That Which is Buried (Sherlock/Harry Potter Xover)

Epilogue

John poured water into the two mugs on the side and smiled to himself. They had been back in Baker Street for three days and everything was going well. They had come home to find a new double bed in Sherlock's room courtesy of Mycroft, which had now become their room, which was just as well, because Sherlock was having regular nightmares and John wanted to be right there, even if it meant his sleeping patterns were shot to hell as well. Since Sherlock was resisting any mention of seeing a therapist, John was it and he was finding that it was actually a role he found he suited perfectly. He was not completely over his own PTSD, but that meant he understood everything Sherlock was going through.

No doubt Lestrade or Harry, Sherlock had made sure of that, would turn up with a new case, probably the moment Mycroft decided Sherlock was ready, because John was absolutely sure they would not be bothered until then. It would be soon, he could tell; Sherlock needed something to do, because sex was not going to entertain him for much longer. 

They'd christened every room in the flat more than once, including the landing, the men's at the local pub, several secluded spots in local parks, the back of a cab (John was still not sure how they had managed to get away with that) and the storage room in Tesco when they had gone out to stock up on food (it had been that or the frozen food aisle). Since they came home, sex was Sherlock's new drug of choice, not that John was complaining; he'd had no idea Sherlock's knowledge had been so extensive. At Malloy Hall Sherlock had seemed only half interested in sex, but after their talk before returning to Baker Street, Sherlock seemed to have found a great deal of enthusiasm.

It was funny, he could already see the changes in Sherlock, but they were subtle. Sherlock seemed to deal with the rest of the world in exactly the same way he always had since John had known him, but there were small differences and between them the changes were huge. Sherlock still tended to go quiet for hours at a time, but afterwards all this information would come pouring out of him. John simply absorbed it all, making noises in the right places and letting Sherlock talk. If Sherlock wanted to be two people, one with everyone else and one with him, he was happy to go with it. They might come together over time, they might not, John just accepted it all.

He was humming to himself and squeezing out the tea bags when he heard the post come through the door. By the time he had added milk and walked into the living room, Sherlock already had the letters on the coffee table.

"Anything interesting?" he asked and handed one of the mugs to Sherlock.

"One bill, two pieces of junk mail and a bank statement," Sherlock said from where he had commandeered John's laptop.

John picked up the bank statement; he had online banking, but he still like to have a written record. Somehow digital things seemed so insubstantial. Opening it, he sat down to check that nothing untoward had occurred, because after living with Sherlock for a little while he was also paranoid. He'd checked it online the previous morning, but it never hurt to make sure.

When he reached the bottom of the statement he actually spat his tea out.

"Everything alright, John?" Sherlock asked in a half interested tone.

"Yes," he said, recovering, "just a mistake in my statement. The bank seems to think I have half a million pounds to my name rather than five hundred. I better ring them."

He was out of his seat to repossess his phone from where Sherlock had left it on the table after using it, when Sherlock stopped him.

"You do," were the simple words that ground him to a halt.

"Pardon?" he said, since he was having one of those slow moments.

"It's a finding fee," Sherlock said, looking at the laptop screen again as if what he was saying was nothing unusual; "Draco transferred it yesterday. The hoard behind the fireplace came out to eighty six million and to prevent a magical debt in such cases it is traditional to give a finder's fee of at least a percent. Draco rounded it up to a million in thanks for the information about the poison, his father is coming home tomorrow, by the way, and since you did half the work you earned half the fee."

John sat down with a thump. Once upon a time he might have asked a question like, 'where did you get my account information?', but not anymore, so he contented himself with trying to get his head round the number of noughts on his statement. It seemed that over the last few weeks he had stepped into a whole new world and his bank account was not helping. Briefly he wondered if this was how Alice had felt when she fell down the rabbit hole. It didn't look as if the rent was going to be a problem for a while at least.

The End

~*~

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