If Sherlock went to Hogwarts (Fanfiction)

How improbable

Sherlock woke up late that morning, Redbeard had stayed up to comfort him through the night, his liver coloured eyes watering up at Sherlock's. He could hear shouting from downstairs yet could not make out what they were saying, though he did not try hard as he felt emotionally exhausted from last night. Mycroft had long since told him to keep his emotions detached and he had improved at this with age yet moments with just him and Redbeard were needed in order to declutter his mind of feeling, making thinking easier.

"William?" Mycroft's drooling voice came from the hallway. Sherlock did not care to reply, if anything afraid his voice would come out cracked." William, tut tut- what have you done?"

Redbeard gave a low growling noise and bared his teeth at the closed door. "Go away Mycroft." To Sherlock's surprise his voice came out monotone, emotionless.

"Make me." Mycroft spat the words but as he did Redbeard gave a tremendous bark and Sherlock heard Mycroft move down the corridor. Even though he was gone his words still resided with Sherlock and guilt made its way into him and started to slowly gnaw at his insides.

He had no friends to turn to, no one to confide in, to head for help- not unless you counted Redbeard. No one ever seemed to. Sherlock did. He hugged his dog and breathed heavily into him until he composed himself.

He felt like picking up his violin in order to channel his mixed up emotions in and orderly fashion yet he did not want any more attention on him. His stomach made a grumbling sound to remind him he hadn't eaten in more than twenty four hours and sighed heavily. Despite having no lock or bolt on his door he felt trapped, more so than ever before

Tap, tap

Tap, tap.

Sherlock spun round, puffy eyes to the window. Sherlock's eyes widened, his eyebrows disappearing under his black curls at the sight of the owl in daylight tapping at the glass. Was that a piece of heavy parchment attached to its leg?

Concluding that it was a strange dream caused by his emotion-filled mind, he turned to his pillow in order to go back to sleep, or rather, wake up.

Redbeard was staring transfixed at the owl, his breath quickened and Sherlock could feel it on the side of his face as Redbeard liked his jaws greedily. Redbeard always did have a taste for bird. Sherlock went over to the window, deciding this bizarre turn of events had at least kept his mind clear of his family and that he didn't really want to wake up if it continued doing so.

Sherlock opened the window and in a flurry the brown owl entered his bedroom, flapping around furiously in search for a decent place to land on. As to avoid Redbeard she rested on the bedside table, knocking Sherlock's brain model which shattered onto the floor. He examined the pieces of broken china, his long fingers feeling the faint grooves on the broken up pieces- it all felt so real. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, He thought, his mouth in a perfect 'O' shape, his wide eyes staring at the owl.

He tried to compose himself by looking in his mind from facts in his years of home schooling until he remembered how during the war carrier pigeons were used to send secret messages over enemy lines although seeing as the world was more or less at piece, the obvious fact that this was a nocturnal owl perched on his desk and, more importantly in Sherlock's mind, that the message was clearly for him- he once again did not know. And he didn't like not knowing.

Sherlock was dimly aware of the far away shouting coming from downstairs as he untied the (what could now be clearly identified as a letter) from the creature's outstretched leg and examined it: The handwriting was that of an old man- man? Obviously. Old? Not by the way he shook for he did no such thing yet he wrote in the similar fashion of the curricular of his time. Tis man had been taught how to write handsomely and it had been drummed into him at school until it was his natural hand- well educated school then. Sherlock's brow crinkled in frustration- why would an old, well-educated man be writing to him?

He examined the emerald lettering and could not identify the pen in which it was written in which disturbed him greatly yet only increased his curiosity. He turned the envelope gently in his hands and looked at the deep purple wax seal, the alien word 'Hogwarts' across it under a complex crest.

For some reason unknown the word made him take a sudden intake of breath. Even Redbeard ignored the Tawney owl to peer over at the letter in Sherlock's hands which turned it over once more, to find out what pen and what parchment was used to find the location in which it had come. Only then did he stop to notice what the beautiful writing of an old man's glinting emerald ink read:

Sherlock Holmes.

Not William. Sherlock. For now on- Sherlock.

A/N: HAY BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE! Thank you for reading! Share your thoughts below (or by direct message)if you would like or vote if you really like J. Sorry it was a bit short and boring but you know I'm just building up here guys so patience please. Update every week xx

Love,

Phoebe with the Beanie x