SNARRY-A-THON10: FIC: A Pocket Watch Mystery Title: A Pocket Watch Mystery Author:paperbacked Other pairings/threesome: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 7,706 Warnings: None Prompt: #454 - Snarry crossover with Sherlock Holmes (new movie or books). A/N: A thousand thanks to the lovely and forbearing accioslash, who put up with my disgraceful requests for extensions and who runs everything so wonderfully. Thanks also to my brilliant beta, lemondropseven - any historical inaccuracies are entirely my own, and to attentat for her fic 'Amo, Amas, Amat', for bringing Watson and Catullus together. A note to the reader: Though I loved the recent Sherlock Holmes film, to me the only Holmes is Jeremy Brett, and it is his Holmes and his Watson whom I imagine Harry and Snape replacing. Please feel free, however, to imagine the Holmes and Watson of your choice!
Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas. The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing. PASCAL
A Pocket Watch Mystery
The Unexpected Hat
London, 1890. Dusk has begun to fall, creeping thick and stifling as fog through the rat-warren of the city's streets. In the window of 221B Baker Street, the lamps burn brightly, illuminating the street below with pools of light. Should one stand beneath the glow of that window – and few do, lest the detective's famous powers of observation be turned to scrutinise them – you can just glimpse the distinctive silhouettes of Holmes and his chronicler, Watson.
Suddenly, Holmes clasps his hands to his head, his normally mask-like features contorted by violent emotion.
“Potter,” he says slowly, gazing at his silent companion, “why am I wearing a deerstalker?”
The Forgotten Promise
At Snape's side, when the man is on what everyone assumes to be his death-bed, Harry makes a promise.
“If he gets through this,” he thinks, “I'll come and visit him.”
It seems an unusual decision to make. He and Snape still hate each other after all, even if it turns out that Snape knew Harry's mum. And, if Snape does come out of his coma, he's not going to be thrilled to see Harry, who left him for dead on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. The guilt about that rises up in Harry, makes his stomach lurch. He wasn't to know Snape had the antidote. Everyone says.
Still.
It's half eleven. The Hospital Wing is deserted, save for Harry and the prone Snape. Even Pomfrey has gone to snatch a few hours of rest. Snape is breathing very shallowly, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. His neck is swathed in bandages, and he looks improbably delicate, fragile. Some unknown instinct – though he suspects that it is largely his crippling guilt – grips Harry and he gently, deliberately lifts his hand and takes Snape's.
It's not as cold as he expects.
He loses track of time then, watching over Snape, and falls into a light doze, jerking awake suddenly. Pale morning light floods in through the high windows. Removing his hand from Snape's, Harry stands, his joints protesting, and looks down upon Snape. He looks almost peaceful.
“I mean it,” he says aloud. “I'll visit. I know he hates me, but...”
He sighs. Snape sleeps on, unknowing.
Turning abruptly on his heel, Harry strides from the room without looking back. As he pulls open the heavy wooden door, the distant smell of breakfast meets him. Hogwarts is waking up. A new day is beginning. He pulls the door shut behind him.
Snape stirs in his sleep.
He does mean to visit. He's moved to London by the time he receives news of Snape's miraculous return from the dead, and the news fills him with a mingled joy and unease. He sits up late at night, staring into the million lights of Muggle London, is lulled to sleep by a distant litany of car alarms and thumping basslines; other people living, somewhere.
But he does -mean- to visit, has every intention of doing so. As the weeks turn into months, his intended visits become further into the future until he stops thinking about them at all really, apart from those occasional midnight vigils. After all, he has a life now. A business. It's not as though Snape wants to see him, he knows that, and it wasn't really a promise.
Eventually, he forgets entirely.
The Abandoned House
He goes into business as a curse breaker in London. He's surprisingly busy; London is still filled with the remnants of the War and everywhere he turns there's something to do. He doesn't work under his real name of course, but takes the pseudonym of Charles Milverton, which has a pleasingly antiquated ring to it. The only blot on the horizon is a rival curse breaker called Sigerson, who seems to somehow find the best jobs before Harry, so that a lot of Harry's time is spent disenchanting killer spoons and rather less disarming life-threatening curses. Still, it's a living.
This time, anyway, he thinks he has a lead on his mysterious rival. Someone has left an anonymous tip-off in his office, telling him that there's an enchanted necklace in the basement of a house in South Norwood, and a big reward for whoever breaks the curse. Gathering together his kit, Harry paces in front of the fire, mentally preparing himself. Excitement courses through his veins at the thought of getting one over Sigerson, of living a little for a change – and if he can hear Hermione's voice in his head, asking why he has to be in danger to feel alive, he doesn't pay any attention to it.
He takes the Tube in the end, wary of the increasingly antiquated Floo system, and walks from the tube stop in Norwood Junction to the house. South Norwood turns out to be a pleasantly green area of London, the streets quiet even though it's only just turned seven. The air is cool and crisp, glowing faintly with the last of the day's light and Harry feels, without really knowing why, unquestionably, irrevocably content.
The house, when he finds it, is an imposing Victorian construction. Subtly slipping his wand into his hand, Harry knocks on the door. No answer. A soft Alohomora takes care of the lock, and then he's inside. He freezes, listening intently. Nothing. He creeps down the stairs to the basement, wand outstretched to light his way, heart racing. Just one more step...and then he's in the cool basement, inching his way forward...
Something moves.
Instantly he is on his guard. “Who's there?” he shouts. Nothing. He increases the strength of his Lumos, filling the basement with a sulphuric light. There is a figure just a few inches in front of him, reaching out towards what looks like the necklace. His heart sinks.
“Sigerson?” he asks.
Sigerson's hand closes around the necklace the moment Harry's does. As it does, the man turns to face him, and in a split second of horrified comprehension, Harry realises who he is.
Then he is falling.
The Lighting Of The Lamps
He wakes up on a wooden floor. Confused, dizzy but imbued with the feeling that something is wrong, he stretches cautiously, trying not to draw attention to himself. Nothing broken. Good. Next step, his wand. He feels for it in the pocket of his jeans.
He is not wearing his jeans.
Panic. No, relax, he tells his racing heart, his tensing muscles. He passes a hand slowly over his leg. He appears to be wearing a pair of suit trousers – the material is unfamiliar, old and heavy. The pocket, when he finds it, is silk-lined and contains something that feels like a handkerchief. No wand.
He sits upright slowly. The room is dark, and what looks like a large window is shuttered, outlined by a few glimmers of light. Squinting, he looks down at himself and makes out a shirt and waistcoat, and a suit jacket made of the same unfamiliar material as the trousers.
Odd.
“Potter?”
He is on his feet before he's had time to even process the sound, lunging wildly towards the sound.
“Stay back!”
There is a muffled curse and then, for some reason, the smell of paraffin. A queasy yellow light sputters into being, lighting up a corner of the room.
Snape is there.
Staring into the other man's face, Harry clenches his fists as it all comes back to him. The necklace – the realisation – the fall.
“You bastard!” he hisses. “You're Sigerson!”
Snape rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously. But were I you, Potter, I'd be worrying less about professional jealousy, and slightly more about where we are.”
Harry bites his lip. For almost as long as he can remember, Snape has had this way of wrongfooting him, making him angry and confused. Part of him wants to rage – to take Snape and to punish him (though for what he's not exactly sure). The other part of him knows that he's not the hotheaded idiot he was all those years ago. He takes a breath.
“Fair point.” he says, through only slightly gritted teeth. “Where are we?”
Snape gives an elaborately Gallic shrug.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replies. “But from the looks of the furnishings – and the fact that I've just had to light what seems to be a paraffin lamp – Victorian London.”
Harry gapes at him. There are several long moments of silence. Then –
“Victorian London?!” he splutters. “Why the fuck are we in Victorian sodding London?!”
Snape looks unmoved.
“As I said Potter,” he drawls, “Your guess is – perhaps for the first time in living history – as good as mine. Mindboggling concept though it is, I should perhaps also draw your attention – such as it is – to the fact that neither of us have our wands.”
Harry scowls.
“I was getting to that,” he mutters.
Even in the dim light, he can swear that Snape's eyebrows shoot sarcastically skywards.
“Indeed?” comes the reply. Again, Harry finds himself biting his lip. He draws some small comfort from the fact that, though he is a sarcastic bugger as usual, Snape is as bewildered and unarmed as he is.
“The necklace,” he says finally. “It must have been cursed – booby trapped, or something.”
Snape nods slightly. “Your skills as a cursebreaker clearly saved the day there then.”
This is too much even for Harry's new-found resolve.
“You're meant to be one too!” he shouts. “Or did you just pretend to be to take all my business?”
There is another, uncharacteristically Snapeish silence.
“You have a fair point, Potter,” he says eventually. “Help me light the other lamps.”
As he attempts to call upon his wandless magic, Harry wonders what he was right about. Was Snape deliberately taking his business, then? Or – and the thought is somehow worse – has Snape fallen into the trap as well?
The Meaning Of The Hat
Once the room is lit, and Harry has thrown back the shutters obscuring the window, they stare at each other for a few moments. Snape is as oddly-dressed as Harry is, in a similarly old-fashioned suit.
Suddenly, Snape clasps his hands to his head, his normally mask-like features contorted by violent emotion.
“Potter,” he says slowly, gazing at his silent companion, “why am I wearing a deerstalker?”
Harry shrugs. “Why not? I'm wearing a waistcoat. A waistcoat.”
Snape snarls impatiently. “No, Potter, think. From the look of things, we're in Victorian London. We're both in period dress. We're two men, sharing an apartment.”
He crosses the room, stopping at the mantlepiece. Someone has pinned a sheaf of letters to the wall with a knife. He snatches one, reads it swiftly and then again, more slowly. His curiosity piqued, Harry follows suit, extricating the letter from Snape's grasp.
“Dear Mr Holmes,” he reads.
He drops the letter swiftly. “Oh no,” he says quietly, more for his own benefit than for Snape's. “Oh bloody hell.”
“Quite,” comes Snape's reply.
Matters Discussed Over Dinner
They are served dinner by a woman whom Snape addresses as Mrs Hudson. She seems to notice absolutely nothing amiss – though Harry wonders how much this is due to his appearance, and how far it can be instead attributed to her tactfulness. The food is good and plentiful – he realises, tucking in, that he hasn't eaten this well since he was at Hogwarts, which fills him with an odd sense of nostalgia.
“So,” he says eventually, when it is apparent that Snape is not going to break the heavy silence between them, “We're Holmes and Watson.”
“Apparently, yes,” comes the reply. “I suppose the deerstalker was a rather obvious reference to that. Although actually –” and here Snape looks almost excited, like Hermione enthusing about a favourite book “– the deerstalker was actually invented by Sidney Paget in his illustrations of the stories. Holmes is only ever described as wearing a travelling cap.”
Harry looks at him, and Snape almost flushes. “What?” he snaps.
“That's exactly it,” Harry replies. “The stories. Holmes and Watson aren't real. They were invented by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. How can we be Holmes and Watson if they never actually existed?”
Snape inclines his head thoughtfully. “Actually, Potter, there's some debate about that. Generations of Sherlockians have argued that they did exist, and have tried to place them in history. It is believed by some that the clues are all there in the stories, if you know where to look. Our being here proves it.”
“Generations of Sherlockians...like you, you mean?” asks Harry, unwisely.
Snape gives him a look of withering contempt and opens his mouth, doubtless to unleash some blistering rebuke. It is at this moment that Mrs Hudson reappears to clear the plates and bring in the pudding. Grateful for her timely reappearance, Harry says nothing. Yet at the same time he feels oddly regretful. Strange to see Snape like that – almost lit up, like a child, talking about something he loved. Churlish of him to ruin it, as usual. He sighs, and drinks deeply from his wine glass.
It is only after the table has been cleared and Snape is settled with a glass of brandy (he doesn't offer Harry any, and Harry doesn't ask. Snape knows exactly where the brandy is kept. He must really love the books, thinks Harry.) that Harry asks the other question.
“So, if we're here in Victorian London, are they in our London being us?”
“I would imagine so,” comes the reply. “Though as there seems to be some manner of Disillusionment in place to stop anyone noticing that we're not Holmes and Watson, I imagine that the same will be true in reverse. Dear me, won't Miss Weasley have a shock when we return!”
“I sincerely doubt that,” he mutters, “on account of our not being together anymore.”
Snape smirks. “Indeed?” he says. “Was your fortune not to Miss Weasley's liking? Or was it...” he allows his eyes to trail down Harry's form, “bedroom troubles?”
Harry clenches his fists, and takes back his earlier charitable thoughts about Snape. Bastard.
“I think it was more to do with my preferring to take it up the arse, actually,” he spits, furious and embarrassed, and flounces (he will cringe at the later memory) out of the room. Stumbling up a flight of stairs, he almost falls into a small bedroom. He lights a bedside candle with a thought, and then lies on the heavy counterpane, hot and angry and hating and hating and hating Snape, almost a child again.
A Promise Remembered
He falls asleep like that, and wakes in a confused tangle of sheets. After a moment of staring at the high ceiling, he realises that he is not likely to wake any time soon from whatever bizarre dream he has stumbled into, and gets up. Dressing in more stiff, uncomfortable clothes, he catches sight of himself in a low mirror, and stares with faintly hungover resentment. Bah.
Wandering down the stairs, Harry walks cautiously into the sitting room. His anger with Snape has subsided into a faintly embarrassed indignation, and he is almost relieved when Snape, looking up from his breakfast, nods to acknowledge his presence and says nothing. Joining him at the table, Harry is halfway through his bacon and eggs before the weirdness of everything strikes him.
“Well this is weird,” he says, in between mouthfuls of bacon. Snape says nothing and pours himself a cup of tea.
“No,” Harry persists, “seriously, Snape. So we're Holmes and Watson, then?”
“As I said last night,” replies Snape stiffly, “it would appear so.”
“Doesn't that bother you?!”
Snape takes a mouthful of tea (the delicate bone-china cup looks bizarre in his yellowed grip) and swallows slowly.
“Not particularly,” he replies, meditatively.
“Yeah well, I haven't got enough time to spend it pretending to be a Victorian gentleman with you,” snaps Harry.
“No, Mr Potter,” says Snape, and here he turns his gaze on Harry. His eyes are fathomless and endlessly cold, “I believe you made your intention of spending as little time with me as possible entirely apparent.”
A rush of guilt suffuses Harry, making him blush. Snape had heard him make that promise?
“You knew,” he says dully. “I meant...”
“I know exactly what you meant,” comes the reply. Snape rises from the table, clearly signifying that the conversation is at an end, and leaves the room in a few swift strides. Harry finds himself staring at his empty plate, for once speechless.
The Necklace Revisited
Snape is perched in a high-backed armchair reading the newspaper when Harry has his idea. Jumping from the lumpy settee, he shouts,
“We need to find Arthur Conan Doyle!”
Snape licks his finger (the sight of which makes Harry faintly uncomfortable, for reasons he is absolutely not prepared to discuss, ever) and turns the page.
“It's no use, Potter,” he replies calmly.
“So what, you're just content to be a Victorian gentleman forever?” says Harry, more bewildered than angry. Snape isn't acting oddly so much as out of character. He would have expected at least five blazing showdowns by now, were this Snape anything like the Snape he remembers from school.
“Not quite, Potter,” comes the reply. “Arthur Conan Doyle does not exist.”
Harry blinks. “So who wrote – writes – the books then?”
Snape grimaces elegantly. “You do, I presume. Or rather, John Watson does.”
Harry shakes his head. “That can't be right. I've read stuff about Conan Doyle. I did a project in primary school. He was a real man.”
Snape sighs. “And so are Holmes and Watson. Or do you think Watson constantly refers to Holmes' mastery of disguise for nothing? Arthur Conan Doyle is a construction. An exceptionally well thought-out and acted construction, but a construction nonetheless.”
Harry sinks back to the settee, his mind racing.
“OK then,” he says eventually. “Fair enough. I suppose that makes sense. But – there must be some reason why we're here. Something to do with that necklace.”
Snape turns another page of his newspaper (complete with that damnable finger-licking).
“Yes,” he replies.
They do not have to wait long. Almost seconds later, there comes an insistent rapping at the door. Snape shoots Harry a look of almost-apprehension, and stands to answer it. He motions furiously for Harry to stay on the settee, and Harry has to bite back a smile. Snape is nervous.
“Good morning,” says Snape cordially, opening the door. A tall, blonde-haired and almost eyewateringly attractive young man walks into the room. Harry, who has been entertaining mutinous thoughts of leaving Snape to his fate on some invented pretext, remains firmly rooted to the sofa.
“Mr Holmes,” says the man, “Thank you so much for seeing me. I am sorry to impose upon your hospitality so early in the morning, but I find myself rather desperately in need of your assistance.”
“Not at all,” replies Snape smoothly, and damn it if he isn't enjoying this. “My esteemed colleague Dr Watson.”
He shoots Harry a look, and Harry rises to his feet awkwardly and sticks out his hand.
“Charmed,” he breathes. The man gives him an amused, faintly assessing look and Harry flushes and returns to the sofa, trying not to meet Snape's eyes.
“How may I be of assistance?” Snape asks. “You have yet to tell me your name, and bar the facts that you are a Freemason, a doctor and have recently returned from service overseas, I know little of you.”
“Gerald Hansom,” says the man, sinking into the chair Snape indicates with one listless hand. “But how did you know that?”
Snape smiles. “It is my profession, Dr Hansom, to know things. Your dress tells more about you than you expect. The charm on your watch-chain tells me that you are a Freemason – a charm rather against the strict rules of your order, incidentally – and the bulge in your top-hat betrays a hidden stethoscope; a bulge I have often spied in my dear friend Watson's when he visits after making his rounds. Furthermore, the fact that doctors are in great demand in the Army at the moment, coupled with your rather unseasonable tan led me to deduce that you have been working abroad and have only recently returned to our more intemperate climes – India, I would surmise.”
“You are correct,” murmurs Hansom. “Quite ingenious.”
“Not at all,” demures Snape. “As I said, it is my profession after all.”
A flash of inspiration hits Harry. “You could almost call it...elementary.”
This time he cannot avoid Snape's glare, and he knows there will be trouble later. It's almost worth it.
“Tell me the problem which has caused you to come here and delay your morning rounds,” says Snape, ignoring Harry's contribution and proffering tea. Hansom takes a cup gratefully, and drinks half of it before he begins to reply.
“My Great Aunt Beatrice was a wealthy woman, but had few friends. She had a somewhat distrusting nature, which enamoured her to few, and she lived alone, in relative isolation, seeing nobody but me. For reasons unknown to the rest of my family, my aunt took a liking to me when I was a small child, and paid both for my education and for me to attend medical school. Naturally, I was extremely grateful and visited my aunt often to tell her about my studies. It was on my last visit before departing to India that she told me about the necklace.”
Harry shoots Snape a look, which he studiously ignores.
“It was a family heirloom, considered lost over the years by the rest of my family but in fact preserved by my diligent aunt. Fearing that her father – a less than scrupulous man – might sell it, she hid it in her house and denied all knowledge of ever possessing it if questioned by her sister or my mother. I too believed it lost, and, save for one attempt to discuss it when I was a child, never spoke of it to my great aunt. Yet when I visited her that day she seemed strangely agitated, and brushed off any inquiries I made about her health. Just before I was about to leave, she took my hand rather forcefully in hers, and, ignoring my protests, took me down to the cellar of the property. There, she showed me the necklace which she had preserved for so many years and made me promise to speak of it to no one and to collect it from her upon my return.
At the time I am afraid I rather dismissed her request, thinking it a sentimental action by a fond relative. However, I promised to honour what she asked of me, upon my safe return and thought no more of it. I shipped out to India the next day and returned six months later to the news that my Great Aunt had passed away the night before. Remembering my promise, I visited her house which had lain untouched since my aunt's body had been taken from it earlier that morning – a space of but a few hours in a house to which only my aunt and myself had a key. I had spoken of the necklace to nobody, and my aunt had assured me that she had done the same. She had no servants to help her, being a fiercely independent woman, and it was only when she was on her deathbed that she sent word to my mother to visit her – only for my mother to find her dead. The necklace was gone.”
Snape, who had stooped his head intently whilst Hansom spoke, lifts it and looks him in the eye. “Fascinating,” he says meditatively, smoothing a hand distractedly over the worsted fabric of his trousers.
“Do you think you can help?” asks Hansom eagerly.
Snape nods. “I do,” he replies sagely. “I will, however, need some time to consider my plan before I act. It would be unwise to do so unprepared. I will wire you details this afternoon.”
Hansom rises to his feet. “Very wise, very wise,” he says, almost at the door. “I am greatly indebted to you, Mr Holmes and await your telegram. Doctor Watson.”
Harry flushes, stands and engages in another awkward handshake. “A pleasure,” he says gravely. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he can see Snape's hackles rise.
The door bangs once, and Hansom is gone.
The Crux Of The Matter
“I should remind you,” says Snape quietly, the moment Hansom's footfall has faded, “that homosexuality is illegal in Victorian London. Not only is it banned, it is currently even more notorious because of the arrest of playwright Oscar Wilde, whose name was being denounced in the very papers I was just reading. As you would probably know if you ever bothered to think.”
He is flushed with anger, white cheeks stained with it, and Harry feels oddly guilty. He swallows sharply.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, staring at the ground.
Snape exhales sharply. “Indeed,” he replies.
There is silence for a moment, rather less awkward than Harry expects.
“You were good then,” he says eventually. “All the deduction stuff. His clothes.”
Snape acknowledges the compliment. “I read the books avidly as a child. I find that it – stays in the memory.”
“Do you know what happened to the necklace?”
Snape barks a short laugh. Harry is momentarily taken aback. He does not believe he has ever heard Snape laugh before.
“Of course not,” he replies. “Why else would I stall for time? The real Sherlock Holmes would never have needed to ask for a few hours to figure it out, however elegantly I disguised it.”
Harry snorts. “You fooled me,” he says.
He remains on the settee for a minute, thinking intently. Part of him wishes that Hermione were there to help, but the rest of him is somehow glad that she isn't, glad that he has to think for himself for once.
“You know,” he said eventually, “that necklace we found -”
“Is the one Hansom was talking about, yes, I know.” interrupts Snape impatiently.
“No,” says Harry, “That wasn't what I meant. I know that. But – you were holding it when I found you. It was only when I touched it too that all this happened.”
Snape is silent for a few minutes, thinking. Then,
“A Portkey, you think? Specifically for us?”
“Perhaps,” Harry replies. “It would make sense. Hermione told me you could do that – attune them to a particular person to make them safer.”
“Or as a hidden weapon,” says Snape grimly. “Yes, I think you're right.”
Harry tries vainly to ignore the flush of pleasure that races through him at those words. Since when has he wanted – or needed – Snape's approval? Still.
“I wasn't just flirting with Hansom either,” he says. “There's something about his story that doesn't feel right, somehow.”
“He implicated himself,” says Snape. “He set it up, almost like you read in the short stories – a seemingly impossible theft, or murder, but then he left no open window or maid with a motive. He basically told us he did it.”
“The way his great aunt acted,” continues Harry thoughtfully. “Forceful. Strong beyond her means. It sounds like she was under Imperius.”
“But how would he expect us to know that if he thinks we're Holmes and Watson?” Snape wonders.
He paces the room for a few moments, lost in thought. Suddenly, he turns on his heel and heads towards the door leading to Harry's bedchambers and – presumably – Snape's.
“Incidentally, Potter,” he murmurs without turning, “Holmes never said 'Elementary, my dear Watson.'”
Harry has to fight to hide a smile.
A Reckoning
Waiting for Snape to return, Harry begins to poke around the cluttered sitting room. There are two desks on opposite sides of the room; one hugely cluttered (Holmes', he assumes, and a quick glance at a page of almost undecipherable scrawlings on Russian prisoner tattoos confirms it) and one smaller and far tidier – Watson's. It is an old-fashioned desk, the top clear of papers with two locked drawers on either side, which does not prevent Harry from rattling them experimentally. Nothing. Feeling wretched for prying – but somehow certain that there is something he is missing – he presses a finger to the lock.
“Alohomora!” he whispers.
The drawers creak open. They appear to be mostly filled with papers, which he leafs through carefully, unwilling to disturb anything. At the bottom of the first drawer is an old-fashioned service revolver. He pockets it, feeling a lurch in his stomach as he does. Better to be prepared.
He is about to give up the search when, at the bottom of the second drawer he finds a photograph. It is of Holmes standing in their rooms, looking slightly impatiently at the camera. Harry stares at the man, who is suddenly real to him, then turns the photograph over.
“Sherlock Holmes,” is written in a hand Harry recognises to be Watson's, then –
“Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus inuidere possit cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.”
He blinks at it, the feeling that he is prying stronger than ever. He does not even realise that Snape is in the room until he begins to speak.
“Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, Then another thousand, then a second hundred, Then yet a thousand, then a hundred. Then, when we have made up many thousands, We will confuse our counting, that we may not know the reckoning, Nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye, When he knows that our kisses are so many.”
Harry swallows.
“Oh,” he says.
“I always wondered,” says Snape quietly.
He places the photograph slowly, reverently back into the drawer and locks it again. Snape says nothing. Harry feels somehow bereft, as though he has come close to a warm, beautiful thing only for it to vanish at the last moment. The revolver is heavy and cold against his thigh.
An Admission Of Weakness
Snape goes out to send the telegram and returns highly agitated.
“He is calling to take us to the house at about three,” he says shortly, in response to Harry's questioning look. Throwing his rather worn overcoat in the direction of the dinner table, he paces the room.
“You think we're walking into a trap,” says Harry. “Hansom. You think he's in on it somewhere.”
“Yes of course!” snaps Snape. “I just can't determine why exactly. As far as I know, the name Gerald Hansom doesn't appear in Wizarding history, and it's certainly not in the books.”
“But we don't occur in the books either,” Harry points out. “Whatever this is, whyever we've been brought here; it's off the record.”
Snape continues pacing, but Harry knows he's right.
“Do you think Hansom arranged the Portkey?”
Snape shakes his head. “No. I don't think he knows that we're anything other than Holmes and Watson. If he did, he would have tried to kill us the moment I let him into these rooms.”
“So we have the advantage,” Harry points out.
Snape makes a noise of derision. “Not really. I can open locks and conjure fire without my wand. At a pinch, I can Summon an object from a few feet away. The War – drained me.”
Harry tenses. It is the first time that either of them has properly acknowledged their shared history. Snape admitting weakness is unprecedented.
“Fire sometimes. I can do locks as well and I took the revolver from Watson's desk. Snape, I'm sorry.”
He does not define what he is sorry for – in many ways, he doesn't know.
Sorry to be so weak, perhaps. Sorry that Snape lost nearly everything in the War. Sorry that he never forgave Snape for – what? – not being all that Harry had hoped. Sorry for forgetting him.
He still feels the old animosity beneath it all, sharp and prickly, ready to rise up at a barb from Snape, spoiling for a fight like old times but at the same time he holds in his mind the image of this new Snape, who liked Sherlock Holmes as a child, who has read Catullus, who admits his weaknesses, who is breakable.
They are silent, and somehow that's part of it too. It is a companionable silence that neither wants to break as they sit there, hearing the clock chime the hour. Harry thinks about the poem on the back of the photograph – how it must be to lose count of kisses shared. He takes a pen and paper from Watson's desk and begins to write. Eventually, sealing the letter, he places it on Watson's desk.
“Harry,” says Snape urgently.
He turns to him, heart suddenly racing, expectant.
Gerald Hansom raps on the door.
A Pocket Watch
“Dr Hansom,” says Snape, answering the door. “You are most punctual.”
“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” says Hansom, looking agitated. “Forgive me for being so brisk, but are you ready?”
“Indeed we are,” says Snape grandly. “I have chartered a cab.”
Once upon the bustling street, Harry is slightly surprised to see that Snape's idea of a cab is horse-drawn, but says nothing. The journey to the house is bone-shaking but mercifully brief, though it takes all of Harry's restraint not to gawp out of the window at the passing London, so different to his own. Snape sits opposite him, expression grim, hands folded primly in his lap. Harry wonders faintly whether he is using Legilimency on Hansom, but decides not, as Snape did not list it among his skills – another sacrifice to the Great War effort, perhaps. Mostly though, he wonders what Snape was about to say to him. His earlier attraction to Hansom has now turned to peevish irritation and mistrust, but he feels the old adrenaline kick in, his heart racing as they rattle towards the unknown. There has always been an excitement connected with walking into danger for him; it's why he became a Curse Breaker. It is foolhardy, he knows, but it is him.
Snape looks up and catches his eye. Despite himself, Harry smiles.
They draw up at the house, and Snape pays the driver with some strange currency he produces from a pocket. The driver gives him a look of incredulity as he hands over a coin, and Snape flushes as the man pockets it rapidly. It looks to Harry as though Snape has over-tipped him by a considerable degree, and he has to hide another smile. It is somehow reassuring, given Snape's smooth transition into Sherlock Holmes, to realise that there are some things that even Snape doesn't know.
They follow Hansom inside, Snape looking around rapidly. Harry bites his lip. It's definitely the same house – obviously in rather better repair, but unmistakeably the one. Reaching on reflex into his pocket to take his wand, he finds the gun instead. Hansom is talking rapidly, leading them towards the stairs and holding a lantern aloft. Harry's hand closes around the gun.
They walk down into the dull expanses of the basement.
“Can you show us where exactly your great aunt kept the necklace, Dr Hansom?” asks Snape, though of course he already knows.
“Here,” says Hansom, gesticulating.
And then everything goes to hell.
As Snape bends in to look, Hansom hits him in the back of the head with the lantern which, by some miracle of design, does not instantly shatter. Snape emits a slight noise of pain and folds over, unconscious. Harry, who has already advanced on Hansom, revolver outstretched (though to be honest, he's not even sure that it's loaded) is taken aback by the noise and allows his eyes to slip to Snape's prone form on the floor. Harry's head and the lantern make contact, and he feels the gun fall from his hand as he tumbles into unconsciousness.
He comes round an indeterminate period of time later, tied to Snape. Struggling experimentally against the ropes, he realises that he is bound fast, but sends up a silent prayer of thanks that he is bound only with ropes, and not handcuffs. Snape nudges him minutely with a shoulder – a warning. Don't do anything stupid, Potter.
Hansom looms into view, still swinging the lantern giddily.
“Good,” he chuckles, “You're awake.”
“Apparently so,” croaks Snape. “I don't suppose you care to explain the meaning of this?”
Hansom laughs delightedly. “But of course, my dear fellow! You know, I was rather disappointed by your powers of deduction. Fancy mistaking the crest of the New Victorian Wizarding Society for that of those ghastly Freemasons!”
Harry feels Snape's back stiffen against his.
“There's no such thing as wizards,” Harry protests loudly.
This pleases Hansom further.
“Why Watson, you foolish oaf,” he gurgles, “of course there are! Why, I myself am one! And it's you and your companion here I need to assist me with my final working.”
“Dare I ask what this final working is to achieve?” asks Snape, his voice cool and disinterested. “And why you need Watson and I for it?”
“I shall make my final attempt to contact the Spirit World and raise the great demon, Methuselah!” crows Hansom. “And you and Watson shall act as my conduits!”
“That's fair enough,” says Snape, “But why should it be Watson and myself? We're hardly in a position of power.”
“There is a price on your head, dear boy,” Hansom responds, chalking strange symbols in the vertiginous light of the lantern. “Moriarty wants you dead. I thought I might as well oblige, and adapted the working to include you and this dear fellow.”
“How kind,” says Snape calmly. “And what of the necklace?”
“What necklace? A ruse, dear boy, and one you fell for hook, line and sinker. By coincidence, however, I am including a necklace in my working to focus the power.”
“I see,” responds Snape. He falls silent then, but Harry can feel him relax against him. The weight of him is somehow comforting. The sound of Hansom's stick of chalk squeaking against the stones of the flagstoned floor sets Harry's teeth on edge, and he can feel the air become hotter and somehow tighter, as it had felt at the Final Battle. Whatever magic Hansom believes he's working, it's seriously evil. Focusing on the sensation of Snape's back pressed against his, Harry turns his attention to the ropes. Hansom is so involved with his sinister working that he pays them little heed for a twenty-minute stretch; ample time for Harry to burn his way through most of the rope. By the shifting of Snape against him, he estimates that the other man is doing the same.
The room grows hotter and more oppressive, until Harry is sweating all over and gasping for breath. Hansom's face is lit up maniacally in the lantern light and he mutters feverishly to himself, strange words that are part of no magic that Harry's ever heard of. Just when he thinks he is about to pass out again from the heat, Hansom stops. There is, for one blessed moment, silence. Harry can hear the ticking of Snape's pocket-watch; almost feel it beating against his back. He takes a breath.
Then suddenly everything is roaring and confusion, the walls alive with flames. Hansom leans in until he is nose-to-nose with Snape. Harry tenses in his almost-broken bonds, ready.
“And now, Holmes, your part.”
He produces the necklace from his pocket, drapes it across Snape and Harry's shoulders. The weight of sheer evil makes Harry gag.
“Any last words?”
Snape smiles – and Harry can see it then, the flickering beginnings of doubt in his eyes.
“I am not,” Snape grits out, “Sherlock Holmes.”
Hansom's face is caught in a horrified rictus of rage – and Snape and Harry reach out at the same time, breaking the bonds effortlessly and push. He is almost instantly consumed by the flames, the beginnings of a scream becoming a long, drawn-out wail that makes Harry shiver. The heat increases for a second; Harry is dimly aware of the shadows taking shape around him, faces, nightmarish things. Then Hansom is gone.
He collapses onto Snape. Somehow Snape is on his back and Harry finds himself pressed to the other man's chest. Snape is deathly pale, and his eyes are shut.
“No,” whispers Harry, “no.”
Between them the pocket watch is a steady pulse, quiet and regular. Harry presses his face to Snape's, his cheek to Snape's cheek.
“No,” he breathes.
Then he feels it – beneath the tick of the pocket watch, the steady thrum of Snape's heart.
Snape opens his eyes.
Harry smiles.
Snape looks faintly bemused.
“You're on top of me,” he murmurs.
“For the world's greatest consulting detective, you're pretty thick,” Harry replies. He feels Snape smile against his cheek.
“Apparently so,” he replies. He moves his head slightly until he and Harry are nose to nose, his breath mingling with Harry's. “Apparently so.”
Then Snape's mouth is on his and Harry forgets everything else, forgets who he is, his past and future narrowed down to one breathtaking moment after another, a feeling of rightness so strong he can feel it in his bones. He fumbles for Snape's hand, catches it up and feels, to his surprise, the coolness of glass between them. Breaking the kiss, he realises.
“Oh shi–” he gasps.
Then he is falling.
The Beginning
They land on Harry's carpet with a bump. For a moment they lie there, recovering, and then at the same moment they smile slightly awkwardly and get up. Harry is dizzy with happiness, speechless. He looks around wonderingly, the familiar walls of his flat appearing incredible, unreal.
“We're back!” he exclaims.
“It would appear so,” snarks Snape, clearly recovered. “Harry,” he adds, softening it. Harry smiles. After so many years of hating Snape just as he is, he would hate for Snape to change.
“So the necklace?” he asks, sprawling backwards onto his bed. He is wearing his own clothes again, he realises, and feels the weight of his wand in his pocket. A pity. He could have got used to the three-piece suits.
Snape moves to join him, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed and kicking off his shoes.
“I have no idea,” he replies. “A two-way Portkey, I suppose.”
Harry nods. “Makes sense. But – why?”
Snape reclines next to him, not quite touching. He's so perfect like this it almost hurts Harry to look at him.
“Gerald Hansom is an anagram of Ashram Golden. I realised it when we were tied up. I've read about him. He was the leader of a particularly nasty Victorian wizarding sect which was very into demonology, and was set to cause a lot of trouble when Golden mysteriously disappeared.”
“Huh,” says Harry. Then, “Ashram Golden?” he snorts. “What is it with the Wizarding world and stupid anagrams?!”
Snape laughs, a real laugh. “Beats me,” he replies.
“Why us?” asks Harry, suddenly serious. “It's no magic I've ever heard of, taking someone else's place in history for a while.”
Snape shakes his head. “I don't know,” he says. “At a guess – I'd say that sometimes things have to happen, sometimes things are fated to be stopped. We were able to stop Golden. Who's to say that Holmes and Watson would have been able to?”
“So you're saying that sometimes time itself interferes in order to keep certain people alive?”
“A very logical deduction, Mr Potter,” smirks Snape.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Harry grins. Snape rolls on his side, and they are facing again.
“One might call it...elementary.”
Snape pulls Harry close, his eyes dancing, hungry.
“Not...another...word,” he breathes.
He tastes like tea and blackberries. Harry closes his eyes and allows himself to feel, to be. He is struck by the thought, oddly painful and somehow overwhelming, that there's nowhere else in time and space he'd rather be.
A Letter
Some time later, Harry wakes up. A glance to his side confirms Snape, fast asleep beside him. Harry stretches luxuriously, smiling sleepily as his muscles protest, and reaches to the bedside table for his glasses. His fingers brush paper. Frowning and sitting up, he puts his glasses on his nose.
Two letters lie on the bedside table, one with his name on it. He leaves the other for Severus to find when he awakes, and opens his, the fat envelope crackling. It's from Watson. Harry wonders if the other man has found his letter yet – what he'll think. Smiling, he begins to read.
“My dear Harry,
Thank you for the use of your rooms over the weekend. To be perfectly frank, I am as confused about the whole business as I imagine you are, dear fellow, but Sherlock assures me that all will be shortly resolved. I have no choice but to trust him, as I have always done – for the heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.
I hope that you will keep my secrets, as I will be true to you. Though I find it unlikely that we will ever meet, I hope you will accept a little advice. Please reach out to Severus, if you have not already. Though there are many mysteries to be solved in life, the greatest mystery of all must remain unsolved, and time is fleeting. Sherlock assures me that Severus is lonely, and I believe that you, my friend, are too. Forgive my impertinence, but I hope that you will find happiness, as we have done.
I will always be your dear friend,
John Watson.”
Smiling all over his face, Harry feels Snape begin to stir at his side. He passes Snape his letter, Snape's name scrawled in that same indecipherable hand he remembers from Holmes' papers.
Snape reads it quickly then, smiling too, more slowly, his hands twisting and untwisting in the bedsheets. Finally he sighs and lays it aside.
“You know, Harry, I've been thinking,” he says suddenly. “We should go into business together.”
Harry never asks Snape what Holmes wrote to him, and Snape never tells. But over the long years that follow, of curse breaking and kissing and blazing rows and long Sunday mornings in bed, Harry knows with a certaincy deep in his heart, that it must have been something good.