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Chapter Text

When he was 5 years old, Sherlock's magic began to make itself known in all the typical ways. 

The first incident occurred when Mycroft informed him, with a smirk on his face, that Father Christmas was not real.  Sherlock, hoping to appear unaffected, stood clenching his fists and straining to hold back inevitable tears.  As he glared at Mycroft through the precarious teardrops on his lashes, he saw what appeared to be a raincloud forming above their heads. 

In the years that followed, Sherlock enjoyed reminding his family that he had successfully stopped his tears from falling.  Conveniently, the raincloud tended to go unmentioned. 

It rained in their kitchen for thirteen days.

When Sherlock turned 11, a letter arrived in the post.  

For the Holmes boys, magic had never been a guarantee.  Although the gene was almost always dominant, they knew that Half-bloods ran the risk of presenting as Squibs, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes made it a point to assure their sons that they would love them either way.

And so, when the day came, Sherlock felt free to make a choice.

For many years, magic had been nothing but a burden, bringing to life his most turbulent emotions.  He found no beauty in it and felt no desire to let it bloom within him.  He had grown to be a practical and studious young boy who rather preferred doing things the long way, whether he was conducting a science experiment or solving the latest mystery in his town.  What fun would it be to use a spell when it was quite possible to use his own brain?  

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed for hours that night, turning the thick envelope over and over in his hands and thoughtfully weighing his options.  As he pondered, the envelope slowly became crumpled and smudged. 

In the end, he never opened it.

The years went by, and Sherlock immersed himself in the Muggle world.  He became quite good at hiding his magic and often forgot about it entirely.   But in the absence of any formal training, his abilities never progressed, and he did not learn to control them as most wizards did.  The energy that ran through him was not properly dealt with, and as he buried it deeper, he began to believe that his powers may have disappeared completely.

And then, a soldier walked into Barts.

His magic came to the surface almost immediately, causing a tingle in the tips of his fingers and a spark in his belly.  Standing outside of 221B the next day, exchanging a fleeting handshake with John Watson, Sherlock felt the spark burst into a flame.

God help us, he thought, struggling to hold the feeling at bay.  

Merlin help us, a small voice from the depths of his Mind Palace corrected.  God doesn't even own a wand.

Chapter Text

Sherlock hovered just beyond the threshold of his bedroom, listening intently to the sound of John’s footsteps.  Even after living with John for five weeks, Sherlock still felt the need to compose himself each morning before joining him  for breakfast.

Control,  Sherlock thought as he walked slowly into the kitchen, wrapping his dressing gown tight around his thin form and taking a seat at the table.  I just need to remain in control. 

John, glancing up from his paper, smiled warmly at him.  "Morning,"  he said in a voice that was quite a bit raspier than the day before.  Sherlock wondered if there may be a draft in his bedroom.

"Good morning, John.  Heading to work?"

"In just a moment, yes."  And then John was on his feet, searching his pockets for his keys, and turning to face Sherlock once more.  "Eat some toast, yeah?"

He paused to clap a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, and the slap of his palm was echoed by the slamming of their front door.  Sherlock winced, hastening to pull back the magic that had burst from his mouth in the form of a gasp.

Control. Control. Control.

John peered at their front door, more curious than concerned.  "Must've been a draft," he said absentmindedly.

"Oh yes," agreed Sherlock quickly.  "Just a draft."

Once Sherlock saw John lock the door to 221B and turn the corner, he allowed himself to relax.  He drifted aimlessly through the flat, eating a piece of toast as John had encouraged, and soon found himself at the door to John's bedroom.  He turned the doorknob slowly, taking a hesitant step inside. 

The windowpane needs mending, he thought as he sat on the edge of the bed and took in the space around him.  John was a simple man; the only decorations in sight were his framed diploma and the lucky cat that Sherlock had purchased for him as a joke the week before.  Sherlock put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, allowing the full weight of his feelings for John to rise to the surface for the first time in hours. 

He sat there for quite some time before a strange sensation prompted him to let his hands fall.  His eyes blinked open as something soft and weightless brushed against his cheek, and his elbow, and his toes. 

Flower petals, pure white and gleaming in the sunlight, were drifting down upon his head. 

The magic made living with John very difficult, and each new day brought with it an unexpected challenge.  Still, Sherlock never entertained the thought of asking John to leave, for being with him was worth the work. 

He had already gone to great lengths to make sure that John would be safe.  Four weeks ago, Sherlock had stormed into Mycroft's office, forcing him to end a floo call with Minerva McGonagall, the current headmistress of Hogwarts.  

"I need a wand."

Mycroft had risen to his feet, smoothing his hands over the front of his olive green suit.  Although he rarely wore robes, Mycroft's wardrobe was often the envy of London's most notable witches and wizards.  There was also much debate over whether or not his wand had been embedded into the umbrella that almost never left his hand - those who discussed the possibility thought it to be both a risky and brave move.  After the war, many of them had heard stories about a certain half-giant's wand/umbrella contraption, and they found the idea quite fascinating indeed. Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes was an extremely powerful wizard, and it was nearly impossible to detect even the twitch of a finger before his spells took flight, let alone the brandishing of an umbrella.

"Ah, Sherlock.  This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain army doctor currently residing in your flat, would it?  It's only been a week, dear brother...shall I tell Mother to prepare for a happy announcement?"

In the end, it hadn't taken as much convincing as Sherlock had expected.  Mycroft had always hoped that Sherlock would change his mind about the magical world, knowing that his brother would be a powerful asset to the Ministry.  But Sherlock had made it clear that day that his only desire was to keep John safe.  Merlin forbid one of his outbursts set the couch on fire or brought the ceiling down upon their heads.  At least he'd have a wand to help him clean up the mess.

But along with a wand came the unfortunate reality of his situation.  As they walked out of Ollivander's shop, now run by a strange, yellow-haired witch with a string of Butterbeer caps around her neck, Mycroft dared to say the words out loud.

"I suppose you'll be needing lessons."

Chapter Text

Sherlock's lessons began as the days in London grew longer and the buds bloomed on the trees.  After much debate, Mycroft had agreed to keep the lessons to a minimum and to focus on only the most relevant spells.  So far, Sherlock had nearly gotten the gist of both Accio ("It's pronounced with a hard C, Sherlock...'Assio' sounds ghastly, and you may very well summon a donkey if you aren't careful.") and Protego.

While each lesson gave Sherlock more confidence in his magical ability, they had yet to decrease the outbursts themselves.  Although Mycroft was careful to remove any evidence of their activities before John returned home from work each day, there was always the chance that Sherlock's magic would reveal itself in John's presence.

One evening, after an afternoon full of lectures on wand safety, Sherlock sat perched in his chair, pondering his brother's warning that a wand in a back pocket could lead to a lost buttock.   John entered the flat after a long day of work to find Sherlock in a bit of a trance, sitting exactly where he'd left him that morning. 

"Sherlock? Have we got anything in for dinner?"

Rather than answering him, Sherlock wondered absentmindedly if John had ever treated a patient whose buttocks had exploded. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice was deeper and a bit louder now, Sherlock noted. 

"Dammit, Sherlock, there's nothing but toes!"   Suddenly, John was right in front of Sherlock.  He was shouting and brandishing the severed toes in his face, touching on all of his usual complaints.  As Sherlock listened, he felt an unexpected flare of anger rush dangerously through his veins.  If John only knew how hard he was working to keep him safe and blissfully oblivious, he may not be so quick to accuse him of such minor transgressions. 

Taking deep and uneven breaths through his nose, Sherlock got to his feet and looked John directly in the eye.  As he opened his mouth and prepared to fight back, he felt a warmth like a furnace spreading over the floorboards beneath his bare feet.  

He snapped his mouth shut.

The heat subsided.

And John began to giggle.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you look like a bloody fish with your mouth open like that.  And here I am holding a bag full of some poor sod's toes! This is ridiculous." 

Sherlock, relieved, felt the tension in his body washing away, and as he watched John's shoulders shake with laughter, his own laughter bubbled up inside of him.  

They stood in the middle of their flat, leaning into each other and giggling uncontrollably, and Sherlock was almost certain he could hear the humming of bees just outside the window. 

Eventually, they pulled themselves together and decided to walk to Angelo's for dinner.  As they strolled side by side down the narrow streets, there was much to admire about the changing season.  "I quite like the yellow trees,"  stated John as he spotted a mimosa tree in the distance.  

"Acacia dealbata,"  Sherlock responded in an uncharacteristically shy tone. "They're lovely trees.  I'm often reminded...well, the buds are quite reminiscent of bumblebees, are they not?"  

"That's brilliant, Sherlock...I've been wondering what that tree reminded me of," smiled John, looking fond.

Sherlock's heart soared.

"Who mended my window?" asked John later that evening, pausing at the entrance to Sherlock's bedroom.  "I've only just noticed that the draft is gone."

"Ah.  I took care of that this afternoon, John,"  responded Sherlock as he pulled back the covers on his bed.  "I noted the change in your vocal quality and deduced the cause almost immediately.  It was no trouble."  In fact, it had been a good excuse to practice Reparo. 

There was a pause, and John's gaze was fixed on the floor when he next spoke. 

"Sherlock—look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier.  I didn't mean...well, none of that was true.  I hope you know that I'm happy here."   

Sherlock lifted his head quickly, his eyes wide and blinking.  "Here?" he asked in a small voice, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Here, yes. With...well, with you."

"Oh," answered Sherlock with a small nod. "With me.  That's...good."  

And although the remainder of the evening passed without incident, Sherlock woke the next morning with a pain in his head and a blanket of yellow flower buds covering him from head to toe.

Chapter Text

"I need you to teach me Orchideous."

Mycroft glanced up from the roll of parchment on his desk and put aside his quill, the shadow of an amused smile upon his face.  

"Orchideous, dear brother?  Forgive me, but I seem to remember you insisting that I only bother teaching you the most practical of spells."

"This is relevant and completely necessary. Mycroft, it is—"  

"—flowers, Sherlock.  You're asking me to teach you how to conjure flowers."

"Yes," insisted Sherlock, with a note of desperation in his voice.  "Yes, Mycroft...I...please."

The room went silent as Mycroft raised one eyebrow and studied Sherlock's face.

"We'll begin tonight." 

Sherlock stood in the center of the room, his wand at the ready.

"Now, it's a simple movement," said Mycroft from his spot near the window. "Just imagine you are drawing a circle in the air—keep your wrist still—yes, exactly.  Good, Sherlock."

"I feel ridiculous.  I want to try it with the words as well," pouted Sherlock as he moved his wand in a clockwise motion.

"We've discussed this.  It's important that you take your time.  I won't have you conjuring an entire forest in my office, Sherlock.  Have you already forgotten what happened when I taught you  Aguamenti?  I thought I'd never be dry again. "

"Don't be so dramatic, Mycroft.  At least we managed to save all of the fish."

Three hours and one very sore arm later, Sherlock burst into 221B.  He made a beeline for the kitchen, his coat fluttering behind him.

"Sherlock?" John came around the corner to find him opening a bottle of wine.  Tossing the cork aside and turning to face John, Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  John took in the scene for less than ten seconds before inclining his head in agreement.

"I'll get the glasses."

The empty bottle sat forgotten on the table, nearly overturned by John's restless feet.  Sherlock's feet came threateningly close to it, brushing against John's right ankle instead.  

"Whoops," he murmured, taking the time to linger before retreating.  John, who was lounging rather close to him on the sofa, did not seem to mind in the slightest.

Their bodies curved towards each other, and the air turned warm and comfortable as the fire crackled on the hearth.  Sherlock reached up to rub his arm, massaging the aching muscle and staring at John's profile.   

Slowly, John turned to face him, a look of contentment on his face.

And Sherlock knew that it was time.

"I want you to know me."

John met his eyes, looking puzzled.  He sat up a little straighter, watching Sherlock carefully.  

"I do, Sherlock."

"For real, John. A hundred percent."

"I do, Sherlock. God, I do."

Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed as he took a deep breath.  The fire burned down to a low flame, casting a glow.

"But there are things, John...things I haven't told you.  And if we—if you—"

"Tell me everything."

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John staring at him, unwavering, in the dim light.

"Actually," began Sherlock timidly, "may I show you?" 

Chapter Text

In a cottage in the countryside, a whistling kettle drifted through the air, pausing briefly to pour two perfectly brewed cups of tea.  With an infinitesimal twitch of his umbrella, Mycroft Holmes brought the steaming liquid to an ideal drinking temperature.    

"You'd hardly recognize him, Mummy.  I actually heard him utter the word please this morning—I nearly apparated us both to St. Mungo's on the spot."

Mrs. Holmes shook her head and summoned a plate of biscuits to the table.  "Oh, Mikey, never underestimate the lengths that Sherlock will go to if he decides he wants something.  What was that he wanted, dear," she bellowed into the adjoining room, "at the start of his bee phase...oh, it was—"  

"—an apiary!" called Mr. Holmes from his spot on the couch.  "We lasted nearly five hours before agreeing...there were—"  

"—bees everywhere," sighed Mrs. Holmes.  "You remember, dear."  

"Naturally," agreed Mycroft as he took a bite of his third biscuit.  "But I daresay his obsession with John Watson is stronger even than that."  

"Lucky man!" declared Mr. Holmes from the sofa.  

"Well, I certainly hope he appreciates it," Mrs. Holmes called back.  "If I ever hear of him hurting my boy, I'll turn his bogeys into bats!"

Lightning flashed outside of 221B, and for a moment, Sherlock was certain that he had summoned it.  His heart fluttered in his chest and his hands quivered as he rose to his feet, moving into the center of the room.  John followed, wide-eyed but resolute.   

Sherlock took a deep, steady breath and reminded himself that he could trust John.   

"Will you tell me about when we first met?"  

John blinked, seemingly bemused, as he nevertheless obeyed without question.  "Well, I had just run into Mike, hadn't I?  He brought me back to see Barts...and I actually do remember the very moment when I saw you for the first time, you know."   

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his arms fall to his sides, his palms facing forward.  

"I had been in a bit of a...well, I was in a bad place.  I've never been good at talking about it, but when I saw you, I just knew that something was going to change.  And then—Sherlock, you spoke to me—this must sound ridiculous, but I was hooked, even then."    

Even then.  The words echoed through Sherlock's head, so precious and unforeseen that he thought his heart might burst from the sound of them. He bowed his head as his magic began to bloom in his fingertips, and for the first time, he did not seek to restrain it.  For the first time, he wanted it to be known.    

Sherlock drew his wand, strong and certain, and moved it in one perfect circle through the air.  

And that was all it took to change both of their lives forever.  A soft gust of wind traveled through the room, setting into gentle motion the hundreds of blossoming vines now hanging above their heads.  

"I—how, Sherlock? How?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and, to his relief, found that John's were bright with wonder.  

"It was you, John.  It's always you," he replied softly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. 

John took one small step towards Sherlock. Suddenly, the flowers surrounding them bloomed, pure white and fragrant.

John froze. 

"Brilliant," he whispered, and the petals turned a deep, blushing pink, as if to match the color rising in Sherlock's cheeks. 

Chapter Text

Neither John nor Sherlock slept for even a moment that night.  John, unsurprisingly, had many questions, and he spent the evening firing them at Sherlock while pacing through the fragrant vines still hanging from their ceiling.  Sherlock kept his eyes on John's face, carefully committing every hint of wonder and awe to his memory as he answered his queries.  In the end, John simply joined him on the couch and stared back at him as he processed his new reality.  

It occurred to Sherlock that he had spent so much time attempting to avoid being discovered that he had not given a thought to what it might be like to tell John everything.  But as the sun rose steadily in the sky, Sherlock felt the weight of all the secrets he had been keeping lift away, leaving nothing but warmth and contentment in its wake.

In the days that followed, the flat hummed with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of vibrancy and adventure.  Even the simplest of incantations and charms brought a childlike look of wonder to John's face, which in turn caused Sherlock's ears to go pink and the kettle to bubble merrily, whether or not they wanted tea.  

"That was brilliant," John would exclaim after Sherlock had summoned his misplaced keys or repaired the fraying sleeve of his Belstaff.  

"You think so?" Sherlock always responded in a timid voice.  This pattern continued for weeks, and neither felt the need to alter it.  

Sherlock continued to take part in occasional lessons with Mycroft in order to keep his skills up and learn how to maintain some semblance of control.   But as time passed, John began to take note of the effect that his words and actions had on Sherlock's magic.  There were moments when a simple look from John could change the lamps from bright to dim, and it seemed as if he could not walk through the halls of the flat without encountering at least one flower petal.  When John observed the spark of Sherlock's magic as it burst from his fingertips, he often allowed himself to wonder what else he could do to trigger it.  

One day, after an insufferably long day at the clinic, he walked into 221B to find Sherlock hunched over the broken pieces of his favorite mug.  Sherlock's hands were trembling, and so, John noticed, were the pieces on the floor.  At the sound of John's footsteps, Sherlock glanced up, a look of panic on his face, and scrambled to dig his wand out of his pocket.  The shards of ceramic were vibrating so significantly that they were bouncing nearly an inch off the floor.

"I'm sorry, John.  I don't know what happened — well, I wasn't paying enough attention, obviously —"   

"Sherlock."  

"—but I can fix it John, I'll fix it right now—"  

"Sherlock, stop."  

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut abruptly and turned to look at John, who was kneeling next to him among the broken pieces.     

"Just wait a moment," John said gently, and Sherlock, seemingly too alarmed to speak, gave a tiny nod. 

John stretched his arms out to Sherlock, who simply widened his eyes and stared back, as if waiting for instructions on how to react.  With a small smile, John moved his hands to cradle Sherlock's head gently, sweeping one hand through the curls on his forehead and allowing the other to move gently across his cheek.   

"I want to try something," he whispered.   

And when Sherlock felt the gentle brush of John's lips across his own, the pieces strewn across the floor slowly began to mend themselves.

For a man who claimed to dislike his magic, Sherlock certainly used it quite a bit.

These days, Mycroft often stopped by to teach him a new spell or lecture him on yet another aspect of the magical world.  John, who had shut down Mycroft's attempts to intimidate him almost immediately upon meeting him, endured many reminders of the importance of secrecy.  Even so, he grew to enjoy Mycroft's visits and willingly put up with the lectures, because watching Sherlock learn even the simplest of incantations brought him so much joy. 

He did, however, have a favorite spell.

Certainly, he understood the benefit of Reparo, and Accio fulfilled his needs when he was feeling particularly lazy.  But for John, the greatest reward was to be given a glimpse of the feelings Sherlock so often felt the necessity to hide.  

There were many times when John could see that Sherlock was fighting a battle within himself.  It seemed cruel that a man who so desired to appear in control would be cursed with such a visible display of his deepest emotions, and yet, Sherlock also wanted nothing more than to show John how he felt about him.  

And so, for every petal that made itself known, John was sure to return some affection of his own, whether through his words or his actions.  Slowly, Sherlock began to feel that he was not alone in his devotion.   

And although he had never quite been able to see the beauty in his magic, Sherlock somehow managed to add beauty to John's life every single day without even trying.

That December, when the frost and the snow stole the color from their world, John returned home, worn out and shivering, to a gift only Sherlock could give.  

"Orchideous,"  muttered Sherlock as he circled the room with his wand out, and petals bloomed into bouquets on nearly every flat surface throughout their home.  He turned to see John, his eyes full of warmth and affection, reaching to pull him into an embrace.

"It's beautiful," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, holding him close.  

And as Sherlock surrendered himself fully to the magic and the love coursing through his veins, he smiled, because he quite agreed.