contents that they had already forgotten their pre-field trip lecture about proper deportment. Two of them were wedged into John’s chair and another slung out across his own, arms and legs akimbo. A sixth-year Hufflepuff was studying the telly, running his fingers through the dust on the screen. As he glanced toward the kitchen, Edwards, one of the Gryffindor chasers, tossed the skull across the room to one of her teammates, who tossed it sideways to the Ravenclaw keeper.

John, looking not-at-all-pleased, was pushing through the crowd, shouldering his way over to Sherlock, when the microwave started beeping.

“It’s hard as a rock!” someone exclaimed from the kitchen.

“Here – put some flobberworms in next!”

“Cor! How did you manage to get flobberworms past Filch?”

“Sherlock….”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“There are flobberworms in our microwave,” John hissed.

“There have been far worse things in our microwave,” Sherlock said, hoping John did not make him clean up the mess without magic.

“John Watson, what is all that racket?”

“I thought Mrs. Hudson was at her niece’s?” groaned John. He moved toward the door, pushing teenagers out of his way, but Mrs. Hudson had the door open and had stepped inside before he was halfway across the room.

“Oh my,” she said, glancing around at the unexpected site of two dozen teenagers dismantling the flat.

“Field trip!” exclaimed Sherlock, thinking quickly. Better to tell half a truth than no truth at all. “Taking my Anatomy students to visit Molly at the lab. John’s agreed to help out – haven’t you, John? Took a day off work to be part of the adventure.”

John, however, was not paying much attention to Sherlock, busy as he was confiscating magical contraband from a sixth-year Gryffindor. “How did you get out of Hogwarts with these?” he hissed, quickly pocketing a handful of dung bombs. He was doing a lot of quiet hissing this morning, Sherlock noted.

“Meeting at the teacher’s flat?” Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway facing Sherlock, straining to see him around the crowd of students playing keep-away with the skull. She cringed reflexively as it sailed across the room again toward the mirror. “But Sherlock - isn’t this a bit…irregular?”

“Plans were changed at the last minute.” John had pushed through to the door, and slipped his arm around their landlady. “The bus is meeting us here.” He glanced over at Sherlock. “Don’t you think you should get the children down to the street to meet it?”

The water went on in the bathroom with a loud moan.

“That’s the shower,” Mrs. Hudson said, glancing suspiciously down the corridor. “Are the children showering here, too?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock assured her, but John was already leading her out. Sherlock hoped John wouldn’t use a full-blown Obliviate on her. She hadn’t actually seen magic after all, and he wasn’t convinced that her brain would sort itself out if John was too enthusiastic with his memory-altering spell.

Despite the students’ general rowdiness, Sherlock managed to get everyone to the street while John dealt with Mrs. Hudson. He’d worry about the flat later – maybe John would forget about the flobberworms in the microwave by then, and surely the bathroom floor would be dry as well. Mycroft had arranged for the bus, but Sherlock had wanted a slight adjustment to the reservation. Anthea had agreed once he’d provided her a snippet of information about Mycroft that Mycroft probably wouldn’t appreciate him sharing.

Thus, when John appeared ten minutes later, already looking exhausted– Sherlock would have to indulge him with that handcuff fantasy to thank him for services above and beyond the expected – Sherlock waved and called out to him from his perch atop the open air second deck of a double-decker tour bus.

Not that he’d actually had to call out to get John’s attention, of course. The bus was, frankly, rather large, and rather red, and was currently occupying a good portion of Baker Street.

John stared at the bus for what seemed to be a very, very long time. His mouth twisted in that way it did when he was very upset, but also very amused.

“We’re going to be late, John,” Sherlock called out when a full minute passed and John hadn’t moved. Sherlock could feel the bus rocking slightly as the students bounced about from side to side, clearly very excited about their professor’s choice of transportation.

John blinked. And sighed. And opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Thanks anyway,” he said, giving Sherlock a look that Sherlock had not yet catalogued in his mind palace. “I think I’ll take a cab.” He looked down the street behind the bus, obviously hoping a cab would materialize, and if not a cab, one of Mycroft’s ubiquitous black cars.

Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t worried – John would never be able to nab a cab this time of the morning without Sherlock’s assistance. But he did want to get on their way as he had some surprise activities planned. “John – we need you here. I promised Minerva there’d be two adults with the children at all times.”

“Right.” John put his hands behind his back and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock noted that he still didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get on the bus. “You and the bus driver. That’s two. I’ll get a cab and meet your at Bart’s.”

Sherlock frowned. He really didn’t want to ruin the surprise. He raised an eyebrow in silent supplication, but John didn’t budge. Instead, he folded his arms in front of himself and leaned against the door he’d just closed behind him.

“We’re not exactly going directly to Molly’s,” Sherlock admitted at last. He felt rather silly calling down to John from atop the bus. He had to call out pretty loudly to make himself heard past the chattering of the students.

“You’re not going directly to Molly’s,” John repeated. His mouth was doing that twitchy thing again. “Exactly.”

“We’ve got a double-decker tour bus, John!” Sherlock swept his hand to the side to indicate the bus, on the off-chance that John hadn’t yet noticed it.

“You said Mycroft arranged the bus.” John’s voice was just loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. It was both suspicious and slightly threatening. Sherlock stared at him from his see-all vantage point, then glanced down at the bus. Clearly, he had erred. John was certainly not prepared to believe that Mycroft would provide anything other than a discreet black bus with tinted windows for this particular adventure.

“I called in a favor with Anthea,” Sherlock admitted. When all else failed, truth prevailed.

“Right.” John gave the bus another once-over, then started walking toward it like a man walking to the gallows for his own hanging.

“It will be fun.” Sherlock leaned over the side to watch the doors hiss open. He had to shout as the students were all clapping now that John had decided to board the bus.

“Come topside,” Sherlock called out. “There’s plenty of room!”

Only half of the students had ever been anywhere in London besides Diagon Alley and King’s Cross Station, and not a single one had been inside Westminster where Parliament met.

“No. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea,” hissed John. He was still doing a lot of hissing. “I can’t believe Mycroft arranged this. What happened to our schedule?”

“Mycroft didn’t exactly arrange this.” Sherlock thought it was important to make that clear. As attractive as was the thought of John going after Mycroft and perhaps breaking his nose, it really would be best if Mycroft didn’t find out for some time that his brother had brought twenty-four teenage witches and wizards to Parliament.

“Did Anthea help you? Look, Sherlock, you’re not leading her on again, are you?”

Sherlock shook his head. He had learned - the hard way – that getting information from women by flirting or otherwise promising them things (like a lifetime of wedded bliss) was seriously frowned upon by John. “She wanted to know something about Mycroft – something private. She arranged the bus as a thank-you gift.”

John sighed. He was doing a lot of sighing along with the hissing.

“You have to admit that watching the House of Commons debate is a relevant experience for Muggle Studies students.”

John pointed to a wall as six more students came out of the gallery. They lined up obediently and the next six crowded in. He’d promised them a drive around the Piccadilly Circus traffic circle if they all followed his directions during the visit to Parliament.

“We’ve got a double-decker bus for God’s sake, Sherlock. We should be driving around the city looking at parks and cathedrals.”

Sherlock yawned and looked at the ceiling.

“Where are we going next?” John asked when the next six students went in to replace the ones that had just exited.

“Hmm.”

“Tower of London?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“The London Eye?”

Sherlock shook his head again. John was so predictable. “You’re thinking like a tourist.”

“Instead of thinking like…you.” He turned his head to give Sherlock a disapproving look. Hissing, sighing and disapproving looks. John was much more fun on cases.

“You’re much more fun on cases.”

John gave him the look.

“So – New Scotland Yard?”

Sherlock smiled. “There’s hope for you yet,” he said.

John was busy with his mobile, composing a text to Lestrade.

- What time are you expecting us? -

“Really, you’re spoiling the surprise,” Sherlock complained, leaning over to see what John was doing.

John’s mobile vibrated.

- 10:30. Remind him he’s got an hour max. And if I get demoted, I’m moving in with you two. -

“He’s being overly dramatic,” Sherlock said. “He’s unlikely to get demoted over staging a murder on his car park.”

He’d not said it to get a reaction, but was still expecting one. However, John simply pursed his lips and changed the subject.

“What are they debating today?” he asked.

“Restrictions on wild animals used in circuses,” answered Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. “Nice. You deliberately chose this day after reviewing the debate schedule, didn’t you?”

Lestrade had outdone himself.

Of course, the body – a dummy used to teach CPR – detracted from the general authenticity of the crime scene, though someone did a very good job positioning it so that it looked like it might have fallen from a window. In fact, given that there was a window directly above the body – an open window with part of the dummy’s arm dangling from it – Lestrade had probably actually tossed the thing out. Sherlock squinted and called up the floor plan of the complex. Yes – it was the medical training room. He smiled his appreciation at Lestrade, but Lestrade and John were talking and John was shaking his head rather animatedly.

The entire faux crime scene was taped off with police tape and was staged on a parking lot behind a two-story building at the back of the complex. Sherlock noted the skid marks from the get-away car, tire treads on top of the victim’s legs, the scattered contents of a handbag, and a bloody tire iron. To complicate matters more, the victim’s head was encased in a plastic shopping bag and a handgun was lying on the pavement several feet from the handbag.

When he’d asked Lestrade not to make the cause of death too obvious, he hadn’t expected him to go past reason into legitimate showmanship.

“Lestrade told me you tried to get him to use a real body,” John said, walking up beside him. The students lined the perimeter of the tape, gawking, crowding forward to try to get a better look.

Sherlock sighed. “It really is a poor substitute, but he threatened to call the whole thing off if I didn’t stop pestering him about it.” He sighed dramatically. “It will have to do.”

He pulled up the tape and ducked under it quickly. Lestrade followed him, and they then strode over toward the body.

Lestrade chuckled at his elbow. “Motley crew you’ve got here, Sherlock. Where’s this school of yours?” He spoke casually, obviously feigning disinterest.

“Scotland,” answered Sherlock. He crouched down beside the body, almost resting his head on the ground as he squinted.

“They don’t look like rich kids,” Lestrade continued. Sherlock pretended not to hear him. He lifted a stuffed arm, mimed looking under non-existent fingernails, and let the arm drop back to the ground.

“I said – they don’t look like rich kids,” repeated Lestrade. He had crouched down beside Sherlock. It didn’t seem like he was going to let this one go.

Sherlock hopped to his feet and looked back toward his students. “First six,” he said, holding up the corresponding number of fingers and motioning to John.

John held up the tape and let six students through, then ducked under the tape himself.

“They don’t have mobiles,” Lestrade commented, frowning. “No one’s taking photos.”

“School policy – no mobiles,” John supplied.

“What kind of public school is this?” Sherlock heard Lestrade ask John. Persistent devil. Sherlock instructed the students to sketch out the crime scene in their notebooks, then stood with his back to Lestrade as they began to work.

“Gifted kids,” John answered.

Ah – good answer. Sherlock relaxed, but John continued, obviously not satisfied with his answer.

“Smart kids – but so smart that they’re socially awkward.”

“Ah.” Lestrade was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock imagined him exchanging significant looks with John. “So – Sherlock went there, I take it?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Right – yeah. Mycroft, too. And their mum.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So - ” Lestrade lowered his voice but Sherlock could still hear him clearly. “How’s it going, then? They going to pick him up for the next term?”

“No.”

Sherlock turned.

“It’s not that they don’t want me, of course,” he interjected. “The regular teacher is coming back from medical leave.”

John smiled at him indulgently, then turned back to Lestrade. “He’s a bit too unconventional for them,” he explained in a stage whisper. “Shows up to class in his dressing gown, reinstituted corporal punishment, makes all the students address him as ‘Your Highness.’”

Lestrade chuckled.

“He’s lying,” Sherlock said. “I don’t believe in corporal punishment. I make the offending students stare at a photograph of Mycroft for thirty minutes. I’ve never had a repeat offender.”

Despite the low-level bickering going on among the adults, the students behaved remarkably well, and when all had had a chance to sketch the crime scene, Sherlock gathered them together and herded them back onto the bus. John, who’d stayed behind to thank Lestrade and promise him a pub night soon, caught up with them as the last student climbed aboard.

“What time did you tell Molly?” he asked as he plunked himself down onto the seat across from Sherlock.

The damn schedule again. Fortunately, he was able to ignore John’s question in favor of looking over the side of the bus as something began beating on the outside of the bus’ door.

“What is it? What are they on about?” asked John, forgetting about the schedule and leaning across Sherlock. “Wait -is that Donovan? With Anderson?”

Sherlock had already determined that the two people looking up at him from the pavement with matching shocked faces were indeed his two least-favorite people at NSY. Excellent. Lestrade had come through, just as Sherlock has requested. And while they clearly expected to find Sherlock and his crew here, they didn’t expect to find him aboard a double-decker tour bus.

Two minutes later, Donovan and Anderson had boarded and had made their way to the top deck.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade’s badge has gone missing,” announced Anderson. He was a horrible actor. He sounded like he was reading from a script. “We will need to search each of you.”

John was on his feet. “None of the students were near Lestrade,” he said, stepping into the aisle. “I stood next to him the entire time we were on site.”

“Maybe John has his badge,” suggested Sherlock.

“What?” John whirled around. “What are you on about? I don’t have Lestrade’s badge. Maybe you have it!”

“Actually, you had much more opportunity,” offered Niles Ferber. “You were standing next to DI Lestrade for at least forty minutes while Professor Holmes was explaining the crime scene and teaching us.”

“I don’t have the badge,” John said. He glared at Ferber, who looked overly pleased with himself, then whirled around when Anderson began patting him down from behind. “Get your hands off me!” he exclaimed, kneeing Anderson in the groin reflexively.

Anderson fell with a feral cry, curling up in a ball and clutching his crotch.

Sherlock winced along with the rest of the males on the bus. Now might be a good time to explain to John that he’d set this up with Lestrade. No one had really stolen his badge. Of course, Sherlock had requested anyone other than Donovan and Anderson for this important illustration of Muggle police tactics.

Donovan stepped over Anderson. “Come with me, Watson. You’re under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Sherlock stood up. “You can’t arrest him.” This was going horribly wrong. John would never forgive him, even if he promised to indulge in both the handcuff and the hitchhiker fantasy.

Donovan flashed her badge at Sherlock and glared.

“See that? That means I can.”

“Sherlock – stop. I’ll just go with her. I’ll meet you at Molly’s as soon as I clear things up here.”

“No – she has no right!” A brave Hufflepuff sixth-year stood, pointing at Donovan with a shaking hand and smiling tremulously at John.

“Hey! Stop it – what the….”

Everything happened very quickly from that point forward. Donovan snapped a handcuff on John’s left wrist. Anderson rolled onto his back with a groan, tripping John. Sherlock stepped forward to do something, and a red bolt of light appeared out of nowhere, striking Donovan in the back. She fell forward on top of John, and their heads cracked together with the kind of sound that was definitely - very definitely- not good.

The handcuffs clattered as John’s arm hit a stability bar behind a bank of seats.

Sherlock recognized the emergency for what it was.

“Stay in your seats!” he commanded, as he lifted his mobile. “And whoever did that –” he gestured to the unconscious Donovan. “Thank you.”

“This was supposed to be a field trip to Molly Hooper’s lab. Your students never even made it to Bart’s.” Mycroft did not look pleased.

“John did.” Sherlock felt compelled to point this out.

“As a patient, Sherlock. He’s been admitted with a broken arm and a concussion.” Sherlock thought his brother looked very Mycroft-like as he clutched his umbrella, brandishing it for effect. “One of your students who, incidentally, was not supposed to have a wand outside of Hogwarts, Stupefied Sergeant Sally Donovan, who also has a concussion, and all this commotion on the open-air top level of a double-decker tour bus parked outside of New Scotland Yard made the Times. While you ran off to the hospital with John, I was left with twenty-four magical and underage students in the middle of London, students who had been promised lunch at McDonalds.”

He pronounced McDonalds with a hiss that would have made John proud.

“They took a vote,” explained Sherlock.

“They wanted to go to the drive-through McDonalds in Whitechapel!” Mycroft looked like he was on the verge of an aneurism. Sherlock had never seen his brother quite so…undone.

“Did you order one double cheeseburger or two?” Sherlock asked, managing – just – to look interested instead of smug.

Mycroft ignored him. “I then had to send them back to Hogwarts through my Floo. My office is a disaster – soot and ash everywhere.”

“Oh come – don’t tell me you don’t have a house-elf looking after things for you.”

“It’s been a bad day, Sherlock. A very bad day. Sergeant Donovan believes she was attacked from behind.”

“She was attacked from behind.” Sherlock made a mental note to award fifty house points to whoever was responsible for that well-placed stunner. “Do you want me to Obliviate her?” He wondered if he’d be able to get it just right. Better to just erase the last five years to be sure.

Mycroft sighed. He was beginning to sound like John with all that sighing. The hissing was fine, but the whinging and sighing was very out of character. Sherlock knew he should be concerned about that.

“There was a mouse in my office, Sherlock. It ran across the floor just after the last student Flooed out.”

A mouse. Could it be a coincidence that Anthea’s price for changing the bus reservation was for Sherlock to tell her something Mycroft was afraid of?

“Did you scream like a girl and jump up on your chair?” asked Sherlock. His mind conjured an image of Mycroft on the chair, gripping a double cheeseburger in each hand. He was finally beginning to feel a little better. John had been too groggy to be very angry with him, and Sherlock had promised the handcuff, the hitchhiker and the pizza delivery boy fantasy. John would have no room to complain after he recovered enough from his injuries to indulge in a little creative play.

Mycroft shuddered.

“I hate mice.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I know.”

fin