"It feels so strange." Greg mused, stepping onto the train. "This is the last time, Myc. This is it. Our last express ride to the castle."
"Perhaps you should enjoy it in silence?" Mycroft teased, barely managing to turn his smile into a smirk.
"Shut up and come in here," Greg laughed, turning to grab Mycroft's tie and led him into an empty compartment. A wolf whistle sounded behind them, and Mycroft turned flamingly red while Greg gave a jaunty wave to Anthea, who was lounging against the frame of the next compartment, taking advantage of the final minutes she'd be able to use her muggle cellphone before the magical interference made the thing fritz. She was smiling over the top of it, and gave an exaggerated saucy wink when she saw Greg looking.
"Bet they were hell all summer, eh Sherlock?" She laughed as Sherlock contorted his face.
"You've no idea." He followed the pair into their compartment, Phillip Anderson tagging behind him.
"Hey, Greg, I have a couple of questions for you," He smiled over-excitedly at the older boy. "I was watching a quidditch game with my mum over the summer, and I wondered if you could teach me-"
"Shut up, Anderson, I need to focus." Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples. His palms were slick with sweat, but he had to do this. He'd needed it all summer. Mycroft and Gregory laughing together had been nearly unendurable without John by his side to do the same. Sherlock hated that John had been drug to Scotland to see his aunt, but seeing what it was like to spend time without him for the first time in nearly six years, Sherlock felt much more ready to go after what he really wanted. He'd promised himself that he would walk right up to John and without so much as a word kiss that sodding Gryffindor.
"Oi, Sherlock, watch it." Greg admonished Sherlock quickly, waving Anderson into the compartment. "No reason to be even more rude than usual, just because you're nervous about-"
"Yes, thank you Greg, that will do. Why don't you snog my brother if you're so eager to find something to do with your insufferable mouth." Sherlock snapped, spinning a full tight circle before pushing his face to the glass to watch the comings and goings of the other Hogwarts students. They looked happy. Chattering and laughing. Martin from Gryffindor had dyed his hair in an attempt to look more like the latest pop star, who himself was only imitating the Weird Sisters. Katie the Slytherin had lost her baby fat and gained herself a boyfriend- which wouldn't last, not if she kept sending him Howlers pertaining to various parts of his anatomy. Cherry of Ravenclaw had a hole in the bottom of her trainers where her limp had gotten worse- pity, that, the Healers didn't know what to make of it. Sherlock considered it part of the third year's odd charm.
"Perhaps it would be most effective to be outside of the compartment, dear brother. At least until the train begins to move. You do have prefect duties to attend to," Mycroft sniffed pretentiously. Sherlock's eyebrows rose and fell rapidly in mild consternation, subject to the same raw nervous energy that was making him blink fifteen percent more rapidly than usual and his long fingers tap against his own temples. He bit back his immediate retort- everything that sprung to mind was unnecessarily hurtful considering how much of an effort Mycroft had made to be sympathetic all summer.
"Maybe I will, just to get away from you." He sneered. "Put your robes on, brother, and go be Head Boy somewhere else." With that he slid the compartment door open and stepped out, closing it behind him with a snap.
At his emergence into the hallway, students began leaning toward the other side. Sherlock had a reputation for being frigid enough to make you think a Dementor attack was imminent. One person, however, was utterly immune, bounding up to Sherlock like a perfect, tanned, humanized golden retriever. "Hey, Sherlock! How were the holidays without me, then? Your brother not too insufferable?" John Watson smiled hugely, and Sherlock's pulse beat so fast and loud he would have sworn everyone could hear it.
He struggled to step forward. His plan was rapidly failing him; he hadn't counted on being surprised. John hadn't been intended to have time to start a conversation. He cleared his throat and struggled to speak while re-memorizing each line of his best friend's face. "It was less than adequate. Your presence is- uh-"
For the first time in memory, he was glad to be interrupted, when Anderson slid the door open behind him and cleared his throat loudly to make Sherlock move. "D'you mind, mate? Only Molly Hooper just went by."
"Of course, of course." Sherlock stepped to the side. "Er- John- would you like to join our compartment?"
"Obviously, yeah. Don't you have prefect stuff to go do, though?" He grabbed the door just before it closed, stepping in.
"Not until-" the train jerked into motion. "Yes. I do. I should change. He slid back inside, studiously ignoring Mycroft's high and mighty face with his pursed lips and arched eyebrows, eyes pointedly darting back and forth between Sherlock and John. Greg lightly smacked Mycroft in the stomach in admonishment, mouthing "bad luck" to Sherlock, who gave a jerk of his head and left John with Greg as he and Mycroft went off to perform their obligations to the school.
By the time they returned, John and Greg had been joined by Anthea, who was laughing about Quidditch, debating hotly with Greg over who would be in the World Cup next summer. Sherlock quietly slid into the seat next to a blandly smiling John, sitting as close as he dared. Mycroft, on the other hand, paraded to Greg's side and made to sit down, until Greg grabbed his hand and pulled him into his lap.
"How were Head Boy duties, then?"
"Do you realize how undignified this is?" Mycroft was looking scandalized and mildly uncomfortable, and he tried to get off of Greg's lap as quickly as he could. "Greg, please, I'm too-"
"Yeah, do you realize you just ignored a direct opportunity to boast about your status as Head Boy?" Greg was nonchalant as Mycroft wriggled halfheartedly, ending up looking like a dying fish as he tried to escape politely but quickly from Lestrade's grasp.
"Oh, not this again, we've already agreed it should have been you but it is me, and that's that. I'd much prefer to work behind the scenes, but the Headmistress has seen fit to gift me with… legwork."
Greg chuckled happily at the discomfort on Mycroft's face, dumping him unceremoniously into the seat beside him. John laughed. Sherlock looked toward him at the sound he'd been missing all summer. His eyes looked shuttered, but he looked back at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock smiled back, and John's hand wandered over to cover his. Sherlock froze and looked to Greg, who shrugged as if to say 'I didn't mention anything, don't look at me.'
Sherlock cautiously turned his hand over to hold John's. "Mycroft, I've been hearing about a competition this year. Something more intense than quidditch. Any news?"
"Nothing I am at liberty to share with you, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was light enough that it wasn't a snub, though neither was it an invitation for continued discussion.
"Fine, be like that. Not as if I care about sodding sports anyway." Sherlock nervously puffed out his breath. He felt like he was trembling harder than a wand connected to its twin core. "What classes have you got, Anthea?" He was grasping at straws, trying to ignore John's thumb skimming the back of his hand even though that was the only thing his mind would consent to fix on.
"You know, the same. Muggle studies, arithmancy, potions, transfiguration, ancient ruins, charms." She shrugged.
No convenient cover in the way of conversation there then, either. Sherlock switched his gaze back to John, timidly searching his face. Oddly blank. His hands weren't shaking, not like you'd expect when first holding hands with your crush. Either Gryffindors were brave and icy at heart, or something was wrong. "…John?"
"Jim wants to see you, Sherlock. Two compartments down."
Sherlock rose cautiously. "Be right back."
John followed him into the hallway, still holding his hand. He ran his free hand down Sherlock's spine, making the Ravenclaw shiver and jump.
He arrived at the compartment Jim was sharing with Irene, Moran, and Janine. He slid it open without waiting for them to notice him.
"Oh, hiiii," Jim smiled, voice lilting across the short greeting. "Found my little present?"
"What the hell, Jim."
"Aw, Sherlock, don't you like him?" Moriarty's voice cascaded down the scale, starting off high and playful, dipping to dangerous depths and returning to his normal flat accent. "I thought you might enjoy getting what you wanted for once." He bounced his wand on his knee.
"I love you, Sherlock." John squeezed the hand he was holding and Sherlock turned, speechless. He knew it was a bad idea to leave his back to Moriarty and Moran, but he just had to look and make sure it was really John there.
"I…" He spun angrily. "Jim. What did you do."
"What would you like me to make him say next?" He gave a little jerk of his yew wand and John's arms encircled Sherlock's waist.
"Don't you love me too?"
"I- John- Stop it, Jim!" His left hand folded protectively over John's hands, his right holding his wand steady, pointing at Jim. He suddenly felt a wreck, and tried to keep his face from showing it, congratulating himself that his wand arm at least was steady.
"Go on Jim, drop it, it isn't funny anymore if he really cries. Look at those baby blue eyes. How can you hurt those." Irene leaned forward, one elbow resting on her knee, that same hand resting against her face with her bright green pinky nail between her teeth. Janine tapped her own wand on the seat behind Irene, smirking at Sherlock and making red and gold sparks dance around the compartment.
Moran laughed at these, swatting them away. "Yeah, enough. I don't want my team captain in bad shape, Jim."
Jim sighed. "Fine. But I owe you, Sherlock. You've been very rude, not wanting to… play. Purebloods ought to stick together, you know. This is our year, Sherlock." He gave his wand a careless twist and John slumped against Sherlock, who staggered forward. He pulled John's arm over his shoulders and began backing out of the compartment.
"I'll bear that in mind." He sneered to Jim, flicking his eyes at everyone else in the compartment. "Imperio, wasn't it?"
Jim grinned a huge, slightly imbalanced smile. "Very good, ten points to Ravenclaw. Wasn't it fun to have what you want? Imagine if it was real." He flicked his wand and the door slid shut, making Sherlock stumble back. Well. That was certainly an eventful beginning to the year, Sherlock thought as he tried not to replay what had just happened.
I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock.
"What happened?" Greg asked, leaning forward in concern when Sherlock slid their compartment door back open and set John carefully in his seat. The blond began to stir.
"Moriarty thought he'd have a little fun." Sherlock said bitterly. I love you, Sherlock.
"Your eyes are all red. Might want to fix that." Anthea observed.
"I know a charm," Mycroft leaned forward, drawing his wand from his pocket. John was just rubbing his eyes as Sherlock felt his own clear and dry. He nodded his thanks.
"John, are you all right?"
"Yeah, must have dozed off, sorry." He smiled brightly at Sherlock. "Done with your prefect duties then?"
Sherlock cast a dismayed look at Mycroft. What should I tell him? Mycroft shrugged, considering what he might do to Jim. Or rather, what accident might befall him. What sort of unsavory task could suddenly become the sole responsibility of the male Slytherin prefect. Mycroft did the only thing he could think of to give his little brother some modicum of privacy, turning to Greg and engaging him in conversation about the announcement he'd been specially confided as Head Boy, teasing the Hufflepuff quidditch captain without mercy. Anthea laughed, casting sidelong looks at John and Sherlock.
"Yes, I am. John, I missed you this summer." There, he'd said it.
John looked startled. "I missed you too," He smiled, looking like a human embodiment of a beam of sunshine. I love you, Sherlock. "Mycroft wasn't too miserable to be around, was he?"
"More unbearable than usual, without you." Sherlock wanted to lean forward, into John's personal space, make completely sure he was okay after having been Imperioused, say a proper hello after spending all summer apart.
"I'm back now though," John grinned and shifted away. Sherlock jerked his spine straight in response, curling his hands under his legs. He drew his legs to his chest, trapping his hands under his knees. "We'll be at Hogwarts soon,"
"Yes. I expect so." He looked out the compartment door, just for somewhere to look that wasn't at John. Moriarty was standing in the hallway. He flicked his wand casually. An invitation. Sherlock shook his head. Jim pouted, then wagged his wand at John as if to say 'I can do it again.' Sherlock sighed and uncurled himself.
Greg looked around. "Where you off to, mate?"
"Jim would like a word." Sherlock didn't wait for a reply, sliding the compartment door open and closed again in nearly the same motion. "What is it, Jim?"
"Come now, Sherlock, let's not play anymore." The shorter brunet drawled imperiously, shifting his weight carelessly in time to the swaying of the train.
"I thought you were upset at me for not playing?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, doing his best to seem nonchalant despite the anger boiling through him.
"Now, now. You know there's a big to-do at the castle this year." Jim strolled closer, seeming to be relaxed. To Sherlock it looked more like a tiger padding towards its prey.
Sherlock shrugged. One heard these things. "Of course."
"Well, not to ruin the surprise," His voice went unexpectedly sing-song over the word 'surprise,' "But there's going to be a ball." He smiled happily, dangerously. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"And?"
"We should go, Sherlock. Me and you."
"And why would we do that, Jim?"
"Because we're just alike, you and I. Purebloods. Clever. Bored. Think of the fun, Sherlock. We'd have such fun." He was standing almost offensively close now, but Sherlock wouldn't step back. In fact, he was inclining slowly forward, daring Moriarty to come closer. In retrospect, he probably should have known better. The Irish boy was definitely imbalanced, possibly to the point of psychopathy. To dare him was less a challenge than an offer. "Come on, gorgeous." Jim smiled manically, inches from Sherlock's face. What the hell, Sherlock thought. Could be fun. Anything for a bloody distraction. He leaned in, recalling a muggle film mummy had made him and Mycroft watch in the name of enlightenment. 'You go ninety, they go ten.' He stopped just short of a kiss. Just to see what would happen. His pulse jumped rapidly. This was dangerous, mad, and a little bit beautiful. Sherlock was angry, he didn't know whether he wanted to punch Jim or push him against a wall and kiss him, Jim was crazy; the combined tensions ran high and there was complete silence besides the clicking of the train across the track. Jim's eyes flicked to Sherlock's mouth. His hand started to rise to Sherlock's face.
"Sherlock!" John's voice interrupted the otherwise-intense moment. Sherlock leapt away from Jim as though a bomb had gone off between them.
"Yes?" He tried not to feel guilty. John didn't think of him this way, John didn't want him, John had absolutely no reason to give two rats who Sherlock kissed.
"Get back in here." John's commanding, icy tones left Sherlock little choice, and he retreated almost automatically to John's side. Mycroft was watching him calculatingly, Greg looked a tiny bit horrified, and Anthea was predictably indifferent, though she did seem amused.
He looked back at Jim, who wasn't smiling anymore. "Kiss you later,"
Jim grimaced. "No you won't."
He wandered off, and John stepped back into the compartment, slamming the door shut. "What the ruddy hell were you thinking, Sherlock? That bastard just Imperioused me!"
Sherlock's face drained of blood. "You remember that?" I love you, Sherlock.
John hesitated. "No- Mycroft told me."
"It was immediately obvious, the glazed eyes. He held your hand. Most uncharacteristic." Mycroft waved away the deduction.
Sherlock blushed furiously, eyes downcast, and Mycroft realized that he'd injured his younger brother's feelings, but didn't dare apologize in front of John- who wasn't really as stupid as he seemed to want people to believe. "I know."
"You know?! And you were about to kiss him? What in the name of Merlin's pants were you thinking?" John demanded loudly. Sherlock shrank down into his seat.
That you wouldn't care. That you don't like me. 'I love you, Sherlock.' "I wasn't." He drew his knees to his chest once more. "Drop it."
"I will not! He used an Unforgivable curse on me, Sherlock, your best friend! Are you not even a little upset?"
Sherlock felt himself tearing up again under John's onslaught. No, he told himself, this is weakness. Caring is not an advantage. Push it down, push it down. Don't look at him. Do not cry over this, Sherlock Holmes. He sat silently.
"John," Greg's voice gently broke the awkward, heavy silence while Sherlock shredded his bottom lip between his teeth and tried not to breathe too loudly. He was reciting spellwork in his head, starting from first year, trying to calm down and think rationally. Swish and flick, he told himself. Wingardium Leviosa. Greg's voice dropped as though Sherlock couldn't hear him if he whispered. "Come on mate, look at him. He's shaken."
Good old Greg Lestrade, man of the people. Always rooting for the underdog. Knew there was an upside to Mycroft dating the biggest pretty-boy at school.
John deflated a little. He wouldn't look at Sherlock, though. "So, Mycroft, what exactly is this big event you're so happy to hold over all our heads?"
"John, please, as if it's difficult to hold anything over your head." Mycroft rolled his eyes. Greg exploded into laughter.
"Right, yeah, hilarious. Short jokes. Real comedy gold." John rejoined sarcastically, but he did smile a bit, all the tension of a moment ago gone.