Loveable Freak Presents:Sherlock Holmes and the Chest of Reality (A Fanfic): Chapter 11

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Chapter Eleven

The Ministry's Proposition

 

  John and Sherlock stood by the doors of Hogwarts, luggage and Gladstone in tow. “Bye, boys!” An unbespectacled boy with floppy hair said.

  “Bye, David Smith.” Sherlock said, not bothering to look back at him.

  “Oh, my name's just “Smith” now. Suits me better.” Smith replied.

  John did a double-take. “Your face is different. And your accent's all... BBC-ish now.”

  Smith nodded. “It's all changy-wangy, magicy-wagicy, metamorphy-worphy stuff.”

  “And did you transfigure your tie into a bow tie?” John inquired.

  Smith grinned proudly, adjusting the tie, “Yeah. Bow ties are cool.”

  The doors began opening. “Well... Geronimo!” Smith said, pushing the door closer to the doors.

 As Smith made his exit, John turned to Sherlock. “He's not all that right in the head, is he?”

  “Obviously. I don't even think he's from here.” Sherlock replied.

  He turned to see who was at the door. The man's face was familiar, but younger. Yet, somehow, his hair stayed gray. “Lestrade?” Sherlock asked. “You work for my brother?”

  Lestrade shrugged. “Well, I am an Auror. Aurors work for the Ministry, so... yes. I came to collect you boys.” Lestrade responded. "We'd better get going before Filtch shows up. That man doesn't like me. And to be honest, I'm not exactly fond of him, either."

 

With that, the trio left Hogwarts and began their trip to the Ministry.

 

   ***

  Once in the Ministry, Lestrade guided them into Mycroft's office. Mycroft was finishing a meeting. “...Yes, thank you for your time, Moody. I'll see what I can do. Goodbye. Ah! There's my most trusted Auror, my favorite brother, and his friend. John Watson, I believe. Thank you, Lestrade. I'll take it from here.” Lestrade nodded and exited.

  Mycroft, just like everyone else, was younger as well. Even though he carried himself like someone much older, he looked barely over eighteen. And yet, he was in such a high position already. “Figures,” Sherlock thought. “Although, Minister's almost a demotion for him.”

  Mycroft sighed, massaging his temples. “Oh, Sherlock. Why are you always so intent on causing me stress and worry?” He asked. The elder Holmes tossed the latest edition of The Daily Prophet to his brother.

  The front page had a moving photo of Mycroft sitting at his desk. In an endless loop, he turned his head sideways, covered his eyes with one hand, and drummed his umbrella's handle with the other. The head line read:

             MINISTER'S DARKEST HOUR

 

  Sherlock handed John the paper. “You read it, I don't want to.”

 

  John sighed. “'By Rita Skeeter.' Oh, this is going to be good.” he said, dreading what the infamous reporter would say this time.

 

  “'The Minister of Magic, Mycroft Holmes (18), faces a trying time in his brief career. His brother, Sherlock Holmes (11), and his boyfriend..'”

  “Boyfriend!?” John said, bewildered. “Even here! We're just kids here!” Mycroft gave John a look. “Keep reading.” John took a deep, irritated breath and continued.

  “'...John Watson (11), stand accused of orchestrating the death of Kyle Powers (13).'”

 John glanced up from the paper. “Carl Powers.” he rolled his eyes and continued.

 “'Time will only tell where Minister Holmes' loyalties lie: family, or justice. One thing is certain; the  events of the week are no doubt taking a toll on him. Resignation seems imminent for the once bright polit...”

 

  John crumpled the paper and threw it in the bin, not able to take another word. “What a load of...! That's rubbish! Why does anyone listen to her?” he said, outraged.

 Mycroft chuckled. “Just the reaction I expected from my brother's alleged boyfriend...”

  John corrected him, “FRIEND!”

  Mycroft was amused. "Oh, I know. Sherlock's not one for relationships. Besides...” he said, eying his brother. “He's too young to be having one.”  He turned his attention back to John. “Could you leave me and Sherlock alone for a minute?" John nodded and left, still fuming.

  Once John was gone, Sherlock looked his brother in the eye. “Mycroft, you know I didn't do it.” Sherlock said.

   “Oh, of course not. I figured it out as soon as I heard the news. I think you forget sometimes that I'm as clever as you. If not more.” Mycroft stated. “We don't know who did just yet, but I know it wasn't you boys. I've been keeping an eye on you.”

  Sherlock scowled. “How?” Mycroft pointed next to Sherlock. Somehow, Gladstone had gotten in. Though Sherlock was sure he'd dropped him off back at his and Mycroft's house.

  “Tobias Gregson,” Mycroft said, “say hello to Sherlock.”

  Gladstone leaped into Mycroft's chair, turning into a young man with peculiar salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes. “Hello, Sherlock. By the way, I hated both you boys' names for me.” Gladstone/Tobias said with a smile.

  “Tobias is one of my Aurors, and an Animagus.” Mycroft explained. “Quite handy for keeping an eye on my little brother.” Sherlock folded his arms and muttered something, pouting. Mycroft shooed Tobias away. “I know you're not my Sherlock.”

  Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Mycroft nodded. “Tobias told me what happened on the train. He told me about how my Sherlock and “his” Watson disappeared off the train. And that you and your friend popped up in their place.

 "Of course, I would have figured that out anyway, because of your eyes. While they change color, it's not because you're a Metamorphagus, like my brother. He can control everything else, just not eyes yet." Mycroft smirked to himself, remembering an amusing attempt by his brother to keep his eyes one color. “And you don't sound the least bit prepubescent. But, back to business.

  “Listen, Sherlock. I can pull some strings to get you and John off without a trial. And, I can help get you whatever you need to find your way home. Just so long as you do me one favor...”

  “What's that, Mycroft?”

  “Bring my brother home.”

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