Author's Note: Salutations, my loves! The following fic started out as a fun little one-shot between 'The Temper Between' and 'The First Trip' (the final installment in my 'The First and Last Trilogy'), and ended up growing into a full-blown project with intricate outlines and about 10,000 words of introductory scenes before I knew it. My B. Combining my two favorite fanfic genres was just far too satisfying to resist. I hope you enjoy!
With each step a hard, clamping dread sank deeper in his chest. He extended a hand to steady himself on the wall, sliding fingertips across smooth sheetrock as he climbed higher and higher. The smell. Oh God, the smell. Like burnt hair and wilted lemon rinds and low tide. He fought not to gag on it. It felt like his joints were swelling, like insects were burrowing into his lungs, as the inevitable certainty of what lay before him crept in the back of his mind. He ignored it, held onto hope as long as he could, but each ascending stair stripped it from him. Everything was so bloody silent. And the silence rankled, screeched nothing into his ears until they ached to burst. Flat. Carpet. No more stairs. A door: ajar. He gathered himself with a shuddering breath, wrestling back fear. Barbed, gutting fear. Fingers spread wide, taut, he gave the door a quick push, startling when it crashed against the wall.
And then he saw him, and a part of Sherlock Holmes, the good part, the true part, the only part that mattered, died.
Part One
"John, I'm warning you…" threatened the stocky, blonde girl. Aggressive, impulsive, envious, manipulative, masculine, potential for addiction, twelve years of age. The tapestry of her personality read like a children's book to Sherlock. Boring. Tedious. He despised the sight of her, the high-pitched timbre of her voice. She was a simpleton, and worse, a muggle.
"Oh, come on, Harry, what are you so afraid of?" replied the stocky, blonde boy. Strong moral principle, patient, reckless, affinity for tea, nerves of steel, bored, ten years of age. Sherlock had come to the grove to observe him six times since they'd moved into town a few weeks prior. The boy called 'John' was interesting in a place where everything was oppressively drab. Low-crime rate, minimal traffic, repetitious plaster houses. Sherlock could hardly imagine a more personal form of torture.
Despite his curiosity with the boy, Sherlock had kept himself carefully hidden, watching from behind a shrub and cataloging, absorbing, as the siblings played in the field. He'd wanted to reveal himself multiple times, but John was always with her. He wanted her to go away.
"It's wrong, John. It's not normal. And anyway, mum said you couldn't."
"It's just a leaf, Harry." The boy called 'John' was smirking. He had an oak leaf (Quercus robur: natural astringent) hovering in mid air a few centimeters above his palm.
"And it shouldn't be doing that. I hate it, John. I hate when you do this."
"But why? I'm not hurting anybody."
"What if someone sees? What will people think?"
"I don't care."
"Well, I do."
John curled his fingers together, sending the leaf spinning and arching in air.
"Stop it!"
John ignored her, extending his index finger. The leaf split in half.
"I said stop it!" the girl called Harry snarled, irritation morphing into fury. Slapping John's hand away, she sent the leaf halves fluttering to the ground. She advanced on him, shoving, while the boy kept his jaw set, expression hard, and didn't react.
"Harry. Stop," he said, a neutral command in his tone. Harry did not stop. She was spitting a babble of words, more hitting than pushing now.
Something unexpected snapped in Sherlock at the sight. John would have bruises, crescents and ovals of purpled skin. Bruises were typically fascinating, but for some reason the idea of them on John, his John, was unacceptable. They didn't belong anywhere near him, and neither did his deplorable sister.
He launched out from his hiding place behind a shrub (Alder Buckthorn - Frangula alnus: bark utilized in poisons) and strode towards the siblings. He kept his expression impassive and his shoulders back, with all the air of his pureblood heritage set down his spine.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned, stopping in front of Harry and locking eyes with her. He could see John staring at him, bewildered, in his periphery.
"Who the hell are you? Were you spying on us? Stay out of this!" Harry snapped, clearly gathering back her ire after the momentary confusion from Sherlock's sudden appearance.
"Who I am is not relevant. You've no need to know me. I know you, though. You're weak, your intelligence on the lower end of average. Angry, too. Your parents worry, don't they? Don't understand why you're so irascible. You haven't told anyone, but I know. I see it written all over you. The lesbian, the muggle, the inferior. Bit of trouble in your school too, I bet. Bullying. No friends. Cuticles gnawed until they bled. All the portents of an addict, they're coating your every pore like a stain. One you'll never wash out, no matter how hard you strike your brother."
"H-how did you— I—you—what are you?" Sherlock watched her tongue and lips fumble over the words, a bead of spittle at the corner of her mouth. Pathetic.
"I'm like him."
He said the words in as deep a tone as he could muster, the advantage of having his voice drop before the majority of his peers, and indicated John with a finger. He could see John's mouth hanging open in the edge of his vision. "You don't want to get people like us angry. We can't control the things we do. Not yet, anyway. Should we slip, should we lose control, there would be no consequences. I can promise you that."
"W-what? John, what is he—"
Cutting her off, Sherlock lifted his hand, and suddenly hundreds of leaves from the small grove behind him ripped up into the air. They spun violently, a tornado of green and brown, and Harry screamed, covering her mouth with her hands. The slide and woosh was deafening.
Then, with one flick of his wrist, Sherlock released them, and they swirled, innocently, to the ground.
"You—you freak!" Harry screeched once the last leaf had settled.
"Harry, calm down," John said, taking a step towards her and reaching for her arm. She flinched away, turning a scorching glare on her brother.
"No! Is that what you are, John? Like—like him?"
"Harry—"
"Don't touch me!" she spat, reeling away from his outstretched hand and sprinting across the field towards a crop of identical houses.
John let out a long, withered sigh, his shoulders sagging.
And then he turned to Sherlock, and grey eyes met dark blue for the first time.
"Who are you? Why did you do that?" John asked harshly, striding to him. Sherlock fell back a step before he could stop himself.
Oh. John did not like what he'd done. John was angry. Wrong. That was wrong.
"I—"
"You hurt her feelings. You scared her."
"It's not my fault she—"
"Yes, it is your fault. That's my sister."
"I was only trying to—"
"Well, you went too far."
"I'm…sorry." Sherlock twitched when the word left his mouth. He never apologized, to anyone, yet John had plucked the word from him with ease.
"I know. Just…you didn't have to do that," John said, a bit more calmly, and gazed up at him. He was close, staring right into Sherlock's face. Sherlock would barely need to lift his hand to touch him. "But, it was really amazing." A slight grin tugged at the corner of the blonde boy's lips. Sherlock started, a warm flush blooming in his cheeks before he could suppress it. Most unexpected.
"You think so?"
"Of course I do. I mean, aside from scaring the pants off my sister, who I guess did have it coming, that—that thing you did…extraordinary."
"It was basic wandless magic. Hardly challenging. Well, hardly challenging for me."
"Magic?"
"Yes. You haven't been told yet because you're muggle-born, but you're a wizard. That's how you make things move without touching them. I've been observing you for a while."
"No, not the leaf thing. I mean, that was amazing too, but the thing you did to Harry. It was like you knew everything about her. How?"
"I didn't know, I saw."
"What does that mean?"
"I observe. I use my eyes. I collect detail and draw conclusions."
"Well, it's incredible," John said, flashing a brilliant smile. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. He swallowed.
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"Piss off."
John's eyes widened a fraction, surprised, it seemed, by Sherlock's use of a swear word. But then his lips curled into an even wider smile, and Sherlock found himself smirking back.
"You talk like a grown-up."
"Grown-ups are idiots."
"It's true, isn't it," John mused, the gears in his head turning so obviously, Sherlock swore he could hear them clinking and grinding together. "I didn't know there were other people like me," John said after a moment, eyes flickering to the ground. "Other…wizards."
"There are many. I can teach you things, if you want. We'll be going to school together next year. A school for people like us."
"There's a whole school for it? For magic?" Sherlock nodded. "That sounds great! And you'll be there, too?"
"That's what I said."
"I hope my parents let me go."
"They will. They have to." A flurry of ideas of what persuasive and horrible things Sherlock could do to John's parents if they refused ran through his head. It would be a welcome challenge, and one he would inevitably win.
"Yeah…I can't wait to get out of here," John sighed, chuckling a little and drawing back Sherlock's focus.
"Likewise."
John's expression, all teeth and crinkled eyes, was not one Sherlock was accustomed to seeing. He found himself drawn, sinking into dark blue irises. Were they blue? At an angle they could be brown. Or hazel.
"I guess I should go check on Harry," John said, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, flinching at how frantic the word sounded on his lips. Must remain impartial, blank.
"She's my sister."
"So? I have a brother. He's infuriating," said Sherlock, grimacing uncontrollably at the recollection of flabby skin and garish robes.
"She'll be crying to my parents by now, though. I'm probably in trouble."
"Oh," Sherlock said. "I got you in trouble."
"Probably, but I liked it."
"I see."
Sherlock found himself smiling again. Strange. He imagined he must have looked very foolish, but it was difficult to care with John grinning up at him so shamelessly. He wondered if his face would be sore later. The muscles were underused, the lactic acid building already.
"Um…do you want to get me in trouble again tomorrow?"
"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling his ears go strangely hot. John shuffled back and forth slightly, eyes falling to the ground.
"Do you want to meet me tomorrow, I mean. How does 10:00 sound? I want to…get out of my house for a while." John looked back to Sherlock's face. Eyebrows curved, bottom lip caught between teeth, hopeful. He actually wanted to see Sherlock again. Sherlock blinked a few times before the words came to him.
"Yes. Fine."
"Meet at the pond? The one over there," John asked, indicating beyond the grove. "Do you know it?"
"Of course I know it."
"Alright, alright. See you then!" John called as he turned and began trotting off in Harry's path.
He paused, not twenty yards away, and looked back.
"Hey, what's your name?" he called.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm John Watson. See you tomorrow!" and he smiled, again, before running away through the low grass. Sherlock watched him go until he was nothing but a spot, disappearing behind the brick edge of a house.
That night, Sherlock barely slept in anticipation of the coming day. Of course, he barely slept usually, but this time was different. Thoughts of John filled his head, consumed him in the dark, hollow confines of his room. Morning light had never taken so long to break.
"Hogwarts, huh? That's a funny name for a school," John scoffed, snapping his wrist and sending a stone skipping across the pond.
"At least it isn't boring," Sherlock said, eyeing the ripples from John's pebble pointedly. "You know, you don't have to do it like that. There's another way."
"What do you mean?" Canting his head to side, John leaned back on his hands. Sherlock stood, brushing stray grass off his trousers and extending a hand to John. John stared at it for a moment before clasping it in his own, allowing Sherlock to pull him to his feet.
"Alright, pick a good skimming stone."
John's eyes flickered to his, giving him a quick look of inquiry, before they focused on the thin strip of rocky shore at their feet.
"That one," John said, bending down. Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Wool, rough, basic cable knit pattern, likely made by relative or neighbor.
"Not like that." John's brow furrowed in puzzlement, but he obeyed nonetheless, and stood straight. "Here," Sherlock murmured, clearing his throat and stepping closer. With long, slender fingers, far too big for his body, Sherlock took hold of John's wrist, right where the sleeve of his jumper gave way to skin. He turned John's hand over so his palm faced the ground.
"You're so pale," John observed, staring at where porcelain white skin met tan. Sherlock swallowed.
"Pay attention," he ordered, adjusting his grip. "Look at the stone. Really look at it." John did. "Let it take up all your focus, all the space in your head. Are you doing it?"
"Yes."
"Have you done it?"
"Yes, hang on," John snapped, though not too severely. Sherlock watched as he blinked, eyes narrowing, pupils contracting.
"Now, imagine the stone in your hand. Want it. Wish for it."
"Mmkay."
Sherlock took a step closer so that his front was almost flush up against John's back. When he looked down at the tufts of blonde hair, so close to his nose, he stole a deep breath. Grass, wool, fabric softener, John. He memorized the fragrance, tucking it away in a special room of his mind palace.
"Sherlock!" John hissed excitedly, drawing his attention away from soft hair and scent, and to a pebble which was quivering in the mud. A disgruntled woodworm beetle (Anobium punctatum: wings can be crushed and used in stamina potions) crawled out from under it and scuttled away. Sherlock glanced at John, whose features were sharp with concentration.
"Come on," he whispered into the shell of John's ear.
With a pop the stone hopped up off the ground, right into John's palm where he easily caught it.
John turned, mouth splitting into a ridiculous leer, and looked up at Sherlock. They were close, faces just centimeters away. Sherlock felt something tingling in his chest, unidentifiable, unfamiliar, frustrating.
"Don't get too excited, you still have to skim it."
"Ah, right." John's face fell. Sherlock gnawed at the side of his mouth at the sight of it. He decided that he greatly preferred it when John smiled.
Delicately, Sherlock turned John's wrist around and tapped on his fist until the fingers uncurled. John stared at the grimy pebble resting on his palm, as though baffled by how it got there.
"Now, as before, you have to will the pebble into moving. Imagine it, as clearly as you can, flying off your hand and skipping across the water. You really have to want it and see it in your head."
John nodded and frowned at the pebble, temple twitching as he clenched his jaw. In a few moments the pebble started to shudder in his palm.
"Good. Now…skim it!" Sherlock hissed in his ear.
The stone wrenched off his hand like a bullet, shooting through the air over the pond, well above the surface of the water, and pegging an unsuspecting goose on the opposite shore. A bizarre, scandalized honk erupted from the plump bird, who immediately took off in a flurry of feathers. It tumbled drunkenly as it flew, squealing and barking it's offense well into the distance.
"I…I just hit a goose," John choked after a long moment.
"A bean goose, specifically. I believe they're rare for these parts."
"They certainly are now."
In unison, John and Sherlock turned towards each other, eyes locking, and burst into a fit of giggles. They bent over, clutching at each other through sobs of laughter, until they crumpled onto the grass.
"That was some pretty good aim, huh?" John managed to say between gasps.
"Just wait until you get a wand."
"A wand? We actually get wands?"
"Of course."
"How do you know all these things?"
"I'm a genius."
"You're a prat." At Sherlock's affronted frown he started snickering all over again, and Sherlock found himself joining in before he could help it. His own laughter sounded bizarre to his ears, the way his stomach muscles clenched and his fingers got tingly evoking an all-together alien sensation.
Eventually, the last of their tittering died down, leaving them sated and smiling, tangled together a bit, on the grass. A cool breeze swirled around them, making the tendrils of the weeping willow trees (Salix chrysochoma: gum used in the treatment of sores) around the pond sway.
"Harry's not talking to me, ya know," John said after a moment, his tone devoid of its previous cheerfulness. Sherlock tilted his head towards him, but John was staring out across the pond.
"She just doesn't understand. She can't. She's a muggle."
"There's that word again. You keep using it. What is a muggle, anyways?"
"Someone without magic."
"So…you said I was muggle-born, right? That means I have non-magic parents."
"Obviously."
John seemed oblivious to his snarky tone. Or perhaps impervious.
"Does that mean I'm less magical?"
Dark blue eyes caught his. Sincere, large, concerned. Something tugged in Sherlock's chest, as though John had tied a string to his solar plexus and could pull on it whenever he wanted. The idea was daunting.
"No. It does not."
The words fell from Sherlock's mouth, unbidden, but honest, though he'd never believed them before. Pureblood was just that: pure. The principle was ingrained in him and John's status was unavoidable. John was a Mudblood, and how the word stung behind Sherlock's eyes. He could never use that word for his John. John was funny and interesting and thought Sherlock was 'amazing' and 'incredible.' Surely such good taste canceled out his lack of pure blood.
"Are you muggle-born too?"
Sherlock scowled.
"Of course not."
"Oh. Your parents are both wizards, then?"
"They are both pureblooded."
"So…that means they can both do magic?"
"My father can, but my mother cannot."
"Why can't she?"
Sherlock hesitated.
"I mean, you don't have to tell me, of course, I-"
"I know I don't," Sherlock replied flatly, cutting John off. "My mother is a squib. That means she comes from a magical family but, for whatever reason, she was born unable to practice magic."
"Ah," John said quietly. Sherlock could tell he didn't entirely understand what Sherlock was describing but was choosing not to press the matter.
"She's still a pureblood, though, despite what my father seems to think. Of course, he'd hardly have agreed to marry a mud—muggle-born."
"Oh. It's…bad, then? To be muggle-born?"
"Some people believe so."
"Do you?"
Sherlock swallowed, breaking their eye contact and looking at his hands.
"No."
"Good. That's good then." Without seeing his face Sherlock could hear the way John's smile curved around the words. "I'm glad you're coming to Hog—uh—Hog—"
"Hogwarts."
"Yeah, Hogwarts, with me."
Sherlock became hyper-aware of where John's ankle was linked around his, of how their arms were pressed together.
"We'll be sorted into different houses, though," Sherlock stated. It was obvious, unavoidable.
"What house did you want to be in again?"
"Slytherin."
"Sounds nasty."
"It can be. It's for people who aspire to be great, who will do anything to achieve greatness."
"And you want to be great?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
"I dunno. I guess I just…want to do the right thing."
"Dull."
A short cackle burst from John's lips. It startled Sherlock, who was getting increasingly worried that he and John wouldn't be seeing much of each other at school.
"Are there any other houses you'd want to be in?" John asked.
"I suppose Ravenclaw would be bearable."
"And what kind of people are in that house?"
"Clever people. People of wit and learning."
"That sounds like you to me."
"Does it?"
"Mhmm. What house do you think I'll be in?"
"Gryffindor," Sherlock replied without hesitation. As much as he wished it weren't true, he couldn't ignore the facts. John was practically a poster boy for Gryffindor house, with his blatant sense of morality and nerve. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. "At least it's better than Hufflepuff."
"Why, who gets into Hufflepuff?"
"The hard-working and the loyal."
"What's so wrong with that?"
"Aside from being unforgivably boring, loyalty breeds sentiment. 'Hard-working' is just another term for 'stupid.'"
"You're ridiculous."
"At least I'm not a Hufflepuff."
"No, you definitely aren't. But hey, maybe you'll get sorted into Gryffindor like me," John said, smiling hopefully.
"Impossible."
"You never know."
"I always know."
John sighed and lay back, crossing his arms behind his head for a pillow.
"See, that's what sounds boring."
"What do you mean?"
"Knowing what's going to happen all the time. It sounds really boring to me."
Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed. John didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the tops of the willow trees. After a moment, Sherlock lay down as well and mimicked John's position. Their ankles were still touching. Boney, two layers of fabric, warm.
"I can't wait to grow up," John said wistfully.
"Me either. I hate being under my brother's fat thumb all the time. He'll be a seventh year when we go to Hogwarts. And Head Boy. He'll be insufferable." Sherlock wrenched a few blades of grass from the dirt and tossed them. They glided to the ground far less dramatically than he intended.
"He sounds like a git."
"Oh, he is."
"What house is he in?"
"Slytherin. If anyone believes the ends justify the means, it's Mycroft."
"I wonder what—um. Harry… Harry can't come to school with me, can she…"
"Of course not. She's a muggle."
"I won't really see her, then," John stated, not really a question.
"No." The word might have sounded harsh, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Harry was a distraction for John. He should spend his time with Sherlock instead.
A lingering quiet fell between them, broken only by the slow swells of wind and the gentle lapping of pond water. Sherlock couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from John, memorizing every detail of his profile. The way his short hair curled behind his ear, the way his nose turned up a little on the tip, the way his tongue darted across his bottom lip when he was thinking.
"Even if we're not in the same house we can still be friends, right?" John asked, breaking the silence.
"Friends?" Sherlock echoed, trying the word out on his tongue. It felt foreign, untouched.
"Yeah."
"I don't see why not."
"Good. Then it's a deal?" He thrust his hand out in front of Sherlock's face, a gesture of agreement. Tentatively, Sherlock curled his fingers around John's hand, pressing their palms together. His skin was cool.
"Deal."
Author's Note: Next chapter to come soon. It's all written, but editing on this one is a real Peeves. Anyways, I love you readers/reviewers like John will inevitably love pumpkin juice (and penis)!