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Thank you, I don’t need to see a psychiatrist

Author: Sectumsempra

Beta: Xenya-m
Rating: G

Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Minerva, Snape, Weasley Sr.

Genre: Humor

Fandom: Harry Potter, Sherlock

A/N: The secrets of the Holmes family. Crossover with HP, humor, crack.

Timeline: Post-Hogwarts

Originally posted in Russian on snapetales.com: June 19, 2014 (http://www.snapetales.com/index.php?fic_id=30861)

Translator: med_cat
Translation beta: capt_facepalm

He opened the wardrobe and took a box from the bottom shelf. The box contained an old set of wizard’s robes--three sizes bigger than he needed. Putting the box on the table in front of him, he sat down, took out a pack of cigarettes, and after counting them, lit one. Having lost himself in thought, he completely forgot to use an ashtray and dropped the whitish column of ash onto the dully gleaming tabletop. That made him decide that this was a good opportunity to recall the old days. The cleaning spell was fairly successful the first time. Then he took up the robes and, after a second attempt, reduced them to the right width.

The car his job provided  transported the gentleman to an inconspicuous alley with an old telephone booth. Putting on the robes over his business suit, he entered the booth and dialed a number.

“Ministry of Magic”, a pleasant female voice whispered, “please state your name and the purpose of your visit, sir.”

He stated them and the floor of the booth started to glide downwards. Soon he beheld a huge atrium with a fountain in the middle. After the war, the golden statues were remade, taking into account the current fashion. The figures of the witch and wizard were surrounded by the statues of the elf, goblin, and centaur, and the entire group was looking in the direction, so to say, of the common goal.

Our gentlemen looked askance at the fountain and continued walking towards the lift. Passing witches and wizards were glancing at him curiously--despite his wizard’s robes, he looked very Mugglish.

It took him some time to find the right office. A young red-haired man stood up from behind the desk to greet him.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley.”

They shook hands.

“Is the portkey ready?”

“Yes, sir. So is the one in Hogwarts. When you return, you’ll arrive back at my office.”

“Very well. How is your family?”

“Thank you sir, everything is all right, everyone is well.”

The red-haired man pointed to the cup which was surrounded by a faint blue shimmer. As soon as the gentleman touched it, an invisible hand grabbed him somewhere around the navel and dragged him away.

“Ah, there you are, my boy,” he heard a woman’s voice. “Oh, but you don’t feel quite yourself, do you? Has it been a while since you’ve used a portkey? Please do sit down. Perhaps some tea?”

He was finally able to see clearly.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Thank you, I would like some tea.”

“She’s gotten noticeably older,” thought the guest, looking at the Headmistress, who was dressed in a tartan robe, as was her custom.

“You’ve turned into quite an imposing gentleman, my dear boy.”

The Headmistress seated herself at her desk and rang the bell. A large tray appeared out of thin air.

“Help yourself. Let me pour you some tea.”

“I’m flattered,” muttered her guest, while thinking, “I wonder what she needs from me.”

“Judging by your successfully shrunk robes, you have not forgotten what you’d studied in school.”

“Necessity forced me to remember.”

“Yes, you’ve lost a significant amount of weight. I’d even say that you’ve grown rather too thin. Do you have so much work to do, or are you on a diet?”

Her guest gave a longing glance at the cream cakes and buns. But it seemed impolite to refuse.

“I do have a great deal of work to do, you are right in that, ma’am.”

“The school desperately needs your help; the case is an extremely secret one.”

“All the cases I handle are.”

“A murder occurred, but the aurors weren’t able to handle it.”

“A murder? In the school?”

“In Hogsmeade. But, you see...it was Filch who was killed.”

“What?” the guest moved his teacup aside.

“Yes… just imagine.”

“But why did the aurors not find the criminal?”

“Because the murder was committed entirely without magic. Filch’s head was just stove in. And we can’t give Veritaserum to every resident of Hogsmeade and every person in the school. That’s impossible.”

“So how would I be able to help?”

“Not you--your brother. He’s the best at what he does, isn’t he?”

“No, I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question.”

“But why?”

The guest sighed.

“As you know, he was born a Squib--the first in many generations of our family. My parents and I were very careful to conceal from him who we actually are. He didn’t know what school I was attending, and we never used magic in front of him. In fact, he had never even seen a magic wand.

“By the way, where is yours?”

Her guest pointed at his umbrella.

“How amusing. Just like Hagrid’s.”

“The comparison is not quite an apt one, ma’am. Hagrid has only a piece of a wand in his umbrella. I, on the other hand…”

He lifted his umbrella and sketched in the air a bouquet of flowers, already in the vase, which smoothly lowered itself down onto the Headmistress’ table.

“Excellent magic, my dear Mycroft!”

“Thank you, ma’am. But you realize that I would have to explain to Sherlock that magic exist. He’s not too fond of me as it is, and if I tell him…”

“Out of all the Slytherin graduates, only you were my favourite…”

“Ma’am, you’re not playing fair…”

“Please help us, Mycroft. There is nothing bad in your brother’s learning the truth about his own family. I don’t think that his not having magic will be a great shock to him. He is a...genius, as it is.”

“A genius...Can you imagine what will be left of Hogsmeade, if we let Sherlock run through it? And what about the school? Have you thought about what would happen to the school?”

At that point, a squeaky coughing sound issued from the direction of the portraits on the wall.

“You’ve been obstinate long enough, Holmes!”

The headmistress gave a start.

“Merlin! He spoke! For the first time in so many years! Even Potter wasn’t able to…”

“It’s enough to make anybody speak!” grumbled a gloomy-looking black-haired man in the portrait. “Holmes, enough already. Even my patience has run out. You fuss over your brother just as much as the entire wizarding world fusses over Potter.”

“Professor Snape, my brother isn’t just somebody…” Mycroft began.

“That’s quite enough! How long does one have to talk you into this? You’ve buried your talent as it is--here you are, working for Muggles, and you had shown such promise! Why, you could have become the best expert on poisons in this century! Even...even better than I was.” The man in the portrait grimaced.

“Oh, come now, Severus,” said the headmistress. “You’re being unnecessarily harsh on the boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy, is he now?! Holmes, march straight off to London with you and don’t return without your brother! And, Minerva, if you don’t like the way I speak to one of my former students, then I can stop talking for another ten years or so!”

“May I at least finish my tea?!” pleaded Mycroft, hastily taking a bite of his bun.

“You may finish your tea,” Snape kindly allowed.

***

“Hello, John.” Mycroft stopped in the entryway, looking hesitant. “How is Sherlock today?”

“Lying on the couch, face to the wall, and sulking,” answered Dr. Watson.

“All right. He might be interested in this case...John, do you have anything to drink?”

“Drink? In the early afternoon? Are you in some sort of trouble, Mycroft?”

“Not yet, but I will be.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” John said, sympathetically.

Sherlock didn’t even stir when they appeared upstairs. Although he did shrug his shoulder a bit when his brother sat down by the fireplace and John handed him a glass of whiskey.

“Do you want to take a new case, Sherlock? You seem to be bored.”

“Government again? I refuse to play their games.”

“Oh no, not the government this time. The caretaker of my former school has been murdered.”

Sherlock turned to face them, and then even sat straight up, and stared at his brother.

“In your former school? That school you went to, over in Scotland?”

“Yes...I have spoken with the headmistress, Professor McGonagall. She was very much hoping for your assistance.”

“My assistance? Why not yours? You would have been able to sort it out, no less than I would.”

“She considers you to be the better specialist of us two.”

.

“Pardon me, Mycroft…” John interrupted. “What did you say the professor’s name was?”

“McGonagall.”

“Ah…” John opened his mouth slightly. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No, John, I am not joking. I would like to make a joke, if I could, given the situation. But I doubt I could have come up with such a witty remark.”

Sherlock looked surprised. John thought that if Mycroft’s aim was to stir up his brother, he succeeded.

“John, you seem to know more about it than I do. What is he talking about?”

“Well, actually, just about every person in Great Britain, and many people in other countries, have heard the name of Minerva McGonagall,” John laughed. “I must say, you’ve quite a sense of humour, Mycroft.”

“John. I. Am. Not. Joking.”

John stared at Mycroft.

“You must have worked a lot of hours lately,” he began.

“Thank you, I don’t need to see a psychiatrist. Nor a doctor. I am perfectly all right.”

“You said the caretaker had been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon me, was it Mr Filch?”

“John, what the hell?” Sherlock could no longer restrain himself.

By now, Watson was looking at Mycroft with barely-concealed pity. Mycroft, meanwhile, kept sipping his whiskey, looking perfectly calm although he was trembling inside.

“The thing is, Filch was murdered in a perfectly banal way. He was hit on the head. It happened in the village near the school at which he was working.”

“Perfectly banal…” John muttered, mechanically.

“Yes, and the aurors weren’t able to find anything out.”

“Good heavens...Mycroft, have you been to work today?”

“No. As I told you, I was asked to visit the Ministry of Magic.”

At this point, Sherlock leapt off his seat and hopped over to the armchair. Pale, he was looking at his brother, and Mycroft thought that he should have discussed Hogwarts before this--if only for the purpose of seeing this expression in his younger brother’s eyes.

“Mycroft!” yelled Sherlock, shaking his brother’s shoulders so hard that Mycroft dropped his glass, and whiskey splashed out onto the carpet. “Stop this at once!”

The elder Holmes suddenly had a ...thought.

“Call Mummy,” he asked, dying overtones in his voice.

“John, the phone!”

John dashed around the living room, found the mobile and passed it to Sherlock.

“Mother!” Sherlock nearly yelled into the phone. “What? I’m all right, but Mycroft isn’t!”

“Damn…” John looked at the elder Holmes, but the latter was sitting, closely watching the puddle on the carpet.

“What’s the matter with Mycroft? Well, he’s not right in the head! He came to visit me and said that the caretaker in his former school was murdered. Mother? Yes...murdered...Filch? How do you know? John mentioned the same surname…” Sherlock looked at John. “Mycroft says that...he was asked to visit some kind of a Ministry of Magic...Eh?” He was already groping for the chair with his hand. “What’s that? I should go? Mother?! What on earth is the matter with both of you?!”

Mrs Holmes must have abruptly ended the conversation, because Sherlock was just staring at the phone blankly.

“John,” Mycroft spoke again, “if you would be so kind, can you please give me my umbrella. But be VERY careful when you carry it.”

John, still certain that the poor fellow has lost his mind, still carried out his request, holding the famous umbrella gingerly, as if it were about to explode.

“And now look, John. Look closely. And you, Sherlock, also look.”