Potterlock

Connections

Harry arrived at the manor by apparating with a loud crack. He blinked a few times to get his bearings. It was a cold day in Ireland, but it was usually cold. The air was thick with fog, giving the morning an eerie feeling. Harry spotted his actual destination quickly, but it certainly wasn't what he had pictured. The place was run-down and hardly resembled a manor at all. It looked like an artfully stacked pile of rocks. There were a few wizards poking about here and there looking for traces of the not-so-late James Moriarty, whom Harry knew little about. "Mr. Potter, is that you?" A man called out of the gloom. It was Greg Lestrade, head of Magical Law Enforcement.

"Mr. Lestrade, great to see you again," Harry shook his hand.

"I only wish it were under better circumstances," Greg frowned, surveying the scene.

"Don't we all, sir," Harry replied.

"Please, call me Greg."

"Alright. So what is it we would be looking for? I don't really know much about this Moriarty bloke. Is he a wizard?" Harry scratched his head.

"He is, unfortunately. He would be a hell of a lot easier to find if he wasn't. This was his childhood home. Apparently he was spotted here not too long ago."

"He's Irish?"

"Yeah, he's one of the few who came back to Ireland after attending Hogwarts, most moved to London," Greg was somewhat puzzled. If only Sherlock was there to help them out...

"Greg? Greg? Mr. Lestrade? Hello? Have you found anything useful?" Harry asked waving a hand in front of the department head's face.

"We haven't found much of anything and we are using Muggle and Magical tactics. We were hoping you could help us out," Greg seemed out of his depth.

There was a crack off to their left and Greg and Harry both whipped out their wands. "Who's there?" Harry called.

"Show yourself!" Greg said.

"Harry? Blimey! What are you doing out here in Ireland?" A familiar voice replied and Seamus Finnigan stepped out of the fog and into sight.

"Seamus?" Harry lowered his wand.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave, this is Ministry business," Greg cut in.

"Ministry business? At me dad's old house?" Seamus was stunned.

"Your dad? Seamus, you told us your dad was a Muggle. This house belonged to a wizard."

"My dad was no wizard! He ran out when he found out that me mum was a witch!"

"Do you know where your dad is now?" Greg asked, skeptical of Seamus's presence there.

"I never saw him, but my mum told me this is where he grew up and that he died soon after leaving her, so I come visit here sometimes to feel closer to him."

"What was your dad's name?" Harry asked, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Connections, connections, there must be some connections!" Sherlock yelled, frustrated as he paced his office. The wall had magically-adhered news articles from Muggle and Wizard papers covering it. Everything was documented. Well, not everything, clearly, or Sherlock would have figured it out.

"Sherlock?" John called from outside the door, "You missed dinner in the Great Hall again. Would you like me to ask the House Elves to bring you some food?"

"Not now, John! I'm working on a case!" Sherlock pounded his fist on a desk.

His thinking chair was in the opposite corner of the office where he could sit and ponder his trail of clues and deductions. His desk was cluttered by papers and sheet music, held in two neat piles by a skull and a pocket knife stabbed into the wood. The window was covered with dark red curtains and bookshelves were on the wall behind his desk. Sherlock's violin was currently perched on his chair as he paced the room agitatedly.

John grumbled outside the door and was apparently tired of waiting outside, so he came in. "Sherlock, you can't solve the case if you don't eat."

"I've solved them before without eating," Sherlock muttered.

You could almost hear John rolling his eyes.

"Ireland. Hogwarts. London. Crime Syndicate. Web. Lies. Angels. Boring. Pool. Game. Apple. Fall. Shot. Me. Things held most dear." Sherlock stood up straighter than usual. He was on to something. "I 'died' to protect the people I cared most about, and he 'died' for the game. But the game isn't over, so he truly isn't dead. There must have been something else. Someone else, perhaps? Someone to protect. A lover? No, not his domain. Family member or caretaker? No, they're dead, mostly by his hands. Friends? None. Member of his web? Not important enough-"

"Irene?" John asked.

"Irene? What? No. Not her. Not her, but someone. Someone else. Think, Sherlock, think! God I wish I had a cigarette."

"A child?" John was thinking out loud.

Sherlock froze, "A child..." he tested it out. "That's it, John! Oh, that's brilliant! If he had died for the game he'd be dead dead. But he wanted to protect someone. He faked it so he could watch over a child!" Sherlock chuckled darkly at finally figuring out Moriarty's motive. He began rushing about the room, preparing to leave.

"You're welcome," John raised his eye brows as he watched Sherlock slide into his coat, wrap his scarf around his neck and turn up his collar with the ease of habit.

"No time for formalities, John, we need to go see Lestrade!" And he strode out of the room, leaving John to follow in irritation.