Seeing the man before him and hearing what Harry had just said, Sherlock wasn't the least bit surprised.
"I knew it was him."
Under Harry's astonished gaze, Sherlock strode quickly up to the man.
Staring at this both familiar and unfamiliar face, Sherlock asked bluntly:
"What are you doing here?"
"Just keeping an eye on you, as usual."
"Thanks, but I think I've already had enough of your attention."
Despite the difference in height, Sherlock didn't lose an ounce of momentum when facing this man.
Even though he had to look up while speaking to him.
"You're always like this—so confrontational. Have you never considered that we might be on the same side?"
"Funny you say that," Sherlock tilted his head slightly, as if pondering it for a moment, before giving a flat denial. "No."
"We have more in common than you realize. Compared to that, our petty squabbles are child's play."
The man frowned at Sherlock's answer and said in a low, serious tone:
"But it upsets people—you know it worries Mum and Dad."
Sherlock's already blunt demeanor sharpened immediately at that line, his gaze turning cold:
"And who exactly is making them worry? Me?
You'd best get your facts straight. They've never worried about me, Mycroft!"
Harry froze.
"Wait a second—hold up! Time out!"
He quickly stepped between the two of them.
Looking from Sherlock to the man Sherlock had just called Mycroft, Harry cautiously asked:
"You said... your parents. Whose parents?"
"Our mum and dad," they replied in perfect unison.
They turned their heads simultaneously, raising one eyebrow in sync like mirror images. Harry instinctively took a step back in shock.
Sherlock suddenly let out a chuckle.
"Harry, this is my older brother—Mycroft Holmes."
Then he glanced upward and smirked. "Hah… put on weight again, I see."
Mycroft continued frowning. "On the contrary, I've been bulking."
He knew full well Sherlock could tell. That remark had been intentional.
Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "Brother? You said brother? He's really your brother?!"
"Of course he's my brother!" Sherlock snapped, growing impatient.
"But he's not…"
"Not what?"
"I don't really know how to say this," Harry hesitated, then ventured, "the puppet master behind the curtain?"
"Ha!"
Sherlock burst into laughter, clearly delighted. "Well said, my friend. Not far off."
Mycroft also laughed—but it was out of exasperation.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm just a perfectly ordinary university student."
"You mean the kind of ordinary that's already working for the British government before even graduating?"
Sherlock replied icily, then turned to Harry and added in explanation:
"If he weren't always sneaking off to do freelance gigs in his spare time, he'd probably already be on Her Majesty's payroll."
The conversation left Harry completely stunned.
He never would have imagined that Sherlock's self-proclaimed arch-nemesis… was actually his older brother.
And even more unbelievable—his brother sounded really powerful.
The two of them stood at the front door, exchanging sharp barbs like fencing champions.
Neither was willing to back down, while Harry stood awkwardly between them, feeling utterly powerless.
Just then, the door creaked open. Mrs. Holmes peeked out.
"Boys, are you arguing?"
"No!"
"Absolutely not!"
They responded in perfect unison, then both frowned.
After quickly stepping three paces apart, Sherlock discreetly withdrew his hand while Mycroft calmly adjusted the angle of his tie.
"Refreshments are in the study."
Mycroft lightly tapped the muddy edge of Harry's shoe with the tip of his umbrella.
"Oh, and do remind Coach Moran to update his anti-slip wax formula—unless, of course, he's aiming to turn his gym members into amateur geologists. Not everyone appreciates collecting sandstone samples via faceplant."
As he turned, the hem of his coat swept across Sherlock's trouser leg.
"Come along, little brother—unless you want me to tell Mum you broke her Victorian teapot again."
Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"Harry, word of advice: never bet against someone who behaves like a bureaucrat—they probably keep records of how many raisins you eat for breakfast."
---
With Mycroft back home, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were clearly delighted.
Thanks to Mr. Holmes's introductions, Harry and Ron finally realized that Sherlock wasn't an only child—he had an elder brother.
Mycroft Holmes was seven years older than Sherlock. Their grandfather had been a landed gentleman for generations.
When Sherlock was four, the entire Holmes family traveled to Montpellier, France, and stayed there for two years.
It was during this time that Mrs. Holmes learned to cook French cuisine.
"Wait… so all this time, we've been eating French food?" Ron exclaimed in shock.
"My dear Mr. Weasley," Mycroft said with a smile as he twirled his black umbrella, "surely you know—Britain's best cuisine comes from French restaurants."
Ron: "…"
He'd always been more focused on eating than knowing what he was eating.
"After leaving France, we lived in Rotterdam, Netherlands, and later settled for a time in Cologne, Germany."
Picking up where Mr. Holmes left off, Mycroft continued.
"…When Sherlock turned seven, he entered a boarding prep school, and we even hired a private tutor for him.
That's when he learned boxing, fencing, and violin. I must admit, my dear brother was quite gifted in those areas."
Sherlock snorted. Harry and Ron exchanged glances in disbelief.
Only now were they realizing just how unusual their friend's upbringing had been.
By age seven, he'd already lived in France, Holland, and Germany.
Meanwhile, at age seven, Harry had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs—and Ron had been watching his brothers play Quidditch on the lawn.
Yeah… not quite the same.
"Just last year, Sherlock fell seriously ill," Mycroft added.
"Our original plan was to send him to a prep school in Yorkshire as a day student once he recovered.
But unexpectedly, he received a letter of acceptance to Hogwarts.
The rest, as you know, is history."
A brief silence followed, then Ron couldn't help but ask:
"So, um… Mr. Mycroft—are you a wizard too?"
Mycroft smiled at him. "What do you think?"
He didn't stay long—just one meal, in fact. He didn't even spend the night.
Apparently, he was very busy.
But Harry and Ron couldn't quite understand—he was only 19. What on earth could be keeping a university student so occupied?
"Don't worry about him," Sherlock said coolly when asked. "He's always like that."
"Sherlock, you don't get along with your brother?"
"That guy has his own moral code. He always wanted me to live a so-called 'normal' life. But you two know—I crave freedom and excitement."
"So… is he a wizard or not?"
"Of course not."
"Then how did he know you went to Hogwarts? And what about Ron and me? Did your parents tell him?"
Sherlock's face showed a flicker of something unreadable.
"No. Never."
"Then how—?"
"You may not believe it, but when it comes to observation and deduction… he's better than I am."
Sherlock said it without emotion.
"It's been half a year since I started at Hogwarts. That's plenty of time for him to piece it all together.
In fact, the only surprise is that he didn't contact you until Christmas.
Apparently, the magical world does have some security merits—at least enough to slow him down a little."
"What?!"
Hearing Sherlock speak so highly of Mycroft, both Harry and Ron were stunned.
They knew how sharp Sherlock was—and now he was saying his brother was even better?
Was that even humanly possible?
"Harry," Sherlock said, "remember how, the moment we met outside, he knew we'd been boxing—and that you'd taken a fall?"
Harry blinked, finally recalling that detail. The shock of hearing Mycroft's voice had made him forget.
"But wasn't that your mum—?"
Even as he said it, Harry realized he'd messed up again.
Sure, Mrs. Holmes might have known they'd gone for morning exercise. But boxing? Falling over? No way she could've known that.
"Of course not."
Sherlock shook his head. "First of all, we were wearing loose tracksuits and sneakers—clearly not out for a casual stroll.
Second, there were faint red marks on my wrists from glove straps. He'd recognize those immediately.
I'd even bet he noticed the direction of the wrist strap buckles—something I only just realized.
And you, dear Harry, probably didn't even notice the quartz sand clinging to the rough frayed edges of your rolled-up sleeve.
Only one boxing gym in all of London—the one behind St. Bartholomew's Hospital—uses that particular grit mixture.
That's why he mentioned Coach Moran."
Sherlock continued with a smirk:
"The wear pattern on your left shoe heel, and the spiral-shaped mud imprint on the outside edge, showed a one-footed skid caused by imbalance.
Combine that with your stiff gait, and it's clear you twisted your ankle when you fell.
Lastly, the beads of sweat at the back of your neck and your breathing rate—0.3 seconds faster than average—are classic signs of sustained, intense physical activity."
"Put all that together? He didn't just deduce the truth—he reconstructed the whole morning."
Harry and Ron were both left slack-jawed.
"It's funny," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "When I first got my Hogwarts letter last summer, I thought it was just another one of his practical jokes. Turns out I wrongly accused him."
He smiled, but soon frowned again.
What he didn't tell his two friends was this:
Based on Mycroft's behavior today… Sherlock had a strong suspicion.
That Mycroft knew about the existence of magic—long before he did.
---
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